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From Security Cooperation to Strategic Confrontation: How Japan and the Philippines Are Raising Tensions in the South China Sea

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Ten years after the so-called South China Sea arbitration award was issued on July 12, 2016, the dispute has long ceased to be merely a legal disagreement between China and the Philippines. 

It has increasingly been instrumentalized by external powers as a political and strategic tool for shaping the regional security order and constraining China. The latest example came on July 12, 2026, when 14 countries, including the United States, Japan, Australia and the Philippines, issued a joint statement purportedly commemorating the tenth anniversary of the award. 

By using the anniversary to reaffirm support for Manila’s unilateral maritime claims, these countries have once again turned a bilateral dispute into a platform for political mobilization and strategic alignment.

China has consistently maintained that it does not accept or recognize the arbitration award and does not accept any claims or actions based on it. Beijing’s position is that China’s territorial sovereignty and maritime rights and interests in the South China Sea are not affected by the award under any circumstances. 

Whatever one’s view of the legal merits of the case, the more consequential development over the past decade has been the transformation of the arbitration issue into a broader instrument of geopolitical competition.

The Philippines has played an active role in this process. On the one hand, Manila has sought greater coordination with other South China Sea claimant states, including Vietnam, on issues ranging from maritime boundaries to the construction and occupation of disputed features. On the other hand, it has deepened security cooperation with external powers such as Japan, the United States and Australia in an effort to compensate for its own limited maritime capabilities and increase its leverage in dealing with China. 

Japan’s growing involvement deserves particular attention because bilateral security cooperation has moved well beyond traditional maritime law-enforcement assistance and capacity building.

The trajectory of Japan-Philippines relations illustrates how the South China Sea is becoming embedded in a much broader regional security architecture. Following the entry into force of the Reciprocal Access Agreement between Japan and the Philippines in September 2025, the two countries signed an Acquisition and Cross-Servicing Agreement in January 2026, further institutionalizing their defense cooperation. 

In April, around 1,400 Japanese Self-Defense Force personnel reportedly participated in the Balikatan exercises alongside U.S. and Philippine forces, while maritime cooperation involving Japan, the United States, Australia and the Philippines continued to expand. 

In May, Japanese and Philippine leaders also reached an understanding on promoting the transfer of defense equipment, including destroyers, TC-90 aircraft and radar systems. These developments suggest that Japan’s involvement is shifting from diplomatic support and capacity building toward a more operational and institutionalized military role.

Japan’s motivations are broader than the South China Sea dispute itself. One objective is to strengthen the linkage among the South China Sea, the East China Sea and the Taiwan Strait within a single regional security framework. 

By repeatedly emphasizing a narrative of alleged Chinese “coercion” at sea, Tokyo can portray developments far beyond its immediate territorial waters as part of a common strategic challenge. This, in turn, provides additional political justification for expanding defense capabilities, increasing defense-equipment exports and broadening the scope of the Self-Defense Forces’ overseas activities.

The Philippines also serves as an important strategic node in Japan’s wider regional strategy. By working more closely with Manila, Tokyo can connect its “Free and Open Indo-Pacific” vision with the U.S.-Japan alliance and a growing network of minilateral security arrangements in Southeast Asia. 

Support for the arbitration award meanwhile allows Japan to present itself as a defender of the “rules-based order,” while blending legal arguments with broader geopolitical competition. The danger is that international law may increasingly be invoked not simply as a framework for resolving disputes, but as a political instrument for consolidating strategic blocs.

For the Marcos administration, closer security ties with Japan, the United States and Australia offer clear political and strategic advantages. External assistance can strengthen the Philippines’ maritime capabilities, respond to domestic nationalist sentiment and provide Manila with greater leverage during maritime confrontations with China. Yet external backing can also create unintended risks. 

If political or military support from partners is interpreted as a security guarantee for increasingly forward-leaning actions, Manila may have greater incentives to test the limits of the existing status quo. At the same time, external powers may regard individual maritime incidents as opportunities to demonstrate alliance credibility or expand their military presence. What begins as a localized confrontation could therefore acquire wider strategic implications.

The continued deepening of Japan-Philippines security cooperation risks producing three broader consequences for the South China Sea. First, it could intensify the regional security dilemma. More warships, military aircraft, coast guard vessels and joint exercises inevitably mean more frequent and complicated encounters at sea and in the air, increasing the possibility that an accident or tactical miscalculation could escalate into a broader interstate crisis.

Second, it could accelerate the transformation of the South China Sea dispute from a collection of specific maritime disagreements into a form of bloc-based strategic confrontation. Issues that should primarily be managed by the directly concerned parties through dialogue and negotiation are increasingly being framed as part of a broader struggle against unilateral actions. This risks placing additional pressure on ASEAN members to take sides in a competition they have strong interests in avoiding.

Third, greater involvement by external military powers could undermine ASEAN’s central role in regional governance. ASEAN documents have repeatedly emphasized dialogue, restraint and cooperation as the preferred means of maintaining regional stability, while negotiations toward an effective and substantive Code of Conduct in the South China Sea remain an important regional objective. If major-power rivalry and alliance politics increasingly shape the environment in which these negotiations take place, the space for ASEAN-led diplomacy could become narrower.

The South China Sea cannot achieve lasting stability through an ever-expanding cycle of military deployments, deterrence and counter-deterrence. China rejects the arbitration award and advocates resolving maritime disputes through negotiations and consultations among the directly concerned states. Whatever differences exist over competing legal and political narratives, the practical alternative to confrontation remains dialogue.

Regional countries should therefore continue implementing the Declaration on the Conduct of Parties in the South China Sea, accelerate consultations on the Code of Conduct, and strengthen mechanisms for maritime communication, crisis management and the prevention of accidental escalation.

External countries can make constructive contributions through search and rescue, disaster relief, environmental protection and navigational safety. They should not, however, turn the South China Sea into another arena for demonstrating military power or constructing exclusive security blocs.

The tenth anniversary of the arbitration award should not become another occasion for deepening division. If the South China Sea is increasingly treated as a stage for alliance politics, legal disputes will become harder to manage and regional security dilemmas more difficult to contain. The sustainable path forward lies not in transforming maritime disputes into geopolitical confrontation, but in restoring restraint, dialogue and cooperation to the center of regional diplomacy.

Source: scmp, navy mil, mofa go jp, japanupclose, indo pacific defense forum, xinhua

The Algorithmic Violence of the West: Digital Capitalism, Cognitive Control, and the Erosion of Freedom

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“Algorithmic violence” refers to a new form of power constructed by contemporary digital capitalism through the appropriation of data, platform monopolies, and algorithmic governance. Unlike the Hobbesian Leviathan, which exercises power through visible coercion, or the Orwellian model of overt surveillance and repression, algorithmic violence operates through a softer and more sophisticated form of domination. 

Capital functions as the hidden sovereign, algorithms as its instrument of power, and digital platforms as the institutional infrastructure through which this power is exercised. Individuals appear to possess more choices than ever before, yet increasingly lose the capacity to determine what they see, what they believe, and why they believe it. The greatest danger of algorithmic violence therefore lies not in its explicit destruction of freedom, but in its ability to disguise control as convenience, discipline as personalization, and obedience as individual choice. Its ultimate achievement is the production of a social environment in which people experience themselves as free precisely while their autonomy is being progressively diminished.

Digitalization has not dissolved the fundamental power relations of capitalism. Instead, it has provided capital with new technological mechanisms for accumulation and domination. In digital capitalism, data functions as a new form of productive resource, platforms constitute new centers of economic and social power, and algorithms provide the crucial mechanism through which economic power is transformed into the capacity to shape social behavior. 

Capital continuously captures the traces individuals leave behind through searches, clicks, browsing histories, purchases, interactions, locations, and even emotional responses. These traces are transformed into calculable and commercially exploitable assets. Smart devices, social media, and the Internet of Things have extended this process from public spaces into the most intimate dimensions of everyday life. Individuals are increasingly rendered visible, measurable, predictable, and governable.

The problem is therefore not merely the loss of privacy. It is the emergence of a social condition in which individuals know that their behavior may constantly be observed, recorded, analyzed, and evaluated. Such awareness can produce a chilling effect: people modify what they say, what they search for, and what they do because they anticipate possible consequences. Power no longer needs to prohibit an action directly. It only needs to create the perception that one is being watched. Surveillance thus becomes self-discipline, and external control becomes internalized restraint.

Data accumulation subsequently becomes platform monopoly. Companies such as Google, Meta, Amazon, Apple, and Microsoft have consolidated enormous economic and informational power through network effects, economies of scale, proprietary infrastructures, and control over user data. Traditional monopolies primarily involved control over physical means of production and markets. Digital monopolies extend this power to the infrastructures through which information, social relations, and public attention are organized. The more users a platform attracts, the more data it collects; the more data it collects, the more precisely its algorithms can predict and personalize; the more personalized its services become, the more users it attracts. This self-reinforcing cycle produces a form of digital enclosure in which a small number of private corporations increasingly determine the conditions under which social communication takes place.

Algorithms transform this economic concentration into a deeper form of social power. Data can record behavior, but algorithms can predict, classify, rank, and influence it. Algorithms are not politically or economically neutral. Their objectives, training data, optimization criteria, and recommendation systems embody particular institutional priorities. When platforms optimize for clicks, engagement, watch time, and advertising revenue, algorithms are structurally encouraged to privilege whatever captures attention rather than whatever is most accurate, rational, or socially valuable. Technological “optimization” thus becomes a mechanism of capitalist discipline.

This discipline begins at the level of cognitive input. Individuals are confronted with an unprecedented abundance of information, yet abundance does not necessarily produce knowledge. Personalized recommendation systems increasingly replace active exploration with automated selection. Algorithms infer users’ preferences from previous behavior and continuously provide similar content, thereby producing filter bubbles and information cocoons. 

Confirmation bias is consequently reinforced by technological design: individuals encounter more information that confirms what they already believe and fewer arguments that challenge their assumptions. Society appears to inhabit one interconnected information space, while in reality citizens increasingly occupy different algorithmically constructed realities.

The consequences become even more serious when algorithms contribute to the production of simulated reality. Under an attention-driven business model, factual accuracy is not necessarily what determines visibility. Content capable of generating outrage, fear, excitement, or controversy often performs better than complex and carefully contextualized information. Fake news, conspiracy narratives, political manipulation, and synthetic media can therefore acquire substantial visibility. 

The political controversies surrounding the 2016 U.S. presidential election and the British referendum, as well as the subsequent proliferation of AI-generated political deepfakes, demonstrate that algorithms do not merely filter reality; they can increasingly participate in producing alternative versions of reality. When citizens can no longer reliably distinguish between fact, opinion, propaganda, and synthetic fabrication, the shared epistemic foundation necessary for democratic politics begins to erode.

