Chinese scientists have achieved a milestone in energy storage: after seven years of intensive research, a team at the Dalian Institute of Chemical Physics, Chinese Academy of Sciences has built the world’s first working prototype hydride‑ion battery (i.e. a hydrogen negative‑ion battery). Their findings, detailing a novel electrolyte and full cell demonstration, were published in Nature on 17 September.
Hydrogen is a cornerstone in visions of future clean energy systems. In electrochemistry, it can exist as a proton (H⁺), a neutral atom (H), or in the rarer hydride (H⁻) form. The hydride ion carries high electron density, strong polarization potential, and high reactivity—qualities that make it an intriguing energy carrier. But until now, hydride‑ion batteries remained largely theoretical, hampered by the absence of an electrolyte that simultaneously offers high ionic (H⁻) conductivity, low electronic leakage, thermal and electrochemical stability, and good electrode compatibility.
Overcoming these challenges, the Chinese team devised a core–shell composite hydride as the electrolyte: cerium trihydride (CeH₃) encapsulated in a thin shell of barium hydride (BaH₂). This 3CeH₃@BaH₂ structure combines the fast hydride conduction of CeH₃ with the electronic suppression and stability of BaH₂, enabling H⁻ conduction at room temperature while maintaining robust thermal and electrochemical properties.
Using that electrolyte, researchers assembled an all‑solid‑state hydride‑ion prototype battery with sodium aluminum hydride (NaAlH₄) as the cathode material and hydrogen‑deficient cerium dihydride (CeH₂) as the anode. In testing, the positive electrode achieved an initial discharge capacity of 984 mAh/g and retained 402 mAh/g after 20 cycles. In a stacked cell configuration, the battery reached 1.9 volts—enough to power an LED lamp—demonstrating its functional viability.
The team credits earlier breakthroughs in hydride ion conduction for enabling this advance. In 2023, they introduced a “lattice distortion suppression of electronic conductivity” strategy, achieving ultrafast hydride ion conduction at ambient conditions—an essential foundation for moving toward a full battery.
This achievement shifts hydride‑ion batteries from concept toward experimental reality, and opens a new technical pathway in energy storage. The researchers plan to refine electrode materials, further optimize system performance, and broaden application scenarios—targeting large-scale energy storage, hydrogen storage, mobile power sources, and specialized power systems.
The scientific and application implications are substantial. If the challenges of scalability, cycle life, energy density, and cost can be addressed, hydride‑ion batteries might emerge as a complementary technology to lithium-ion and other advanced battery systems. As Chemical & Engineering News notes, this battery “delivers electrical current by using hydrogen in the form of hydride ions to mediate power‑producing electrochemical reactions” and represents a promising new direction in solid-state battery research.
This breakthrough underscores China’s growing strengths in next-generation battery research. The leap from theoretical possibility to tangible prototype will fuel further competition in clean energy storage and may, over time, reshape the landscape of energy conversion and storage globally.
The arrival of Trump 2.0 has been dizzying. In just over 100 days, his policies—from drastically reducing the size of the civil service to attempting to withdraw from Ukraine, from launching a tariff war to straining relations with traditional European allies—have unsettled both the United States and the world. How can we make sense of the principles guiding Trump 2.0? What enduring factors underlie his seemingly erratic behavior, and what impact will this new era have on China and the global order? Addressing these questions requires looking beyond the individual and examining the social forces that brought him to power.
From his first term in 2016 to the start of Trump 2.0 in 2024, it is evident that his support rests on a broad base of disenfranchised Americans and a surge of new right-wing conservative social thought driven by this constituency. Trump did not emerge from nowhere, nor does his behavior arise purely from whim; he is a product of deeper social currents. Understanding him demands analyzing these foundations to uncover the logic behind his policies.
This new right-wing conservatism differs sharply from traditional American neoconservatism. On the surface, it opposes immigration, gender relativism, and free trade. At a deeper level, it is anti-globalization, anti-democracy, and anti-establishment. It no longer seeks to promote universal Western liberal values but instead embraces an “America First” approach. Its ideological roots often draw on Christian traditions, particularly fundamentalist strains of white Christianity.
The rise of this trend is closely tied to the global expansion of liberal capitalism over the past three decades. Individualism has flourished, wealth has concentrated in the hands of a few, social inequality has widened, moral norms have eroded, and community cohesion has weakened. New right-wing conservatism emerges as a social self-protection movement, a reaction to the vulnerabilities and disruptions caused by liberal capitalism. From a Marxist political economy perspective, capitalism operates in cycles of expansion and contraction, and overproduction and overaccumulation naturally undermine profit rates and disrupt equilibrium. In the era of globalization, these cycles manifest worldwide, driving the rise of emerging powers and the relative decline of traditional powers. The emergence of new right-wing conservatism reflects this decline, signaling deeper structural shifts in society.
As this trend spreads, the global order is likely to be dramatically restructured. The anti-liberal values of the New Right threaten the US-led alliance of Western liberal democracies that has dominated since World War II. As the United States pursues strategic retrenchment and prioritizes its narrow national interests, Europe may seek autonomy, and new coalitions may emerge. Countries in the Global South risk marginalization, prompting them to explore alternative paths outside US influence. The spread of New Right conservatism undermines the universality of liberal values, reduces the influence of international organizations like the WTO and WHO, and increases the likelihood of conflicts between nations and ethnic groups, making global instability a persistent reality.
For China, the rise of the New Right presents both challenges and opportunities. With the US still viewing China as a strategic competitor, the rightward shift in American social thought may lead Europe to recalibrate its relations with China in pursuit of its own interests. American allies in Asia, such as Japan and South Korea, may also adjust their positions as the US pursues a narrow national agenda. The focus of China’s engagement with the West will likely shift from ideological struggle over “democracy, freedom, and human rights” to a confrontation centered on national interests, reflecting the anti-liberal and xenophobic tendencies of the New Right.
At the same time, as Western liberalism loses its appeal, China has an opportunity to present alternative global values. Through concepts such as a “community with a shared future for mankind” and initiatives including the Global Development Initiative, Global Security Initiative, and Global Civilization Initiative, China can propose a new framework to guide international cooperation in a period of growing chaos. Amid the evolving dynamics of global alliances, China should continue prioritizing engagement with the Global South, uniting countries that seek a multipolar world and striving to build a more equitable and orderly international system.
