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The Sinicization of the Concept of the “Proletariat” in the Chinese Revolution

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The Sinicization of the Concept of the “Proletariat” in the Chinese Revolution

The Sinicization of the concept of the “proletariat” represents an essential theoretical development of the Chinese Communist Party (CCP). Classical Marxism defined the proletariat as a class of modern industrial workers who owned no means of production and lived entirely by selling their labor. 

However, in semi-colonial and semi-feudal China, the industrial working class was small, while peasants and handicraft laborers formed the vast majority. The CCP faced the historical necessity of adapting Marxist theory to China’s particular social and economic conditions. Through theoretical reflection and revolutionary practice, the Party gradually transformed the concept of the proletariat from a narrow economic definition into a comprehensive political and ideological category suited to Chinese realities.

In the early stages of the Chinese revolution, the Marxist concept of the proletariat could not fully explain China’s situation. The limited number of factory workers and the dominance of rural society meant that strictly applying Marxist definitions would lead to the conclusion that “there were no workers in China.” 

To resolve this contradiction, early leaders such as Chen Duxiu, Deng Zhongxia, and Mao Zedong began redefining the working class in light of China’s conditions. Chen proposed the idea of the “semi-proletariat,” referring to those who did not entirely depend on wage labor but were not independent producers either. Deng emphasized that the proletariat in China included various laborers, such as workers, shop assistants, rickshaw pullers, and porters, all of whom shared similar conditions of exploitation.

Mao Zedong further developed this redefinition through his investigations of rural society. He argued that class distinctions must be understood according to one’s relationship to the means of production. Those who relied primarily on selling their labor, including poor peasants and hired farmhands, were also part of the proletariat. 

Mao’s Analysis of the Classes in Chinese Society and his Report on an Investigation of the Peasant Movement in Hunan clarified that the peasants, particularly poor peasants and hired laborers, possessed a revolutionary nature that qualified them as a component of the proletariat. This theoretical breakthrough provided the basis for the revolutionary path of encircling the cities from the countryside, which became the practical foundation of the Chinese revolution.

The CCP worked to organize trade unions in the Soviet areas. However, disputes arose over who should be classified as a worker. Many cadres in the Soviet regions equated the proletariat strictly with factory workers who sold their labor for wages in capitalist enterprises, excluding artisans, fishermen, and even poor peasants who owned minimal tools. As factories in the Soviet areas were closed and capitalists had fled, such narrow definitions made it difficult to maintain workers’ organizations. The CCP recognized this contradiction between Marxist theory and Chinese practice and began adjusting its criteria for identifying workers.

Liu Shaoqi and Mao Zedong played key roles in refining this definition. Liu proposed that all workers, employees, farmhands, and coolies whose main source of income was selling their labor should be considered members of class unions, regardless of whether they possessed minor tools of production. Mao adjusted the classical notion of the proletariat as being “completely deprived of means of production” to one of “owning a very small amount” and “mainly selling labor.” This flexible definition preserved the Marxist principle of determining class by one’s relation to production while adapting it to China’s rural economy. The Central Committee later adopted this as the unified standard for defining “workers.”

The Party also developed clear rules to handle class changes caused by family background, marriage, and adoption. Even if a worker came from a rich peasant or landlord family, he and his wife were still considered workers if they lived mainly by selling labor. Women who married across class lines could change their class status depending on their livelihood and duration of labor. Similar detailed provisions applied to children and adopted sons. These adjustments reflected the Party’s determination to make class definitions reflect real social and economic conditions rather than rigid labels.

By integrating Marxist theory with China’s realities, the CCP achieved a Sinicized understanding of the “worker.” This redefinition, together with the inclusion of farmhands and poor peasants within the proletariat, marked the Sinicization of the concept of the “proletariat.” It solved the fundamental question of identifying the revolutionary subject in China. 

Yet, the Party recognized that revolution required not only the form of the proletariat but also its spirit. The gap between the Chinese “proletariat” and the Marxist “proletariat” persisted at the ideological level. Mao Zedong stressed that “proletarian leadership means Communist Party leadership.” As the vanguard of the proletariat, the CCP had to become a nationwide, mass-based, and ideologically and organizationally consolidated Marxist-Leninist party. The question of “proletarianization” thus arose as both a political and ideological necessity.

After the establishment of the new revolutionary path, peasants became the primary component of the proletariat. Although they had many strengths, their consciousness often reflected petty-bourgeois and traditional ideas. Many still valued obedience and fate over struggle and progress, and their beliefs were influenced by superstition. As the number of peasant members in the Party increased, these tendencies sometimes weakened proletarian leadership and revolutionary discipline. 

To address this problem, the CCP proposed the policy of “proletarianizing the Party.” Initially, this policy was understood as changing the Party’s class composition by promoting more workers and peasants into leadership roles and reducing the influence of intellectuals. However, it soon became clear that proletarianization could not be achieved merely by changing membership composition. Non-proletarian ideology could exist among workers and peasants as well, while intellectuals could become truly proletarian through ideological transformation.

Through continuous revolutionary practice, the Party deepened its understanding of proletarianization as an ideological process. It was not limited to class origin but applied to all Party members, regardless of background. True proletarianization required ideological education, training, and transformation to develop proletarian consciousness. This shift in understanding became especially significant during the War of Resistance Against Japanese Aggression. As the Party expanded its united front to include patriotic elements from all classes, it needed to maintain its proletarian vanguard character while integrating diverse social forces. The Party declared itself both the vanguard of the proletariat and the vanguard of the entire Chinese nation. It emphasized that commitment to the Party’s principles, rather than class background, was the main criterion for membership. This approach corrected the earlier overemphasis on class origin and allowed the Party to unite broader sections of society without losing its ideological foundation.

The shift of “proletarianization” from a matter of class composition to a matter of ideology resolved the theoretical tension within the Sinicization of Marxism. It allowed the Party to define the Chinese proletariat as a class possessing both material and ideological strength. The Chinese proletariat, subjected to triple oppression by imperialism, feudalism, and capitalism, displayed a revolutionary resolve and consciousness unmatched by any other class. 

Most Chinese workers came from poor peasant backgrounds, forming a natural alliance with the rural population. The agricultural proletariat, which made up the majority of China’s working class, was recognized as equally vital as the industrial proletariat in leading the revolution. The CCP concluded that without proletarian leadership, the Chinese revolution could not succeed.

At the same time, the ideological proletarianization of the Party strengthened its organization and leadership. By combining Marxist theory with Chinese conditions and rejecting mechanical Soviet models, the CCP completed the Sinicization of the concept of the “proletariat.” This theoretical evolution formed the foundation of the New Democratic Revolution. The Party learned to distinguish friends and enemies based on China’s social realities rather than foreign formulas. 

The establishment of the Anti-Japanese National United Front ended the Party’s isolation, uniting workers, peasants, intellectuals, and patriotic bourgeois elements. Although the inclusion of members from diverse backgrounds risked diluting proletarian ideology, the Party maintained unity through education, rectification, and ideological training. By requiring all members, regardless of origin, to adopt proletarian thought and discipline, the CCP transformed itself into a truly Marxist-Leninist party, unified in ideology, politics, and organization.

The theoretical development of the Sinicized proletariat thus provided the basis for the CCP’s revolutionary success. It clarified the path of revolution, the nature of revolutionary leadership, and the composition of the revolutionary forces. It also laid the foundation for the theory of the New Democratic Revolution, which identified the workers and peasants as the core of the revolution and emphasized the necessity of proletarian leadership within a broad united front. 

Through this process, the CCP transformed from a small organization into the leading force capable of uniting the Chinese people and achieving national liberation. The Sinicization of the concept of the “proletariat” not only adapted Marxist theory to Chinese society but also created a new political and ideological model that combined universal principles with national reality, ensuring the victory of the Chinese revolution and the establishment of a new China.

