The Needle and the Swamp
In May 2019, the president of the United States invoked an executive power generally reserved for wars, terrorist attacks, and pandemics — and aimed it at a telecommunications equipment company headquartered in Shenzhen. The declaration named Huawei Technologies a national emergency. Not a rogue state. Not a terrorist network. A company that made cell towers and switches and, increasingly, the smartphones in the pockets of a quarter-billion consumers. The designation placed Huawei on the U.S. Department of Commerce's Entity List, severing it from American semiconductors, Google's Android ecosystem, and the design software underpinning modern chip architecture. It was, in effect, a corporate death sentence — the most aggressive use of export controls against a single firm since the
Cold War.
The sentence did not take. Six years later, Huawei's 2024 revenue reached 862 billion yuan — approximately $118 billion — a 22% increase over the prior year. Its consumer electronics business grew 38%. Its intelligent automotive solutions unit surged 474%. And its semiconductor arm, HiSilicon, had delivered a domestically designed 7-nanometer chip that U.S. officials had believed impossible without American technology, stunning Washington and electrifying Beijing. The company that was supposed to die instead became the proof of concept for Chinese technological self-sufficiency — and, depending on your vantage point, either the most dangerous technology firm on earth or the most unfairly persecuted.
This is the paradox at the center of Huawei: the company's greatest vulnerability — its entanglement with the Chinese state, its dependence on American technology, its exposure to geopolitical currents it cannot control — is also the mechanism of its reinvention. The sanctions that were designed to cripple Huawei forced it to build the very capabilities that now make it harder to contain. The restrictions that locked it out of Western markets accelerated its expansion into the markets that the West was already losing. And the founder who built the whole apparatus — a former People's Liberation Army engineer who grew up hungry during the Great Famine, who started the company with $5,000 and two multimeters, who describes himself as a bucket of glue — is now 80 years old and has still not named a successor.
By the Numbers
Huawei at a Glance
$118B2024 revenue (CNY 862B)
~208,000Employees worldwide
$25.1B2024 R&D spend (CNY 180B)
170+Countries with Huawei operations
92,641Active patents in China (2023)
34%Global telecom equipment market share (2024)
22.4%Year-over-year revenue growth (2024)
The Wolf from Guizhou
Ren Zhengfei was born in 1944 in a small village in Guizhou, one of China's poorest provinces, during the closing convulsions of World War II. His childhood was defined by scarcity so absolute it shaped his psyche like compression shapes carbon. During the Great Famine that killed tens of millions between 1959 and 1961, the family rationed their food so meticulously that young Ren never ate a full meal alone — sharing even a single sweet potato became a formative act of discipline. "When I was young," he told CNBC in 2019, "I had no ideals. I only wanted to keep my belly full. That's my only ideal."
He studied architecture at Chongqing University but taught himself electronics — analog technology, proportional-integral-derivative control systems. When China's Cultural Revolution made reading dangerous almost everywhere, he was sent to a military engineering project in Liaoyang, in the frozen northeast, to help build a chemical fiber factory using imported French equipment. The contrasts were hallucinatory: sleeping in adobe houses at minus-twenty-something Celsius, taking turns stoking a stove through the night to avoid freezing, then spending the day assembling one of the most automated industrial plants in all of China. He invented a testing instrument there — China had no indigenous ones and couldn't use the foreign models — and the invention, modest in absolute terms, earned him recognition from a government suddenly starving for technological talent during the reform era. The recognition led to a promotion. But China was disbanding its military engineering corps, and Ren found himself discharged, directionless, and assigned to Shenzhen.
He failed first. Working for a state-owned enterprise in the newly designated Special Economic Zone, he made a business mistake — the details remain vague in every telling, consistent with the deliberate opacity Ren has maintained for four decades — and was fired. He was in his early forties, with a family to feed, in a market economy he didn't understand. He had no capital, no connections in commerce, and an engineering background that was becoming obsolete by the month as digital computing overtook analog. "I was naive," he would later admit, "and took it for granted that I could earn money playing with this huge industry."