The advent of Trump 2.0 marks the beginning of a period of profound global turbulence. The chaos will intensify and may exceed our expectations. Understanding the underlying social currents that drive this era, and preparing strategically for the shifts they bring, is no longer optional—it is essential.
Source: BBC, the New York Times, Reddit, globalpanorama
Researchers in China have made a significant breakthrough in solid-state lithium battery technology that could dramatically reshape the future of flexible electronic devices. A team from the Institute of Metal Research at the Chinese Academy of Sciences has developed a new type of flexible solid-state lithium battery capable of withstanding 20,000 bending cycles without performance degradation. Their findings, recently published in the prestigious international journal Advanced Materials, mark a major advancement in addressing some of the most persistent challenges facing solid-state battery development—namely, high interfacial impedance and low ionic transport efficiency.
Solid-state lithium batteries have long been recognized for their high energy density and superior safety compared to traditional liquid-electrolyte lithium-ion batteries. However, widespread adoption has been hindered by poor solid-solid interface contact between the battery’s electrodes and electrolytes. This results in high resistance to ion flow and reduced electrochemical efficiency, ultimately limiting their practical usability, especially in flexible or wearable electronics.
To overcome this barrier, the Chinese research team leveraged the molecular design flexibility of polymers to create an innovative solid-state electrolyte material. By integrating ion-conducting ethoxy groups and electrochemically active short sulfur chains into the polymer’s main chain, they achieved seamless molecular-level interfacial contact between the electrolyte and electrodes. This design not only enhances ionic conductivity but also enables the material to switch between ion transport and storage functions depending on the operating voltage, a feature that introduces a new level of control and adaptability in battery behavior.
The resulting flexible batteries demonstrated exceptional mechanical resilience, withstanding up to 20,000 cycles of bending without significant degradation in performance. Moreover, when used as the polymer electrolyte in composite cathodes, this new material enabled an increase in energy density of up to 86%. This improvement not only makes these batteries more efficient but also contributes to miniaturization and flexibility in device design, two essential qualities for next-generation electronics.
This development arrives at a pivotal time in the evolution of smart technology. With the rapid proliferation of smart hardware, smartphones, and wearable devices, consumer electronics are becoming thinner, more versatile, and increasingly flexible. Since the emergence of full-screen smartphones in 2017, global tech giants like Samsung and Apple have been actively investing in foldable and bendable devices, signaling a clear industry shift toward flexible form factors. These futuristic, sci-fi-inspired products are no longer just conceptual showpieces at electronics exhibitions; they are increasingly entering the consumer market, shaping the trajectory of the electronics industry.
Flexible electronics have previously been recognized among the world’s top ten technological advancements, and projections suggest that they will revolutionize the design and function of future electronic systems. According to market research firm IDTechEx, the flexible electronics market was valued at US$46.94 billion in 2018 and is expected to soar to US$301 billion by 2028. This represents a compound annual growth rate of nearly 30% from 2011 to 2028, highlighting both the commercial promise and the intense demand for technological innovation in this sector.
Yet, a critical bottleneck in the progress of flexible electronics has been the development of equally flexible and reliable energy storage solutions. Traditional lithium-ion batteries and supercapacitors, designed with rigid structures, are ill-suited for flexible applications. When bent or folded, these conventional batteries risk detachment between electrode materials and current collectors, leading to reduced electrochemical performance, potential internal short circuits, and even safety hazards. Therefore, the emergence of high-performance, bendable energy storage devices has become a focal point in global research efforts.
Against this backdrop, the Chinese research breakthrough represents more than just an incremental improvement in battery chemistry—it could catalyze a new era in energy storage systems. By enabling batteries that are both flexible and efficient, this innovation directly addresses the most critical challenge hindering the practical implementation of flexible electronics. It lays the groundwork for a generation of electronic devices that are not only portable and compact, but also foldable, wearable, and seamlessly integrated into everyday life.
Furthermore, the molecular-level interface design approach introduced by the research team offers a new research paradigm that could influence future material development strategies across multiple domains of battery science. If commercialized, such technology has the potential to accelerate the adoption of flexible smartphones, medical wearables, foldable tablets, smart textiles, and even bendable solar panels. This would significantly expand the design possibilities for engineers and product designers, while improving the energy storage capabilities and safety of mobile and wearable devices.
China’s advancement in flexible solid-state battery technology marks a critical turning point in the race toward next-generation electronics. By resolving the longstanding issue of solid-solid interfacial inefficiency and introducing a high-performance, flexible battery design, this research not only advances battery science but also provides the necessary energy foundation to unlock the full potential of flexible electronics. As market demand intensifies and consumer expectations evolve, innovations like these will likely serve as the bedrock of future technological transformation in both consumer and industrial electronics.
On 2 September, following the Shanghai Cooperation Organisation summit, the leaders of China, Russia, and Mongolia met at the Great Hall of the People in Beijing for the seventh trilateral summit. There, they signed a legally binding memorandum to move forward with the long-awaited Power of Siberia 2 natural gas pipeline, a 2,000-kilometre project that will transport 50 billion cubic metres of gas annually from Russia’s West Siberian gas fields to China via Mongolia under a 30-year contract. Although the agreed price remains undisclosed, Gazprom’s CEO confirmed it will be lower than the rates previously offered to European buyers.
Few realise that this moment was ten years in the making. The original letter of intent for Power of Siberia 2 was signed in 2015, but a full decade of stalled negotiations, geopolitical shifts, and commercial disagreements delayed its finalisation. While the project now stands as a symbol of strategic trust among the three nations, its delay reveals how intertwined energy infrastructure has become with global power dynamics.
At the core of this delay were disagreements over pricing. China insisted on a pricing formula based on Russia’s domestic gas rates plus a modest tariff, which would have meant paying $120–130 per 1,000 cubic metres. Russia, in contrast, pushed for a higher rate tied to the Asian oil and gas price index, targeting a price range closer to $265–285. This standoff persisted, as low gas prices in 2015, combined with the enormous infrastructure costs involved, made both sides hesitant to commit. It was only in the new strategic context of 2025—after Europe’s gas demand from Russia collapsed and China’s clean energy needs intensified—that compromise became not just possible, but necessary.
The route through Mongolia, though seemingly less direct than alternatives, carries strategic logic. Russia initially considered building the pipeline through the Altai Mountains into China’s Xinjiang region, but environmental and topographic concerns made the Altai route unviable. Kazakhstan also campaigned to host the transit corridor, but China and Russia ultimately favoured Mongolia. Kazakhstan is already a major gas exporter to China, but rising domestic demand has led it to reduce exports. Mongolia, by contrast, offers an untapped transit route and suffers from acute energy and environmental problems of its own.