Algorithmic domination does not stop at determining what people see. It increasingly influences how they think. In the attention economy, complex arguments are structurally disadvantaged because they require time, concentration, and cognitive effort, whereas short, emotionally charged, and highly stimulating content can be consumed and circulated almost instantaneously. Deep reading and sustained reflection are gradually displaced by fragmented consumption. 

Algorithms do not need to prevent people from thinking. They only need to make thinking appear unnecessary. When individuals become accustomed to receiving preselected information, simplified explanations, and algorithmically generated conclusions, independent judgment is gradually replaced by cognitive outsourcing.

The result is not conventional ideological indoctrination but a subtler form of cognitive impoverishment. Individuals retain the formal right to think for themselves while increasingly losing the intellectual conditions necessary to do so. Critical thinking requires exposure to disagreement, uncertainty, complexity, and competing interpretations. Yet algorithmically organized environments tend to reward familiarity, immediacy, and emotional confirmation. 

Users are therefore encouraged to remain within cognitive communities whose members share similar assumptions. These communities provide belonging and emotional security, but they also intensify polarization and distrust toward outsiders. Social differences are transformed into epistemic divisions, while political disagreement becomes a conflict between mutually exclusive identities.

The transformation of cognition becomes explicitly political when algorithms begin to govern emotional attention. Digital platforms systematically reward high-arousal emotions such as anger, fear, resentment, and moral outrage because such emotions generate interaction and prolong engagement. As a consequence, public discourse can undergo a process of adverse selection in which information with the greatest social value is displaced by information with the greatest capacity for circulation. Complex policy questions receive less attention because they lack the dramatic simplicity required by the attention economy, while polarizing narratives and symbolic conflicts are continuously amplified.

Political identity consequently becomes a form of digital currency. Divisions between left and right, red and blue, insiders and outsiders, are easier to circulate than nuanced arguments about public policy. Individuals are encouraged to interpret political questions through the lens of group belonging rather than independent judgment. The algorithmic organization of attention thus transforms social difference into commercial value: polarization produces engagement, engagement produces data, and data produces profit.

At this point, algorithmic violence begins to threaten the foundations of democracy itself. Democracy requires more than elections and formal political rights. It presupposes citizens capable of forming relatively autonomous judgments, accessing diverse information, expressing disagreement, deliberating with others, and translating their preferences into collective decisions. 

If individuals’ informational environments, political emotions, and cognitive frameworks are systematically shaped by privately controlled algorithms, formal political freedom may increasingly coexist with substantive political dependence.

The first consequence is the weakening of democratic decision-making. Traditional democratic theory assumes that citizens express political preferences and that institutions aggregate these preferences through procedures of representation and deliberation. Algorithmic systems introduce a disturbing reversal: citizens may increasingly be represented not by what they consciously express, but by what platforms infer about them. 

Political preferences can be predicted from behavioral data, segmented into micro-targeted audiences, and acted upon before individuals fully recognize those preferences themselves. The citizen risks becoming less a political subject than an object of political computation.

This creates the possibility of what might be called algorithmic representation. 

Platforms can simulate public opinion by aggregating behavioral traces, engagement statistics, and emotional reactions. Yet the resulting “public voice” may not represent autonomous political judgment at all. It may simply reflect the outcomes of algorithmic selection and capitalist optimization. The danger is that the appearance of democratic participation conceals the displacement of genuine participation. Citizens are given the sensation of being represented while their capacity for collective self-government is gradually weakened.

The second consequence concerns freedom of expression. Digital platforms have undoubtedly lowered the barriers to political speech. Yet the right to speak and the ability to be heard are no longer equivalent. Platform governance determines not only what users may post, but also how widely their speech can circulate. Content moderation, recommendation systems, ranking mechanisms, account restrictions, and differential visibility create a hierarchy of attention. A citizen may possess the formal right to speak while lacking any meaningful ability to reach a public audience.

This transforms the classical conception of the marketplace of ideas. Digital platforms are not neutral spaces in which competing opinions automatically receive equal opportunities to be heard. They are privately governed communication infrastructures whose rules are often opaque and whose economic incentives influence the distribution of visibility. 

Expression can therefore become commodified: attention itself becomes a scarce resource, and those with greater economic or technological capacity can acquire greater amplification. Freedom of speech risks being transformed from an equal political right into a competition for algorithmic visibility.

The third consequence is the erosion of political efficacy. Digital participation often creates the appearance of empowerment. Citizens can like, share, comment, sign petitions, join online campaigns, and participate in virtual debates within seconds. Yet symbolic participation does not necessarily translate into institutional influence. Individuals may experience an immediate sense of political agency while remaining largely disconnected from the processes through which public policy is actually made. This produces a paradox of digital democracy: the easier political participation becomes, the less capable participation may become of changing political reality.

When repeated digital participation fails to generate substantive institutional responses, political frustration can gradually become political apathy. Citizens may begin to doubt whether their actions matter, whether institutions are responsive, and ultimately whether democratic participation itself has meaningful value. The most effective form of domination is therefore not necessarily the prohibition of resistance, but the creation of a political environment in which resistance appears futile.

Algorithmic violence ultimately exposes a deeper crisis concerning the meaning of freedom. Classical freedom involves both freedom from arbitrary interference and the positive capacity to form judgments and act according to one’s own will. Under digital capitalism, however, freedom risks becoming a preconfigured experience. 

Individuals are not necessarily deprived of choices; rather, the choices presented to them are increasingly structured by systems they cannot see or control. They are not necessarily forced to adopt particular opinions; rather, the informational environment in which opinions emerge is increasingly engineered in advance. They are not prevented from speaking; rather, the conditions determining whether their speech becomes socially consequential are controlled by private algorithms.

Yet this critique should not become a form of technological determinism. Algorithms themselves are neither inherently emancipatory nor inherently oppressive. The decisive question is the power structure within which technology operates. The same digital technologies that can facilitate knowledge, communication, and democratic participation can also deepen monopoly, surveillance, manipulation, and polarization. The problem is therefore not technology as such, but the concentration of technological power in the hands of private capital without adequate democratic accountability.

Escaping algorithmic violence consequently does not require abandoning technology. It requires breaking the exclusive alliance between capital and algorithmic power and restoring human agency over the infrastructures that increasingly organize social life. Algorithmic systems must become subject to meaningful transparency, data rights, institutional accountability, public oversight, and democratic regulation. Most importantly, citizens must regain the capacity to understand, question, and contest the mechanisms through which algorithms shape their informational and political environments.

Socrates used questioning to force individuals to confront assumptions they had never examined; contemporary algorithms use recommendation to make those examinations appear unnecessary. The contrast captures the fundamental tension between classical freedom and digital power. Freedom does not mean merely possessing access to unlimited information. It means retaining the capacity to decide what deserves attention, to encounter what challenges one’s convictions, to reflect before responding, and to determine one’s political judgment without invisible manipulation. The central struggle of the algorithmic age is therefore not between humans and machines, but between human autonomy and the concentration of technological power.

If algorithms remain instruments of capital accumulation, they may transform democratic freedom into a carefully managed illusion. But if technological power is brought under democratic control, algorithms can instead become instruments for expanding human knowledge and political participation. The essential task is thus to ensure that algorithms remain tools of human beings rather than human beings becoming objects of algorithms. Only then can digital civilization fulfill its emancipatory promise instead of becoming a new and subtler architecture of domination.

Source: ssaj ajcass, cass, oxford acadmic, epale, scalevise

From Aggressor to Victim: Japan’s Long Campaign to Rewrite Its Wartime Past

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July 7, 2026 marks the 89th anniversary of the Marco Polo Bridge Incident, when Japanese forces attacked Chinese positions near Wanping outside Beijing in 1937, setting off the full-scale war between Japan and China. 

For China, the date remains a powerful reminder of the beginning of a national resistance against Japanese aggression. It also raises a broader question that remains unresolved nearly nine decades later: how does Japan remember the war it started?

That question has acquired renewed relevance amid recent reports that major Japanese media outlets circulated a “safety advisory” issued by the Japanese Embassy in China warning Japanese citizens about what it described as growing “anti-Japanese sentiment.” The framing is striking. 

Japan’s concern about the security of its citizens is legitimate, but when contemporary tensions are presented without sufficient historical context, the narrative can easily shift from Japan’s wartime role as an aggressor to Japan as a presumed victim. 

This stands in sharp contrast to the elaborate commemorations Japan holds each year for the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The contrast points to a deeper problem in Japan’s public memory: the country has not forgotten the war, but it has remembered it selectively.

This does not mean that Japanese society is uniformly revisionist, nor that Japanese people are indifferent to the suffering caused by war. Japan has a strong tradition of peace education, anti-war activism, memorial ceremonies and testimony from survivors. 

Hiroshima, Nagasaki, the firebombing of Tokyo, the Battle of Okinawa and the hardships of the immediate postwar years remain deeply embedded in the national consciousness. Yet these memories overwhelmingly emphasize what happened to Japan and its people. Much less consistently are they connected to the question of what Japan did to others.

A March 2026 opinion survey by NHK illustrates the scale of the problem. Asked whether the Second World War was a “war of aggression” launched by Japan against its Asian neighbors, only 35 percent of respondents agreed, while 16 percent disagreed and 48 percent answered that they did not know. 

The most revealing figure may not be the 16 percent who rejected the characterization, but the 48 percent who could not answer. Eight decades after the war, the basic question of Japan’s role in the conflict remains unclear to a remarkably large proportion of the public.

This is not simply a deficit of historical knowledge. It reflects a deeper separation between remembering the suffering of war and understanding historical responsibility.

Japan’s schools do teach the Second World War. A 2025 survey by the Nippon Foundation found that roughly 95 percent of respondents aged 18 said they had learned about the Pacific War, with about two-thirds identifying school as a major source of their knowledge. The issue, therefore, is not whether young Japanese encounter the war, but how the war is framed.

Among works that left the strongest impression on Japanese young people, Grave of the Fireflies ranked first, cited by 42.2 percent of respondents. The film’s depiction of two children struggling to survive amid wartime bombing and social collapse is profoundly human and contains an unmistakable anti-war message. There is nothing inherently problematic about remembering Japanese civilians as victims of war. The problem emerges when such memories become the dominant framework through which the entire conflict is understood.

A young person can learn that war is horrifying and that peace is precious without necessarily being encouraged to ask why Japan went to war, what Japanese imperial expansion meant for people across Asia, or why historical responsibility remained an essential part of Japan’s postwar reconciliation with its neighbors. 