When Ericsson was already really big, Huawei was still a "caterpillar." Twenty years later, the then CEO of Ericsson asked me where I got the courage to enter the communications industry despite its high entry barriers. I told him that I didn't actually know that the barriers were so high, and once we had entered the industry, there was no turning back.
He raised about 21,000 RMB — roughly $5,000 — from various fees and registrations, and by the time he got his business license, he had nothing left. There was no stepping back.
Reselling, Then Reverse-Engineering, Then the Real Thing
Huawei's first business was arbitrage: reselling private branch exchange (PBX) telephone systems imported from Hong Kong for hotels and small organizations in southern China. It was a margin play, not a technology play. Ren had stumbled into telecommunications not out of strategic vision but out of a vague sense that communications was "about to explode" — and PBX boxes were small, portable, and profitable. What he didn't initially grasp was that these small things were designed to connect into networks, that networks demanded standardization, and that standardization meant competing with the likes of Lucent, Siemens, Alcatel, and Ericsson.
The transition from reseller to manufacturer happened because it had to. A supplier cut Huawei off. Ren's team, drawing on their experience with the imported boxes, began reverse-engineering PBX systems and assembling them from components. Then they designed their own. The tools they had were almost comically primitive: two multimeters and one oscilloscope. But the product they produced — a 40-line switch for rural markets — worked. It was cheap. And the Chinese countryside, being wired for the first time in history by a government pouring money into telecommunications infrastructure, was desperate for it.
By 1993, Huawei had produced its first truly original product: the C&C08 digital telephone switch. It was designed to handle far more lines than the 40-port rural unit, and it arrived at precisely the moment China's provincial governments were racing to modernize their telephone systems. The C&C08 became a domestic bestseller, and it repositioned Huawei from scrappy assembler to credible competitor against the Western incumbents that had dominated Chinese telecom procurement. The pricing was aggressive — Ren set prices based on Huawei's costs, which were a fraction of the foreigners' — and the service was relentless. Huawei engineers would live at customer sites for weeks, sleeping on floors, resolving problems in real time. It was less a business model than a siege.
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From Reseller to Equipment Giant
Key milestones in Huawei's evolution from PBX distributor to global telecom leader
1987Founded in Shenzhen with ~21,000 RMB (~$5,000) as PBX reseller.
1990Begins reverse-engineering PBX systems; develops 40-line rural switch.
1993Launches C&C08 digital switch — first original product, domestic bestseller.
1998First international contract: telecom network in Kenya.
2005Overseas revenue exceeds domestic revenue for the first time.
2012Surpasses Ericsson in sales revenue and net profit.
2019U.S. places Huawei on Entity List; revenue hits $122B before decline.
Wolf Culture and the Ownership Riddle
Every great company has a founding culture, but Huawei's is uniquely martial. Ren, the discharged military engineer, built a corporate culture that runs on military metaphor, military discipline, and military sacrifice. He invokes the "Van Fleet Load" — a term borrowed from a U.S. Army general who, during the Korean War, advocated massive ammunition expenditure to overwhelm enemy positions — to describe Huawei's R&D investment philosophy. He talks about tanks crossing swamps and needles piercing hard objects. Six-day weeks and twelve-hour days are not exceptions but norms. The company's internal culture is known as "wolf culture": fierce, disciplined, pack-oriented, and unrelenting.
"Why do I like to use military terms?" Ren told CNBC. "Because they are simple and easy to understand."
The military metaphors obscure something more unusual: Huawei's ownership structure. The company is not publicly listed. It is not state-owned. It operates under what Huawei describes as an employee stock-ownership program (ESOP) — a profit-sharing arrangement in which approximately 140,000 current and former employees hold "virtual restricted shares." Ren Zhengfei himself reportedly holds roughly 1% of the company's equity. There are no outside institutional shareholders. No board seats held by venture capitalists or sovereign wealth funds. The structure, Huawei argues, ensures that the company's incentives are aligned with long-term R&D investment rather than quarterly earnings pressure, and it has been held up in academic literature as a case study in how profit-sharing drives productivity and loyalty.