For Mongolia, which faces severe winter pollution due to coal burning—particularly in Ulaanbaatar, where half the country’s population lives—natural gas offers a cleaner and desperately needed alternative. While concerns remain in Mongolia about becoming overly dependent on Russian-controlled energy routes, the pipeline presents a rare opportunity to tackle its environmental crisis, benefit from transit revenues, and strengthen strategic relevance between two major powers.
For Russia, the choice of Mongolia is not just about logistics. It is about influence. Russia already holds dominant positions in Central Asia’s energy networks. By pivoting to Mongolia, it expands its energy reach while simultaneously weakening Kazakhstan’s leverage and binding a new neighbour more tightly into its sphere.
China, meanwhile, is recalibrating its energy mix. In 2024, China imported 76.65 million tonnes of LNG at a cost of 313.6 billion yuan—approximately 4.09 yuan per kilogram—and 55.04 million tonnes of pipeline gas for 150.2 billion yuan, or 2.73 yuan per kilogram. LNG is expensive and logistically complex, making it less suitable for base-load energy needs. In contrast, pipeline gas offers cost efficiency, stability, and long-term reliability. However, Central Asia—once a consistent supplier—is faltering. In 2024, Kazakhstan slashed exports by 40 percent due to surging domestic demand. Uzbekistan, once contributing nearly 10 percent of China’s pipeline imports, has intermittently halted exports entirely. Turkmenistan remains steady, but alone cannot meet China’s rising demand.
Expanding Russian pipeline gas is therefore China’s most practical move. While it reduces import diversification and increases reliance on a single supplier, the economic and strategic calculation remains sound. In return, Russia gains what it increasingly cannot find in Europe: a stable, high-volume buyer.
The shift is profound. Russia’s gas industry, long oriented westward, is now being redirected. In the first seven months of this year, pipeline gas exports to Europe dropped to just 8.33 billion cubic metres—nearly half of what was exported during the same period in 2024—and the total for the year is expected to fall below 16 billion, lower than even Soviet-era volumes in 1975. Gazprom produced over 416 billion cubic metres of gas last year, yet left more than 60 billion unsold—more than the entire annual output of the United Arab Emirates. With the European Union set on eliminating Russian gas by 2027 and expanding sanctions on Russian LNG, Russia’s traditional markets are evaporating.
The Power of Siberia 2 pipeline taps directly into the Ulyngo field in the West Siberian Basin, home to two-thirds of Russia’s gas reserves. Historically, this gas flowed west to Europe. The existing Power of Siberia 1 pipeline, which has reliably exceeded its annual delivery targets, draws from the much smaller East Siberian Basin. But as China’s demand continues to grow, the first pipeline’s capacity is nearing its limit. Expanding supply requires tapping into the enormous reserves of West Siberia, and for that, Russia must build new infrastructure across Mongolia to China.
The significance of Power of Siberia 2 lies not only in its scale but in what it represents. At an estimated cost of $10–14 billion, it will be one of the most capital-intensive projects in the global gas industry. Its 50 billion cubic metre capacity matches that of the destroyed Nord Stream pipeline, effectively redirecting the gas once destined for Europe toward China. This marks the end of Russia’s long-standing dual infrastructure policy that kept its western and eastern gas systems separate. It is a shift in the geography of energy itself.
With the completion of Power of Siberia 2, China could receive over 106 billion cubic metres of gas annually via pipeline from Russia—nearly half of its current domestic gas production. Though the price paid by China is significantly lower than the premium once earned in Europe, volume and long-term security now matter more. For Russia, losing China as a gas client would be catastrophic. With no viable alternative buyers and its European market nearly gone, China has become not only Russia’s most important energy customer—but perhaps its last.
In the end, this is a project born not of diplomacy or convenience, but of necessity. China needs clean, stable energy. Russia needs buyers. Mongolia needs infrastructure and cleaner air. These overlapping needs, shaped by shifting global energy flows and collapsing old alliances, have finally pushed the Power of Siberia 2 from proposal to reality. The decade-long wait is over. What lies ahead is a redefined energy map, with China and Russia more tightly bound than ever—by steel, gas, and strategy.
In recent years, artificial intelligence has made astonishing progress, especially with large language models like ChatGPT. These powerful systems can understand and generate human-like text, answer questions, write essays, even pass exams. But behind this success lies an inconvenient truth: these models are extremely hungry for computing power, electricity, and specialized hardware—mostly made by a few companies in a few countries.
The AI world today is built on a model architecture called the Transformer, which has dominated the field since 2017. While it’s powerful, it’s also inefficient—especially when working with long documents. It requires enormous computational resources to keep track of how every word in a sentence relates to every other word, a process that becomes slower and more expensive the longer the text gets. Training and running these models typically depends on NVIDIA GPUs, which are expensive and largely out of reach for countries that want to build AI systems independently.
Now, Chinese researchers have introduced something entirely different: a brain-inspired AI model called SpikingBrain 1.0, or Shunxi (瞬悉) in Chinese. Developed by a team led by the Chinese Academy of Sciences, this new model takes inspiration not from computer science, but from biology—specifically, the way the human brain works. And the results are remarkable.
Unlike traditional AI, which is always calculating everything all the time, the human brain works in a very different way. It runs on just 20 watts of power—less than a light bulb—but handles more information than any supercomputer. It does this through billions of neurons only when needed. The brain is what scientists call event-driven: it reacts only when something important happens. This is what SpikingBrain is trying to mimic.
SpikingBrain 1.0 is the world’s first large-scale, fully brain-inspired AI model trained entirely on domestically produced Chinese hardware—a significant achievement in a world where most cutting-edge AI still relies on American-designed chips. But what makes it truly unique is not just where it runs, but how it thinks.
Most AI models process language by comparing every word with every other word to figure out what matters. This is called the “attention mechanism”—it works, but it’s slow, especially for long text. The time and memory needed grow exponentially with longer inputs. SpikingBrain replaces this attention system with something simpler and faster, modeled more closely on the way neurons process information.
Instead of trying to see every word in a document all at once, SpikingBrain breaks it down in a more organized, efficient way. It uses methods like sliding windows, which focus only on nearby words at any given time, and compressed representations, which summarize longer passages. Think of it like a person reading an article, understanding each paragraph before moving on, rather than trying to memorize the whole article in one glance.
