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From China to Europe: JD.com’s Audacious Plan to Build a Global Retail Empire

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JD.com has spent a decade trying to figure out what its international business should look like. Now, as its European e-commerce platform Joybuy opens its doors to third-party merchants, the Chinese technology and retail group appears to have settled on a model that is less about exporting Chinese goods and more about rebuilding its supply-chain-driven retail system overseas.

In 2026, Joybuy began recruiting merchants for its European PoP, or platform-operated marketplace. The move marks a significant shift for a business that initially relied heavily on direct retail. Rather than sourcing and holding inventory itself for every product, Joybuy is beginning to bring selected third-party sellers onto the platform.

The strategy is deliberately selective. Merchants are expected to have substantial sales in Europe, operate through overseas corporate entities and hold the relevant VAT registrations. The requirements suggest that JD.com is not trying to recreate the low-barrier, mass-market marketplace model associated with many cross-border platforms. Instead, it is attempting to build a curated marketplace around established brands and sellers that can meet European fulfillment and compliance standards.

That transition is important because it reveals how much JD.com’s European strategy has changed from its earliest international ambitions.

When JD.com began exploring overseas markets around 2014, the ambition was much broader. The company initially focused on Southeast Asia, launching JD.ID in Indonesia in 2015 and later expanding into Thailand and other markets through investments and joint ventures. JD.ID followed a model broadly familiar to Chinese consumers: direct retail supported by third-party merchants, backed by warehouses and its own delivery infrastructure.

For a time, the strategy looked promising. JD.com invested heavily in local logistics and retail infrastructure, while JD.ID expanded its delivery network across Indonesia. But the competitive environment proved difficult. Shopee, Lazada and local platforms such as Tokopedia had already built strong consumer relationships, while JD.com faced the additional challenge of adapting its operating model to local markets.

The company eventually pulled back. In 2023, JD.com shut down its consumer e-commerce operations in Indonesia and Thailand, while emphasizing that it would continue investing in logistics and supply-chain infrastructure across Southeast Asia and other international markets.

That retreat became an important lesson. JD.com could not simply reproduce the Chinese e-commerce market overseas by putting the same retail model in a different country. Traffic, consumer habits, local competition and regulatory environments were fundamentally different.

What JD.com did have was something more portable: its supply chain. Over the following years, the company increasingly invested in overseas warehouses, international transportation, fulfillment and logistics services. The logic was relatively straightforward. Rather than beginning with a shopping app and trying to build the infrastructure around it, JD.com would first establish the infrastructure and then build retail businesses on top of it.

Europe has become the clearest test of that strategy. The company began laying the groundwork several years ago. In 2022, JD.com launched Ochama in the Netherlands, an omnichannel retail concept that gradually expanded across Europe. It also continued building logistics capabilities and overseas warehouses. By 2024, JD Logistics said it had more than 100 overseas warehouses, bonded warehouses and direct-mail facilities worldwide.

Then came Joybuy. In March 2026, Joybuy officially launched in six European markets: the United Kingdom, Germany, France, the Netherlands, Belgium and Luxembourg. Unlike the earlier cross-border businesses associated with the JD.com name, Joybuy was designed from the outset as a local retail platform. Products were stocked in European warehouses, orders were fulfilled locally, and JD.com’s JoyExpress network provided last-mile delivery.

Speed became the centerpiece of the proposition. In parts of the UK, Joybuy introduced a delivery service that closely resembles JD.com’s famous “211” promise in China. Orders placed before 11 a.m. can qualify for same-day delivery, while orders placed before 11 p.m. can arrive the following day. The company has expanded same-day delivery across locations including Greater London, Birmingham, Leicester, Nottingham, Oxford and Cambridge, while next-day delivery covers much of the UK.

Joybuy has also introduced JoyPlus, a paid membership program offering unlimited free delivery for around £3.99 a month in the UK, directly entering a market in which Amazon Prime has already accustomed consumers to paying for premium delivery and services.

The numbers released so far suggest that the strategy is gaining initial traction. JD.com said during its second-quarter 2026 earnings presentation that Joybuy’s revenue had doubled over two quarters. The company has also said its same-day delivery service now reaches more than 40 million people across the UK and Europe, up from an initial coverage of roughly 15 million households.

Those figures, however, need to be viewed in context. JD.com has not disclosed Joybuy’s absolute revenue, order volume, user base or unit fulfillment costs. Doubling revenue from a relatively small initial base does not by itself demonstrate that the business has reached meaningful scale. The harder question is whether JD.com can generate enough order density to justify a logistics model that requires warehouses, inventory and local delivery infrastructure.

That is precisely where the opening of Joybuy’s marketplace becomes significant. A fully self-operated retail model gives JD.com control over product quality, inventory and customer service, but it is expensive and inherently difficult to scale across a fragmented market such as Europe. Every additional product category requires procurement, working capital, inventory management and demand forecasting. A marketplace can solve part of that problem by bringing in merchants and brands that JD.com does not need to source itself.

But Joybuy is not opening the floodgates. The initial recruitment drive targets established businesses with significant European sales and local compliance capabilities. The objective appears to be less about maximizing seller numbers than about increasing assortment without sacrificing the service standards that differentiate the platform.

This could eventually produce a hybrid model: JD.com’s own retail business providing control and quality, third-party sellers providing assortment, and JD Logistics providing the infrastructure underneath both.

That combination is closer to the model that made JD.com successful in China. It is also fundamentally different from the way many Chinese cross-border platforms first entered Europe.

Temu, Shein and AliExpress initially benefited from China’s manufacturing base and cross-border shipping networks, using low prices and enormous product selection to acquire consumers. Their European strategies are now evolving, with greater investment in local warehouses, compliance and brands. JD.com, by contrast, is starting from the opposite direction: local inventory, fast fulfillment and established brands first, with marketplace scale coming later.

That makes Joybuy more expensive to build, but potentially more aligned with JD.com’s traditional strengths. The company is also trying to build something larger than an online marketplace.

Its proposed acquisition of CECONOMY, the German parent of MediaMarkt and Saturn, is potentially the most consequential part of the European strategy. The deal, valued at roughly €2.2 billion, would give JD.com access to a large network of European stores, customers, brand relationships and after-sales capabilities. CECONOMY operates around 1,070 stores across Europe and has tens of millions of members.