But the opacity is the point of contention. Because Huawei is private and based in China, its ownership disclosures are difficult to independently verify. A 2012 report by the U.S. House Permanent Select Committee on
Intelligence, chaired by Mike Rogers, found that Huawei "did not provide clear and complete information on its corporate structure" and maintained a Chinese Communist Party committee within the company whose function Huawei "failed to explain." A
Wall Street Journal investigation in 2019 estimated that Huawei had received as much as $75 billion in cumulative state support since the 1990s — low-interest loans, tax breaks, grants, and discounted land purchases — though Huawei maintained such support was comparable to incentives available to other Chinese tech firms. The financial statements are audited by KPMG, and Ren has pointed to this repeatedly. But the gap between what Huawei says about its independence from the Chinese state and what Western intelligence agencies believe about that relationship has become the central geopolitical fault line in global telecommunications.
Even if we were ordered to, Huawei would still not install backdoors. If a single backdoor was found in even one of the countries where we operate, our sales would shrink in all of them. Then a large number of our employees would resign, but I cannot leave. I would have to repay tens of billions of dollars in debts.
The wolf culture had a cost in attrition. "There are perhaps some employees who have been intimidated by my military-style speeches," Ren acknowledged dryly, "because about 160,000 employees have left Huawei." In total, between 300,000 and 400,000 people have cycled through the company. Only about 180,000 — now 208,000 — stayed. The ESOP, with its vesting schedules and profit distributions, functions as a retention mechanism and a loyalty bond. It is, in effect, a financial expression of wolf culture: stay with the pack, share the kill.
The Developing World as Proving Ground
Huawei's international strategy began where the Western incumbents didn't bother to look. In 1998, the company signed its first overseas contract — a telecom network build in Kenya. By 2005, it had wired networks across Nigeria, Ethiopia, South Africa, Thailand, Malaysia, Brazil, and Mexico. The pattern was consistent: arrive in markets where Ericsson and Nokia were too expensive or simply absent, offer dramatically lower prices, provide engineers who would live on-site for months, and build relationships with national carriers and government ministries that would compound over decades.
This was not charity. It was classic insurgent strategy, and it mirrored exactly how Huawei had won in rural China a decade earlier. Start at the bottom of the market. Accept the margins the incumbents disdain. Use cost advantage to build scale, use scale to fund R&D, use R&D to climb toward the premium segments. The playbook was Christensenian disruption, executed with the intensity of a military campaign and subsidized — critics would argue — by the Chinese state's export financing apparatus.
By the time Western carriers realized Huawei had become a formidable competitor, it was already too late to dislodge it from the developing world. The company's products were embedded in the network infrastructure of dozens of nations. Switching costs were enormous — you don't replace cell towers and backbone equipment the way you swap SaaS vendors. And Huawei's engineers had earned the trust of local operators through years of on-the-ground service.
The emerging-market strategy had a second-order effect that Huawei may or may not have planned: it created a geopolitical constituency. When the U.S. later pressured allied nations to ban Huawei from 5G networks, countries across Africa, the Middle East, and Southeast Asia had no realistic alternative. The infrastructure was already Huawei's. The relationships were already built. The vendor lock-in was structural.
Climbing the Ladder in Europe and the 5G Gamble
The move into developed markets was riskier and more contested. In the early 2000s, Huawei established operations in the United States, Sweden, Germany, and the United Kingdom. But the U.S. market was hostile territory almost from the beginning. In 2003, Cisco Systems filed a lawsuit alleging Huawei had copied source code from Cisco's routers — a claim settled out of court but never fully resolved in the public mind. Huawei's attempts to acquire U.S. companies, including a bid for 3Com's network equipment unit in 2008, were blocked by the Committee on Foreign Investment in the United States (CFIUS) on national security grounds.
Europe was different — or at least it was for a while. Huawei built a substantial presence with major European carriers, including BT in the UK, Deutsche Telekom in Germany, and operators across Scandinavia. The company invested in local R&D centers, hired European engineers, and positioned itself as a collaborative partner rather than a Chinese state proxy. By the mid-2010s, Huawei was supplying network equipment to operators in more than 150 countries and regions.