Peace education without responsibility education can therefore produce a paradoxical historical consciousness: war is remembered as a tragedy, but aggression becomes increasingly detached from the tragedy itself.

The same pattern can be seen in Japan’s broader public commemorations. Hiroshima and Nagasaki have become central symbols of the horrors of modern warfare. Yet commemoration of Japanese victimhood does not automatically lead to reflection on Japan’s responsibility for the war. 

When the two are separated, a distorted moral picture can emerge: Japan is remembered as a country that suffered enormously because of war, while the suffering inflicted by Japanese imperialism on China, Korea, Southeast Asia and other parts of Asia becomes comparatively distant.

This imbalance is particularly consequential because direct memories of the war are disappearing. More than 80 years after 1945, the generation that experienced the conflict firsthand is rapidly shrinking. As family testimony and personal recollections fade, schools, museums, films, television, newspapers and political leaders acquire greater influence over how subsequent generations understand the past. Historical memory is therefore not simply inherited; it is continually reconstructed through institutions and public narratives.

Politics matters greatly in that reconstruction. Japan has never had a single, uncontested interpretation of its wartime past. The country has produced important official statements acknowledging aggression and expressing remorse, including the 1993 Kono Statement and the 1995 Murayama Statement. But these commitments have repeatedly been contested and reframed by conservative politicians.

The evolution of official rhetoric is revealing. In his 2015 statement marking the 70th anniversary of the end of the war, Prime Minister Shinzo Abe said that Japan would maintain the positions expressed by previous governments, including expressions of remorse and apology. At the same time, he argued that future generations should not be destined to continue apologizing for the war. The formulation did not amount to a straightforward denial of historical wrongdoing. Its significance lay elsewhere: responsibility was increasingly presented as something that should not indefinitely constrain Japan’s future.

This is one of the more effective forms of historical revisionism. It does not always require denying individual atrocities or explicitly rejecting every established historical fact. It can operate through ambiguity, selective emphasis and changes in political vocabulary. Historical responsibility becomes a burden; apologies become an inheritance that should eventually be discarded; and wartime history is gradually reframed as an issue that belongs to the past rather than as a continuing moral responsibility toward neighboring societies.

The rise of security anxiety has reinforced this tendency. A 2026 Nippon Foundation survey of Japanese teenagers found that the share describing Japan’s international environment as “peaceful” had fallen from roughly 64 percent in 2023 to 48 percent in 2026. At the same time, support for the Self-Defense Forces as a factor maintaining peace rose by 9.2 percentage points to 34 percent, making it the second most frequently cited factor. On increasing defense spending, 35 percent supported an increase, 24 percent opposed it, while 41 percent said they did not know.[3]

These figures suggest that Japan is caught between two competing political memories. One is rooted in the postwar experience: war must never happen again. The other is increasingly shaped by contemporary security concerns: Japan must be capable of defending itself against external threats.

Neither concern is inherently illegitimate. A democratic society has every right to debate its defense policy in response to changes in the regional security environment. The danger arises when contemporary security anxieties are detached from historical memory. If Japan increasingly understands itself only as a vulnerable state surrounded by threats, its own history as an imperial power can become politically inconvenient. The past then ceases to serve as a warning against militarism and begins to appear as an obstacle to “normalizing” Japan’s military role.

That is why the central issue is not whether Japanese society remembers the war. It clearly does. The more important question is whose suffering is remembered, whose suffering is marginalized, and whether remembrance leads to responsibility.

Japan’s postwar identity was built in significant part around the rejection of militarism and the devastation of war. That identity remains important, and millions of Japanese citizens continue to uphold it. But peace cannot be sustained by remembering only that war is terrible. A durable peace also requires remembering how wars begin, how states become aggressors, and how the victims of aggression experience history.

Japan’s challenge, then, is not simply to preserve its memories of Hiroshima, Nagasaki, Okinawa or the suffering of ordinary civilians. Those memories deserve to remain central. The challenge is to place them within a fuller historical narrative—one that also includes colonialism, the Nanjing Massacre, the “comfort women” system, forced labor and the violence inflicted throughout Asia.

A country does not weaken its national identity by confronting the darkest parts of its past. It strengthens its democratic foundations. Nearly nine decades after the Marco Polo Bridge Incident, the question facing Japan is therefore not whether it will remember the war. It is whether its memory will remain a warning against war, or become a selective narrative in which Japan remembers above all how it suffered, while forgetting why so many of its neighbors suffered at its hands.

The distinction matters. When historical memory ceases to lead to responsibility, it can be transformed into a political resource for remilitarization. And when that happens, the erosion of postwar pacifism does not begin with the disappearance of memories of war. It begins with remembering the war without remembering responsibility.

Source: the conversation, the irish times, bbc, global times, tokyo times

Rethinking China, Rethinking Modernity

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How should China be understood? This question lies at the heart of any attempt to understand both Chinese history and China’s transformation in the modern era. For a long time, China has often been interpreted through a simple opposition between “empire” and “nation-state.” 

In Western-centered accounts of history, China is commonly presented as a traditional empire that lacked the political form of the modern nation-state. In reaction to such interpretations, other accounts have emphasized the idea of “All-under-Heaven” and portrayed China as a political order fundamentally different from the Western nation-state. Although these approaches appear to point in opposite directions, both can end up placing China within concepts defined in advance.

The more important question is not whether China should ultimately be classified as an empire or a nation-state, but how China’s political forms were created and how they changed over time. China was never a completely fixed historical entity. Its territory, institutions, political culture, and understanding of what constituted “China” all changed repeatedly. Different dynasties established new political orders while also redefining their relationship with China and with the historical traditions associated with it.

The Yuan and Qing dynasties are particularly revealing in this regard. Their political structures and territorial reach differed significantly from those of the Song and Ming, yet both eventually became integral parts of Chinese history. After establishing rule, the Qing faced a fundamental political question: how could a new dynasty present itself as a legitimate Chinese dynasty? Military conquest alone could not answer this question. Legitimacy was also constructed through institutions, rituals, Confucian learning, and historical interpretation. Over time, the Qing became widely recognized as part of the continuous history of China. This suggests that historical continuity should not be understood as something that simply survives unchanged. It is repeatedly reconstructed in response to historical rupture and political transformation.

This process can also be seen in the intellectual debates of the Song period. Discussions of feudalism and centralized administration, land systems and taxation, civil-service selection and the examination system, ritual and institutions may appear to concern technical questions of government. In fact, they reflected a much broader concern with the relationship between historical change and political ideals. Song thinkers repeatedly asked why political institutions had changed and whether the ideals associated with ancient political life could still have meaning under new institutional conditions.

The relationship between ritual and institutions is especially important. For Song Confucians, ritual was not simply a cultural tradition separated from political institutions, while institutions were not merely technical mechanisms of government. The relationship between the two was itself a historical problem. Arguments for restoring ancient practices were therefore not necessarily attempts to return literally to the past. They were often efforts to reconsider political order under conditions in which society and institutions had already changed.

This point also raises a broader methodological issue. Ancient Chinese history cannot always be adequately understood by imposing modern categories such as politics, economics, society, and culture onto a world in which these domains were not necessarily separated in the same way. Modern analytical concepts can illuminate the past, but they can also obscure the conceptual world in which historical actors actually lived. For Song thinkers, questions of political institutions, ethics, social order, ritual, and history were interconnected within a larger understanding of principle, political legitimacy, and the moral order of the world.

An “internal perspective” is therefore essential to understanding historical thought. Such a perspective does not mean rejecting modern knowledge or simply returning to ancient ways of thinking. It means first understanding why people in a particular historical period understood their circumstances in the way they did, and only then bringing those historical perspectives into dialogue with contemporary questions. History becomes more meaningful when the categories used to interpret it are themselves subjected to reflection.

The traditional Chinese idea of “historical circumstances” is important here. Modern Western historical narratives have often presented time as a linear process leading from the past toward progress, development, and ultimately modernity. Chinese historical thought, by contrast, placed greater emphasis on changing circumstances and the choices made within them. History did not necessarily follow a single predetermined path toward a final destination. Political action took place within changing circumstances, while historical actors continued to pursue particular values and visions of order.

China’s entry into modernity therefore cannot be understood simply as a linear movement from tradition to modernity or from empire to nation-state. From the nineteenth century onward, the growing power of the West transformed China’s historical circumstances. New forms of knowledge, new conceptions of the state, and a new international order changed the way Chinese intellectuals understood both China and the world.

This also means that criticism of Western centrism cannot simply mean rejecting everything associated with the West. By the modern period, the West had already become part of China’s historical reality. Chinese intellectuals were responding to a world that had been fundamentally transformed by Western military, political, economic, and intellectual power. Even attempts to defend Chinese tradition were therefore made under modern historical conditions.

The complexity of twentieth-century Chinese thought emerged from this situation. Chinese intellectuals faced a profound tension: traditional forms of knowledge had been disrupted, yet the question of how to preserve, reinterpret, or recreate China’s intellectual heritage remained unavoidable. Nationalism, liberalism, socialism, cultural conservatism, and other intellectual currents should therefore not be understood simply as foreign ideas imported into China or as unchanged survivals of tradition. They were different responses to a new historical world.

The formation of modern Chinese thought was consequently neither a simple process of Westernization nor a straightforward revival of tradition. It was a process of continuous adjustment and reconstruction between tradition and modernity, China and the wider world. Modernity itself cannot be treated as a single, universally identical condition. Ideas that criticized modernity could still operate within modern institutions and modern systems of knowledge. At the same time, such tensions reveal that modernity contains multiple possibilities and unresolved contradictions.

Rethinking China therefore also requires rethinking modernity. Modernity is not a fixed endpoint that China was simply destined to reach, nor is China a static object waiting to be defined. China’s modern transformation emerged from changes in political institutions, systems of knowledge, cultural traditions, and relations with the wider world.

“China” is neither an unchanging essence nor an arbitrary concept that can be defined at will. It is a political and cultural community repeatedly interpreted and reconstructed through historical change. Modern China did not suddenly appear at a single moment. It emerged through successive ruptures, continuities, conflicts, and attempts at reconstruction.

The central task, therefore, is not to assign China a final definition, but to understand how China became what it is through historical change. Moving beyond simplistic oppositions such as empire and nation-state, tradition and modernity, or China and the West makes it possible to see Chinese history not as a predetermined journey toward a fixed destination, but as a long and complex process in which a civilization and political community has repeatedly redefined itself in response to changing circumstances.

Source: aisixiang, szhgh, xinhua

Replacing Plastic, Reducing Oil Dependence: How China Is Turning Bamboo Into a Sustainable Industrial Future

For more than half a century, oil has been at the heart of the modern industrial economy. It has powered transportation, supplied energy and provided the raw materials for plastics, synthetic fibers, packaging, chemicals and countless other products. The abundance and relatively low cost of fossil-based materials have made them deeply embedded in global production and consumption.