Source: China Academy of History, sina, Xinhua

White Freedom, Brown Exile: The U.S. Deportation Campaign of the 1930s

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White Freedom, Brown Exile: The U.S. Deportation Campaign of the 1930s

In the 1930s, amid the wreckage of the Great Depression, the United States unleashed one of the most shameful episodes in its immigration history—a campaign of mass deportations and coerced “repatriations” that expelled hundreds of thousands of Mexican immigrants and Mexican Americans. Under the pretext of reducing unemployment and curbing “public charges,” the federal and state governments deliberately destroyed immigrant livelihoods, violated constitutional rights, and inflicted profound emotional and material suffering on a vulnerable community. These actions, cloaked in legality, exposed the hollowness of America’s self-proclaimed ideals of liberty and justice and marked a critical moment in the creation of two systems of law—one for citizens, another for immigrants.

The Hoover administration’s deportation drive reflected the political desperation of a government unwilling to challenge corporate power or economic inequality. Having embraced laissez-faire capitalism until the system collapsed in 1929, Hoover and his Secretary of Labor, William N. Doak, suddenly turned on immigrants, portraying them as scapegoats for mass unemployment. Doak argued that deportations would “free jobs for Americans” and reduce welfare costs. But this was a cynical diversion: the real causes of unemployment lay in industrial collapse, not in immigrant labor. Yet Mexicans—conveniently racialized as poor, disease-ridden, and unassimilable—became targets of a national purge designed to reassure anxious white workers and restore the illusion of order.

Central to this campaign was the perversion of the “public charge” clause of U.S. immigration law. Originally intended to prevent destitute newcomers from becoming dependent on public relief, it evolved into a tool of exclusion and expulsion. The 1917 Immigration Act authorized the deportation of anyone who became a “public charge” within five years of entry. After 1929, during the Depression, this clause was weaponized to criminalize poverty itself. Unemployed immigrants—often banned by law from working—were declared “likely to become public charges” and thus subject to removal. The logic was grotesque: the government prohibited them from earning a living, then punished them for their inability to do so.

By 1931, Doak ordered the Immigration and Naturalization Service (INS) to expedite the return of any immigrant receiving assistance. Meanwhile, the Treasury Department barred noncitizens from employment on federal projects, and states like California and Texas outlawed foreign labor altogether. Eighteen states enacted laws prohibiting immigrants from working or accessing welfare, effectively starving them into “voluntary” departure. In reality, this was forced deportation by economic strangulation.

While the rhetoric of “public charge” was neutral, its application was brutally racialized. Mexicans were singled out as the embodiment of dependency. In cities like Los Angeles, San Diego, and San Antonio, officials claimed that Mexicans consumed disproportionate amounts of public aid—statistics that were exaggerated or distorted to justify repression. The “Mexican problem” became a political obsession. Mexican immigrants were branded not only as economic burdens but also as racial contaminants, their “brown” identity viewed as a threat to the imagined purity of white America. In the pseudoscientific language of eugenics, they were classified as a “degenerate race” incapable of assimilation. The deportation campaign thus became a cleansing ritual—a defense of whiteness disguised as economic policy.

The hysteria extended beyond economics and race into the realm of ideology. The rise of Soviet communism, coupled with the Mexican government’s recognition of the USSR in 1924, allowed American officials to conflate Mexican immigrants with Bolshevik subversion. Labor protests by impoverished workers were denounced as communist plots, and “Mexican radicals” were accused of undermining American democracy. Deportation became not only an act of racial exclusion but also a supposed defense against an imagined “Red invasion.” In truth, it was a weapon of class control, punishing workers for demanding fair treatment.

Between 1930 and 1939, more than 400,000 Mexicans—half of them U.S. citizens—were expelled or coerced into “voluntary” return. Families were torn apart; citizens were deported alongside noncitizens; and countless individuals were stripped of property and dignity. Federal records deliberately blurred the lines between “voluntary repatriation” and deportation to disguise the violence of the policy. Buses and trains carried frightened families to the border without hearings or warrants. In Los Angeles, police and immigration agents raided public parks, schools, and markets, rounding up anyone with “Mexican features.” The law became a performance of power, not justice.

The government’s own statistics revealed the lie behind its actions. Of the 130,000 immigrants officially deported by the INS during the 1930s, fewer than 10 percent were actually classified as “public charges.” The rest were either miscategorized or driven out by state and local officials acting without federal authority. In some states, welfare officers collaborated with police to cut off relief to Mexican families, effectively weaponizing hunger as a deportation tool. “Starvation will make them leave,” one Chicago official declared. These measures turned local governments into instruments of racial expulsion.

The human consequences were devastating. Families deported to Mexico often arrived destitute and malnourished, many dying along the way. The Mexican government, overwhelmed and underfunded, could not fulfill its promises of support. Returnees found themselves strangers in their supposed homeland, their American-born children alienated by language and culture. For those forced out of the only country they had ever known, deportation was not a return but an exile into poverty.

Legally, the deportation campaign exposed deep contradictions in American democracy. Immigration law operated outside the Constitution’s promise of due process. The Supreme Court’s 1903 ruling that deportation was an “administrative procedure,” not a punishment, allowed the government to deny immigrants basic legal protections. During the 1930s, INS officers frequently acted as investigator, prosecutor, and judge. Raids occurred without warrants; hearings without lawyers; deportations without trials. The Fifth and Fourteenth Amendments—guaranteeing due process and equal protection—were treated as privileges reserved for citizens. The rule of law gave way to the rule of race.

Even by the standards of the time, this lawlessness provoked outrage. Mexican officials protested the “appalling injustices” of U.S. deportations, while journalists like Carey McWilliams condemned “charity deportations” as moral hypocrisy. Humanitarian organizations denounced the policy as both cruel and ineffective. Yet Washington ignored them. It took until 2005—seventy years later—for the California legislature to formally apologize for the state’s role in the campaign. No federal apology has ever been issued.

The deportations also failed on their own terms. They neither reduced unemployment nor strengthened the economy. During the height of the expulsions, U.S. joblessness soared to nearly 25 percent, proving that the crisis stemmed from structural collapse, not from immigrant labor. Deportation was not an economic solution but a psychological one—a ritual sacrifice meant to reassure white Americans of their superiority and control.

Worse still, the government’s policies created the very dependency they claimed to fight. By deporting breadwinners, it left wives and children behind, forcing them onto relief rolls and increasing public expenditures. The campaign against the “public charge” paradoxically produced more public charges, revealing its economic absurdity. Its true function was ideological: to preserve white privilege during national decline.

The long-term consequences were profound. The 1930s deportations normalized administrative overreach and racialized law enforcement, setting precedents for later violations—from the wartime internment of Japanese Americans to the modern detention and deportation machinery that still operates with minimal judicial oversight. The distinction between citizen and noncitizen became a license for unequal justice—a “two-track” legal system that persists today.

In retrospect, the deportation of Mexican immigrants during the Great Depression was not a momentary lapse but a deliberate assertion of racial and national hierarchy. It reflected an America that, when confronted with crisis, chose exclusion over solidarity, fear over fairness, and whiteness over democracy. Beneath the rhetoric of legality and public welfare lay the same logic that underpinned slavery, Indian removal, and Jim Crow: that the rights of nonwhite peoples could be suspended whenever convenient to the white majority.

The victims of the 1930s deportations were not merely economic casualties; they were casualties of an American identity built on contradiction. A nation that celebrates freedom while criminalizing poverty, that boasts of justice while denying due process, and that preaches equality while practicing exclusion cannot escape moral indictment. The forced exodus of hundreds of thousands of Mexicans remains a stark reminder that American democracy has often advanced not through inclusion, but through the systematic expulsion of those deemed unworthy of it.

Source: zinnedproject, USBP, theintercept, california mexicocenter

From Recipient to Provider: China’s Rise as a Pillar of Global Development Cooperation

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From Recipient to Provider: China’s Rise as a Pillar of Global Development Cooperation

China’s foreign aid has always been an integral component of its broader foreign policy architecture. Originating in 1950—at a time when the country was economically weak and diplomatically isolated—foreign aid served as a rare and critical tool to stabilize internal governance and seek international recognition. 