The transaction remains subject to regulatory review. In May 2026, the European Commission launched an in-depth investigation under the EU Foreign Subsidies Regulation. JD.com subsequently submitted remedies, but the details of those commitments have not been fully disclosed.

If completed, the acquisition could give Joybuy something that pure online platforms struggle to build: a physical retail and service network. Stores could potentially support click-and-collect, returns, product demonstrations, installation and repair, while JoyExpress and JD.com’s warehouse network could provide the logistics layer.

The combination would effectively connect three businesses: online retail, physical retail and logistics. That is also why the European strategy is so different from JD.com’s earlier overseas experiments. The company is no longer simply asking how to sell Chinese products abroad. It is asking whether the infrastructure that made JD.com successful in China can be reconstructed in another major consumer market.

The challenge is formidable. Amazon already has a deeply established Prime membership ecosystem, a vast third-party seller network and an extensive fulfillment infrastructure. Local platforms such as Allegro, Bol and Otto have strong positions in their respective markets. Meanwhile, Chinese competitors are moving closer to JD.com’s model, investing in local warehouses, faster delivery, brand partnerships and compliance.

Europe is also not a single market. Consumer preferences, tax systems, regulations, languages and purchasing habits differ substantially from one country to another. A logistics network that works in London does not automatically create a successful retail business in Paris, Berlin or Warsaw.

For JD.com, the biggest question is therefore not whether Joybuy can deliver a package quickly. It is whether fast delivery can become a reason for consumers to return regularly, whether the marketplace can attract enough high-quality merchants, and whether the resulting order volume can eventually support the cost of JD.com’s European infrastructure.

That is where the company’s decade of international experimentation becomes relevant. JD.com has tried local e-commerce, cross-border retail, overseas marketplaces, SaaS tools and international logistics. Many of those initiatives were eventually scaled back or disappeared. What remained was the company’s investment in supply-chain infrastructure.

The lesson appears to have been that JD.com cannot simply export its domestic e-commerce platform. It has to export the capabilities underneath it. That is why Joybuy represents more than another Chinese shopping app entering Europe. It is the latest attempt to turn JD.com’s defining competitive advantage, inventory, warehouses, logistics, fulfillment and after-sales service, into a local European retail system.

The company itself has acknowledged that this approach is slower and more capital-intensive. But that may be precisely the point. JD.com’s international strategy is no longer built around winning a short-term cross-border price war. It is built around spending years establishing infrastructure and then using that infrastructure to support retail growth.

Joybuy’s early growth suggests that consumers are beginning to respond. Its marketplace expansion suggests that JD.com now wants to move beyond being a retailer. The potential CECONOMY acquisition suggests that it wants to connect online commerce with physical stores and services.

Whether those pieces can eventually form a profitable European business remains an open question. For now, the significance of Joybuy lies elsewhere. After ten years of experimentation, JD.com appears to have stopped trying to build a second version of its Chinese e-commerce business overseas. Instead, it is attempting something more difficult: to transplant the supply-chain architecture behind that business into Europe, and then build a local retail ecosystem on top of it.

That is a much longer bet. It may also be the clearest expression yet of what JD.com means when it says it wants to go global.

Source: letschuhai, guandian, ebrun, stcn, sina, republik-retail, macg

Cainiao’s Three-Day Delivery: The Global Logistics Race Behind 72 Hours

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On August 5, Cainiao officially launched its “Global Three-Day Delivery” service, offering door-to-door delivery within three calendar days on 15 major cross-border routes connecting China with Europe, as well as routes within Europe and the Middle East.

The significance of the service is not simply that Cainiao has made cross-border shipping faster. More importantly, it is attempting to break a long-standing trade-off in international logistics: fast delivery has traditionally meant high prices, while affordable shipping has required consumers to wait.

Cainiao says its three-day service can cut the cost of a 0.5-kilogram parcel to Europe by roughly half compared with standard international express services, with savings reaching 58% under some pricing comparisons. If that combination of speed and cost can be replicated at scale, it could change not only how parcels move across borders, but also how cross-border businesses manage inventory, cash flow and customer experience.

The foundation was built long before the three-day service appeared. Cross-border logistics is difficult not because an aircraft cannot fly from China to Europe in a matter of hours, but because a parcel has to pass through a chain of highly fragmented processes: domestic collection, sorting, export procedures, air transportation, customs clearance, overseas distribution and last-mile delivery. Delays at any one of these interfaces can consume the entire time advantage of faster transportation.

Cainiao has spent years building infrastructure around these interfaces. Its network now combines domestic collection and sorting capabilities with hubs such as Hong Kong eHub, overseas distribution centers and local delivery networks. Rather than simply coordinating third-party logistics providers, Cainiao has increasingly sought direct control over critical nodes and resources.

Air capacity is particularly important. A three-day promise leaves little room for waiting at airports. During peak seasons, carriers without secured capacity can face higher freight rates, limited cargo space or rolled shipments. Cainiao says it currently operates around 170 chartered or block-booked flights per week and more than 2,300 truck routes, while maintaining long-term cooperation with airlines including Cathay Pacific.

The value of these resources is not merely capacity. It is predictability. The same principle applies after a parcel lands. Cainiao has integrated customs clearance with warehouse operations at overseas hubs, using advance declarations and other digital processes to reduce waiting between customs, sorting and distribution. At the last mile, AI-based routing and tracking systems are used to allocate parcels and identify potential disruptions before they turn into missed delivery targets.

This is an important distinction. The challenge of three-day delivery is not to make one part of the network exceptionally fast. It is to eliminate as much idle time as possible between every part of the network. That is also where AI becomes strategically important.

Cross-border logistics is full of variables that can disrupt a fixed schedule: weather, flight delays, port congestion, customs inspections and capacity constraints at local delivery networks. A system based entirely on manual decisions becomes increasingly difficult to manage as the network expands.

Cainiao is using AI across sorting, transportation planning, customs processing and last-mile routing to respond to these variables in real time. The objective is not simply automation, but dynamic resource allocation, detecting a potential disruption and rerouting parcels or adjusting priorities before the disruption affects the final delivery. This combination of physical infrastructure and digital coordination is what makes the model difficult to replicate.