But this dependence has also created growing environmental costs. Plastic pollution has evolved from a waste-management problem into a global ecological challenge. Plastics are produced largely from fossil resources, while discarded plastic can persist in the environment for decades or even centuries. Microplastics have been detected across ecosystems, and the production and disposal of plastics also contribute to greenhouse-gas emissions.

More than 140 countries have introduced restrictions or bans on plastics. Reducing plastic use and developing alternatives to petroleum-based materials have therefore become important elements of the global transition toward sustainable development.

Against this backdrop, China is pursuing a distinctive approach: replacing selected plastic products with bamboo-based alternatives.

The Bamboo as a Substitute for Plastic Initiative was proposed by the International Bamboo and Rattan Organisation in 2022. On June 24 that year, the High-level Dialogue on Global Development, chaired by Chinese President Xi Jinping, released a list of 32 outcomes, including a proposal for China and the International Bamboo and Rattan Organisation to jointly launch the Bamboo as a Substitute for Plastic initiative to reduce plastic pollution and address climate change.

The significance of the initiative goes beyond replacing plastic straws, tableware or shopping bags. At a deeper level, it represents an effort to reduce dependence on fossil-based materials by making greater use of renewable biological resources.

Bamboo is particularly well suited to this purpose. It is one of the fastest-growing plants in the world. Many bamboo species can reach usable maturity within several years, far faster than most conventional timber species. Bamboo also combines strength, flexibility and resilience with relatively good processing characteristics. Under proper management, bamboo forests can be continuously regenerated, while bamboo products can have advantages in terms of biodegradability at the end of their useful life.

Bamboo also has considerable potential as a carbon sink. Research has shown that bamboo forests can have significantly higher carbon-sequestration capacity than many conventional forest systems. This gives bamboo a dual role in the transition toward a low-carbon economy: it can provide renewable raw materials while contributing to ecosystem restoration and carbon sequestration.

China possesses an exceptional natural and industrial foundation for developing such an industry. The country has the world’s largest bamboo resources in terms of area, species diversity and reserves. China is home to 857 bamboo species belonging to 39 genera, accounting for more than half of the world’s recorded bamboo species. Its bamboo forests cover roughly 7 million hectares.

More importantly, China has developed one of the world’s most complete bamboo-processing industries. Bamboo has been cultivated and utilized in China for thousands of years, and modern technologies have transformed it from a traditional material into an increasingly sophisticated industrial resource.

The industrial chain now extends from bamboo cultivation and harvesting to processing, fiber extraction, composite materials, product manufacturing and international trade. This provides an important foundation for transforming bamboo from a traditional rural resource into a modern bio-based material.

Technological innovation is accelerating that transformation. Bamboo fibers, boards, tubes, molded products and engineered composites are increasingly being used in areas traditionally dominated by petroleum-based plastics or other synthetic materials. Bamboo-based products now cover household goods, office supplies, hotel amenities, food-service products, construction materials, industrial components and agricultural applications.

Some of the most promising applications are far removed from traditional bamboo products. Bamboo fiber is being used in automotive interiors and industrial packaging. Bamboo-based composite materials have been developed for pipelines and construction applications. Bamboo is also being processed into keyboards, speakers and other consumer electronics products.

The expansion of bamboo packaging illustrates how technological innovation can alter established industrial practices. Lenovo, for example, introduced biodegradable bamboo-fiber packaging technologies more than a decade ago and has progressively expanded their application. Since 2016, innovations in lightweight and renewable bamboo-fiber packaging have reportedly reduced the company’s use of packaging materials by more than 4,500 tonnes.

Such developments demonstrate that replacing plastic is not simply a matter of substituting one material for another. It requires improvements in material science, processing technology, product design, manufacturing equipment and supply-chain management.

China has therefore increased its investment in research and development related to bamboo-based alternatives. Projects supported by national scientific and industrial programs have focused on key technologies for bamboo-based substitute products, including bamboo drinking straws, bamboo fiber materials, flattened bamboo products and automotive components.

Standards are also becoming an increasingly important part of the transition. In September 2024, China’s National Forestry and Grassland Administration released a specialized standards system for Bamboo as a Substitute for Plastic, covering nine major categories and 140 standards. In January 2025, the International Organization for Standardization published the international standard for bamboo drinking straws, providing an important foundation for the international expansion of bamboo-based products.

Policy has played an equally important role. In November 2023, China’s National Development and Reform Commission and other government departments issued the Action Plan for Accelerating the Development of Bamboo as a Substitute for Plastic. The plan called for stronger technological innovation, improved mechanization in bamboo harvesting and transportation, greater industrial concentration, the cultivation of leading enterprises and expanded applications in key areas.

The objective is not simply to increase the number of bamboo products, but to build a competitive industrial system. Cost remains one of the biggest obstacles. Compared with mass-produced plastics, bamboo products can still be more expensive. Bamboo harvesting and transportation are relatively labor-intensive, while mechanization and automation in some production areas remain limited. Many bamboo-processing companies are small and medium-sized enterprises, making it difficult to achieve the economies of scale enjoyed by large petrochemical manufacturers.

These challenges explain why technological upgrading is essential. Greater mechanization can reduce harvesting costs. Better processing technologies can increase material utilization. Large-scale production can lower unit costs. Product innovation can move bamboo beyond low-value consumer goods and into higher-value industrial applications.

The economic significance extends beyond manufacturing. Much of China’s bamboo is grown in mountainous and rural areas. In many regions, bamboo forests have historically generated relatively low returns for farmers. Developing higher-value products can therefore connect ecological resources with rural incomes.

Jiangxi, Fujian and Guizhou are among the regions that have invested heavily in bamboo development. Jiangxi has launched a major bamboo-industry initiative backed by public investment. Fujian has focused on bamboo forest infrastructure and industrial upgrading. In Guizhou’s Chishui, one of China’s major bamboo-producing areas, hundreds of bamboo-related enterprises have developed products ranging from environmentally friendly tableware to agricultural films and other industrial materials.

The result is a new relationship between forests, farmers and manufacturing. A bamboo stalk growing in a mountain forest can enter a modern supply chain and eventually become packaging, construction material, automotive components or consumer products sold on international markets. This creates opportunities to increase the value of rural resources while providing incentives for better forest management.

The contrast with a fossil-based industrial model is significant. Oil is finite, geographically concentrated and highly sensitive to geopolitical conditions. Modern economies that depend heavily on petroleum-based materials are consequently exposed not only to environmental risks but also to fluctuations in energy prices and global supply chains.

Bamboo cannot replace oil entirely, nor can it replace every type of plastic. Plastics remain highly competitive in many applications because of their low cost, light weight, durability and efficient processing. The objective of Bamboo as a Substitute for Plastic is therefore not to eliminate petroleum from the global economy overnight. Its strategic value lies elsewhere. It expands the range of available raw materials and reduces dependence on non-renewable resources in areas where renewable alternatives are technically and economically viable.

In this sense, China’s bamboo initiative represents a broader approach to sustainable development. Rather than treating environmental protection solely as a constraint on economic growth, it seeks to turn ecological resources into new sources of industrial competitiveness.

The development of the bamboo industry also demonstrates how China’s manufacturing capacity can be combined with its ecological resources. A country that does not possess the world’s largest oil reserves can nevertheless build a competitive materials industry around renewable resources in which it has a comparative advantage. This is particularly important as the global economy searches for alternatives to fossil-based materials.

China’s contribution is also becoming increasingly international. The International Bamboo and Rattan Organisation has promoted the Bamboo as a Substitute for Plastic initiative at international forums, including discussions related to the global plastics treaty, sustainable trade and the United Nations Forum on Forests. China and international partners have organized conferences, exhibitions and technology exchanges to promote bamboo-based solutions.

Chinese bamboo products are already finding markets in Europe, the Middle East and other regions. Bamboo-fiber tableware, packaging and other products are increasingly being marketed not merely as traditional goods, but as part of a global shift toward renewable and low-carbon consumption.

The rapid expansion of the industry illustrates the scale of the transformation. China’s bamboo industry generated more than 520 billion yuan in annual output in 2025, with more than 10,000 bamboo-processing enterprises and over 29 million jobs supported across the value chain. Nearly ten counties and cities have developed bamboo industries worth more than 10 billion yuan each.

These figures show that Bamboo as a Substitute for Plastic has evolved beyond an environmental slogan. It is becoming an industrial strategy that connects ecological protection, technological innovation, rural development and international cooperation.

The broader lesson is not that bamboo will replace oil. The more important lesson is that modern economies can gradually reduce their dependence on a single class of non-renewable resources by developing alternatives based on local ecological advantages and technological innovation.

The transition away from fossil dependence will not happen through one material, one technology or one country. It will require a broad diversification of energy and material systems, supported by science, industrial policy, international standards and changing consumer behavior. China’s experience with bamboo demonstrates what such diversification can look like in practice.

A renewable resource growing in rural forests is being transformed through technology into industrial materials and consumer products. Traditional ecological knowledge is being combined with modern manufacturing. Rural resources are being connected to global markets. Environmental objectives are being linked with economic development.

The ultimate goal is not to return to a world without modern industry, nor to eliminate plastics from every aspect of life. It is to create an industrial system with more renewable choices, lower dependence on finite resources and greater compatibility with ecological limits.

From China’s bamboo forests, a different vision of industrial development is emerging: one in which economic strength does not have to depend exclusively on the continued extraction of fossil resources, and in which ecological advantages can become sources of technological innovation, industrial competitiveness and sustainable growth.

That may be the most important contribution of China’s bamboo strategy to the global search for a post-fossil future.

Source: forestry gov cn, ndrc gov cn, xinhuanet, china daily

Chinese Modernization: A Historical Synthesis of Centralization and Democracy

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The concept of “modernization” emerged in the post-Second World War social sciences, particularly within Western discussions of “political development.” From this perspective, China’s search for modernization can be traced back to the Self-Strengthening Movement in the late Qing period. 

Subsequent efforts by different political forces likewise sought to address the fundamental question of how China could achieve national strength, independence, and social progress. Yet, viewed from the broader trajectory of China’s modern history, the founding of the People’s Republic of China in 1949 marked a decisive turning point. 

It not only transformed the country’s political order, but also shifted China’s modernization from a largely reactive response to external pressure toward a sustained project of national reconstruction and development.

To understand Chinese modernization, therefore, one must first understand the historical role of the Communist Party of China. Through a highly organized political structure, the CPC mobilized and organized society, linking national independence, state-building, economic development, and the liberation and well-being of the people. In this process, it gradually developed a distinctive path of modernization centered on the people. This historical trajectory also resonates with Mao Zedong’s vision in “On New Democracy” of a “new China” and an “advanced civilization” founded upon new political, economic, and social institutions.