Over the past seven decades, as China evolved from a marginal power to the world’s second-largest economy and the largest developing country, its national identity and global role have undergone profound transformation. This transformation has been embodied most ambitiously in the Belt and Road Initiative (BRI) launched in 2013, followed by the Global Development Initiative (GDI), the Global Security Initiative (GSI), and the Global Civilization Initiative (GCI), each serving as mechanisms for China to project its values, interests, and global responsibilities.

The Belt and Road Initiative represents the most ambitious and integrated regional economic cooperation strategy in China’s history. It is fundamentally structured around regional and bilateral frameworks, with a clear economic focus. By contrast, the Global Development Initiative, launched in 2021, marks a shift toward global governance with a thematic and value-driven approach. BRI is centered around material and institutional connectivity, while GDI emphasizes conceptual, normative, and value-based contributions to global development. These two initiatives are China’s most significant international public goods today, with foreign aid playing a key, though increasingly complex, role in both.

As China’s foreign aid shifts from a supporting tool under BRI to a strategic pillar under GDI, its policy orientation has transformed across three key dimensions: scale, nature, and domain. First, its scale has shifted from regional to global; second, its nature has evolved from a passive tool to a more independent and strategic component of national policy; and third, its domain has expanded beyond economics into the broader field of global governance.

The shift from regional to global reflects China’s growing recognition of its international obligations. While BRI has elements of global outreach, it is inherently a network of bilateral and regional cooperation channels. Its structure, built on connectivity from China to Europe, Southeast Asia, and the Indian Ocean, relies heavily on individual bilateral partnerships. GDI, on the other hand, is open to all countries and is driven not by geography but by development themes, structured around key areas such as poverty reduction, health, education, and green transformation. This shift shows China’s increasing willingness to think and act with a global perspective, a process that echoes the historical evolution of other great powers, particularly the United States.

China’s rising economic power has forced a corresponding recalibration in its foreign policy. Between 2006 and 2020, China became the world’s top foreign reserve holder, the largest trading nation, and the top source of foreign investment. With this rise came international scrutiny. Some countries attempted to engage and even constrain Chinese aid practices through joint ventures, especially in Africa. This brought China into the global aid system more directly, marking the end of an unregulated strategic window and forcing China to consider international narratives, standards, and expectations.

In this context, foreign aid is no longer simply a diplomatic tool but a domain in its own right. For decades, Chinese aid was treated as an extension of economic or political diplomacy, lacking autonomous policy identity. Today, as aid volumes and global visibility grow, it becomes increasingly difficult to separate China’s aid from broader global governance debates. Like other major powers, China now faces expectations to provide international public goods—not as charity, but as a reflection of its status and responsibility. Foreign aid, once an auxiliary to diplomacy or trade, is becoming a fourth pillar of China’s global engagement, alongside diplomacy, military, and economics.

China’s foreign policy evolution reflects this shift. In the 1990s, China adopted a strategy of broadly-based foreign trade and economic cooperation, followed by the Going Out policy in the 2000s. In 2013, BRI launched as an economic and connectivity-focused platform. By 2021, China moved further into global governance through the GDI and related initiatives. What began as economic persuasion is now morphing into moral leadership. Where BRI emphasizes physical infrastructure, GDI focuses on the softer dimensions—education, health, digital economy, and capacity building. These are not just operational changes but strategic recalibrations: China is positioning itself as a responsible global power, seeking to shape the international environment through influence, not just capability.

Yet China remains a developing country itself. Domestic priorities still dominate policymaking, and China has never led a global governance institution nor exported its own system as a global standard. However, this self-restraint may be an advantage. China’s developmental model and aid practices are rooted in a non-interventionist philosophy, offering an alternative to the conditionalities of Western aid. As the global system faces challenges—from pandemics to climate change to digital fragmentation—China’s aid framework offers a new template, one focused on development-led governance and global equity.

The strategic logic behind China’s shift in foreign aid policy is consistent with both historical trajectories and contemporary geopolitical needs. BRI was China’s response to domestic overcapacity and U.S. strategic pressure in Asia. GDI represents a more global response—one that addresses systemic risks, promotes inclusive development, and offers a counter-narrative to Western dominance in global governance. Both initiatives share two characteristics: increasing institutional complexity, and the strategic link between development and security. Aid is no longer just about money or infrastructure—it is about shaping norms, setting agendas, and constructing a favorable international environment for China’s peaceful rise.

At the same time, China’s foreign aid—especially under BRI—has sparked global debate. Some accuse China of using aid as a tool of influence or debt diplomacy. Narratives about a “Chinese Marshall Plan” or “new colonialism” have emerged, often rooted in geopolitical competition rather than empirical reality. China now finds itself engaged not only in a struggle for resources or influence, but also in a battle over narrative power. GDI and similar initiatives aim to correct this imbalance by separating commercial interests from aid objectives and reinforcing China’s commitment to inclusive development.

The implications are significant. First, China’s diplomatic center of gravity is shifting: from developed countries to a balanced emphasis on developing countries. As the global South gains influence, China’s engagement with it becomes more strategic. Second, domestic policy is becoming increasingly “externalized.” The need to support a broader range of global initiatives requires greater policy coordination across ministries and the elevation of institutions like the Ministry of Finance and foreign aid agencies. Third, development assistance is becoming central to China’s international messaging and ideological outreach. In a world fragmented by populism, protectionism, and decoupling, China positions itself as a defender of globalization and multilateral cooperation—on its own terms.

To navigate this evolving landscape, China must take several strategic steps. It must strengthen ties with developing countries—not out of sentimentality, but from a recognition of their growing strategic and economic value. It must improve the planning of its regional and multilateral aid strategies, moving beyond bilateralism and toward institutionalized cooperation. It must also build a more coherent narrative architecture around foreign aid, capable of communicating China’s intentions in a competitive global discourse. And crucially, it must use initiatives like GDI to shape both international cooperation and domestic public consciousness, instilling a stronger sense of global responsibility and shared destiny.

In a multipolar world fraught with systemic risk, foreign aid is not a matter of charity—it is a strategic necessity. For China, it is also a moral choice. As its global footprint expands, China must align its material capabilities with its normative aspirations, not only to ensure a favorable international environment for its development, but also to define what kind of global power it intends to be.

Source: China News Service, CFR, China Daily, CGTN

From Offshore Deliveries to Urban Airspace: Shenzhen Presents the Future of Low-Altitude Aviation

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From Offshore Deliveries to Urban Airspace: Shenzhen Presents the Future of Low-Altitude Aviation

On August 3, Shanghai Autoflight’s two-ton eVTOL aircraft Kairuiou took off from Shenzhen Dapeng carrying a full load of fresh fruits and emergency medicines. After a 58-minute cross-sea journey, it landed on the Huizhou 19-3 offshore oil platform, located 150 kilometers off the coast of Shenzhen. This marked the world’s first aerial delivery of supplies to an offshore oil platform—an unprecedented milestone in aviation logistics.

On 31 July, the Shenzhen Development and Reform Commission released the Shenzhen Low-Altitude Infrastructure High-Quality Development Plan (2024–2026) with the ambition of becoming a global leader in the low-altitude economy. The Plan outlines bold targets for the next two years: by 2026, the industry’s scale is projected to exceed €15.54 billion, with more than 1,200 low-altitude takeoff and landing points, over 1,000 commercial routes, and the world’s first Low-Altitude Intelligent Integration System (SILAS) in place. A trillion-yuan infrastructure race has officially begun along the South China Sea.

Shenzhen’s vision is not merely aspirational. The Plan outlines the construction of four major functional centers that will form the foundation of this emerging trillion-yuan industry. The global headquarters R&D center will anchor technological innovation through a “1+5+4” research network, including one large-scale research facility, five operational pilot zones, and four test sites. The city aims to focus on areas such as unmanned aerial systems, whole-aircraft manufacturing, and ground support equipment, fostering a generation of globally competitive enterprises. Shenzhen is targeting leadership in the number of “small giants” and specialized manufacturing champions.