Competitors can lease warehouses, purchase aircraft capacity or deploy logistics software relatively quickly. What is much harder to reproduce is a global network that combines sufficient parcel volume, secured transportation capacity, overseas hubs, customs capabilities, local delivery resources and years of accumulated operational data.

That helps explain the progression from Cainiao’s 10-day service to its five-day service and now three-day delivery. The 72-hour target is not a sudden technological breakthrough. It is the result of gradually compressing uncertainty across the network. The implications extend beyond logistics.

For years, cross-border e-commerce was largely built around a simple model: manufacture in China, ship overseas and compete primarily on price. Logistics was an essential cost center, but often remained invisible to consumers. That is changing as Chinese sellers move from low-cost product exports toward brands and long-term customer relationships. Consumers are also becoming less willing to tolerate the long delivery times traditionally associated with cross-border purchases.

Delivery speed is therefore moving from the back office to the front end of e-commerce.

For merchants, the biggest value of three-day delivery may not be the seven days saved in transit. It is the change in inventory strategy. Historically, sellers seeking fast overseas fulfillment often had to stock large quantities in foreign warehouses. That reduced delivery times but required them to make inventory bets months or weeks ahead of actual demand. Unsold inventory tied up capital; inaccurate forecasts increased the risk of overstocking.

Reliable three-day delivery from domestic inventory creates another option.

A merchant can test a new product with a small quantity, observe actual demand and replenish quickly if sales accelerate. Fast-moving products can be restocked based on real-time demand rather than large upfront inventory commitments. In effect, faster logistics can make the supply chain itself more flexible.

That is where logistics efficiency starts translating into business efficiency. Cainiao is also expanding beyond the traditional China-to-world model. Its Global-to-Global, or G2G, strategy is designed to connect markets within regions such as Europe and the Middle East, rather than simply moving Chinese goods overseas. The three-day network already includes selected routes between European countries and within the Middle East.

Strategically, this is a much bigger ambition. A China-to-Europe network primarily serves Chinese exporters. A global-to-global network can serve local European merchants, multinational brands and regional e-commerce flows as well. A merchant in France, for example, does not necessarily need to source from China to become a customer of such a network; it could use the same infrastructure to ship goods to Germany, Italy or other European markets.

That shifts Cainiao’s role from a China-focused cross-border logistics provider toward something closer to global e-commerce infrastructure. This is also where its long-term competition with DHL, FedEx and UPS becomes more interesting. Cainiao has not simply displaced the global express giants. Those companies have decades of experience, extensive aviation networks, corporate customer bases and deeply established local operations. Their strengths remain significant.

Cainiao’s competitive advantage lies elsewhere: the enormous scale of e-commerce parcels, close integration with China’s manufacturing and retail ecosystem, and a highly digitalized operating model designed around high-volume standardized shipments.

The strategic question is whether that combination can create a different cost curve.

If larger parcel volumes improve aircraft and hub utilization, if long-term capacity contracts reduce transportation volatility, and if AI improves network efficiency, lower unit costs can attract more merchants. More merchants generate more volume, which in turn improves network economics.

That creates a potential feedback loop between scale, utilization and price. This is why “half-price three-day delivery” is more significant than a conventional discount. It represents an attempt to restructure the economics of cross-border fulfillment rather than simply cut prices.

If 72-hour delivery eventually becomes an affordable standard rather than a premium service, the competitive benchmark for cross-border e-commerce will change as well.

Merchants will no longer ask only, “How much does this shipping channel cost?” They will increasingly ask, “How quickly can you deliver, and how reliably can you do it at that cost?”

For consumers, the change is even more straightforward. Cross-border shopping has historically carried an implicit cost: waiting. As delivery times approach those of domestic e-commerce, that psychological barrier begins to disappear.

For Chinese brands, the implications go further. A product can attract a customer through price or advertising, but a brand is built through repeated experiences. Reliable delivery becomes part of that experience, reinforcing trust and increasing the likelihood of repeat purchases.

In that sense, Cainiao’s three-day delivery is not simply compressing transportation time. It is compressing the distance between Chinese supply chains and global consumers.

The larger story, however, is the infrastructure underneath the three-day promise.

From 10 days to five days and now three, Cainiao has steadily reduced the time and uncertainty embedded in cross-border commerce. Its next challenge is to extend that capability from China-to-world routes into a genuinely global network.

If it succeeds, the defining competition in international logistics will not simply be about who has the fastest individual route. It will be about who can operate the largest global network with the best combination of speed, cost and reliability.

The three-day service is therefore less a destination than a milestone. The real contest is over who builds the infrastructure through which global e-commerce moves next.

Source: xinhuanet, caacnews, gdnews, chnmc, sohu

Why Did Mao Found New China Before the War Was Over?

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On October 1, 1949, Mao Zedong stood atop Tiananmen Gate in Beijing and proclaimed the establishment of the People’s Republic of China and the Central People’s Government. The moment was soon written into the historical memory of an entire nation. Yet from the perspective of that day itself, China’s war was far from completely over. Fighting continued across large parts of the country, and the new government had not yet established effective control over every region.

Guangzhou was not liberated until October 14, Guilin on November 22, Nanning on December 4, and Guangxi as a whole was declared liberated on December 11. Chengdu followed on December 27. Hainan Island was not liberated until May 1, 1950, while the agreement on measures for the peaceful liberation of Tibet was signed on May 23, 1951. In other words, when the founding ceremony was held in Beijing, military operations were still under way in southwest and south China, along the coast and on the islands, while the political and administrative integration of the border regions remained unfinished. Remnants of the Kuomintang armed forces were still resisting, and the process of national reunification had not yet reached its final stage.

This naturally raises a question: if the country had not yet been completely unified, why did the Communist leadership not simply wait until the last major battlefield had been settled before formally establishing the new republic?

The answer lies in one of the most important strategic judgments of the Chinese revolution in 1949. The founding of the People’s Republic was not merely a ceremony celebrating the end of a civil war. It was a decision about timing, political legitimacy, state authority and China’s position in the international order. In that sense, the establishment of the new government was not the reward that came after the revolution had completely finished. It was itself an essential part of completing the revolution.