Another breakthrough in SpikingBrain is the use of “experts”—smaller specialized modules inside the model that activate only when they’re needed. For example, if the model is answering a legal question, only the “legal expert” gets involved, while the rest of the model stays quiet. This method, called Mixture of Experts, allows SpikingBrain to have a massive number of parameters (the internal settings that allow AI to learn), without using more energy or memory. It’s like having a team of advisors, but only calling on the ones who know the subject.
But the most futuristic aspect of SpikingBrain is the use of spikes—short bursts of digital signals that mimic the firing of neurons. Traditional AI uses continuous values, but the brain doesn’t. It communicates through pulses, or spikes, which only happen when necessary. SpikingBrain uses a similar approach: its artificial neurons function only when the information is strong or important enough to cross a threshold. This makes the model dramatically more efficient. Tests show that up to 70% of its computation can be skipped because nothing needs to happen until a spike is triggered. In theory, this could lead to 43 times more energy efficiency than traditional AI models.
Even more impressively, this model was trained and deployed entirely on MetaX GPUs, China’s own AI chips. While the global AI race has so far been dominated by companies using NVIDIA chips, SpikingBrain proves that a fully self-reliant AI system is possible. The researchers trained two versions of the model—one with 7 billion parameters and another massive one with 76 billion—entirely on MetaX’s computing clusters, running for weeks without interruption. These are not experimental toys—they’re production-ready models.
And how do they perform? Surprisingly well. The smaller 7B model performed on par with global models like LLaMA-2 and Mixtral. It can read and process documents millions of words long—something that would choke or crash most Transformer-based systems. It also runs up to 15 times faster than comparable models on regular CPUs, meaning it could one day power smart assistants, search engines, or scientific tools even on low-power devices like phones or tablets.
But perhaps the most important thing about SpikingBrain is what it represents: a new path for AI development. For years, AI progress has followed a single road—bigger models, more data, more computing power, and more energy use. This “more is better” approach is starting to hit its limits. What SpikingBrain offers is something radically different: a model built on the principles of biology, efficiency, and independence. It’s not just copying the brain for inspiration—it’s rebuilding AI from the inside out.
By focusing on what the brain does best—sparse, efficient, specialized processing—SpikingBrain opens the door to a future where artificial intelligence can be both powerful and sustainable. It also gives China a strong foothold in a new and emerging field of “neuromorphic” AI: machines that don’t just act smart, but actually think in brain-like ways.
This is not just about speed or power. It’s about sovereignty, creativity, and charting a new course. SpikingBrain is still in its early stages, but it may be remembered as the moment when AI research began to look not just at silicon, but at biology—when we stopped trying to force machines to think like machines, and started helping them think more like us.
In a world increasingly shaped by artificial intelligence, that may be the smartest idea of all.
When we look at ancient Chinese portraiture, we are struck by a curious and striking detail: with the exception of a few exceptional figures such as Sima Qian, Cai Lun, and Zheng He—who bore beards for particular symbolic or practical reasons—most adult men wore facial hair of varying styles and lengths.
The Wu Za Zu of the Ming period contains vivid, almost hyperbolic descriptions of beard length: “Cui Yan’s beard was four feet long; Wang Yu and Liu Yuan’s were both three feet; Yuan Ziyao’s reached five feet; Xie Lingyun’s beard touched the ground; Guan Yu and Hu Tianyuan’s extended several feet; Shi Heng and the Qing official Zhang Jingxiu had beards past their knees.” Such accounts, though likely exaggerated, reveal that beards were not just a matter of grooming but a symbol of dignity, power, and identity.
This historical tradition of beard-wearing carries over into Chinese opera, where male roles are distinguished by false beards known as ránkǒu, categorized according to character, age, and status—“three-beards,” “full beards,” and “tied beards,” in hues of black, white, and gray. In modern times, though, bearded men are rare outside of theater, film sets, or the artistic community—especially in cities. The shift away from facial hair is not trivial; even a small beard can carry cultural, biological, and aesthetic weight.
Charles Darwin once suggested that beards, much like a lion’s mane, offer a protective buffer around vulnerable areas such as the throat while also projecting masculine presence. In literature, the beard is often a synecdoche for masculinity: in Dream of the Red Chamber, Jia Baoyu’s self-description as a “bearded, dirty creature” underscores how a beard evokes manhood. As a secondary sexual trait, beards have served practical functions in human history: in cold climates, a dense beard acts like a natural scarf to help retain heat; in summer it screens the face from insects and wind; in combat, it may cushion blows. A study at the University of Utah suggests that a hairy surface can absorb about 16 percent more impact force than a hairless one, hinting that facial hair might have even shielded the face from injury in ancient conflicts.
In Chinese myth and culture, beards held symbolic importance. The dragon—a potent totem in Chinese tradition—features a prominent “dragon beard,” perhaps reflecting a reverence for beards themselves. In Records of the Grand Historian, when the emperor Huangdi’s cauldron was completed, a beard-draped dragon greeted him; lesser officials who clung to the beard while ascending to the heavens fell when it tore off, giving birth to a symbolic meaning of “grasping the beard” as mourning the emperor.
Linguistically, the modern term for facial hair, húxū (胡须), originally referred to men with beards among the “Hu” (northern) peoples who typically grew more luxuriant facial hair than the Han Chinese. Over centuries the term narrowed to mean simply “beard.” Ancient Chinese distinguished parts of the beard: zī (髭) for the upper lip, rán (髯) for the cheeks, xū (须) for the chin. Another early character ěr (而), drawn in oracle-bone script as wisps of hair under a face, even functioned as the word “beard.” The character “nài” (耐)—which today means “endure”—once represented a legal penalty involving forced shaving of the beard and sideburns for one to two years. Because hair was considered a gift from one’s parents under Confucian ethics, removing the beard was deeply humiliating, “unfilial,” and psychologically painful.
Yet a beard need not be long to be meaningful—it must be well maintained. In the Book of Songs Shijing, a hunter’s “beautiful and suave” visage is often taken to signify a well‐groomed beard. Han Dynasty texts link a strong beard to vigorous health. During the Three Kingdoms era, Guan Yu was famed for his flowing beard; in the Romance of the Three Kingdoms, he claimed that in autumn he might lose a few hairs, which he would carefully bag; in winter he would protect them in silk. Such detail elevated the beard to a mark of dignity and loyalty.