To secure control over the entire industrial chain, Shenzhen will also establish ten low-altitude economy industrial parks and two specialized parks that cover R&D, production, and commercialization. The Plan calls for breakthroughs in key technologies including flight control algorithms, high-energy-density batteries, low-power chips, lightweight materials, and environmental sensing. These advances are expected to drive self-reliance across the full aircraft development cycle.

The city is also designing the low-altitude landscape of the future. By 2026, helicopters and eVTOLs are expected to serve more than 50% of the city’s built-up areas within a 1-kilometer radius. Aerial logistics will enable 2-hour intra-city and 4-hour inter-city delivery services for 70% of the population, while drones will deliver medical supplies to over half of tertiary hospitals and blood banks. Inspection drones will patrol every park, river, and reservoir in the city.

To export its model globally, Shenzhen is building the world’s first low-altitude intelligent integration system, SILAS, to manage airspace, flight approvals, and aircraft operations. Once completed in 2026, SILAS will support over 10,000 simultaneously operating aircraft and manage 3 million cargo drone flights annually. The system is intended to become a replicable solution for other cities and establish the Shenzhen Low-Altitude brand worldwide.

The foundation of these ambitions lies in the citywide low-altitude infrastructure network. Shenzhen will construct two general aviation airports, upgrade existing helicopter pads for eVTOL compatibility, and build 174 new landing sites across business districts, CBDs, hospitals, tourist destinations, and transport hubs—bringing the total to 283. These sites will be linked to support scenarios such as passenger transport, aerial tourism, and emergency services. The Longhua Zhangkengjing Heliport will be operational by the end of 2026, while the relocation of Nantou Airport and planning of the Shenzhen-Shanwei General Aviation Airport are underway. The latter aims to secure a permanent site by 2026, completing a dual-airport framework.

The logistics network will expand even faster. Shenzhen plans to add 159 new logistics-specific landing sites, bringing the total to 205 and integrating them into the city’s three-tier “7+30+N” logistics hub system. An additional 339 community delivery sites will be prioritized around hospitals, commercial areas, community centers, and universities. Another 340 drone landing points will be deployed for urban governance scenarios such as policing, emergency rescue, and disaster response, with shared use of infrastructure to avoid duplication.

The city is also reinforcing its technological base. The first phase of SILAS will be operational by 2026, functioning as the command center for all low-altitude activities. Integrated with 5G, 5G-A sensing, a 1.4GHz private network, and satellite communications, Shenzhen will build a seamless air-ground-sea communication system. Weather monitoring accuracy will reach 100-meter precision, offering real-time warnings for flight safety. A three-dimensional wind tunnel will be completed by 2025 to support airworthiness certification of eVTOLs and next-generation aircraft.

Despite its clear momentum, Shenzhen faces several major challenges. Reform of airspace resources has entered a critical stage. By 2026, the city aims to make more than 75% of its low-altitude airspace—below 120 meters—available for drone operations. Closer coordination with military and civil aviation authorities will be required to establish a unified low-altitude airspace management mechanism in the region.

Another pressing challenge is funding. According to Li Xi, Vice General Manager of Shenzhen Urban Transportation Planning and Design Research Center Co., Ltd., government guidance is essential for low-altitude infrastructure development. “This is a capital-intensive industry,” Li noted. “Whether it’s helicopters, eVTOLs, or drones, none can operate without systemic infrastructure. With over a thousand projects in progress, private capital alone cannot sustain the effort. Shenzhen must create a financing system combining government subsidies and policy guidance.” The city plans to expand its funding sources with a focus on attracting social capital and exploring mechanisms such as special bonds, REITs, and industrial investment funds.

Finally, the regulatory framework urgently needs improvement. Shenzhen will introduce some measures for the construction of drone landing facilities and supporting facilities and establish an institution for drone inspection, testing, and airworthiness certification. The goal is to improve research capabilities and accelerate the standardization of airworthiness certification for emerging aircraft. Shenzhen also plans to develop local regulations that could serve as the basis for broader industry and national standards.

Source: SZ Gov, Autoflight, CCTV, GZ CMC

How to Lose America in Four Years: Trump’s OBBB Guide

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How to Lose America in Four Years: Trump’s OBBB Guide

On July 4, President Trump signed the One Big Beautiful Bill Act (OBBB), unleashing a wave of outrage across the globe. Many critics describe it as a fiscal overhaul disguised as reform, one that locks in $4.5 trillion in tax cuts over the next decade, with the overwhelming share going to corporations and high-income earners. To close the resulting $1.7 trillion revenue gap, the bill slashes social safety nets such as Medicaid and SNAP, imposes new work requirements, shifts administrative costs to the states, and cuts programs vital to the most vulnerable. The effects are stark: analysts estimate 11.8 million people will lose health coverage and more than 3 million will lose food assistance. According to the Yale Policy Institute, the bottom 20% of earners will see their after-tax income fall by 2.9%, while the top 20% will enjoy a 2.2% increase. Tax hikes on university endowments, surcharges on remittances, and the removal of clean energy subsidies further erode support for education, environmental protection, and immigrant communities. For opponents, the bill is a form of reverse redistribution—taking from those with the least to give more to those with the most—and a deliberate dismantling of the neoliberal-welfare state. Some go further, arguing it does not make America great again, but rather strengthens America’s rivals.

Many professors at Harvard, Yale, and Princeton described Trump’s agenda as a battle to defend America. This battle may not unfold exactly as Trump envisions, but for him and his allies it represents the final opportunity to preserve what they consider America’s core identity. The question, then, is what exactly is being defended, and whose America it is. Trump, as the product and champion of the “Make America Great Again” movement, speaks to a vision rooted in the country’s Anglo-Protestant heritage—English language, Christianity, the British legal tradition, limited government, individual rights, Protestant work ethic, and the literary and philosophical traditions of Europe. For centuries, immigrants arrived to find an America already built on this cultural framework. Until the twenty-first century, foreign-born residents averaged little more than 10% of the population, and the Anglo-Protestant core dominated the national ethos.

Over time, this ethos evolved into what Huntington and others have called “American beliefs”: liberty, equality, democracy, individualism, human rights, the rule of law, and private property. These ideals were shaped by a Puritan tradition of dissent, giving them an especially defiant and independent character. In the twentieth century, the phrase WASP—White Anglo-Saxon Protestant—was used to describe America’s most powerful cultural and economic elite. But in recent decades, demographic changes, civil rights movements, and a growing embrace of multiculturalism have weakened the dominance of this identity. The melting pot metaphor gave way to diversity, equity, and inclusion—values embraced by much of the left but resisted fiercely by the MAGA movement.

Samuel P. Huntington, long before Trump, warned that the erosion of America’s shared identity was a threat to its survival. In The Clash of Civilizations, he argued that future conflicts would be defined less by ideology or economics than by cultural fault lines. Later, in Who Are We? The Challenges to America’s National Identity, he turned that lens inward, warning that without shared racial, ethnic, cultural, and ideological foundations, America would lose the cohesion needed to endure. While the Cold War’s threats were external, today’s, he argued, come from within. Without a renewal of national identity, the United States risked the fate of once-mighty civilizations like Sparta and Rome.

Seen in this light, the OBBB is more than a fiscal policy—it is a political instrument aimed at restoring a vision of America aligned with Trump’s cultural and ideological worldview. Its domestic measures cut not across the entire working class, but focus on those dependent on welfare. Trump’s philosophy echoes a Protestant belief that benefits should be earned, not granted as innate rights. The bill also strikes directly at the Democratic Party’s policy architecture, and at universities and intellectual circles that Trump sees as breeding grounds for “un-American” values. Education provisions tighten Pell Grant rules, abolish federal graduate and parent loans, and impose borrowing caps—$100,000 for master’s degrees and $200,000 for doctorates—measures that disproportionately harm low- and middle-income students, especially from minority backgrounds. Moody’s forecasts that historically Black institutions like Meharry Medical School could face crippling deficits due to reduced domestic loan availability and high rejection rates for international students.