By the time the three major campaigns of Liaoshen, Huaihai and Pingjin had ended, the main military strength of the Kuomintang had been decisively weakened. The People’s Liberation Army crossed the Yangtze River in April 1949, Nanjing was liberated that month, and Shanghai followed in May. From a purely military perspective, the Communist forces could have continued fighting and waited until the remaining Kuomintang forces had been defeated before establishing a national government.

But the question facing the Communist leadership was no longer purely military. Once the overall outcome of the civil war had become clear, the central problem was how quickly military victory could be transformed into effective national authority.

A victorious revolutionary army and an established sovereign government were not the same thing. One represented a political and military force that was winning a civil war; the other represented a state claiming responsibility for the country as a whole. The distinction was crucial.

China in 1949 was not changing governments in a political vacuum. The international environment was already being shaped by the emerging Cold War, and foreign powers were closely watching the collapse of the Kuomintang government and the rise of the Chinese Communist Party. If the old government was losing its control over the mainland while a new central government remained unestablished for an extended period, uncertainty over China’s political and diplomatic status could create opportunities for outside intervention.

Such intervention did not necessarily have to take the form of direct military action. Foreign powers could invoke the protection of their citizens, commercial interests or strategic positions, or claim a need to preserve order during a period of political instability. The longer the transition lasted, the more room there could be for competing interpretations of who legitimately represented China.

This was particularly significant because the Kuomintang government had not simply disappeared. Even after losing most of mainland China, it continued to claim that it was the legitimate government of the country and retained international relationships of considerable importance. Its remaining military forces were still fighting, while foreign governments had yet to fully adjust to the rapidly changing political reality in China.

For the Communist leadership, therefore, delaying the establishment of a central government until every battlefield had been cleared could create unnecessary political risks. The country needed not only an army capable of continuing the advance, but also a government capable of speaking in the name of China.

The importance of this calculation can also be seen in the diplomatic preparations undertaken before the founding of the People’s Republic. From June to August 1949, Liu Shaoqi led a delegation of the Central Committee of the Chinese Communist Party on a secret visit to the Soviet Union, where the Chinese side briefed Soviet leaders on the progress of the revolution and preparations for the establishment of the new government. The visit was an important diplomatic step on the eve of the founding of the People’s Republic.

Historical accounts have also frequently referred to Soviet advice that China should not delay the establishment of its new government. Whatever differences there may be in the details of individual historical accounts, the strategic logic behind the idea was clear: once the military balance had decisively shifted, the earlier a new central government was publicly established, the sooner political uncertainty could be reduced and the space for outside interference narrowed.

Mao Zedong and the Communist leadership understood that a revolutionary army advancing toward victory and a sovereign government exercising state authority carried very different political meanings internationally. The former could still be treated as one side in an internal conflict. The latter represented a new national government with the authority to organize administration at home and establish diplomatic relations abroad.

That was why the establishment of the People’s Republic could not simply be regarded as a ceremonial announcement made after the war was over. It was a political act that transformed the nature of the victory itself.

The preparations for the new state had already begun before October 1. In September 1949, the First Plenary Session of the Chinese People’s Political Consultative Conference was held in Beiping. Representatives of the Communist Party, democratic parties, people’s organizations and other political groups gathered to establish the political and institutional foundations of the new country.

The conference adopted the Common Program of the Chinese People’s Political Consultative Conference, which served as the basic political framework for the new state during its early years. It also decided that Beiping would become the capital and be renamed Beijing. The conference adopted the Five-Starred Red Flag as the national flag and designated “March of the Volunteers” as the provisional national anthem. These decisions rapidly gave the new country a complete set of political and national symbols.

The speed of the transition was striking. The conference opened on September 21 and closed on September 30. The following day, October 1, the founding ceremony was held in Tiananmen Square. This sequence was not evidence of haste or improvisation. Rather, it demonstrated that the Communist leadership had concluded that the time had come to convert the political and military victory into a functioning national government.

The military victory had created the necessary foundation. The Political Consultative Conference had provided political integration and an institutional framework. The establishment of the Central People’s Government transformed that foundation into a new state order.

Even the details of the founding ceremony reflected the circumstances of the time. The ceremony was held in the afternoon, when concerns about possible air attacks by remaining Kuomintang aircraft were still real. Security and practical considerations therefore played a role in the timing. What may appear today to be merely ceremonial arrangements were, in the context of 1949, closely connected with military security, political authority and the management of a country still at war.

The significance of October 1 became even clearer in the months that followed. The establishment of the People’s Republic did not bring military operations to an immediate halt. The People’s Liberation Army continued its advance into southwest and south China and toward the remaining coastal islands. Guangzhou, Guangxi and Chengdu were subsequently brought under the control of the new government, and Hainan Island was liberated in 1950. The question of Tibet was addressed within the framework of the new Chinese government, culminating in the signing of the Seventeen Point Agreement in May 1951.

Yet after October 1, these campaigns were taking place under a fundamentally different political framework. They were no longer simply the advance of a revolutionary movement seeking to overthrow an existing government. They were increasingly presented as actions undertaken by the newly established central government to complete national reunification and establish its authority throughout the country.

That distinction mattered enormously. Once a central government had been established, military operations, local administration and the transfer of political authority could be coordinated under a single national structure. The new government could issue orders, organize institutions, conduct diplomacy and negotiate with foreign governments while its armies continued to advance.

The diplomatic consequences were equally important. On October 2, the Soviet government responded to Beijing and expressed its willingness to establish diplomatic relations with the People’s Republic. Formal diplomatic relations between the Soviet Union and the People’s Republic of China were established on October 3, making the Soviet Union the first country to establish diplomatic relations with the new government. Other socialist states, including Bulgaria, Romania, Hungary and North Korea, subsequently established relations with Beijing.

Diplomatic recognition did not by itself determine the outcome of the Chinese civil war, but it had major political significance. The People’s Republic was no longer merely a domestic political force controlling large areas of China. It was becoming an identifiable participant in the international system, with a government capable of conducting foreign relations.

This development also placed increasing pressure on the Kuomintang’s claim to represent China. Its remaining military forces could continue to resist, but the establishment of a new government on the mainland meant that the political balance had changed. Domestic forces could increasingly see which side possessed the momentum of history, while foreign governments had to confront the reality that a new Chinese state had come into existence.