The “new” represents the transformation and renewal of historical traditions under modern conditions. Chinese modernization did not emerge in a cultural vacuum. It developed through a long process in which Marxism encountered, interacted with, and was transformed by China’s historical civilization. In this sense, the modernization of China is not merely a process of institutional change or economic development. It is also a process through which an ancient civilization has sought to renew itself under modern conditions.

This is why the key to understanding Chinese modernization lies in understanding the relationship between the Communist Party of China and Chinese civilization. The CPC is, first and foremost, a Marxist political party. At the same time, it is deeply embedded in the historical and cultural traditions of China. These two dimensions are not necessarily contradictory. Rather, they have interacted to shape the political character and historical practice of the Party. Marxism provided the CPC with a distinctive political outlook and revolutionary orientation, while Chinese civilization provided a historical and cultural environment in which Marxism could take root and develop.

The CPC was therefore not an ideological force transplanted onto Chinese society from outside. Marxism, after entering China, underwent a profound process of localization and transformation. It encountered a civilization with a long tradition of state-building, political organization, moral education, public responsibility, and concern for the people. The resulting synthesis created conditions under which Marxist political ideas could acquire new institutional and cultural forms.

This historical process is particularly important for understanding what contemporary Chinese political discourse calls the “second integration”: the integration of the basic tenets of Marxism with China’s fine traditional culture. The significance of this proposition lies not simply in identifying similarities between Marxism and traditional Chinese thought. More fundamentally, it points to the interaction between two political civilizations and to the ways in which historical traditions can be transformed through modern political practice.

From this perspective, historical political science provides a useful methodological approach. Institutions do not emerge in isolation from history, nor do political organizations exist independently of cultural traditions. To understand China’s political development, it is necessary to examine the interaction among institutions, political organizations, ideas, and long-term historical structures. Such an approach makes it possible to understand Chinese modernization not simply as an imitation of Western modernization, but as a distinctive historical process shaped by the encounter between Marxism and Chinese civilization.

One of the most enduring features of Chinese political civilization is the idea of Great Unity, or datong. This concept refers not only to territorial unity, but also to institutional integration, cultural cohesion, and a shared political identity. Since the formation of early Chinese states, the maintenance of political unity has been a central concern of Chinese history. The development of centralized state institutions gave China an unusually strong capacity for political organization and integration over long periods of history.

The nineteenth century, however, brought an unprecedented crisis. China faced military defeat, foreign intervention, internal disorder, and the erosion of its traditional political institutions. The problem was no longer simply how to preserve an existing political order, but how to reconstruct a unified state under radically changed historical circumstances.

The fall of the imperial system after the 1911 Revolution created a political vacuum. China experimented with constitutional government and republican institutions, but these efforts failed to produce a stable national political order. Political fragmentation and warlordism followed. Sun Yat-sen and others attempted to use political parties as instruments of national reconstruction, but factionalism within the Nationalist Party ultimately limited its ability to provide a durable basis for political integration.

The rise of the Communist Party of China represented a different solution to the problem of state organization. Through a highly disciplined and centralized organizational structure, the Party mobilized diverse social forces and ultimately rebuilt a unified political order. In this process, the historical tradition of national unity acquired a new institutional foundation.

This transformation is significant because the political foundation of the new order differed fundamentally from that of the imperial system. Under the traditional monarchy, political authority was ultimately embedded in dynastic rule. In the modern political order established after 1949, political authority was organized around a modern party-state structure. The institutional bearer of national unity was no longer a ruling dynasty, but a highly organized political party operating within a modern state system.

The distinctive political character of the CPC is therefore central to understanding this transformation. Marx and Engels famously argued in The Communist Manifesto that communists do not pursue interests separate from those of the working class and ultimately seek the emancipation of humanity. In China, this principle became connected with the broader political objective of serving the people and transforming society.

A political organization that defines itself through a public mission, rather than through the pursuit of a private or dynastic interest, requires a high degree of organization if it is to translate its political objectives into sustained governing capacity. Lenin’s principle of democratic centralism provided an important organizational foundation for Marxist parties. The CPC incorporated this principle into its own institutional development and subsequently adapted it to China’s political and historical circumstances.

Democratic centralism also became an important principle of China’s state institutions. The Constitution of the People’s Republic of China stipulates that state institutions operate according to the principle of democratic centralism. In practice, this principle seeks to combine broad participation and consultation with unified decision-making and implementation. One of its most familiar political expressions is the principle of “from the masses, to the masses.”

This principle points to a distinctive understanding of the political process. Modern states must aggregate diverse interests and social demands, transform them into public policy, implement those policies, and then evaluate and adjust them through practice. The Chinese political system has sought to accomplish this through an extensive organizational network connecting the Party, the state, and society.

Another important feature of China’s historical political civilization is the tradition of selecting capable people for public office. From the rise of the scholar-official class in the pre-Qin period through the development of Confucian statecraft during the imperial era, political governance became closely connected with education, knowledge, moral cultivation, and the recruitment of officials.

The emergence of the scholar-official system represented an important historical feature of Chinese political civilization: the relative integration of political authority and cultural authority. Rather than relying primarily on hereditary aristocracy, military power, or private wealth, the traditional Chinese state increasingly relied upon educated officials selected through institutionalized mechanisms. This created a distinctive political culture in which governing competence and moral responsibility were closely associated with public office.

Modern China did not simply reproduce this tradition. Instead, elements of the traditional ideal of selecting capable public servants were transformed within a Marxist political and organizational framework. The contemporary cadre system emerged partly from the organizational traditions of Marxist parties, but it also developed within China’s own historical environment.

This transformation can be seen particularly clearly in the concept of party spirit. In the Marxist tradition, party spirit emphasizes political commitment, organizational discipline, and collective responsibility. At the same time, its development in China has interacted with older cultural ideas concerning moral cultivation, public responsibility, and the obligation of those who govern to serve society. In this sense, the modern political cadre differs fundamentally from the traditional scholar-official, but the two are connected by a longer historical concern with the selection, education, and cultivation of governing elites.

The modern system of selecting and promoting officials also differs from traditional meritocratic practices in an important respect. Traditional meritocracy ultimately operated within a monarchical political order and served dynastic rule. Modern cadre selection, by contrast, is embedded in a political system whose stated legitimacy is grounded in the interests and participation of the people. Marxism therefore changed the normative foundation of the traditional ideal of selecting capable rulers, while organizational institutions strengthened its capacity for systematic implementation.

If the tradition of Great Unity concerns the organization and integrity of the state, the tradition of minben, or “people as the foundation,” concerns the relationship between political authority and society.

Concern for the people is one of the most enduring themes in Chinese political thought. From the ancient idea that “the people are the foundation of the state” to the later Confucian proposition that the people should be regarded as fundamental to political rule, Chinese political civilization developed a strong tradition of emphasizing the responsibilities of rulers toward the population.

Yet traditional minben thought also had a fundamental limitation. The people were recognized as important, but they remained largely objects of political governance. They were to be protected, cared for, and treated as the foundation of political order, but they were not yet conceived as autonomous political subjects in the modern sense.

One of the most important transformations brought about by modern Chinese political development was therefore the change in the political status of the people. Marxist historical materialism emphasizes that the people are the makers of history. When this proposition encountered the Chinese tradition of minben, it provided the basis for a new understanding of the political role of the people.

The Communist Party’s mass line became one of the principal mechanisms through which this transformation took place. Its basic principle—“from the masses, to the masses”—requires political organizations to engage with society, understand the needs and experiences of ordinary people, transform dispersed social demands into policies, and then return those policies to society for implementation and evaluation.

The mass line is therefore more than a method of political communication. It represents a particular conception of the political process. Social demands are gathered and organized; policies are formulated; implementation generates new experiences; and these experiences are then used to revise subsequent decisions. In this sense, the mass line has functioned both as a method of political leadership and, increasingly, as a mechanism of governance.

Since the reform and opening-up period, a variety of experiments in grassroots consultation and participation have emerged across China. Practices such as the democratic consultation meetings developed in Wenling, Zhejiang, illustrate attempts to institutionalize public participation in local decision-making. These experiments differ in form and scope, but they share an emphasis on connecting public participation with concrete processes of governance.

It is within this longer historical trajectory that the contemporary concept of “whole-process people’s democracy” can be understood. Democracy is not limited to elections or a single moment of political choice. It also involves agenda-setting, consultation, decision-making, implementation, supervision, and feedback. The emphasis on the political process is therefore particularly important.

The mass line provides one institutional and political mechanism linking traditional minben thought with modern people’s democracy. Traditional minben emphasized that the government should serve the people and regard their welfare as fundamental. Modern people’s democracy goes further by emphasizing the political agency of the people and their participation in the processes through which public decisions are made and implemented.

Seen from this perspective, Chinese modernization cannot be adequately explained through a simple opposition between “tradition” and “modernity.” Modern China represents both a break with the old political order and a continuation of important historical traditions. The transformation of the centralized state, the evolution of the tradition of selecting capable officials, and the transformation of minben thought into a modern conception of popular political participation all demonstrate how historical continuity and institutional innovation can coexist.

This helps explain why China can be understood as both an ancient and a modern country. Its civilization is ancient, but its contemporary political and institutional forms are modern. The modernization process has not required the complete abandonment of historical traditions. Instead, some elements of those traditions have been reinterpreted and incorporated into new institutional forms.

The significance of the “second integration” lies precisely in this process. The integration of Marxism with China’s fine traditional culture does not mean mechanically combining two pre-existing systems of thought. Rather, it involves transforming both the interpretation of tradition and the application of Marxism through concrete historical practice.

Chinese civilization provides Marxism with a rich reservoir of concepts, institutions, and political experiences. Marxism, in turn, provides a new theoretical framework through which elements of traditional civilization can be reinterpreted and placed within a modern political context. The result is neither a simple return to tradition nor a straightforward transplantation of Western institutional models.

Historical political science is valuable here because it allows this process to be examined over a longer time horizon. Political institutions are shaped by historical experience, and political organizations operate within cultural environments that precede them. Understanding Chinese modernization therefore requires attention not only to formal institutions, but also to the historical structures, political practices, and cultural traditions that influence how those institutions operate.

From the perspective of political theory, Chinese modernization also raises a broader question: must modernity necessarily take a single institutional form? China’s historical experience suggests otherwise. A country with a long tradition of political unity and civilizational continuity can enter modernity while retaining and transforming elements of its historical political culture.