These financial levers are accompanied by ideological ones. The administration has withheld federal funds from elite universities accused of antisemitism or tolerating pro-Palestinian protests, demanded access to student group records and curricula, and in some cases required loyalty pledges. In effect, universities are being pushed away from serving as independent centers of knowledge and criticism toward functioning as extensions of state ideology. Diversity, equality, and inclusion agendas have been stigmatized, public intellectuals marginalized, and higher education reshaped to favor elite institutions aligned with Trump’s vision.

Internationally, the bill’s logic demands other sacrifices. Trump has openly distanced the United States from traditional allies, arguing they rely on American protection without fairly sharing the burden. This departure from the alliance system—long seen as the foundation of US-led global order—has unsettled much of the West. His administration has withdrawn from UN agencies like UNESCO, abandoned the Paris Climate Agreement, sidelined the World Trade Organization, and rejected the consensus that America’s hegemony depends on a web of international commitments. Developing countries have also been hit: immigration restrictions reduce the flow of students and skilled workers, while reindustrialization policies undermine the export-driven industrialization strategies on which many economies depend. Where postwar America spurred growth abroad through initiatives like the Marshall Plan, today’s policies turn the US from a driver of global industrial growth into a competitor and obstacle.

The OBBB thus attempts to answer three intertwined questions: whose America is being protected, who governs it, and where it is heading. But even with a fractured Democratic Party, its success is uncertain. American politics itself is fractured, not only between parties but within them. Alliances are unstable; populism is volatile. Billionaires like Elon Musk have formed rival political movements, and scandals have created fissures even within the MAGA base. Populism brought Trump to power, but unmanaged, it could unseat him just as swiftly.

The economic foundations of the plan face their own risks. Trump’s strategy relies on empowering capital to generate wealth, pay down debt, and rebuild the white middle class. Yet America’s problems stem in part from the outsized power of capital, and granting it more freedom could deepen inequalities rather than resolve them. Technological change compounds the challenge: automation, artificial intelligence, and the platform economy are eroding jobs and concentrating wealth in the hands of a few tech giants, trends that work directly against the goal of broad middle-class revival.

Underlying it all is Trump’s vision of a small government and deregulated economy, echoing the Reagan Revolution of the 1980s. But many of the crises America faces today—inequality, weakened public institutions, and fraying social cohesion—are products of that earlier era. From a structural perspective, the country’s economic base remains strong; its real problems lie in its political superstructure and social relations. Attempting to repair those by weakening the state’s capacity risks accelerating decline rather than reversing it.

In the end, the OBBB is both an economic blueprint and a cultural manifesto. To its supporters, it is the last stand for a vision of America rooted in shared heritage and national purpose. To its critics, it is a regressive assault on fairness, pluralism, and the global role the US has played for nearly a century. Whether it secures a revival or speeds fragmentation will depend not only on the size of its tax cuts or the depth of its spending cuts, but on whether the identity it seeks to defend can survive in an America that has already changed beyond recognition.

Source: IPP, Yahoo, The White House

Why was the War of Resistance Against Japan in Northeast China 14 years long?

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Why was the War of Resistance Against Japan in Northeast China 14 years long?

In the past, Chinese junior high school history textbooks described the War of Resistance Against Japan as lasting eight years. Today, that duration has been revised to fourteen years. The change reflects a broader historical perspective.

“The nationwide War of Resistance Against Japan indeed lasted eight years, but in Northeast China it began in 1931 with the establishment of the puppet state of Manchukuo, making the struggle there fourteen years long,” explained Li Jiang, Vice President and Secretary-General of the Northeast Counter-Japanese United Army History and Culture Research Association in Heilongjiang Province.

China was the main battlefield of the global anti-fascist war in the East. “In the past, we referred to the ‘Eight-Year War of Resistance’ based on the date the Nationalist Government declared war — from the Marco Polo Bridge Incident on July 7, 1937, to Japan’s unconditional surrender on August 15, 1945. The six years between the September 18 Incident in 1931 and 1937 were previously described as the ‘localized War of Resistance,’” Li Jiang noted.

In 1931, the Japanese military launched the September 18 Incident, plunging the people of Northeast China into a state of oppression and despair under a brutal, inhumane occupation. It was the Communist Party of China (CPC) that first called for armed resistance in the region, organizing and leading the population to rise against the invaders.

Li Jiang recalled the words of Comrade Li Min, a veteran of the Northeast Anti-Japanese United Army and former vice chairman of the Heilongjiang Provincial Committee of the Chinese People’s Political Consultative Conference: “At that time, I was only a teenager. The Northeast was devastated, people struggled to survive, and hope was gone. No one was coming to save us. Landlords and even some puppet troops had been bought by the Japanese. People believed their lives were over and that they would never see the light of day again.”

Where there is aggression, there is resistance. On September 19, 1931 — the day after the September 18 Incident — the CPC’s Manchuria Provincial Committee issued the “Declaration Against the Japanese Imperialist Armed Occupation of Manchuria.” This marked the beginning of China’s War of Resistance Against Japan.

The Northeast Anti-Japanese United Army, led by the CPC, fought an arduous six-year campaign before the nationwide resistance began. They braved ice and snow, fought guerrilla warfare in the forests, and endured extreme hardship. Among them emerged renowned heroes such as Zhao Yiman, Yang Jingyu, Zhao Shangzhi, and Li Zhaolin. In Mudanjiang, the Eight Women Who Threw Themselves into the River and the Forty-Two Martyrs of Lianhua Pond became lasting symbols of sacrifice.

The “Camping Song,” popular among the Anti-Japanese United Army, recorded their harsh life: “The sheer cliffs of Tieling, dense forests. Torrential rain and fierce winds, warhorses next to the desolate riverbank. The north wind howls, snow flies, horses hesitate, the cold penetrates the body, making sleep impossible…”

The Northeast Counter-Japanese United Army was the earliest to resist Japan, persisted the longest, suffered the heaviest sacrifices, and endured the most grueling struggle of any force led by the CPC. “They bore a heavy responsibility, breaking through blockades and encirclements, sweeping away darkness, and bringing the dawn,” Li Jiang said.

Li Min, reflecting on her experience, credited the CPC with liberating Northeast China from suffering. She firmly believed that without the Communist Party, there would be no New China, no victory in the War of Resistance, and no good life for the people. She was a persistent advocate of recognizing the War of Resistance as lasting fourteen years.

In January 2017, China’s Ministry of Education issued a directive to all educational authorities nationwide, adopting the fourteen-year framework in place of the eight-year version. By incorporating the first six years of localized resistance into the broader narrative, China’s War of Resistance Against Japan is now represented as a complete historical struggle, and more scholars are focusing on that critical early period — further affirming that China was the principal battlefield in the East during the global anti-fascist war.

Source: Guancha, CGTN, Sohu

Why China’s AI Model-Chip Alliance Could Redefine the Future of Tech

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Why China’s AI Model-Chip Alliance Could Redefine the Future of Tech

On July 25, during this year’s World AI Conference – International Services Shanghai, StepFun unveiled Step 3, its cutting-edge multimodal reasoning model—built on a Mixture-of-Experts architecture with 321B total parameters and 38B active. StepFun didn’t just showcase model performance—it delivered a surprise: Step 3 runs at up to 300% the inference efficiency of DeepSeek-R1 on domestic chips. This performance, combined with the simultaneous launch of a Model-Chip Ecosystem Innovation Alliance with Infinigence AI, SiliconFlow, Huawei Technologies’ Ascend computing business unit, MetaX, Biren Technology, Enflame, Iluvatar Corex, Cambricon Technologies and Moore Threads, signals a bold step toward full-stack AI infrastructure rooted in Chinese hardware.