Seen from this perspective, the decision to establish the People’s Republic on October 1, 1949, was not premature. It was based on the judgment that the strategic outcome of the revolution had already been determined even though the military process was not yet complete.

Waiting until the last battlefield had been settled might have appeared more orderly. It might even have seemed symbolically cleaner to declare the founding of the country only after every remaining Kuomintang position had fallen. But politics rarely follows such a neat sequence. States are not established only after every problem has disappeared. In moments of major political transition, a central authority may have to be established precisely in order to deal with the problems that remain.

This was the logic behind the decision in 1949. The Communist leadership did not believe that every military, political or territorial question had to be resolved before the state could be established. Instead, it judged that the overall balance of power had already shifted decisively and that establishing the state would provide the authority and organizational structure needed to complete the remaining tasks.

In that sense, October 1 was more than the declaration of victory in a civil war. It was the moment when the Chinese revolution crossed a critical boundary: from the struggle to seize political power to the exercise of power through a national government.

The founding of the People’s Republic therefore had two dimensions. Domestically, it established a central authority capable of organizing the country and directing the continuing process of reunification. Internationally, it announced that a new Chinese government had assumed responsibility for the country and was ready to conduct relations with the outside world.

The decision to establish the new state before the fighting had completely ended was consequently not a sign of impatience. It was a strategic calculation about the relationship between military victory, political legitimacy and international recognition. The Communist leadership understood that military control alone could not settle the question of who governed China. A government had to be established, institutions had to be created and the new political reality had to be made unmistakable both at home and abroad.

The deeper significance of October 1, 1949, therefore lies not simply in the fact that a new country was proclaimed in Tiananmen Square. Its importance lies in the timing. The leadership chose to establish the state when the broad outcome of the revolution had become clear, rather than waiting for every remaining conflict to disappear. By doing so, it sought to consolidate the gains already achieved, establish a clear central authority, strengthen its diplomatic position and provide a political framework for completing national reunification.

The founding of the People’s Republic was thus not the final act of a war that had already ended. It was the beginning of a new phase in which the political and military victory of the revolution was converted into the authority of a state.

October 1, 1949, was therefore not merely the birthday of the People’s Republic of China. It was the dividing line between two historical processes: the struggle to take power and the far more complicated task of exercising it. The guns had not yet fallen silent everywhere, but the political direction of China had already been decided. The new state was established not because every problem had been solved, but because the leadership believed that only a functioning central government could provide the authority and organization needed to solve the problems that remained.

Source: sohu, cctv, china news, 12371 cn

China’s Synthetic Diamond Edge: The Rise of a New Strategic Material

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China’s synthetic diamond exports are accelerating, and the significance goes far beyond jewelry. In the first half of 2026, products related to synthetic diamonds worth $194 million were declared for general-trade exports through the Shanghai Diamond Exchange, up 65.3 percent from a year earlier, according to Shanghai customs data. The Shanghai Diamond Exchange, established in 2000, is mainland China’s only designated platform for diamond imports and exports.

The numbers point to a broader transformation. China is no longer simply a major producer of lab-grown diamonds for the jewelry market. It has become the world’s dominant manufacturing base for synthetic diamonds, with Chinese production accounting for more than half of global output by most industry estimates.

That matters because diamonds are no longer merely luxury goods. Their exceptional hardness, thermal conductivity, chemical stability and resistance to extreme environments make them useful in precision cutting, high-power electronics, lasers, advanced thermal management and emerging quantum technologies.

The strategic question is therefore changing. It is no longer simply whether lab-grown diamonds will replace some natural diamonds in jewelry. The more consequential question is whether China’s ability to manufacture diamond materials at industrial scale will give it an advantage in a growing range of advanced technologies.

China’s position did not emerge overnight. The country’s synthetic-diamond industry dates back to the early 1960s, when Chinese scientists developed the country’s first artificial diamond using high-pressure, high-temperature technology. The original motivation was industrial rather than commercial. China needed domestic supplies of ultra-hard materials for cutting, grinding, drilling and other applications at a time when advanced industrial materials were heavily dependent on imports.

That early investment created a technological foundation that would become strategically valuable decades later. Synthetic diamond production requires more than a laboratory breakthrough. It requires high-pressure equipment, specialized reactors, carbon feedstocks, catalysts, power supplies, precision processing, testing capabilities and a large pool of engineers and technicians. Over decades, China built these capabilities through its industrial diamond sector.

Henan became one of the most important centers of this industry. Companies in Zhengzhou, Zhecheng and other parts of the province developed extensive production networks covering equipment, raw materials, diamond powder, industrial diamond, cutting tools and processing.

Lab-grown diamonds emerged from this existing industrial ecosystem. There are two principal production technologies. High-pressure, high-temperature, or HPHT, uses extreme pressure and temperatures to reproduce conditions under which diamond can form. Chemical vapor deposition, or CVD, grows diamond layer by layer from carbon-containing gases in a controlled chamber.

The technologies differ, but they share a critical feature: they turn a material once defined by geological scarcity into something that can be manufactured. That distinction is at the heart of China’s advantage.

Natural diamonds are constrained by geological deposits. Synthetic diamonds are constrained primarily by production capacity, technology, energy and capital. Once a country develops the necessary industrial infrastructure, output can be expanded by adding machines, factories and power.

China has been particularly well positioned to do this because its synthetic-diamond industry is connected to a much larger manufacturing system. The result is a form of industrial concentration that is difficult to reproduce quickly elsewhere. China has not simply developed individual companies capable of producing diamonds. It has developed an ecosystem in which equipment manufacturers, material suppliers, producers, processors, testing institutions and exporters operate in close proximity.

That ecosystem gives Chinese producers two advantages: scale and cost. Scale lowers the cost of equipment utilization and production. Cost competitiveness, in turn, allows Chinese companies to push synthetic diamonds into markets that would have been too expensive when production was small. This dynamic has already transformed the jewelry market.

For consumers, the attraction is straightforward. Lab-grown diamonds have essentially the same chemical composition and crystal structure as natural diamonds, while their production can be completed in weeks rather than geological time. The dramatic expansion of supply has pushed prices down and made diamond jewelry accessible to a much broader group of consumers.