With time, fashions shifted. In the Wei–Jin period, white facial complexions and delicate features became ideals of refined beauty, downplaying heavy beards. Even as some literati—like Zhang Hua or Ge Hong—retained facial hair and codified beard culture (including dyeing gray whiskers black), the prevailing taste among elite circles veered toward hairlessness or minimal whiskers. In Tang China, emperors like Taizong and Xuanzong even styled elegant “curly beards” to evoke dragon imagery. But the mainstream aesthetic favored thin, neat beard lines rather than luxuriant growth.
By the Song Dynasty, a professional “tweezers and shaving” trade had matured. In Along the River at Qingming, a barbershop scene shows a customer being shaved with razors. Stories recount a barber who shaved one cheek only to find the other side regenerated instantly, as if hair grew faster than he could remove it. Even officials plucked hairs from a graying beard to adjust their image among courtiers and concubines. The term liúxū (flowing beard) also became a metaphor for flattery, as when a minister wiped soup off a superior’s beard in obsequiousness.
Later dynasties maintained the tradition of beards among gentlemen. Under the Yuan, high-ranking ministers dyed gray beards, maintained long whiskers, and were noted in court chronicles. The Ming Code dictated that officials preserve a dignified appearance with neatly trimmed facial hair. Zhang Juzheng combed his beard with a lead comb to keep it black and glossy. Under the Qing, shaving the head was mandated, but men were still permitted to keep beards—especially in elite and official classes—though laborers often went clean-shaven for practicality.
Why then did the bearded man, once ubiquitous, disappear from modern streets?
The decline of facial hair in China is intertwined with Western influence. Following the 1911 Revolution, the pigtail (queue) was abandoned, replacing traditional hairstyles with “new-style barbershops” modelled on Western salons. This aesthetic shift favored clean-shaven faces or modest mustaches. Meanwhile, in the West, the early 20th century saw a sharp decline in beards. The 1918 influenza pandemic raised hygiene awareness, and the adoption of gas masks in World War I made facial hair a liability. The arrival of the safety razor made daily shaving convenient, clean, and affordable.
Chinese elites and public figures adopted these modern norms. The upper lip–style moustache reminiscent of German military fashion became popular in late Qing and early Republican circles. During wartime and as nation-building advanced, facial hair was often associated with old regimes or militancy. After 1949, modern hygiene campaigns and faster-paced urban life favored the ease of a clean-shaven face. In professions such as the military, police, banking, transport, and education, regulations and norms reinforced shave‑norms for men. Electric shavers made grooming almost as easy as brushing one’s teeth. Media and advertisements further normalized shaving—and the beard gradually receded into niche or artistic domains.
In contemporary urban life, a long beard is impractical. Commuters packed in subways, meals that soil facial hair, and tight routines leave little time for grooming. A long beard in close quarters might be an annoyance or safety risk. Facial hair also hinders mask-wearing and hygiene—an especially salient disadvantage during epidemics.
Ultimately, modern aesthetics favor clean lines, minimalism, and perceived neatness. A beard that is ungroomed can appear scruffy rather than dignified. Combined with social norms, practical inconveniences, and changing ideals of masculinity, the era of broad facial hair has largely vanished. The once everyday badge of maturity and authority now lives on mostly in art, performance, and the pages of history.
Source: The World of Chinese, National Humanity History, wenxiaobai, xhgmw, sohu
At the end of August 2025, Indonesia faced its most severe nationwide protests in nearly a decade. The immediate trigger was a controversial proposal to grant parliamentarians a monthly housing allowance of 50 million Indonesian rupiah (approximately $3,000)—ten times Jakarta’s minimum wage and twenty times that of impoverished regions. As many Indonesians grappled with soaring living costs, scarce employment opportunities, and tightened public budgets, this blatant favoritism toward the elite ignited long-simmering social frustrations.
Despite President Prabowo Subianto’s swift response, protests rapidly spread from Jakarta to 31 cities including Surabaya, Bandung, and Makassar. In some areas, demonstrations escalated into violent clashes, with protesters storming legislative buildings, setting fire to parliament offices, and looting officials’ residences. To quell the unrest and address the “17+8 People’s Demands,” Prabowo withdrew the subsidy proposal and replaced several lawmakers, as well as key ministers in the economic and security sectors.
This apparent crisis over economic redistribution reveals a deeper rupture in Prabowo’s governance—a fragile balance between coercion and concession. As a former army general, Prabowo’s style embodies a paradox: he seeks to maintain order through militarized authority while simultaneously courting public favor with populist policies. Yet, these dual strategies have faltered.
His emphasis on force has rekindled fears of authoritarian regression and state violence, while his populist gestures have floundered amid fiscal constraints and glaring inequalities. Neither approach has addressed Indonesia’s structural problems; instead, the imbalance has driven social discontent to a breaking point. This dynamic exposes the struggle of a young democracy caught between authoritarian tendencies and populist pressures.
Prabowo’s militarized approach is evident in the reshaping of Indonesia’s power structure. Upon taking office, he formed an unprecedentedly large cabinet, known as the “Red and White Cabinet,” filled disproportionately with military veterans, including key positions held by former generals. By granting honorary four-star ranks to retired officers and revising history textbooks to emphasize nationalist narratives while omitting references to past ethnic violence, Prabowo seeks to legitimize a centralized, military-backed political cartel.
His efforts to consolidate control over policy-making and bureaucracy reflect an attempt to create a loyal power base anchored in military loyalty. Concurrently, the government’s controversial amendments to the National Armed Forces Law sought to expand military authority, including adding civil functions like cyber defense and overseas citizen protection. Critics decried this as a revival of the “dual function” doctrine, which allowed the military to dominate both defense and politics during the Suharto era, undermining civilian supremacy and democratic gains.
The use of state violence further intensified public anger, culminating in a tragic incident where a 21-year-old ride-hailing driver, Affan Kurniawan, was crushed to death by a police armored vehicle during the protests. Despite Prabowo’s pledge for a transparent investigation, the incident became a symbol of systemic state brutality and privilege, transforming economic grievances into demands for police accountability and institutional reform. This event laid bare the vulnerabilities of Prabowo’s coercive model, showing how reliance on force can exacerbate social tensions rather than contain them.