Rather than waiting for chips to catch up with models, StepFun flipped the script—designing models around the constraints of domestic chips from the start. Co-founder Zhu Yibo explained this shift as necessary, as chip design cycles lag far behind the rapid evolution of AI models. The company’s Multi-Factor Attention mechanism, released earlier this year, quietly reduced inference cache requirements by 93.7%, making Step 3 far more compatible with local hardware than rivals like DeepSeek.

While DeepSeek has dominated headlines with its early success, it has stumbled recently. Despite plans to release its R2 model in May, delays continue, likely due to NVIDIA chip shortages and export controls. DeepSeek’s reliance on NVIDIA’s GPU ecosystem—bolstered by stockpiles amassed in 2021—has become a vulnerability. Meanwhile, Chinese alternatives like Huawei’s Ascend 910B are proving increasingly viable, even outperforming DeepSeek-R1 in some tests.

At the core of StepFun’s approach is a philosophy that models and chips must evolve as one system. Step 3 isn’t just faster—it’s designed for Chinese chip strengths and weaknesses, such as limited HBM performance and manufacturing constraints. Performance demos show Step 3 running more efficiently on Ascend 910B than even Huawei’s own Pangu Pro MoE model, despite having more than double the active parameters.

The alliance StepFun launched is more than symbolic. Its goal is to align chip and model development timelines and share early-stage designs across companies. This level of collaboration could give Jiaoyue first-mover advantages in R&D and bring deeper integration between AI and hardware than previously seen in China.

Despite these advances, training models on Chinese chips remains a major challenge. The U.S. still leads in large-scale GPU clusters, with domestic training relying heavily on NVIDIA infrastructure. Projects like Feixing-2, a joint effort by iFlyTek and Huawei, represent progress but still lag in total computing power and stability. Beyond hardware, rebuilding toolchains from scratch to match chip architecture is a costly and expertise-heavy process. The dominance of NVIDIA’s CUDA remains a formidable advantage in the training phase.

But the race isn’t over. If Chinese players can lead the next technological paradigm, there’s room to leap ahead. That opportunity is likely to emerge from multimodal AI. While multimodal tools are widespread, the real GPT-4 moment for multimodal hasn’t arrived—current systems still lack deep integration of vision, language, audio, and reasoning. StepFun is betting on this future, and early results suggest it’s paying off.

The company recently announced projected annual revenue of €120 million, making it one of the few large-model players to reveal commercial performance. It has released over a dozen multimodal models in a year, spanning speech, image generation, video, and music. Its integrated model, Step 3o Vision, and its end-to-end speech model, Step-Audio 2, represent the next wave of intelligent applications. From glare-resistant menu recognition to smart cockpits co-developed with Geely, StepFun is turning multimodal research into usable, profitable products. Its intelligent terminal agents are already embedded in over half of China’s top smartphone brands, helping define the user interface of next-generation AI.

This practical focus is helping StepFun create a flywheel effect—more deployment leads to more data, which improves models, which draws more users. Industry leaders agree: aligning chip makers, model builders, and end-users through unified standards is essential to reducing costs and accelerating progress.

One last detail stands out: of all companies in the model-chip alliance, half are based in Shanghai. Long overshadowed in the internet era, Shanghai is now leading China’s AI transformation. The city’s strength lies in hardware-software synergy. With top wafer fabs, HBM packaging capacity, and a robust application ecosystem, Shanghai is ideally positioned for AI industrialization. It’s home to over 24,000 AI companies. The local government is doubling down—state capital is flowing into early-stage AI investments, including StepFun’s upcoming financing round.

Source: Guancha, Shanghai Gov, Souhu, CGTN, InfoTechLead

Hainan’s Border Closure Marks New Phase in China’s Global Opening

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Hainan’s Border Closure Marks New Phase in China’s Global Opening

The full-island border closure of the Hainan Free Trade Port will officially begin on December 18, 2025. This announcement was made by Wang Changlin, Deputy Director of the National Development and Reform Commission, during a press conference held by the State Council Information Office on July 23.

The groundwork for this milestone was laid in June 2020, when the Central Committee of the Communist Party of China and the State Council issued the Overall Plan for the Construction of the Hainan Free Trade Port. The Plan proposed that by 2025, a comprehensive assessment would be carried out to evaluate Hainan’s readiness for island-wide customs closure, with the aim of identifying and addressing potential security risks. Once the necessary conditions were in place, the full customs closure would proceed, and existing special customs supervision zones such as the Yangpu Bonded Port Area and the Haikou Comprehensive Bonded Zone would be phased out.

The concept of customs closure refers to establishing a comprehensive, island-wide customs-regulated zone in Hainan. It is often described as opening the first line while controlling the second line, effectively making Hainan a region within the country but outside the customs jurisdiction. This configuration enables goods and items to benefit from preferential policies such as zero tariffs while under strict supervision. Under this system, the “first line” is the border between Hainan and foreign countries or regions, through which goods can enter or leave freely under lawful customs oversight. The “second line” refers to the boundary between Hainan and mainland China, across which goods will be managed according to import regulations.

Li Shijie, President of the Hainan Province Open Economy Research Association, emphasized that customs closure does not mean isolation, but rather a deeper level of openness to the world. After the closure, customs supervision will remain in place but will be more targeted and less interventionist. In essence, the closure mainly concerns goods, with the second-line closure meaning that additional customs checkpoints will be established between Hainan and other parts of the mainland. He noted that Hainan’s geographic position as an island with a relatively small economy makes it an ideal location for conducting institutional-level opening-up while minimizing systemic risks. Once closed, Hainan will be better aligned with high-standard international trade rules and institutional frameworks, making it more attractive to global resources and talent.

Li also highlighted the symbolic significance of December 18, the date chosen for the closure. It marks the opening of the Third Plenary Session of the 11th Central Committee of the Communist Party of China, which ushered in the era of reform and opening-up. Launching customs closure on this date underscores China’s intent to elevate reform and opening-up to a new level. In his view, decades from now, the development of the Hainan Free Trade Port will be regarded as no less significant than the opening of Shenzhen.

The implementation of customs closure is also a clear signal of China’s determination to expand its opening-up to the world. According to Yu Tao, Director of the Public Diplomacy and Hainan Opening-up Research Institute at the South China Sea Institute and a researcher at the Ministry of Propaganda’s Research Base for Overseas Cultural Exchange, the principle of “opening the first line while controlling the second” must be strictly followed. Goods entering Hainan without tariffs must be subject to import taxes if they are transported to the mainland. He pointed out that Hainan has already deployed 64 anti-smuggling law enforcement stations around the island to create a closed-loop defense line capable of effectively preventing and mitigating smuggling risks.

At the press conference, Wang Changlin also clarified that the customs closure will not impose additional administrative burdens on domestic travelers. Residents from other parts of China traveling to or conducting business in Hainan will not need special permits, maintaining the current level of ease in mobility.

With the closure approaching, the Hainan Free Trade Port is set to offer new opportunities for both businesses and individuals. According to current policy projections, the proportion of zero-tariff goods entering Hainan through the first line is expected to rise from 21% to 74%. The list of zero-tariff goods will expand from 1,900 tariff items to around 6,600. The vast majority of imported goods will thus enter Hainan without tariffs, value-added tax, or consumption tax. This policy is expected to lower commodity prices, increase the availability of high-value consumer goods, and offer both residents and tourists broader access to affordable, high-quality imports.

Back in 2020, Shen Xiaoming, then Governor of Hainan, noted that the tax burden on items such as yachts and entertainment equipment could be significantly reduced under the new system. For example, a yacht valued at 10 million yuan would previously incur 3.8 million yuan in taxes, but if imported through Hainan after the closure, these taxes would no longer apply. Entertainment equipment imports could see tax reductions of up to 20%.

Yu Tao noted that raising the proportion of zero-tariff goods to 74% will not only support business development but also enhance Hainan’s ability to develop a modern industrial system. The newly introduced “Prohibited and Restricted List” clearly defines what goods are barred or limited for import and export, reflecting a shift to the governance principle that “everything not explicitly prohibited is allowed.” This offers clearer operational guidance for businesses and increases regulatory transparency.