But jewelry may ultimately be the less important part of the story. The more strategically significant opportunity lies in industrial applications. Diamond is an extraordinary material for thermal management. Its thermal conductivity is substantially higher than that of conventional materials such as copper. As semiconductor devices become more powerful and densely packed, managing the heat generated by chips becomes increasingly difficult.

This is particularly important in artificial intelligence. AI accelerators are consuming increasing amounts of power, while the physical space available for cooling systems is limited. As computing density rises, thermal management can become a bottleneck. Diamond-based heat spreaders and other thermal-management technologies are therefore attracting attention as potential solutions for high-performance computing.

The same logic applies to power electronics, high-frequency devices, high-power lasers and advanced radar systems. In these applications, diamonds are not valuable because they look attractive. It is valuable because it performs. That distinction could eventually make synthetic diamond a strategic material rather than simply a consumer product.

The potential applications extend further into quantum technology. High-purity diamonds containing carefully controlled defects, such as nitrogen-vacancy centers, can be used in quantum sensing and precision measurement. Researchers are investigating diamond-based systems for detecting magnetic fields, temperature and other physical parameters with extraordinary sensitivity.

The technological challenge here is very different from producing a jewelry stone. For a diamond ring, size, color, clarity and cut are central. For advanced electronics and quantum applications, purity, crystal quality, defect control and reproducibility matter much more. This is where China’s existing industrial scale could become strategically important.

A country capable of producing large quantities of ordinary synthetic diamonds can use that manufacturing base to move toward increasingly specialized materials. The evolution is from industrial diamond to gemstone-quality diamond, and potentially from gemstone-quality diamond to high-purity functional diamond.

That is a much more important industrial transition than the growth of the jewelry market alone. It also explains why synthetic diamonds should be viewed alongside other critical materials. Much of the current discussion about China’s position in global supply chains focuses on rare earths and other minerals. But advanced manufacturing depends on a much wider range of materials that rarely receive the same attention.

Some are valuable because they are difficult to extract. Others are valuable because they are difficult to manufacture. Synthetic diamond belongs to the second category. Its strategic importance comes not from geological ownership but from manufacturing capability.

This distinction matters in an era of supply-chain competition. If a country controls a large share of global production of a critical material, downstream industries elsewhere may become dependent on that supply even if the material itself represents only a small fraction of the final product’s value.

For the United States and other advanced economies, this creates a familiar dilemma. Building an alternative domestic supply chain is possible, but doing so requires equipment, skilled labor, technical knowledge, capital and customers willing to support the new industry during its early years. The challenge is therefore not simply building a factory. It is rebuilding an ecosystem. That is precisely what China has spent decades doing.

The comparison with rare earths is useful, but it should not be overstated. Synthetic diamonds are not irreplaceable in every application, and a disruption in Chinese supply would not automatically shut down an entire aerospace or defense industry. Alternative materials and production technologies exist, and companies can redesign components when necessary.

But substitution comes with costs. In advanced manufacturing, a material is valuable not merely because it has unique physical properties, but because it performs reliably at scale and can be incorporated into an established production process. Replacing it may require new designs, qualification procedures, equipment and years of testing.

That creates a form of strategic dependence even when technical substitutes exist. The issue is particularly relevant to aerospace and defense. Diamond-based cutting tools are already important in precision machining. Diamond’s thermal and optical properties also make it potentially valuable for high-power electronics, lasers and other systems operating under extreme conditions.

As defense systems become more dependent on high-performance computing, advanced sensors, directed-energy systems and compact power electronics, the demand for materials capable of operating under extreme thermal conditions is likely to increase.

The same trend is visible in civilian technology. AI data centers, electric vehicles, 5G infrastructure and next-generation power electronics all require better thermal management and more efficient materials. A material that can dissipate heat more effectively can increase the performance of an entire system.

This creates an unusual economic dynamic. When the price of a material falls because production becomes more efficient, conventional economics might suggest that its producers should suffer. But cheaper materials can also expand demand. New applications become economically viable, and previously impractical technologies can enter the market.

This is potentially what is happening with synthetic diamonds. The long-term opportunity for China may therefore lie less in selling more diamond jewelry and more in creating an industrial ecosystem around diamond-based technologies. There is also a geopolitical dimension.

India, for example, has traditionally dominated global diamond cutting and polishing. Its industry employs hundreds of thousands of workers and has been built around the processing of natural diamonds. The rapid growth of synthetic diamonds puts pressure on this model.

India has increasingly moved into lab-grown diamonds itself, but the economics are different. China’s enormous production base gives it an advantage upstream, while India’s established expertise remains concentrated in cutting and processing.

This could lead to a restructuring of the global diamond industry. Natural diamonds may increasingly move toward the luxury, heritage and high-end jewelry segments, where scarcity itself remains part of the product. Synthetic diamonds, meanwhile, can occupy mass-market jewelry and industrial applications.

The global value chain could consequently become less about controlling natural diamond deposits and more about controlling manufacturing technology. That would represent a profound change.

For decades, the diamond industry was fundamentally a resource industry. Whoever controlled diamond mines controlled the supply of the raw material. The rise of synthetic diamonds changes that equation. The most important assets are increasingly factories, equipment, engineering expertise, electricity and intellectual property.

China has many of these assets in abundance. That does not mean China will automatically dominate every downstream application. Producing synthetic diamonds is only the first step. Turning them into sophisticated semiconductor components, optical systems or quantum devices requires additional technologies, design capabilities and intellectual property.

China will therefore face its own challenge: moving from being the world’s largest producer of synthetic diamond material to becoming a major developer of products and technologies built around that material.

That transition could determine how much economic value the country ultimately captures. The first stage was production. The second is technological integration. And the third is control over high-value applications. The latest export figures from Shanghai suggest that the first stage is already well advanced. The rapid growth of exports indicates that Chinese synthetic diamonds are moving through global supply chains at increasing speed.

The next question is where they will go. If most of the additional output continues to enter jewelry markets, synthetic diamond will remain primarily an important export industry and a disruptive force in the global diamond business.

