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Uplifting propaganda posters touting President Xi Jinping's "China Dream" catchphrase are plastered across many cities in China these days. But throughout the country's westernmost province, an unrelenting series of billboards, red banners and spray-painted signs suggests menace lurking everywhere.

"It is strictly forbidden to transmit violent terrorist videos," warn banners hung from government buildings and draped across traffic lane dividers. "Young men should not grow beards and young women should not cover their faces with veils," some signs read.

The messages make it clear whom authorities blame for the explosions, knifings, riots and other violent incidents that have left hundreds dead this year in Xinjiang province: Islamic extremists and separatists with ties to foreign forces.

But even as Chinese officials insist that this is a clear-cut battle against religious zealots and hard-core separatists, local authorities are making it difficult for anyone to independently question (or substantiate) that narrative. Outsiders inquiring about the scale or causes of the carnage in Xinjiang are unwelcome, and locals are discouraged from speaking freely about it.

That became abundantly clear on a recent Thursday when I and my assistant, our driver and guide suddenly found ourselves accompanied by two extremely persistent Xinjiang security officers who trailed us for hours and whose intimidating presence ensured that no one would talk openly to us.

China's state-run media must follow the Communist Party line, but foreign journalists are supposed to be able to travel freely anywhere in the country except Tibet and interview anyone who consents.

In reality, though, authorities employ various tactics to stifle coverage. In a recent survey by the Foreign Correspondents' Club of China, two-thirds of overseas reporters here said they had experienced interference, harassment or violence while attempting to report.

At my hotel in Kashgar, I was questioned and photographed by police; in Yafuquan, where I stopped to observe a village market and wasn't interviewing anyone, officers nonetheless approached our van within 20 minutes, demanded my passport, photographed it and told us to leave the area.

I actually got off lightly compared with Australian Broadcasting Corp. correspondent Stephen McDonell, who said he was recently trailed for 10 days in Xinjiang, sometimes followed by five cars carrying officials and plainclothes officers.

Later, Chinese Embassy representatives visited McDonell's bosses in Canberra, he said, urging them to quash any report on the trip and warning that any broadcast about his experience could harm relations between the two countries.

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In Xinjiang, China, journalists work in the shadow of censorship