I’m on a road trip through Xinjiang. In one place, Tashikuergan (also spelt Taxkorgan or Tashkurgan), I see Tajik and Uygur writing everywhere. In another, Tacheng, I see Kazak writing everywhere. I look around, see different faces and hear different voices, and I wonder: Am I in China?

After calling this place my home, the scene feels normal now, but five years ago, when I first came here, it stunned me that official signage, menus and court summonses appear in two, sometimes three, languages by law. Why? Because Xinjiang is not a province; it is Xinjiang?Uygur?Autonomous?Region, and that single word—autonomous—runs much deeper than a label.

From province to autonomous region

On October?1, 1955, the National People’s Congress, China’s top legislature, abolished Xinjiang Province and proclaimed Xinjiang?Uygur Autonomous?Region. A regional people’s congress adopted bilingual seals, formalized minority public holidays and guaranteed ethnic representation in every county. “Autonomy” meant power for people.

So what does autonomy mean? Well, the government and legal structure is slightly different here compared to the rest of China. Xinjiang’s chairman must be Uygur. Shanghai or Beijing, by contrast, has no ethnic rule for its mayor.

The law can be different too. China’s Constitution enshrines regional ethnic autonomy, while the Law on Regional Ethnic Autonomy supplies the nuts and bolts. According to Article 19 of the Law on Regional Ethnic Autonomy, Xinjiang can tweak national law, which is to help protect minorities in these regions.

Examples include modifications to the Marriage Law, which lets locals marry earlier here to adapt to local customs. When China’s national family planning policy allowed most couples to have one child, urban Uygur couples were permitted to have two children, while rural Uygur couples were allowed three. The difference vanished when China allowed all couples to have three children in 2021.

Articles 32-35 set up a distinct fiscal regime: Locals can enjoy tax breaks and even the right to charter regional banks. For me, who has a lower salary than in Shanghai, I actually save a lot more money because of these tax breaks, as well as how the cost of living is lower here! Win!

Article 48 ensures legal equality for every ethnic group. Discrimination in hiring, housing and education is banned.

Article 65 entitles the region to a negotiated share of oil, gas and other resource revenues.

According to Articles 37, 56 and 68: The government must keep building infrastructure and funding schools, and higher authorities cannot reassign local state-owned enterprises without regional consent.

How autonomy feels on ground

Language landscape. Courts provide simultaneous interpretation; street signs carry dual script; local TV cycles through Uygur, Kazak, Kirgiz and Putonghua (standard Chinese) bulletins. My landlord’s contract came stapled in both standard Chinese characters and Uygur script—an autonomy perk I’ve never seen in other major cities. Uygur is literally everywhere around, even in the metro station, where the metro announcer will use the Uygur language too.

For comparison, after living in Shanghai, I noticed Shanghai dialect being spoken at just a couple of stations. But in Urumqi, it’s at every stop.

Cultural calendar. Eid al-Fitr and Eid al-Adha sit beside National Day on the regional holiday roster. My school cancels classes for two days during Eid al-Adha with Islamic celebrations all around, but over in Shanghai or Beijing Zoom calls would continue as usual. These aren’t loose customs either; they’re written into statutes or regional regulations derived from Article?19 of the Law on Regional Ethnic Autonomy.

Understanding the autonomous region helps outsiders decode China’s broader ethnic policy: autonomy instead of federation, culture instead of secession, and minority faces in civilian posts. It also challenges blanket narratives.

Xinjiang’s legal status turned me from a sceptical visitor into a longterm resident fascinated by how a constitutional experiment plays out in shops, schools and teahouses. The next time someone calls Xinjiang a “province,” I will offer a quick tour: We’ll start with the bilingual kiosk machines at the railway station, drive past the regional people’s congress dome, visit a court where proceedings switch languages mid-hearing, and end the night clinking tea glasses to the Uygur toast hoishe—cheers to autonomy.

The author is a British YouTube content creator and a Ph.D. candidate?currently living in Urumqi.