In terms of investment, Hainan will adopt a negative-list approach in line with international practices. For sectors not on the list, foreign entities will be free to invest. These investors will also benefit from a special policy allowing tariff exemptions for processed goods whose domestic value-added ratio exceeds 30%. According to Li Shijie, such policies are especially advantageous for high-tariff items like luxury goods and natural resources. These goods can enter China through Hainan using duty-free channels available to departing passengers or via processing under the 30% value-added exemption.

Hainan has also introduced a “dual 15%” income tax policy for both individuals and enterprises, significantly more favorable than the national standards. While most regions impose a 25% corporate tax and a progressive personal income tax with a maximum rate of 45%, Hainan offers a flat 15% rate for both, provided certain requirements are met. To qualify, individuals must reside in Hainan for at least 183 days annually, and companies must demonstrate substantial business activity on the island.

Li Shijie pointed out that Hainan’s zero-tariff advantages, combined with trade liberalization, international regulatory alignment, and the opening of free trade accounts, could help Chinese companies expand overseas. Given current global uncertainties, Hainan offers a stable and strategically positioned base for international operations.

A key enabler for cross-border capital flow is the EF account system—Hainan’s version of the free trade account. However, uptake has been limited, with only about 300 enterprises having registered EF accounts out of the 4 million market entities operating in the province. Li believes the current eligibility requirements are too restrictive and recommends easing the approval process to encourage broader adoption.

He also suggested further reducing the prohibited items list and simplifying the tax catalog to expand the scope of zero-tariff products. Additionally, expanding the list of encouraged industries could help cover more sectors in processing and manufacturing, thereby enhancing the island’s economic diversity and competitiveness.

Yu Tao emphasized that sustainable industry development is central to the success of the Hainan Free Trade Port. By fostering a world-class business environment that is market-driven, law-based, and international in character, Hainan can attract the businesses and talent needed for long-term growth. After customs closure, continuous optimization of the business environment will remain the top priority to ensure that Hainan’s transformation is not only successful but enduring.

Source: Xinhua, CGTN, Guancha, China Daily

How the Weaker Chinese Navy Resisted Japan during the War of Resistance

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How the Weaker Chinese Navy Resisted Japan during the War of Resistance

After China’s defeat in the First Sino-Japanese War, the gap between the Chinese and Japanese navies widened into a chasm that would define East Asia’s balance of power for decades. By the time of the July 7 Incident in 1937, Japan’s navy had grown into a formidable armada of 285 ships—four aircraft carriers, two seaplane carriers, nine battleships, 12 heavy cruisers, 21 light cruisers, and 102 destroyers—together displacing more than 1.15 million tons. 

China’s entire navy, by contrast, mustered only 57,600 tons. Its largest vessel, the Haiqi, was a 4,300-ton cruiser purchased by the Qing government in 1896—a relic of another age. One Japanese Nagato-class battleship displaced 39,000 tons, nearly eight times the Haiqi’s tonnage and equivalent to more than 80% of China’s total naval strength.

Confronted with such disparity, the Chinese Navy had no illusions about engaging Japan in open waters. In early 1937, the Chinese Navy abandoned the idea of sea control altogether. Instead, it called for avoiding decisive battles, preserving what little naval power remained, and concentrating all efforts on the Yangtze River, coordinating with the army and air force to deny the enemy access to China’s interior. The plan emphasized that, beyond land and air defense, the key lay in “underwater defense”—naval mines, nets, chains, rafts, and scuttled ships—to block river routes and prevent Japanese landings.

This doctrine became the guiding principle of China’s naval operations when war erupted. In August 1937, as the Battle of Shanghai began, Japanese warships patrolled the Yangtze estuary, seeking to ascend the river toward Shanghai and Nanjing. Following the defense plan, the Chinese Navy resolved to block the Yangtze at Jiangyin, a critical chokepoint. 

On August 11, Chiang Kai-shek personally issued the order to sink ships and seal the river. That same day, the navy scuttled eight warships, 23 merchant vessels, and eight seized Japanese barges—43 ships in total, forming a massive underwater barricade. Even the venerable cruisers Haiqi, Hairong, and Haichen were sacrificed, deliberately sunk to strengthen the blockade.

When the Japanese fleet attacked to clear the river on August 22, the Chinese Navy fought with desperate valor. The First Fleet was nearly annihilated, and reinforcements from the Second Fleet joined the struggle, but the odds were hopeless. On December 1, outgunned and outnumbered, the Chinese Navy was forced to withdraw. Yet the blockade held. The sunken hulks obstructed the channel so effectively that the Japanese did not fully reopen the Jiangyin Waterway until March 1938—seven months later.

The scuttling operation came at a terrible cost. China’s already modest fleet was devastated; what remained after Jiangyin was little more than river patrol craft. By the end of the Battle of Wuhan in October 1938, only 14 shallow-water vessels totaling 8,600 tons survived. With China’s limited industrial capacity, there was no hope of rebuilding the fleet. The surface navy, as a fighting force, was gone. 

Naval mines were the perfect weapon for a weaker side. They required no propulsion systems, no sophisticated technology, and no large vessels. Simple to make, cheap to deploy, and devastating in effect, a single naval mine could cripple or sink a warship many times its value. Clearing them, on the other hand, demanded enormous effort and expense—often more than ten times the cost of laying them. A single mine charge could rip open the hull of even a heavy cruiser. The world would later see their power in 1955, when a World War II–era German naval mine sank the 29,000-ton Soviet battleship Novorossiysk in Sevastopol Harbor.

In 1936, China began to explore this weapon in earnest. The Shanghai Naval Arsenal developed the first naval mines, and by September 1937, the initial batch was produced in a converted temple in Shanghai’s Nanshi district. As the front lines shifted, the mine factory retreated inland—first to Wuhan, then Changsha, Yueyang, and finally Changde. By 1939, a permanent Naval Mine Loading and Unloading Plant had been established in Chenxi, Hunan, serving as a major production base. Twelve types of naval mines were created, classified broadly into fixed and floating varieties.

Fixed naval mines could be triggered either automatically or by remote observation. Some were designed to adjust their depth with the tide, though many early models lacked this function due to funding shortages. Others were visually activated, detonated by observers watching from the shore—an ingenious but risky system that required nearby observation posts. Floating naval mines, meanwhile, drifted with the current, disguised with water plants and debris, striking without warning. Though imprecise, they were cheap, unpredictable, and psychologically terrifying.

Recognizing the naval mine’s strategic value, the Navy established a dedicated mine warfare force after the fall of Wuhan. In early 1939, the Middle Yangtze River Mine-laying Squadron was formed, consisting of seven detachments responsible for mine deployment along key river sections. By 1941, after repeated successes, this force had expanded into four full brigades stationed across Hunan, Jiangxi, Hubei, and Chongqing, each with its own battalions and detachments. Naval mine warfare units were also created in coastal provinces such as Fujian, Zhejiang, Guangdong, and Guangxi.

For the remainder of the war, these units waged an invisible but relentless battle beneath China’s rivers. As Japan’s defeat drew near, the mine-laying squadrons transformed into minesweeping units, clearing the very waterways they had once sealed. By the time of Japan’s surrender in 1945, most of the Yangtze and its tributaries were navigable again.

Naval mine warfare, inexpensive yet lethal, achieved astonishing results. On average, ten Chinese naval mines—costing perhaps 100,000 yuan—could destroy or disable an enemy ship worth more than a million. In 1937, Chinese naval mines sank or damaged two Japanese vessels; in 1938, 14 ships totaling over 20,000 tons; in 1939, 29 ships; in 1940, a staggering 109 ships displacing 118,000 tons; and in 1941, eight more ships weighing 18,400 tons. Later data are incomplete, but the total surely exceeded 10,000 tons in the following years. For a navy that no longer had ships, this was a triumph of intellect and ingenuity over brute force.