The strategic bet that would define Huawei's next decade was 5G. Beginning around 2009, Huawei's scientists had identified a mathematical paper by Erdal Arikan, a Turkish professor, on polar codes — a class of error-correcting codes with theoretical properties that made them attractive for next-generation wireless. Over the following decade, Huawei invested billions of dollars turning Arikan's theoretical work into practical 5G standards. The investment was enormous and sustained. By 2016, Huawei was spending more than 76.4 billion yuan (roughly $11 billion) per year on R&D — and a meaningful share of that was directed at 5G patents.
5G technology was not invented by Huawei. It is an invention of Erdal Arikan, a Turkish professor in mathematics. Around 2008, Professor Arikan published a mathematics paper. Our scientists spotted it and spent 10 years turning his theories into the 5G standards of today.
The result was that by the time carriers began planning their 5G deployments in 2018 and 2019, Huawei held the largest 5G patent portfolio on the planet. Its equipment was cheaper, often more energy-efficient, and — by many technical assessments — six to twelve months ahead of Ericsson and Nokia. A Georgetown University policy brief later concluded that "for the first time, a Chinese company — Huawei — is set to lead the global transition from one key national security infrastructure technology to the next."
That conclusion terrified Washington.
The Arrest That Changed Everything
It was supposed to be a twelve-hour layover. On December 1, 2018, Meng Wanzhou — Huawei's chief financial officer and Ren Zhengfei's daughter — touched down at Vancouver International Airport en route from Hong Kong to Mexico. The Royal Canadian Mounted Police were waiting. Meng was arrested at the request of the U.S. Department of Justice on charges of bank fraud and conspiracy to violate U.S. sanctions against Iran, allegedly through a Hong Kong affiliate called Skycom.
Meng Wanzhou is a figure who concentrates the contradictions of Huawei's identity. She joined the company in 1993 as a receptionist, rose through its finance department, and became CFO — a trajectory that her father has alternately described as meritocratic and reluctant. She had, Ren later told CNBC, even sent him a letter expressing her desire to leave the company. The arrest changed her mind. "She has understood the difficulties that the company is facing," Ren said, "and wants to help us see this through."
In apparent retaliation, Chinese authorities detained two Canadian citizens — Michael Kovrig, a former diplomat, and Michael Spavor, an entrepreneur — on espionage charges. For nearly three years, Meng lived under house arrest in her Vancouver mansion while the "two Michaels" were held in Chinese detention facilities, in what was widely characterized as hostage diplomacy. The standoff ended in September 2021, when all three were released simultaneously: Meng after reaching a deferred prosecution agreement with U.S. authorities, the Canadians after China quietly dropped their cases.
Asked whether his daughter was a pawn in the U.S.-China trade war, Ren responded with a single word: "Maybe."
The Meng arrest was the detonation point, but the explosive material had been accumulating for years. U.S. intelligence agencies had been warning about Huawei since at least 2012. The Rogers committee report that year found "credible evidence" that Huawei "fails to comply with U.S. laws" and recommended that U.S. government systems exclude Huawei and ZTE equipment. Australia banned Huawei from its 5G network rollout in August 2018, months before Meng's arrest. New Zealand and Japan followed. By the time Trump signed the executive order placing Huawei on the Entity List in May 2019, the company was already at the center of what Harvard Business School professor Bill Kirby would call "a digital cold war."
The Entity List and the Art of Amputation
The Entity List designation was designed to be lethal. It prohibited American companies from selling to Huawei without a license — cutting off access to Qualcomm and Intel chips, Google's Android operating system and Play Store, Synopsys and Cadence chip-design software, and the full ecosystem of American semiconductor tooling. In August 2020, the restrictions were tightened further: the Foreign-Produced Direct Product Rule was amended so that any chip fabricated anywhere in the world using U.S.-origin equipment or software could not be sold to Huawei without U.S. government approval.