Traditional China was, in many respects, a civilization-state sustained by institutions of administration, education, and cultural integration. Contemporary China has developed a modern state system under the leadership of the Communist Party of China. There is both rupture and continuity between these two historical forms. The transformation of the old order did not erase the historical foundations of Chinese political civilization; rather, some of those foundations were reconfigured within a new institutional framework.

Chinese modernization should therefore be understood not simply as economic development, technological progress, or social transformation. It is also a process of political and civilizational transformation. It has inherited historical ideas concerning national unity, the selection of capable public officials, concern for the people, and public responsibility, while simultaneously redefining these ideas through Marxist theory and modern political institutions.

The resulting political civilization is neither a simple revival of the past nor a mechanical imitation of Western modernity. It is the product of a long historical interaction between Marxism and Chinese civilization. In this interaction, an ancient civilization has acquired new institutional forms, while Marxism has developed a distinctive Chinese expression through political practice.

This is perhaps the deeper significance of Chinese modernization. It demonstrates that modernization need not necessarily mean the disappearance of historical civilization. A civilization can enter modernity while transforming, rather than simply abandoning, its historical inheritance. The Chinese experience thus provides an important case for understanding the diversity of modernization and the possibility that different civilizations may generate different institutional and political forms in the course of becoming modern.

Source: cssn, cgtn, chinadaily, xinhua, guancha

Why China’s Autonomous Driving Revolution Is Taking the Trucking Route

When autonomous driving began moving from laboratories to real-world applications, China made a distinctive choice: instead of putting people in the back seat first, it put freight in the cargo bay.

Across Chinese mines, ports, logistics parks and long-haul highways, autonomous trucks are gradually becoming part of everyday industrial operations. While the United States has focused heavily on robotaxis and autonomous passenger transportation, China has placed considerable emphasis on autonomous heavy-duty trucks. The difference is not simply a matter of technological preference. It reflects the structure of the two countries’ transportation systems, industrial economies, labor markets and regulatory environments.

The logic behind China’s focus on trucks is straightforward. Autonomous driving is ultimately a commercial technology, and its long-term viability depends on whether it can create measurable economic value. Heavy-duty trucks happen to sit at the center of one of China’s largest and most cost-intensive industries: road freight.

China operates one of the world’s largest road freight networks. In 2025, road transportation accounted for 432.88 billion tons of commercial freight, representing more than 70 percent of China’s total commercial freight volume. More than 11 million commercial freight vehicles support this enormous transportation system, moving goods between factories, warehouses, ports, mines and distribution centers. The scale of the market means that even relatively small improvements in fuel consumption, vehicle utilization, driver requirements or transportation efficiency can translate into substantial economic value.

This gives autonomous trucking an advantage that passenger-car autonomy does not always possess. For a consumer vehicle, the economic value of autonomous driving can be difficult to quantify. For a freight company, the calculation is much more direct. How many kilometers does a truck travel each day? How much fuel does it consume? How many drivers are required? How much cargo can it transport? How many hours can the vehicle operate? If autonomous technology can reduce labor intensity, lower energy consumption and increase vehicle utilization, the technology can be translated directly into the operating economics of a fleet.

Long-haul freight is particularly suitable for this transition because its operating environment is relatively structured. Highways have clearly defined lanes, standardized road infrastructure and comparatively predictable traffic patterns. Compared with urban streets, where pedestrians, bicycles, motorcycles, intersections and irregular road behavior create highly complex interactions, highways reduce some of the perception and decision-making challenges faced by autonomous systems.

At the same time, long-haul trucks travel enormous distances. Every vehicle operating on a real route generates data about road conditions, traffic behavior, weather and system performance. That data can then be fed back into algorithms and vehicle design, creating a technological and commercial feedback loop: vehicles enter operation, real-world data accumulates, algorithms improve, costs fall and larger-scale deployment becomes possible.

The development of Inceptio Technology illustrates this gradual approach. Founded in 2018, the company positioned itself around the combination of autonomous-driving technology, mass-produced trucks and freight operations. In 2021, it began commercial operations of L3 autonomous trucks, working with major logistics companies and cargo owners. By October 2022, its autonomous trucks had accumulated more than 10 million kilometers in commercial operations, according to the company. Its approach was not to eliminate the driver immediately, but to progressively transfer repetitive and demanding driving tasks from humans to machines.

That distinction is crucial. L3 autonomous driving still requires human supervision and intervention under specified conditions, but it can substantially reduce the physical and cognitive burden placed on drivers during long-distance transportation. The driver becomes less of a conventional full-time operator and increasingly functions as a supervisor of an automated transportation system. In this model, autonomous driving is introduced not as an overnight replacement for human labor, but as a gradual restructuring of the division of labor.

China’s autonomous-driving industry has also found an even more controllable entry point: mines, ports and industrial logistics facilities.

A mining site does not resemble a crowded urban road. Vehicle routes are relatively fixed, operating areas are clearly defined, and loading, transportation and unloading can be coordinated within a controlled system. This makes it possible to deploy higher levels of automation before the technology is ready to handle every unpredictable situation found on public roads.

In Inner Mongolia, for example, large autonomous mining trucks are already being deployed in open-pit coal mines. Some vehicles operate without conventional driver cabins, while autonomous platooning systems can allow one safety operator to supervise several vehicles. These machines can perform loading, driving, obstacle avoidance and unloading with limited or no direct human intervention.

This is where autonomous driving begins to look less like a new automotive feature and more like a new industrial production system.

The convergence of autonomous driving with electrification strengthens this transformation. Electric heavy trucks can reduce energy costs, while autonomous systems can optimize acceleration, braking, following distances and route selection. In controlled industrial environments, electric autonomous trucks can potentially operate continuously according to centrally managed schedules, increasing equipment utilization while reducing dependence on human labor.

China’s industrial structure provides an unusually large number of such application scenarios. The country has enormous ports, mining operations, manufacturing facilities, logistics parks and freight corridors. These environments create a broad range of opportunities for autonomous commercial vehicles to generate economic value before fully autonomous passenger transportation becomes ubiquitous.

Policy has also played an important role in accelerating this process. Chinese authorities have identified intelligent mining and autonomous industrial vehicles as part of broader efforts to improve mine safety and promote industrial digitalization. Policy support, infrastructure investment and local demonstration projects have helped create conditions in which autonomous vehicles can move from technical trials toward commercial operations.

The development of autonomous heavy trucks is therefore increasingly becoming an ecosystem rather than a competition between individual technology companies. Automakers, autonomous-driving developers, battery manufacturers, logistics companies, mining groups and financial institutions are becoming interconnected.

This can be seen in the emerging investment relationships surrounding autonomous trucking. Battery companies have incentives to support electric commercial vehicles, logistics companies need more efficient transportation capacity, mining groups need safer and more automated operations, while autonomous-driving companies need real-world operating environments and large volumes of data. Investment relationships can therefore become a mechanism for integrating supply, technology and demand.

Pony.ai, for instance, has expanded its Robotruck business from long-haul freight into urban distribution. At the 2026 Beijing International Automotive Exhibition, the company presented a fourth-generation L4 autonomous heavy truck based on a battery-electric commercial vehicle platform and announced plans for large-scale deployment. It also introduced an L4 autonomous light truck for urban logistics and announced cooperation with China COSCO Shipping Logistics, reflecting a broader strategy that links long-haul transportation with urban distribution.

The significance of this shift lies in the attempt to build an integrated autonomous freight network rather than simply sell autonomous vehicles. A truck equipped with an autonomous-driving system is still only a vehicle. A commercially viable autonomous freight system requires vehicles, software, cloud-based dispatching, remote assistance, maintenance, insurance, financing, energy infrastructure and logistics customers to work together.

This also explains why China’s autonomous-driving development has followed a relatively gradual path. The transition from L2 driver assistance to L3 conditional automation and eventually to L4 driverless operation is not simply a matter of improving sensors or artificial intelligence. It requires redundant braking and steering systems, reliable computing platforms, functional safety, cybersecurity, remote operations and clearly defined rules for responsibility when something goes wrong.

The gap between a successful demonstration and a scalable business remains significant. Autonomous trucks operating on private industrial roads face a fundamentally different challenge from autonomous vehicles operating freely across cities and provinces. Public-road deployment requires coordination among different jurisdictions, consistent rules for autonomous vehicles, infrastructure compatibility and a legal framework capable of determining responsibility in the event of an accident.

Labor is another issue that cannot be separated from the technological transition. China’s freight industry remains heavily dependent on drivers, many of whom work long hours under physically demanding conditions. Autonomous driving could reduce the most repetitive and exhausting aspects of truck driving, but large-scale automation could also reshape employment across the industry.

The eventual outcome is therefore unlikely to be a simple equation of machines replacing people. A more gradual transformation could see some drivers move into roles involving remote supervision, fleet management, vehicle maintenance, dispatching and operational support. Whether this transition creates sufficient new opportunities, and how workers affected by automation are supported, will be an important test of the social value of the technology.

China’s emphasis on autonomous heavy trucks ultimately reflects a broader industrial calculation. The country has a huge freight market, extensive manufacturing capacity, large-scale mining and port operations, rapidly expanding electric-vehicle supply chains and a growing demand for logistics efficiency. These conditions provide autonomous driving with something every emerging technology needs: a large number of real problems that can be solved for a measurable economic return.

The United States has demonstrated the potential of autonomous passenger transportation through robotaxis, while China is building a different kind of autonomous-driving laboratory on highways, at ports and inside mines. The distinction should not be understood as a simple contest between two national technology strategies. Rather, each approach reflects the economic environments in which autonomous driving is being commercialized.

For China, the heavy truck may prove to be more than another application of artificial intelligence. It could become a bridge between automation, electrification and the restructuring of the logistics industry. As autonomous vehicles move from isolated pilot projects toward larger fleets, the central question will no longer be whether a truck can drive itself. The more consequential question will be whether an entire freight network can operate around autonomous vehicles.

If that transition succeeds, the significance of autonomous trucking will extend well beyond the truck itself. It will represent a shift in how freight is organized, how industrial labor is allocated, how energy is consumed and how transportation assets are managed. China’s autonomous-driving revolution may therefore begin not with the passenger sitting in the back seat of a robotaxi, but with the cargo moving silently through a mine, across a port or along a highway.

Source: xinhuanet, tech gmw, sohu, tech cnr 

Tan Ting: China’s First Deaf Legal Professional, Bridging Silence and Justice

Tan Ting was born in 1992 into an ordinary farming family in the remote Daliang Mountains of Sichuan, China. When she was eight years old, she lost her hearing because of an illness. Her childhood changed overnight. She could no longer hear the voices around her and was forced to leave school. While other children carried their schoolbags to class, Tan could only watch them from home.