Parallel to coercion, Prabowo’s populist policies aimed to win hearts but fell into fiscal and ethical traps. His flagship “free lunch” program for schoolchildren and pregnant women, costing an estimated $30 billion annually—14% of the government budget—strained public finances. To fund it, the government slashed spending in education, healthcare, and infrastructure while raising taxes on ordinary citizens, creating a paradox where efforts to assist the poor inadvertently increased their burdens.
Budget cuts further degraded the program’s quality, with essential nutrition compromised. Additionally, a controversial mass pardon of convicted corrupt officials under the banner of national unity sparked outrage, undermining anti-corruption efforts and public trust in the rule of law. This move signaled tolerance for elite impunity rather than genuine reform.
The housing allowance scandal starkly exposed this double standard. While ordinary Indonesians faced higher taxes and shrinking services, lawmakers received disproportionately generous benefits, fueling widespread perceptions of inequality and political opportunism. The scandal ignited not only economic but moral outrage, eroding confidence in government fairness and accountability. The protests thus transcended specific policies, demanding fundamental changes in governance rather than superficial concessions.
These upheavals reflect deeply rooted structural conflicts rather than isolated incidents. Indonesia’s impressive macroeconomic growth—5% in 2024—masks persistent micro-level struggles, particularly among youth facing unemployment rates more than twice that of neighboring countries. The disconnect between national prosperity and individual hardship fuels resentment. Longstanding corruption, from Suharto-era kleptocracy to decentralized local graft, further saps public faith. The government’s leniency toward corrupt elites amid growing economic strain intensified popular indignation, crystallizing into a target for collective dissent.
Moreover, the protests exemplify new modes of social mobilization shaped by digital media. Unlike past movements led by unions or political parties, this wave was driven by decentralized networks using platforms like TikTok and Instagram to spread shared frustrations rapidly and widely. Hashtags like #IndonesiaGelap (“Dark Indonesia”) captured collective anxiety and hardship, making it harder for the government to manage unrest through traditional negotiations with established leaders. This fluid, emotion-driven activism challenges Prabowo’s carrot-and-stick approach, as neither patronage nor repression effectively contain the dispersed and volatile public sentiment.
Ultimately, Prabowo’s reliance on a dual strategy of coercion and populism has reached its limits. The military-backed concentration of power risks authoritarian backlash and loss of legitimacy, while expansive but fiscally unsustainable social programs and elite privileges deepen inequality and distrust. Indonesia’s crisis demands a governance transformation that transcends these old formulas. Only by rebuilding the rule of law, ensuring equitable resource distribution, and creating inclusive political representation can the government hope to respond to contemporary challenges.
Indonesia’s turmoil offers a window into broader governance crises facing many emerging democracies in a fractured, digital age marked by rising social divisions and evolving modes of political engagement. For Prabowo, the current moment is a decisive test: whether he can restore public confidence in democratic institutions and move beyond the flawed carrot-and-stick paradigm will shape Indonesia’s political trajectory for years to come.
From 30 August to 1 September, Indian Prime Minister Narendra Modi visited China for the Shanghai Cooperation Organisation summit in Tianjin, marking his first trip there in seven years. On 31 August, Chinese leaders met with Modi, building on their previous encounter at the 16th BRICS Summit in Kazan in October 2024.
At Tianjin, the two sides agreed to view Sino‑Indian relations through a long‑term lens, to regard one another as partners rather than adversaries, and to jointly uphold peace along their shared border. Modi further announced the imminent resumption of direct flights, expressed India’s wish to deepen economic cooperation, and reaffirmed a willingness to find solutions to boundary disputes with Beijing. He insisted that both nations maintain strategic autonomy and independent foreign policies, rejecting third‑party interference, and asserted that renewed cooperation could help make the 21st century the Asian Century. Collectively, these moves signal a cautious but meaningful re‑engagement in Sino‑Indian ties.
The thaw did not come easily. Since the sharp deterioration in relations in 2020, China repeatedly extended diplomatic overtures toward India. In February 2021, both sides disengaged along southern and northern shores of Pangong Tso, and later agreed to establish a diplomatic hotline to facilitate real‑time communication. When the Ukraine crisis erupted in early 2022, India resisted external pressure to pick sides.
China’s State Councillor and Foreign Minister Wang Yi visited India in March to explore common ground, but New Delhi declined to align its Ukraine stance with Beijing’s and insisted that normalization could only proceed once border tensions receded. This stance deviated from earlier practice of decoupling border disputes from broader bilateral relations and conflicted with Article 1 of the 2005 China–India Guiding Principles agreement, which states that boundary differences should not obstruct overall bilateral development.
Russia also attempted to mediate between China and India, but India maintained a cautious distance. Meanwhile, New Delhi deepened its strategic partnership with Washington. In June 2023, Modi became the first Indian Prime Minister to make a state-level visit to the United States—a marked elevation in bilateral relations. During that trip, he addressed a joint session of the U.S. Congress. But soon, friction emerged. Indian cross-border operations targeting Sikh separatists in nations allied with the U.S. raised tensions in American political circles. Though the surface of U.S.–India ties appeared robust, Washington began introducing subtle measures that constrained support for Modi and his ruling party, such as pressuring the venue and optics of Indo–U.S. summits and scrutinizing companies close to Modi.
Faced with a cooling of American enthusiasm, India started signaling a modest reset toward China. In an April 2024 interview, Modi described Sino‑Indian relations as very important and significant—a departure from previous rhetoric. After his re-election in mid‑2024, his first foreign visit was to Russia in July, reaffirming India’s independent path. The breakthrough with China came in October. On 21 October 2024, Indian Foreign Secretary Tang Yongsheng announced that India and China had agreed on protocols for border patrols; the next day, China confirmed a “solution” on related border matters. Modi then met Chinese leadership in Kazan, offering proposals to expand bilateral trust. That meeting effectively marked the end of the 2020 standoff along the western border segment.
Still, progress since Kazan has been slower than anticipated. India avoided resuming even basic personnel exchanges until much later, preferring to wait and assess whether U.S. policy would shift under President Trump’s return. In April 2025, Indian ministers publicly defended Trump’s tariff war with China—blaming China’s WTO accession for global trade disruptions—and announced that Chinese investment in India was “not welcome.” But when trade tensions between Washington and Beijing escalated sharply, China and the United States moved to issue a joint Geneva statement aimed at gradual de-escalation. Meanwhile, New Delhi’s ties with Trump rapidly deteriorated: following India’s underwhelming performance in a 7–10 May India–Pakistan skirmish, Trump pressured Modi to publicly thank him for his mediation efforts. Later, Trump announced 25 percent tariffs on Indian goods beginning 7 August, then added another 25 percent tariff citing India’s oil purchases from Russia—bringing total U.S. tariffs on Indian exports to 50 percent. In response, India accelerated high-level engagement with China: between June and July, its defence minister, national security advisor, and foreign minister all visited Beijing in quick succession.