But if increasing volumes move into advanced thermal management, high-power electronics, lasers, quantum sensing, aerospace and other high-tech applications, the implications will be much larger.

China would no longer simply be exporting diamonds. It would be exporting the material foundation of technologies that other countries increasingly need. That is why the most important fact about China’s synthetic-diamond industry is not that it can make diamonds faster or cheaper than nature.

It is that China has demonstrated an ability to take a material once defined by extreme scarcity and turn it into something that can be manufactured at industrial scale. In the global competition over advanced manufacturing, that may prove to be the more consequential achievement. The diamond story is therefore shifting from geology to industry, from jewelry to technology, and from scarcity to abundance.

And for China, the strategic prize may not be the diamond itself, but the manufacturing system that makes the diamond increasingly abundant, and potentially makes a growing number of future technologies possible.

Source: guancha, xinhua, shanghai customs gov cn, finance people

From Weeding by Hand to Weeding by Laser: China’s High-Tech Farming Revolution

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Since the dawn of agriculture, farmers have had to contend with one persistent problem: weeds.

For centuries, the answer was labor. Farmers pulled weeds by hand or removed them with hoes. As agriculture became mechanised, tractors and cultivators took over much of the work. Chemical herbicides later offered an even more efficient solution, but at the cost of environmental concerns and growing dependence on agricultural chemicals.

Now, another technology is making its way into China’s fields: lasers.

Laser weeding uses cameras, artificial intelligence and high-energy laser beams to identify and destroy weeds without disturbing the surrounding soil. The principle is straightforward. Cameras continuously scan the field, while AI models distinguish crops from weeds. Once a weed is identified, the system directs a laser beam at the target, delivering a burst of energy within milliseconds. The resulting heat rapidly evaporates water in the weed’s cells and damages its chlorophyll and cellular structure, eventually killing the plant.

In essence, laser weeding is still a form of burning. The difference is that it is highly selective: the machine first identifies its target and then applies heat precisely where it is needed.

The technology is advancing rapidly. Some laser-weeding systems developed in China can achieve weed-removal rates above 95 percent, while keeping crop damage below 0.1 percent. Certain systems can process an image and determine the laser target in just a few milliseconds. A machine equipped with a single laser head can eliminate roughly 10,000 weeds an hour; with 32 laser heads operating simultaneously, that capacity can rise to about 320,000 weeds per hour. Large-scale systems have already demonstrated the ability to treat nearly 100 mu, about 16.5 acres, of farmland in a day.

Laser technology is also being adapted for other agricultural tasks. In Xinjiang, a laser-based cotton-topping robot has been developed by Xinjiang University and Xinjiang Jimu Robotics Technology. Equipped with solid-state LiDAR and a machine-vision system, the robot is designed to navigate cotton fields and precisely remove the growing tips of plants.

These developments are part of a broader push to bring robotics and artificial intelligence into Chinese agriculture. Commercial laser weeding itself is still in its early stages. In 2022, US-based Carbon Robotics launched an autonomous laser weeder, helping establish the technology as a commercial agricultural application. But the machines were expensive, with some foreign systems priced at more than $1m.

Chinese researchers and manufacturers soon began working to develop domestic alternatives. Huagong University of Science and Technology, together with the Harbin Institute of Technology, began research into laser-weeding robots, while universities and agricultural research institutes across the country launched their own programmes.

In 2024, a Chinese all-weather intelligent laser-weeding robot entered field trials in Heilongjiang. Since then, domestic equipment has moved steadily towards commercial deployment. Other research teams have progressed from laboratory prototypes to successive generations of engineering machines, improving AI-based crop recognition, positioning accuracy and the ability to operate under changing field conditions.

One of the biggest advantages of this domestic development has been cost. Imported laser-weeding machines can cost between $1.1m and $1.6m. Chinese manufacturers have brought the price of some systems below 1m yuan. Some companies have also begun offering rental models. One such service charges farmers about 50 yuan per mu for an entire growing season, compared with roughly 200 yuan for manual weeding.

The economics become more complicated when laser weeding is compared with chemical herbicides, which can cost only 30-50 yuan per mu. Yet chemical application itself requires labour or machinery, while the environmental costs of herbicide use are harder to capture in a simple price comparison. Laser systems leave no chemical residue, cause little soil disturbance and may be particularly attractive for high-value organic crops and medicinal plants.

The emergence of laser weeding illustrates a broader feature of China’s agricultural technology sector: the speed with which research can move from laboratories into mass production. Chinese research institutions are increasingly supplying the underlying technologies, universities are working with manufacturers to commercialise them, and a mature domestic supply chain is helping companies reduce production costs. The same pattern is visible in other areas of agricultural robotics.

Drones are now routinely used for crop protection, seeding, fertilisation and field mapping. Strawberry-picking robots are being tested and deployed in farms. Automated feeding machines are being introduced into livestock operations. In Henan, Muyuan Foods has built multi-storey pig farms equipped with a digital management system that uses artificial intelligence to process billions of data points and monitor thousands of indicators, including those related to disease and animal health.

The underlying goal is not simply to replace human labour with machines. It is to make farming more precise. That matters because Chinese agriculture faces two structural challenges. The first is labour. Rural populations are aging, while fewer young people are willing to undertake physically demanding agricultural work. Automation can reduce the amount of manual labour required to manage large areas of farmland.

The second is efficiency. Conventional farming often applies water, fertilizer and pesticides across entire fields, even when only part of a field requires treatment. AI and sensors allow farmers to identify individual problem areas and respond accordingly. In principle, this means applying the right input, in the right place, at the right time.

China’s agricultural statistics reflect the broader transformation. The contribution of scientific and technological progress to agricultural growth has risen from 54.5 percent in 2012 to more than 64 percent in 2025. The comprehensive mechanisation rate for crop ploughing, planting and harvesting has increased from 57 percent to 76.7 percent over the same period.

The country’s current five-year planning targets call for the contribution of agricultural science and technology to reach 67 percent by 2030, while the comprehensive mechanisation rate is expected to exceed 80 percent. Policy support has increasingly focused on combining artificial intelligence with agriculture and expanding the use of drones, the Internet of Things and agricultural robots.