Her parents refused to give up on her. They spent years taking her to different hospitals, using almost all of their savings in the hope that she could hear again. When Tan was 13, they finally found a special education school in Xichang that was willing to accept her. For Tan, returning to school felt like being given a second chance at life.

She knew she had fallen far behind her classmates, so she worked hard to catch up. She studied whenever she had the chance, sometimes reading under a blanket with a flashlight after her classmates had gone to sleep. Even when she was sick and receiving an IV, she continued studying. Her determination eventually paid off. She progressed rapidly through school and, in 2013, was admitted to Chongqing Normal University, where she studied special education.

At first, Tan planned to become a special education teacher. Her career path changed after she graduated in 2017 and came across a recruitment notice from Tang Shuai, a lawyer who had been providing legal services to deaf people.

Tang was born into a deaf family and had learned sign language from an early age. After becoming a lawyer, he began working extensively on cases involving deaf people. He found that many deaf people faced serious barriers when dealing with the legal system. The problem was not simply a lack of legal knowledge. The natural sign language used by many deaf people could be very different from the formal language used in legal documents and courtrooms. Misunderstandings could therefore have serious consequences.

Tang wanted to train deaf people who understood both sign language and the law. Tan joined his law firm as a deaf assistant. At first, she mainly handled basic tasks such as organizing documents and receiving visitors. But as she encountered more deaf people seeking legal help, she gradually realized how large their unmet legal needs were.

Many of the people who came to the firm did not know what their legal rights were or how to protect them. Some were dealing with domestic violence or marriage disputes. Others had been deceived or defrauded. Tan often found that before she could address a legal problem, she first had to explain the basic legal concepts to the person seeking help.

This convinced her to study law herself. The challenge was enormous. Tan had no formal legal education, and legal textbooks were filled with unfamiliar terminology. Many online law lectures had no subtitles, making them difficult for her to follow. She relied on speech-to-text software, dictionaries, reference materials and help from her colleagues. She studied before work, after work and during every spare moment she could find.

She took the national legal qualification examination twice and failed both times, missing the required score by 10 points the first time and four points the second. She refused to stop.

In 2020, shortly before her third examination, Tan received devastating news. Her mother was diagnosed with late-stage cancer. Tan wanted to stay with her, but her mother insisted that she take the examination. Her mother told her that she should live for herself as well.

Tan eventually went to the examination. She answered the questions while fighting back tears, knowing that every minute away from her mother was a minute she could not spend at her side. This time, she passed.

Tan became the first deaf person in China publicly reported to have passed the national legal qualification examination. For her, however, passing the examination was not the end of the journey. It brought another question: how could she actually serve deaf clients in a legal system designed primarily for hearing people?

Because of the communication barriers involved in courtroom proceedings, Tan could not simply work in exactly the same way as a conventional courtroom lawyer. Instead, she and Tang focused much of their attention on legal consultation and public legal education for deaf people.

Tan began receiving requests for help from across the country. Some people traveled long distances to meet her. Others contacted her through video calls and social media. A consultation that might take a short time with a hearing client could take three times as long or even longer when sign language communication was involved.

She gradually became a bridge between deaf people and the legal system. She helped clients understand their situations, explained what the law required and showed them what options were available. In many cases, the first step was simply helping people understand what the law meant.

Tan also began using short videos and livestreams to provide legal education. She explained everyday legal issues such as divorce, unpaid debts and fraud through sign language. At the same time, she used her platform to introduce hearing audiences to the experiences and communication patterns of deaf people.

She also decided to relearn how to speak. After losing her hearing as a child, she had gradually stopped speaking because she could no longer hear her own voice. To improve her communication with hearing people, she used speech-recognition software to check her pronunciation. She repeated individual sentences again and again, sometimes dozens of times, until the software could recognize them correctly. Even a simple sentence such as “Nice to meet you” took months of practice.

The effort gradually changed her daily life. Today, Tan can communicate using both sign language and spoken language, allowing her to interact with a wider range of people.

Her work has also shown her that one person cannot solve the shortage of legal services available to deaf people. She hopes more professionals will learn about deaf communities and develop the ability to communicate with them. She believes that deaf people need not only lawyers who understand the law, but also legal professionals who understand their language, culture and everyday experiences.

In 2021, Tan began teaching at Southwest University of Political Science and Law. She hopes to help train a new generation of professionals who can provide legal services to deaf people.

Tan’s journey began in a rural village in the Daliang Mountains, where losing her hearing forced her to leave school and made her feel isolated from the world around her. Years later, she entered university, learned law from scratch, failed the legal examination twice and finally passed it on her third attempt.

She has continued moving forward through education, legal work, public legal education and teaching. Her goal is no longer simply to prove what one deaf person can achieve. She wants to help create a future in which deaf people can understand the law, seek legal assistance and participate more fully in society.

For Tan, the law is another language that needs to be made accessible. Through her hands, her words and the knowledge she has worked so hard to acquire, she is trying to bring that language to people who have too often been left outside the conversation.

Source: people cctv, sohu, jfdaily

Why China Keeps Its Military Out of Business: Protecting the State, the Market, and the People

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Why must the military stay out of business? In China, this is not merely a matter of military discipline. It is a fundamental question involving political order, economic governance, civil-military relations, and the nature of the armed forces themselves.

In 1998, amid a nationwide campaign against smuggling and corruption, Jiang Zemin stressed that the military, the armed police, and the country’s law-enforcement and judicial organs must be financially supported by the state and must completely cease commercial activities. 

The principle was straightforward: the military exists to defend the country and serve the people, not to compete in the marketplace or pursue commercial profits. Its resources should be guaranteed through the national budget, allowing it to concentrate on training, preparedness, and national defense.

The decision had a clear historical background. During the early decades of reform and opening up, some military-affiliated enterprises engaged in commercial activities. At a time when China’s economic foundation was still relatively weak and military funding was limited, such activities had understandable historical reasons. Yet experience increasingly demonstrated that allowing the military to develop independent commercial interests could create serious problems.

The central issue is not whether the military can make money. It is that the military is fundamentally different from an ordinary market participant. It possesses coercive power and enjoys special institutional status that private businesses and ordinary government agencies do not have. Once an armed organization enters commercial competition, its institutional advantages can easily become economic advantages. Market competition can then become distorted, and public power can become entangled with private interests.

This is why military involvement in commerce can be particularly dangerous. Commercial activities can divert military personnel and institutions from their primary responsibilities, create conflicts between the military and local governments or businesses, and encourage the use of institutional privileges for economic gain. More seriously, when an organization possessing armed force also controls substantial economic resources, economic interests can begin to reinforce political power.

Jiang Zemin identified precisely these dangers when he argued that commercial activities could allow the principles of commercial exchange to penetrate military political life, undermine the discipline and values of military personnel, and create conditions for corruption. Military involvement in business could also put the armed forces in competition with civilians and local governments, damaging both military-civilian relations and the public image of the People’s Liberation Army.

International experience provides further evidence of the risks involved. In a number of countries, military organizations have historically controlled or maintained extensive interests in companies, land, finance, energy, construction, telecommunications, and other sectors. Such arrangements have often created economic interests that are difficult to separate from political power.

Vietnam provides one example. Its military has historically maintained significant economic activities and military-linked enterprises have operated in sectors including telecommunications, ports, construction, and finance. The relationship between military institutions and the civilian economy has deep historical roots, but it has also raised questions about transparency, oversight, competition, and the proper boundary between military responsibilities and commercial interests. Vietnam’s subsequent efforts to reform and restructure military-owned businesses demonstrate that separating military power from commercial interests can become increasingly difficult once such economic structures have become deeply established.

Iran illustrates another dimension of the problem. The Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps has developed extensive political and economic influence, with military-linked organizations involved in areas such as construction, energy, communications, and other strategic sectors. When an armed organization possesses both political authority and substantial economic interests, economic power can reinforce political power, while political influence can in turn protect economic interests. Once such a structure develops, economic reform becomes much more difficult because reform inevitably encounters entrenched interests.

Thailand offers yet another example of how military and economic power can interact. The country’s armed forces have historically exercised considerable political influence, and military-linked economic interests have contributed to the broader political role of the armed forces. The specific institutional circumstances differ from those of China, but the underlying lesson is relevant: when a military develops extensive independent economic interests, it can acquire a source of power beyond its core defense function. This can complicate civilian governance and distort normal economic competition.

These experiences help explain why China chose a fundamentally different path: commercial enterprises should be separated from the military, while the state assumes responsibility for financing national defense. China’s system is a socialist market economy. Businesses are expected to compete within a unified legal and regulatory framework, while the state uses fiscal policy, regulation, and public institutions to provide essential public goods. The military, as the country’s armed force, should not use its special institutional position to compete for commercial profits. Its necessary funding should instead come through the national fiscal system.

The principle often described as the military “living on state funding” is therefore much more than a question of military budgets. It establishes a clear institutional boundary. The military’s survival and development are guaranteed by the state rather than by commercial activity. It does not need to compete with local governments for economic resources, compete with private enterprises for market share, or defend independent commercial interests.

This arrangement also reinforces the political character of the People’s Liberation Army. The fundamental principle is that the military serves the country and the people rather than any individual, organization, or economic interest. Precisely because the military possesses extraordinary coercive power, its relationship with commercial interests must be strictly regulated. The greater the power, the clearer the boundaries must be.

In this sense, keeping the military out of business is essentially about keeping the “gun” and the “wallet” in their proper places. The military is responsible for national defense; civilian institutions are responsible for public administration; businesses operate according to market rules and law; and the state provides the financial resources necessary for national defense. Each sphere has its own responsibilities and limits.

The purpose is not to deny the importance of economic development or market forces. On the contrary, it is to protect the integrity of the socialist market economy by ensuring that market competition is not subordinated to armed power. A modern economy requires predictable rules, fair competition, and unified regulation. It cannot function properly if organizations possessing coercive power are simultaneously major commercial competitors.

The separation of the military from commercial activity therefore serves several purposes at once. It protects the professionalism and combat effectiveness of the armed forces. It protects businesses and local governments from unfair institutional competition. It protects public finances from the emergence of autonomous military economic interests. And it protects the political integrity of the People’s Liberation Army by preventing military power from becoming a source of private economic power.

The broader lesson is simple. Military power should defend the economic order, not control it. Economic resources should be governed through law, public finance, and the institutions of the socialist market economy, rather than through the independent economic power of the armed forces.

China’s decision to end military commercial activities should therefore be understood not simply as a prohibition on soldiers doing business, but as an important institutional choice in modern state governance. By separating military power from commercial interests, China seeks to ensure that the armed forces remain focused on national defense, that markets operate according to law, and that economic resources remain within a unified national system of fiscal and market governance.