Modi’s Tianjin trip thus carries both symbolism and strings. His primary invitation was to attend the SCO summit—not a dedicated bilateral mission. To temper perceptions, India arranged a Japan visit just beforehand as geopolitical counterbalance, and avoided participating in a 3 September Beijing commemoration marking the 80th anniversary of the end of World War II—thereby sidestepping historical tension. India also abstained from the SCO Plus meeting on 1 September and persistently raised bilateral issues at multilateral fora. In 2025, India had blocked joint SCO communiqués by insisting that the Pahargam terror attack in Kashmir be condemned—a demand others viewed as moving bilateral disputes onto multilateral platforms. Modi reiterated India’s view that connectivity projects must respect sovereignty—an implicit critique of the China–Pakistan Economic Corridor. India submitted reservations about Belt and Road language in the final Tianjin Declaration, underlining that rapprochement is still tentative and subject to strategic calculation.
It is possible that India is using limited warming with China and Russia to influence U.S. policy toward New Delhi, rather than truly abandoning its pro‑American tilt. During the Tianjin period, Modi made a phone call to Ukrainian President Zelenskyy emphasizing India’s desire for peace, and traveled with Russian President Putin to the summit venue, engaging in symbolic gestures of rapport. Meanwhile, Russia disclosed that it proposed reinstating the China–Russia–India leaders’ mechanism—though New Delhi reportedly remains hesitant.
Domestically, India faces additional obstacles. Decades of official China containment have shaped public discourse, promoting anti‑China sentiment as politically safe across media, military, and diplomatic institutions. Although Modi speaks in more balanced tones, his words often struggle to overcome entrenched biases. From Beijing’s perspective, China’s India policy has long been “self‑centered,” calibrated to China’s evolving interests rather than Indian sensibilities. For Beijing, recalibrating ties with New Delhi will always happen on its terms.
In sum, Modi’s Tianjin visit represents a high point in the current phase of Sino‑Indian reconciliation—but neither side is under illusion that the path ahead will be smooth. India must choose whether its future lies in balancing great powers or in charting a more independent, regionally confident role. If the U.S.–India tariff dispute is resolved, India’s eagerness to court China may wane. More deeply, reconciling India’s strategic posture with its domestic sensibilities and skeptical institutions remains a far greater challenge than any summit visit. Even as China pursues a steady course predicated on long-term interests, India must decide whether this re-embrace is a strategic reset—or a tactical maneuver in a shifting geopolitical order.
Four years after the dramatic withdrawal of U.S. forces from Afghanistan, the country remains at the centre of geopolitical debate and strategic maneuvering. The chaotic scenes that marked America’s exit are still fresh in global memory, but the United States’ strategic calculus on Afghanistan has not been entirely abandoned. Former President Donald Trump has publicly reignited discussion over Afghanistan by demanding that the country “return” Bagram Airfield to the United States, describing it as a necessary strategic asset—particularly due to its proximity to China’s western nuclear facilities.
Despite these assertions, there is no indication that Washington is planning to reintroduce large-scale military deployments. Instead, Trump’s comments reflect a continued desire to retain influence over Afghanistan at minimal cost. This approach echoes the broader U.S. strategy during his previous term in office, particularly after the 2020 Doha Agreement, which aimed to reduce U.S. engagement in Afghanistan while maintaining a foothold in the region.
Throughout the previous U.S. administration, maintaining control over Bagram was viewed as a way to preserve leverage in the region. Certain factions within both the U.S. government and the Taliban had considered a post-withdrawal arrangement in which the U.S. retained access to specific military facilities. While those discussions ultimately failed to yield concrete outcomes, the idea of a base like Bagram serving as a strategic anchor remains alive in some political circles in Washington.
Trump’s renewed rhetoric on Afghanistan also serves a domestic political function. By resurfacing the topic, he seeks to deflect blame for the chaotic withdrawal, which many Americans associate with the Biden administration. In reality, the decision to engage the Taliban diplomatically and withdraw U.S. forces originated under Trump’s own leadership. By raising the issue now, he attempts to shape the narrative and avoid retrospective accountability—especially as Congressional inquiries into the withdrawal process continue.
Meanwhile, the U.S. military withdrawal left behind a significant cache of weapons and equipment, much of which is now in the hands of the Taliban. These include helicopters, light arms, and military vehicles. Though some aircraft were flown to neighbouring countries such as Tajikistan and Uzbekistan, the Taliban has demanded their return, leading to diplomatic tensions. In some cases, Taliban forces have successfully repaired and deployed abandoned helicopters for domestic tasks like disaster response and patrols. Nevertheless, Afghanistan’s air defense capabilities remain negligible, and many of the former U.S. military installations have limited operational value under Taliban control.
Domestically, the Taliban’s rule is relatively stable. Armed opposition exists but lacks the strength or coordination to challenge the regime significantly. Groups such as Islamic State-Khorasan Province (ISKP) have seen reduced activity, and although sporadic violence persists, the overall security situation has improved when compared to the immediate post-withdrawal period.
However, Afghanistan still faces profound economic and humanitarian challenges. A surge in returning refugees—more than four million people from countries like Pakistan and Iran—has strained the country’s fragile infrastructure and heightened unemployment. Electricity access remains unreliable, and although widespread famine has been avoided, the country still hovers near crisis levels. Despite this, the regime has managed to prevent total economic collapse, and no large-scale humanitarian disaster has materialized so far.
At the same time, the Taliban government faces strong criticism over its conservative domestic policies. Restrictions on women’s rights, bans on education for girls, limits on music and entertainment, and internet shutdowns have all drawn condemnation. These measures, while aligning with the ideological preferences of the regime’s core leadership, risk further isolating Afghanistan from the international community. There are also growing concerns over the centralization of power, with Taliban leader Akhundzada consolidating authority through parallel power structures independent of the government in Kabul.
Though internal power struggles persist within the Taliban, they have been largely managed so far. Akhundzada has effectively leveraged internal divisions to strengthen his position, building a reputation for authority among various factions. Nevertheless, these tensions carry long-term risks, especially if economic or security conditions deteriorate.