The impact on the consumer electronics business was immediate and devastating. Huawei's global smartphone market share, which had briefly reached number one worldwide in Q2 2020, collapsed. Without Google Mobile Services — the Play Store, Gmail, Google Maps, YouTube — Huawei phones were essentially unsellable outside China. The company sold its budget smartphone brand, Honor, in November 2020 to a consortium led by a Shenzhen government-linked entity, severing a business that had been crucial to its volume. Revenue, which hit a pre-sanctions peak of 891.4 billion yuan ($122.4 billion) in 2020, declined sharply in 2021 and 2022.
Ren, in an internal memo widely circulated outside the company, told employees that "survival is the company's primary goal."
But the Entity List also catalyzed the most remarkable reinvention in modern technology history. Cut off from Android, Huawei accelerated development of HarmonyOS, an operating system it had begun building as a contingency. Denied access to advanced Western chips, HiSilicon — Huawei's semiconductor design arm, which had been quietly designing Kirin-series chips since 2004 — became the centerpiece of China's push for silicon self-sufficiency. And with Western markets closing, Huawei pivoted its investment toward cloud computing, AI chips (the Ascend series), intelligent automotive solutions, and digital power systems — businesses that collectively now represent a growing share of revenue and are less exposed to the consumer smartphone market that U.S. sanctions had targeted.
The pivot was not smooth, or complete, or without enormous cost. But it was alive.
The Chip That Wasn't Supposed to Exist
In September 2023, Huawei launched the Mate 60 Pro smartphone with no advance announcement and no formal press event — just a quiet listing on its website, followed by an explosion of social media attention in China. Teardown analysis revealed the phone was powered by the Kirin 9000S, a chip fabricated at 7 nanometers by SMIC, China's largest foundry. The chip was not competitive with Apple's latest silicon in absolute performance, but that was beside the point. It was not supposed to exist at all. The U.S. export controls had been specifically designed to prevent Huawei from accessing the lithography equipment and design software necessary to produce chips below 14 nanometers. SMIC had apparently used multi-patterning techniques with its older DUV (deep ultraviolet) lithography tools — slower, more expensive, lower-yielding — to produce a chip that Washington had assumed was beyond China's domestic capability.
The reaction in Washington was something close to alarm. Commerce Secretary Gina Raimondo, on a visit to Beijing at the time of the phone's launch, was reportedly blindsided. The chip's existence prompted calls for yet tighter export controls. And it sparked a broader reckoning: had the sanctions actually worked, or had they merely delayed the inevitable while simultaneously motivating China to build precisely the domestic semiconductor ecosystem the United States feared?
A 2025 report from the Information Technology and Innovation Foundation concluded bluntly that "Huawei is a more innovative company today than it was before the U.S. government sought to choke its supply chain." The same report estimated that U.S. technology companies had lost more than $33 billion in sales to Huawei between 2021 and 2024 as a result of the export controls — revenues that flowed instead to non-American competitors or to Huawei's own in-house alternatives. Huawei's global telecom equipment market share actually increased from 29% in early 2018 to 34% by 2024.
In a June 2025 front-page interview with the People's Daily, Ren Zhengfei — now 80, still at the helm — acknowledged the gap while reframing it as tractable: "Our single chips are still one generation behind the United States. We use mathematics to compensate for physics, non-Moore to compensate for Moore, and cluster computing to compensate for single chips; in terms of results, we can then reach practical outcomes."
Mathematics compensating for physics. It is a sentence that could describe Huawei's entire forty-year trajectory.
The State Within the State
The relationship between Huawei and the Chinese government is the single most contested question in global technology, and it defies simple answers because both sides have incentives to misrepresent it.
Huawei insists it is a private company, employee-owned, commercially motivated. It points to KPMG audits, to its global compliance efforts, to the sheer implausibility that a company serving 170+ countries could survive if it were caught installing a single backdoor. "If a single backdoor was found in even one of the countries where we operate," Ren told CNBC, "our sales would shrink in all of them."