A military that is removed from commercial interests can concentrate on defending the country. A market protected from military intervention can operate according to fair competition. And a military whose funding is guaranteed by the state can maintain a clear and stable relationship with both the government and the people.

The principle is ultimately about institutional boundaries: the military protects the nation; the state governs the economy; and the market operates according to law. Those boundaries are essential not only to military professionalism, but also to a stable political order and a healthy socialist market economy.

Source: reformdata, sohu, cpc people, e23, mod gov cn

Korean American Self-Defense in the LA Uprising: A View from the Frontlines of America’s Racial Divide

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The 1992 Los Angeles uprising is often remembered through two images: the beating of Rodney King by Los Angeles police officers and the Korean American shopkeepers who stood on rooftops with firearms to protect their businesses. The latter image later produced the controversial label “Roof Koreans,” a term that has been repeatedly invoked as a symbol of immigrant self-reliance, armed resistance, and distrust of the state. 

Yet to understand what happened in Los Angeles, it is not enough to celebrate or condemn the people on those rooftops. Their presence was the visible consequence of a much deeper crisis involving policing, racial segregation, immigration, class inequality, and the failure of the American state to provide equal protection to all of its residents.

The uprising followed the acquittal of police officers involved in the beating of Rodney King, whose assault had been captured on videotape and circulated widely. The verdict was experienced by many Black Americans as confirmation of a long-standing reality: police violence against Black communities could be documented and still go largely unpunished. 

The subsequent unrest was therefore not simply a spontaneous eruption of anger. It reflected decades of racial segregation, unemployment, poverty, discriminatory policing, and unequal political power. Los Angeles presented itself as a multicultural metropolis, but its neighborhoods were deeply divided by race and class. Communities could live only a few blocks apart while inhabiting entirely different social and economic worlds.

Korean American business owners became particularly vulnerable within this structure. During the decades before the uprising, many Korean immigrants had entered small-business sectors such as liquor stores, grocery stores, clothing shops, and other neighborhood businesses. 

These enterprises were often located in predominantly Black or Latino neighborhoods, partly because commercial property was more affordable there and partly because immigrant entrepreneurs faced barriers in entering established professional and corporate sectors. The result was an uncomfortable proximity: Korean immigrants operated businesses in communities whose residents were frequently economically disadvantaged, while the immigrants themselves were often struggling to establish a foothold in American society.

This proximity sometimes generated resentment. Korean shopkeepers could be perceived as outsiders extracting income from local communities, while Korean immigrants could perceive their customers and surrounding neighborhoods primarily through the lens of crime, insecurity, and economic survival. 

Neither perception adequately explained the underlying structure. The problem was not simply “Black prejudice against Koreans” or “Korean prejudice against Black people.” Both communities were being positioned within an unequal urban economy in which access to capital, property, political influence, and public protection was distributed unevenly.

The killing of fifteen-year-old Latasha Harlins by Korean American store owner Soon Ja Du in 1991 became an especially important symbol of this tension. Du was convicted of voluntary manslaughter but received probation rather than a prison sentence. For many Black residents, the sentence reinforced the belief that the legal system valued Korean property owners and white institutions more highly than Black lives. For Korean Americans, however, the case existed alongside their own experience of racial vulnerability and economic insecurity. The tragedy therefore became part of a larger pattern in which the grievances of one marginalized community could easily be directed toward another.

This is one of the most important lessons of 1992. American racial politics can encourage subordinate groups to compete with one another for limited economic resources, security, and recognition. It is tempting to describe this simply as a deliberate strategy by “America” to make different racial groups fight each other, but the historical reality is more complicated. 

The conflict emerged from institutional arrangements: residential segregation, unequal schools, concentrated poverty, discriminatory policing, restricted access to capital, and a political system in which different communities competed for scarce resources. When these structural forces are translated into everyday encounters, systemic inequality can appear as interpersonal or cultural conflict. The result is what might be called horizontal racial conflict: communities that share experiences of marginalization become rivals rather than political allies.

The “Roof Koreans” phenomenon has to be understood within this context. The sight of armed Korean Americans defending their stores is sometimes presented as evidence that Koreans possessed an instinctive willingness to defend themselves that other communities lacked. Such an interpretation is misleading. The armed response was shaped by a combination of circumstances: the weakness of police protection during the unrest, the concentration of Korean-owned businesses in affected neighborhoods, immigrant distrust of public institutions, and a cultural background in which military service had been a significant part of male socialization.

South Korea is a society deeply shaped by the experience of war and national division. Under the country’s conscription system, South Korean men have historically been subject to mandatory military service, although the exact obligations have varied by generation and individual status. Many Korean men of the generation who immigrated to the United States before or around the 1990s had military experience. 

This does not mean that Koreans are “naturally militaristic,” nor does military service automatically make a person willing to use violence. It does, however, mean that firearms, uniforms, defensive formations, and the basic idea of responding to a security threat were not entirely unfamiliar concepts to many first-generation Korean men.

That background interacted with another uniquely American reality: the widespread presence of civilian firearms and the cultural legitimacy of armed self-defense in the United States. The “Roof Koreans” were therefore produced by the intersection of Korean military socialization and American gun culture. Their behavior should not be interpreted as proof of an inherent Korean character. It was a historical response to a specific environment in which immigrants believed that the state could no longer guarantee the safety of their families and livelihoods.

The deeper irony is that many Korean immigrants had come to the United States precisely because they believed it offered security, freedom, and opportunity. Korean immigration after the Immigration and Nationality Act of 1965 expanded dramatically, as the abolition of the old national-origins quota system opened the door to larger-scale Asian immigration. 

Migrants arrived for many different reasons: economic opportunity, education, family reunification, political uncertainty, and the desire for a different future for their children. Yet immigration did not necessarily mean upward mobility. Many highly educated immigrants experienced professional deskilling, while others entered small businesses because racial discrimination and the structure of the American labor market limited their alternatives.

The Korean American relationship with the United States has therefore never been simply one of admiration or rejection. For South Korea, the United States represented military protection, economic power, technological modernity, and access to a global system dominated by American institutions. 

At the same time, American military and political power has also been a source of historical criticism. The U.S.–South Korean alliance developed within the Cold War, alongside American involvement in a South Korean political order that was for long periods authoritarian. For many Koreans, particularly among generations shaped by the democratic movements of the 1970s and 1980s, the United States could simultaneously be viewed as protector, hegemon, economic model, military power, and political actor deserving criticism.

American popular culture itself contains evidence of this contradiction. Television programs such as MASH*, although produced in the United States and nominally set during the Korean War, used that war to criticize militarism, bureaucracy, and the absurdity of organized violence. This tradition of American self-criticism matters because the United States is not simply an external oppressor standing outside its own society. 

It is a country whose institutions, media, and citizens have repeatedly argued about the meaning of American power. The Korean American experience consequently developed within an ambivalent relationship with America: immigrants could depend upon the country, admire its opportunities, criticize its racism, and challenge its foreign policy at the same time.

The same contradiction appears in the concept of the “model minority.” Korean Americans and other Asian Americans were increasingly represented as evidence that racial minorities could succeed through discipline, education, family values, and hard work. On the surface, this appeared to be a positive image. In reality, the model-minority stereotype served an important political function. 

It transformed structural questions into individual ones. If one minority group could supposedly succeed through hard work, then poverty and inequality among other minorities could be interpreted as failures of culture or personal responsibility rather than consequences of discrimination and unequal institutions.

The comparison between Asian Americans and Black Americans was especially damaging. It encouraged the idea that the success of one minority proved the failure of another. Korean immigrants could be told that they represented the disciplined immigrant ideal, while Black communities were implicitly presented as examples of social dysfunction. Such comparisons ignored the radically different histories of immigration, slavery, segregation, property ownership, and access to political power that shaped each group.

The 1992 uprising exposed the weakness of this framework. Korean Americans were neither simply privileged Americans nor powerless victims. They occupied an intermediate and unstable position within the American racial hierarchy. They could experience racism while simultaneously benefiting from certain forms of racialization. They could be economically successful while remaining politically marginalized. They could identify strongly with the American dream while discovering that the state did not necessarily protect them when that dream was threatened.

For Korean Americans, 1992 therefore represented more than the destruction of businesses. It forced a reconsideration of what it meant to be an immigrant community in America. The question was no longer simply how Koreans could accumulate wealth and protect their families. It was also how they should participate in American political life, how they should relate to Black and Latino communities, and whether immigrant security could be achieved through private defense alone. In the years that followed, Korean American political participation and community organizing increasingly reflected a recognition that isolation offered limited protection.

The historical significance of the “Roof Koreans” lies precisely in this contradiction. They were armed because they were afraid; they distrusted the state because they had experienced its absence; they defended private property because economic survival was closely tied to that property. 

Their story is neither a simple celebration of immigrant toughness nor a simple indictment of Korean Americans. It is a picture of what happens when an unequal society forces vulnerable communities to protect themselves within a system that has failed to provide equal security.

Seen from this perspective, the central story of Los Angeles in 1992 was not Black people versus Korean people. It was a broader crisis of the American racial and economic order. The conflict between communities was real, and its consequences were devastating, but treating it as a cultural clash between two ethnic groups obscures the institutions that produced the conditions for that clash. The more uncomfortable question is why communities with different histories of marginalization were repeatedly placed in competition with one another while the larger structures of policing, segregation, poverty, and political inequality remained intact.

The image of Koreans standing on rooftops with guns has survived because it is visually powerful and politically convenient. It turns a complicated historical crisis into a simple story about courage, self-reliance, and racial conflict. But history demands a more difficult interpretation. The rooftop was not merely a symbol of Korean toughness. It was also a symbol of state failure, immigrant insecurity, racial fragmentation, and the contradictions of the American dream. 

The United States, a society capable of offering extraordinary opportunity while reproducing profound inequalities, a country that celebrates multiculturalism while allowing racial groups to be separated by class and geography, and a political system in which marginalized communities can be encouraged, sometimes through institutions, sometimes through public narratives, and often simply through economic necessity, to fight horizontally rather than confront the structures that divide them.

The legacy of 1992 should consequently not be reduced to a question of who was right or who was wrong. Its enduring lesson is that racial conflict cannot be understood apart from political economy and state power. 

The history of Korean Americans demonstrates how immigrants can move from outsiders to business owners, from victims to participants in racial politics, and eventually toward a more complicated understanding of America. The rooftop remains a powerful image precisely because it contains all of these contradictions: fear and confidence, dependence and self-reliance, assimilation and alienation, the American dream and the failure of the American state to deliver it equally.

Source: savoirtw, rooftopshooting, sohu, filed ethos, koreatown storytelling program