Externally, the possibility of regional and global powers exploiting Afghanistan’s vulnerabilities cannot be discounted. Should the United States fail to gain any political concessions from the Taliban, it may resort to indirect methods of influence—supporting rival factions or even former government forces. Similarly, other actors may attempt to shape events in Afghanistan through covert or soft-power means.
On the humanitarian front, Afghanistan’s condition remains a subject of debate. While international organizations have described the situation as a humanitarian crisis since 2021, the reality is nuanced. The scale of suffering may be less severe than initially projected, yet the country’s overall trajectory falls short of the Taliban’s own aspirations for development. While the worst outcomes have been avoided, significant economic and governance challenges remain.
In recent developments, regional diplomacy surrounding Afghanistan has begun to evolve. At the 80th United Nations General Assembly, foreign ministers from China, Russia, Pakistan, and Iran met to discuss Afghanistan. The communiqué issued after this meeting revealed a notable shift: more proactive support for Afghanistan’s integration into regional economic frameworks, stronger language urging the Taliban to meet counterterrorism commitments, and renewed focus on refugee resettlement. These adjustments signal growing regional coordination on the Afghan question and a willingness to engage pragmatically with the interim government.
Despite these developments, Afghanistan’s prospects remain uncertain. Multiple opportunities for reform and international engagement have been missed, especially in areas such as inclusive governance and women’s rights. Selective enforcement of counterterrorism commitments and conservative domestic policies risk limiting Afghanistan’s integration into the international system.
Still, the international environment today is more favourable to the Taliban than during its first rule in the 1990s. With global attention consumed by other crises, such as the war in Ukraine, major powers show limited appetite for re-engaging in Afghanistan. This vacuum affords the Taliban room to consolidate power, strengthen its regime, and navigate diplomatic openings. Countries such as Russia, China, and some Middle Eastern states have already moved toward formal or de facto recognition, and further diplomatic normalization may follow.
Nonetheless, the risks of instability remain high. The influx of refugees and economic pressures could generate unrest, and extremist groups such as ISKP may seize the opportunity to rebuild. While direct threats to China from Afghan territory are currently limited by geographic and security barriers, the broader regional implications—especially for Pakistan and Central Asia—are significant. Instability in Afghanistan has historically had spillover effects, and the possibility of renewed unrest remains an ongoing concern.
Though Afghanistan has achieved a degree of stability under Taliban rule, the path forward is fraught with challenges. Diplomatic isolation, economic hardship, and internal divisions all pose threats to the regime’s long-term survival. Whether Afghanistan can capitalise on its current geopolitical space and avoid another cycle of instability will depend largely on its willingness to reform—and on the international community’s ability to engage with realism and coherence.
Source: 8am.media, Reddit, GSDRC, The Globalist, UN News
General Motors’ exit from India illustrates the profound challenges foreign companies face in the country, revealing why India remains a treacherous place for investment. The American automaker stopped selling cars in 2017 and announced the closure of its last plant in 2020, yet it did not fully exit until 2024. The drawn-out process exposed a business environment riddled with cumbersome regulations, unpredictable labor laws, and bureaucratic red tape.
GM’s attempt to leave India was met with relentless obstacles almost immediately. In 2021, approximately 1,100 employees at the Pune plant refused what GM considered a generous severance package, filing lawsuits alleging labor violations. Indian law mandates compensation equivalent to a full year’s salary, in addition to company-designated severance, and courts can issue inconsistent rulings, prolonging disputes. The initial court ruling forced GM to continue paying half of employees’ salaries during the legal process, despite its appeal. Prajot Gaonkar, former head of employee relations at GM India, described the ordeal as “crazy, out of this world.”
The difficulties GM faced were compounded by India’s notoriously slow bureaucratic processes. Government data shows it takes an average of 4.3 years to close a factory in India, compared with one year in Singapore, 15 months in Germany, and one to two years in the United Kingdom. Politicians and regulators often appear more concerned with protecting workers than enabling business, while legal systems can interpret labor laws inconsistently, leaving companies trapped in prolonged disputes. Shoumitro Chatterjee, an international economics expert at Johns Hopkins University, notes that such “exit barriers” act as hidden costs, discouraging foreign investment and stunting the manufacturing sector.
GM’s financial woes in India were exacerbated by these structural hurdles. Over 20 years, the company lost more than $1 billion. While the sale of its Gujarat plant in 2017 went smoothly, the sale of the Pune plant dragged on for four years, derailed by the government’s refusal to approve a transaction with Chinese automaker Great Wall Motors. Even after halting production, Maharashtra’s labor authorities initially refused GM’s closure request, insisting the company absorb losses. Unions escalated the dispute through petitions and public protests, including a hunger strike, before courts finally ruled in GM’s favor in 2023 and 2024.
These issues were not merely procedural—they scared off potential buyers and illustrated the risk for foreign investors. GM had offered a generous severance package, attempted to have employees waive their right to sue, and even tried transferring staff to other plants. Yet Indian labor laws, combined with union intransigence and political interference, made a straightforward exit nearly impossible. Hyundai ultimately acquired the Pune plant, but only after a prolonged saga that delayed the company’s strategic decisions and tied up capital for years.
By contrast, other countries handle plant closures efficiently. Ford’s exit in India still faced delays, but Tata Motors’ acquisition of its Gujarat plant proceeded smoothly because the Indian company agreed to assume all employees. Tamil Nadu authorities publicly supported Ford in legal proceedings, allowing a timely closure and equipment removal. GM had no such support in Maharashtra, showing how uneven regulatory enforcement and political interests make India a risky environment for multinational corporations.
Economists argue that India’s rigid exit barriers contribute to a stagnant manufacturing sector. Only 3% of Indian factories close each year—one of the lowest rates globally—while countries like Vietnam, China, and the United States experience much higher turnover. Approximately 20% of Indian manufacturers exist as “zombie enterprises,” tying up capital without producing goods. GM’s protracted struggle demonstrates that India’s regulatory, labor, and bureaucratic hurdles can cripple business plans, discourage investment, and prevent companies from efficiently reallocating resources.
GM’s experience underscores that doing business in India is far from straightforward. While the country offers a large labor force and consumer market, excessive regulation, unpredictable courts, and hostile labor frameworks make it one of the most challenging environments for foreign companies to operate—or to leave.
Source: Medium, Forbes, USA Today, AutoCar Pro, CNBC