Western intelligence agencies — and the U.S. government, formally — insist that Huawei cannot be disentangled from the Chinese state. They point to China's 2017 National Intelligence Law, which compels Chinese organizations to "support, assist, and cooperate with national intelligence work." They point to the estimated $75 billion in cumulative state support documented by the Wall Street Journal. They point to the Communist Party committee operating within Huawei's corporate structure. And they point to the fundamental structural argument: in Xi Jinping's China, no company of Huawei's size and strategic importance operates outside the Party's orbit. The question is not whether the Party has influence, but how that influence expresses itself — and whether it constitutes a security risk to foreign customers.
The truth almost certainly lies in the uncomfortable space between these two positions. Huawei is not an arm of the PLA, but it is also not Cisco. It is a product of China's political economy — a system in which private enterprise and state power are not cleanly separable, in which the government subsidizes favored industries and expects loyalty in return, and in which the notion of a truly autonomous private company operating at the strategic frontier is more aspiration than reality. Eva Dou, in
House of Huawei: The Secret History of China's Most Powerful Company, describes Ren Zhengfei as a "reluctant national champion" — a founder who once complained that Huawei was trusted by neither the Chinese government nor the Americans. The paradox is that his complaint may have been accurate, and it may also be irrelevant.
The Glue
Ren Zhengfei is perhaps the most important technology founder that most Westerners cannot name. He was, for most of Huawei's history, almost pathologically reclusive — giving his first media interview only in 2015, nearly three decades after founding the company. When CNBC's Arjun Kharpal asked him why
Steve Jobs is known internationally and he is not, Ren replied with characteristic deflection: "Because I don't actually know technology that well, and I didn't invent anything."
Then, the extraordinary follow-up: "I don't know about technology, management, or finance. I am just taking as a bucket of 'glue.' I stuck our 180,000 employees together, and encouraged them to forge ahead."
This self-description — the founder as adhesive rather than architect — reveals something essential about Huawei's operating model. Unlike Apple under Jobs or Tesla under Musk, Huawei has never been a cult of individual genius. Ren built a system: a culture of relentless focus, an ownership structure that distributes wealth widely, an R&D investment discipline that he describes using the sesame-to-watermelon metaphor (invest a sesame seed in technologies two billion light years away, an apple in those 20,000 kilometers out, a watermelon in those several thousand kilometers away, and a Van Fleet Load in those just five kilometers ahead). The system compounds. The system survives even when the founder can no longer work twelve-hour days.
Huawei's governance reflects this institutional design. The company operates under a rotating chairmanship system — three deputy chairmen cycle through the top post on six-month terms — intended to ensure continuity and prevent the concentration of power. Ren has stated explicitly that Meng Wanzhou "will definitely not be the successor." The Articles of Governance, he says, define an iterative succession framework. "Don't worry that Huawei would end up having no successor. In fact, we have too many."
Whether this system can truly function without Ren — whose moral authority, strategic instinct, and capacity for military-grade communication have held the company together through existential crises — is the open question that hangs over Huawei's next decade.
I don't know about technology, management, or finance. I am just taking as a bucket of "glue." I stuck our 180,000 employees together, and encouraged them to forge ahead. Huawei's achievements were not created by me alone, but by our 180,000 employees.
The Watermelon and the Sesame Seed
Huawei's R&D investment discipline is the closest thing the company has to a strategic constitution. In 2024, R&D spending reached approximately 180 billion yuan ($25.1 billion) — more than 20% of revenue, and more than the R&D budgets of Ericsson and Nokia combined. Over the previous decade, Huawei had invested a cumulative sum that dwarfed any other telecommunications equipment maker in history. It holds over 92,000 active patents in China alone, with thousands more filed internationally, particularly in 5G.
The philosophy, as Ren has articulated it repeatedly, is layered investment calibrated to temporal distance. Technologies far from commercialization get small, patient bets — sesame seeds. Technologies nearing deployment get concentrated, overwhelming force — the Van Fleet Load. And critically, a substantial portion of the budget — about 60 billion yuan annually, by Ren's own account — goes to basic theoretical research "without assessment." No KPIs. No expected commercial return. Just mathematicians and scientists working on problems that may or may not become products within a decade.