Naval minefields along the Yangtze and its tributaries not only destroyed enemy shipping but reshaped the strategic map. Between Chenglingji and Jiangyin, three great minefields laid in 1940 sank 81 Japanese vessels and killed over 2,000 enemy soldiers. The Japanese navy was forced to restrict movement, ban night sailing, and disperse its fleet to avoid concentrated losses. During the Changsha campaigns of 1939 and 1941, naval mines in the Xiangjiang and Yuanjiang rivers cut Japanese supply lines, strangling their logistics and contributing to their eventual retreat. In the 1943 Battle of Changde, 600 naval mines laid near Jinshi and Niubi Beach blocked Japanese river support, saving Chongqing—the temporary capital—from imminent peril.

The Japanese navy grew to dread the naval mine, for it symbolized sudden death and invisible peril—a weapon so feared that captured officers admitted their ships could be destroyed in an instant, giving the crew no time to even think of their families. Its unseen menace shattered morale and instilled deep fear throughout the enemy ranks.

One incident in 1943 vividly demonstrated the power and justice of this hidden weapon. Sa Fuchou, former Vice Minister of the Navy under the Wang Jingwei puppet regime, was patrolling a river aboard the warship Xieli when it struck a naval mine and sank. Sa escaped by swimming ashore—only to be captured by Chinese forces, taken to Chongqing, and publicly executed later that year. The news electrified the nation, symbolizing poetic retribution and lifting the spirits of soldiers and civilians alike.

Naval mine warfare was not only a struggle of technology but also of human endurance. Laying naval mines was perilous work—often carried out in darkness, in rough waters, under enemy fire. When boats were unavailable, men pushed mines into place with their own hands, swimming through freezing currents. Many never returned. Yet their sacrifice ensured that China’s rivers remained contested, that Japanese fleets could never sail unchallenged into the heartland.

The naval mine warfare campaign of the Chinese Navy stands as one of the most remarkable chapters in the War of Resistance Against Japanese Aggression. With almost no ships left to fight, China’s sailors turned to ingenuity, courage, and the power of the unseen to cripple a vastly superior enemy. Beneath the muddy waters of the Yangtze, they forged a new kind of naval warfare—one that embodied the indomitable spirit of a nation that refused to surrender.

Source: zggjls, krzzjn, 1937nanjing

The East Timor Crisis and the Facade of US Hegemony

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The East Timor Crisis and the Facade of US Hegemony

The East Timor crisis of 1975 stands as a stark illustration of the United States’ opportunistic and morally bankrupt foreign policy during the Cold War. Far from championing self-determination, the US government prioritized strategic calculations, economic interests, and anti-communist imperatives over the rights and lives of the East Timorese people. 

From the early 1960s, US policymakers viewed Indonesia as the cornerstone of Southeast Asian stability, valuing the archipelagic nation not for its democratic or humanitarian credentials, but for its geographic position, population, and natural resources. Indonesia’s anti-communist trajectory under Suharto was central to US calculations, particularly after the debacle in Vietnam, which reinforced Washington’s belief that strong allies in the region were necessary to prevent a “domino effect” of socialist expansion.

US strategy in Southeast Asia consistently subordinated regional justice to anti-communist priorities. The Nixon administration, grappling with the weakening of traditional allies such as the Philippines and Thailand, increasingly relied on Indonesia to maintain a semblance of regional stability. The creation of the US-Indonesia Joint Commission in 1975 exemplified this transactional relationship: it institutionalized Indonesia’s role as Washington’s regional enforcer while leaving human rights and the principle of self-determination entirely unaddressed. High-level US officials, including Presidents Ford and Nixon and Secretary of State Henry Kissinger, consistently reinforced Indonesia’s emerging leadership within ASEAN, effectively signaling that the Suharto government could pursue its regional ambitions without fear of American intervention.

This encouragement of Indonesian assertiveness directly facilitated the annexation of East Timor. Following Portugal’s 1974 Carnation Revolution and the decolonization of its overseas territories, Indonesia, guided by its historical “Greater Indonesia” ideology, sought to incorporate East Timor. Suharto’s military and political apparatus, with generals like Ali Murtopo at the forefront, framed the annexation as necessary to maintain regional security and prevent the spread of communism. Yet, without the tacit approval and material support of the United States, such an aggressive campaign would have been diplomatically and logistically far more difficult.

Declassified records reveal that US diplomats, including Ambassador David Newsom and National Security Council advisors like William Smyser, actively promoted a policy of silence on East Timor. They prioritized maintaining aid flows and regional influence over international law or moral responsibility. By mid-1975, high-level US officials were fully aware of Suharto’s intentions and effectively condoned the forthcoming invasion.

President Ford’s comments to Suharto that the US would not pressure Indonesia, alongside Kissinger’s guidance on the use of American-supplied weapons, amounted to a green light for military aggression. The United States not only refrained from warning Indonesia of any consequences but actively structured its aid and diplomatic posture to minimize both domestic and international scrutiny of the impending invasion.

The international community’s response to East Timor was shaped by this US stance. ASEAN neighbors, preoccupied with regional security and the rise of communist forces in Indochina, largely acquiesced to Indonesia’s actions. Australia, despite domestic public opposition to the invasion, adopted a cautious diplomatic stance to avoid antagonizing Jakarta. The United Nations, constrained by realpolitik and the influence of the US and its allies, issued resolutions opposing Indonesia’s aggression, but these lacked enforcement power. The US abstained from votes, maintained military aid channels, and manipulated diplomatic messaging to obscure its complicity. In practice, the United States shielded Indonesia from international accountability, leaving the East Timorese people vulnerable to violence.

The human consequences of this US-enabled occupation were catastrophic. Estimates suggest that between 90,000 and 200,000 East Timorese died as a result of military operations and subsequent occupation. Nearly 90% of the weapons used by the Suharto regime were supplied by the United States, making Washington a direct enabler of mass violence. Economic and military assistance continued throughout the occupation, underscoring the extent to which US strategic priorities trumped moral or legal obligations. Only after the 1997 Asian financial crisis and the eventual fall of Suharto did East Timor gain a path to independence, a process delayed by decades of American-backed occupation.

The US conduct in East Timor is emblematic of a broader pattern during the Cold War. Beginning with the Nixon administration, the United States increasingly relied on regional proxies to maintain its anti-communist agenda, using economic aid and military support as levers of influence while disregarding principles of justice, sovereignty, and self-determination. In Southeast Asia, Indonesia’s rise within ASEAN was carefully cultivated by Washington, not as a manifestation of regional leadership, but as a tool to maintain a US-favored balance of power. Détente, public diplomacy, and human rights rhetoric were subordinated to strategic pragmatism, revealing the hollowness of US claims to global moral leadership.

The East Timor crisis also highlights the limitations of US hegemony. While Washington was able to shape regional alliances and influence the internal calculations of allied governments, it could not impose its desired political order in Indochina, as demonstrated by the fall of South Vietnam. Faced with declining power, the US resorted to selective indulgence of client states, sanctioning aggressive actions when aligned with its anti-communist objectives. This opportunism exposed the dissonance between the US’s professed ideals and its conduct: the “right of peoples to self-determination” was disregarded when inconvenient, and legal norms were subordinated to Cold War exigencies.

The US role in the East Timor crisis underscores the perils of prioritizing strategic convenience over human rights and international law. By fully supporting Indonesia’s annexation, providing material assistance, and silencing dissenting voices, the United States abetted a campaign of occupation that caused massive human suffering and delayed the East Timorese struggle for independence. 

The crisis exemplifies the moral bankruptcy and opportunism of US foreign policy during the Cold War: a power willing to sacrifice the sovereignty and lives of a small nation to secure its own strategic and ideological interests. The East Timor case remains a cautionary tale of the consequences when international influence is wielded without accountability, exposing the limits of American moral authority and highlighting the human cost of hegemonic calculation.

Source: theaustralian, Anzac Portal, UNDOCS, the Guardian

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