"Without basic research, there are no roots," Ren told the People's Daily in June 2025. "Even if the leaves are luxuriant and thriving, they will fall when the wind blows."
This is unusual for a company of Huawei's scale. Most technology firms — particularly those under the quarterly earnings pressure of public markets — find it structurally impossible to commit $8+ billion per year to research with no expected commercial payoff. Huawei's private ownership and ESOP structure make this possible, at least in theory, because there are no external shareholders demanding returns. The money that public companies would distribute as dividends or stock buybacks, Huawei plows back into the machine. Ren has been explicit about this: "We will not distribute any extra profit to our employees. Otherwise, they will become overweight and won't be able to move fast."
The result is a company that, despite its massive scale, still behaves in some respects like a research institution — one that happens to generate $118 billion in annual revenue.
Advertising by Adversary
Ren Zhengfei possesses an almost literary sense of irony about his company's position. When asked whether the United States was scared of Huawei, he replied: "If they aren't scared of us, why are they advertising for us everywhere they go?"
The line is funnier than it appears. Huawei's sales to oil-rich Gulf states and other emerging-market buyers genuinely accelerated after the U.S. campaign to block the company from Western 5G networks. Ren told CNBC that "some deep-pocketed countries with rich oil reserves are buying from us" precisely because "the US government is advertising for us." The logic is perverse but sound: when the world's most powerful nation declares that a small company from Shenzhen constitutes a national emergency, it sends a signal about the quality of that company's products that no marketing budget could replicate.
The geopolitical dynamic has created a de facto bifurcation of the global telecommunications map. Huawei is effectively excluded from the United States, Australia, New Zealand, Japan, and — increasingly, under U.S. pressure — parts of Europe, where Germany has explored compensating telecom providers to rip out Huawei equipment. But it remains dominant across most of Africa, the Middle East, Southeast Asia, Latin America, and, of course, China itself, which accounts for 71.4% of Huawei's 2024 revenue.
This bifurcation is not merely commercial. It is a foreshadowing of what some analysts call the "splinternet" — a world in which telecommunications infrastructure, operating systems, chip architectures, and digital standards diverge along geopolitical lines. Huawei's HarmonyOS, with nearly a billion users, is the first plausible alternative to the Google-Apple duopoly. Its Ascend AI chips are reportedly used by DeepSeek for inference. Its 5G equipment, unable to be sold in Five Eyes countries, is instead becoming the backbone of connectivity for a majority of the world's population that lives outside the Western alliance structure.
Huawei did not choose this position. But it has adapted to it with a speed and strategic clarity that would be impressive in any company, and is extraordinary in one that was supposed to be dead.
The Il-2
In 2019, asked about his daughter's ordeal, Ren reached for a military analogy — characteristically. "During World War II, there was a famous Il-2 aircraft that kept flying after being riddled with bullets from both other planes and anti-air defenses. Meng is now in a similar situation. She will be a hero if she makes it back to us."
The metaphor was ostensibly about Meng Wanzhou. But it is impossible to read it and not see the company itself — the fuselage punctured everywhere, the engines still running, the airframe scarred but aloft. Huawei in the mid-2020s is not the company it was in 2018. It is smaller in some dimensions (smartphone market share outside China), larger in others (automotive, AI chips, cloud), and structurally different in ways that may take years to fully resolve. It has spent more than $25 billion a year building domestic alternatives to the American technologies it was denied. It operates under a level of geopolitical scrutiny that no other private company in history has endured. And its 80-year-old founder, the glue that holds 208,000 employees together, has not yet stepped aside.
In the People's Daily interview, Ren was asked how he dealt with the difficulties. "I haven't thought about it," he said. "Thinking about it is useless. Don't think about difficulties — just do things, and move forward step by step."
Outside the window of Huawei's Shenzhen headquarters — a sprawling campus designed to look like a European village, a fantasy of normalcy and internationalism — the company ships equipment to 170 countries, trains AI models on its own chips, and pours $60 billion a year into research it may never commercialize. The annual R&D budget alone exceeds the GDP of more than half the world's nations. The needle keeps piercing.