The market opportunity is considerable. Global sales of laser-weeding robots were estimated at about $133m in 2025 and are projected to reach roughly $247m by 2032. China’s potential market is still larger. In the country’s northeastern provinces alone, the 237m mu of corn farmland could generate demand for hundreds of thousands, potentially more than one million, laser-weeding machines as the technology matures.

Chinese companies are also beginning to look beyond the domestic market. In July, Huagong Intelligent Agriculture’s Laser Weeder H8, a domestically developed large-scale laser-weeding robot, was shipped to Australia. The export marked an important step in the internationalisation of China’s intelligent agricultural machinery.

The significance of laser weeding therefore extends well beyond the replacement of herbicides. It represents a convergence of several technologies, computer vision, artificial intelligence, robotics, precision manufacturing and lasers, and demonstrates how these technologies can be adapted to one of the world’s oldest industries.

For China, the transformation is being driven by a combination of technological research, government policy, a vast agricultural market and a highly developed manufacturing base. Technologies that were once too expensive for ordinary farms can become commercially viable as domestic production expands and costs fall.

Source: xinhua, sciencenet, 36kr, stdaily, chinadaily

China’s robotics, artificial intelligence and innovative pharmaceuticals gain remarkable traction around the world

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In Australia and elsewhere, Chinese-developed cleaning robots are now scaling walls and glass façades, taking on dangerous high-altitude work once performed by so-called “spider men.” In Brazil, Chinese large language models are helping local power companies inspect and maintain electricity grids, overcoming the challenges posed by complex terrain and harsh operating environments. Meanwhile, an innovative drug capsule developed in Shanghai has been incorporated into an internationally recognized treatment guideline, offering new hope to patients.

These examples illustrate a broader transformation. Robotics, artificial intelligence and innovative medicines are emerging as the latest global calling cards of Chinese trade, following the earlier success of what came to be known as the “old three” and the “new three.”

China’s export structure offers a revealing picture of its industrial transformation. In the early decades of reform and opening-up, products such as clothing, furniture and household appliances entered international markets by leveraging China’s abundant labor force and cost advantages. 

In more recent years, China has seized the opportunities created by the global green transition, with new energy vehicles, lithium-ion batteries and photovoltaic products becoming the pillars of its “new three.” Today, as the world enters a new era shaped by artificial intelligence and advances in the life sciences, China is moving into emerging fields, investing heavily in core technologies and accelerating the shift from “Made in China” to “Innovated in China.”

The scale of this new wave is already evident in the numbers. In the first half of this year, China’s industrial robot exports increased by 18.6 percent, reaching 141 countries and regions, while exports of surgical robots surged 3.3-fold year on year. Data from OpenRouter, a global platform aggregating AI models, showed that Chinese large language models recorded 36.11 trillion token calls in the third week of July, maintaining the world’s top position for 12 consecutive weeks. 

In pharmaceuticals, all 11 new drugs targeting novel mechanisms or targets approved by Chinese authorities during the first half of the year were developed by Chinese pharmaceutical companies. Overseas licensing deals involving Chinese innovative medicines reached approximately $110 billion, equivalent to 80 percent of the total for the whole of last year. Chinese pharmaceutical companies also occupied eight of the top ten positions in the global pharmaceutical deal rankings.

Behind these figures lies a fundamental change: China is moving beyond its role as the “world’s factory” and increasingly positioning itself as a global hub for innovation.

This transformation did not happen by accident. It reflects, on the one hand, China’s recognition of the opportunities presented by a new wave of technological and industrial change and its determination to act on them. On the other, it reflects a sustained commitment to technological self-reliance and long-term investment in research and development.

There is no shortcut to technological innovation. Competitive advantages cannot simply be copied from elsewhere; they have to be built through persistent investment, experimentation and breakthroughs in difficult areas. Over the past five years, China’s total social R&D expenditure has grown at an average annual rate of 10 percent, with the country’s overall R&D investment remaining second only to that of the United States. 

As Wang Xiaosong, a professor of economics at Renmin University of China, has noted, the upgrading of Chinese manufacturing rests on a complete and continuously evolving industrial system, sustained investment in research and development, and the advantages created by the country’s vast domestic market. In other words, China’s technological rise has been built through years of strengthening its own capabilities while remaining engaged with the world.

The significance of the “new three” extends beyond China’s own economic growth. They are also creating new opportunities for other countries.

In robotics, a report by Morgan Stanley suggested that without Chinese participation, the development costs of the supply chain for Tesla’s second-generation humanoid robot, Optimus, would rise by several times. In artificial intelligence, China has placed considerable emphasis on open-source ecosystems, allowing small and medium-sized enterprises and developing countries to gain access to advanced AI capabilities at relatively low cost. In healthcare, Chinese companies are using indigenous innovation and increasingly digitalized manufacturing to shorten drug development cycles and reduce production costs.

China’s growing competitiveness in innovative medicines is particularly significant because technological progress is meaningful only when it becomes accessible to ordinary people. With its sophisticated manufacturing infrastructure, integrated supply chains and enormous economies of scale, China can often bring innovative medicines to market at substantially lower prices than comparable products in Europe and the United States. French media have reported that after certain cancer treatments entered France’s public healthcare system, patients could save tens of thousands of euros in annual treatment costs.

The broader impact is even more important. China’s new generation of technologies is lowering the barriers to accessing cutting-edge innovation and making advanced solutions more affordable and widely available.

Across Southeast Asia, Chinese AI technologies are helping small businesses improve their operations and narrow the digital divide. In Thailand, Chinese medical robots are being used to transport medicines and medical samples around the clock, helping address shortages of healthcare resources. In South America, Chinese companies have used telemetry technologies to develop systems for allocating ride-hailing orders, contributing to the emergence of new services such as motorcycle transportation and delivery.

For many countries in the Global South, such technologies are not abstract demonstrations of technological prowess. They provide practical solutions to concrete challenges in economic development and everyday life. As Pakistani analyst and retired Air Force officer Sultan Hali has argued, China’s experience demonstrates that technological innovation can serve not only as an engine of domestic development but also, through international cooperation, as a source of opportunities for countries around the world.

Perhaps more importantly, China’s approach is taking shape at a time when parts of the Western world are moving toward greater technological restrictions and barriers. Rather than closing itself off, China is increasingly presenting openness and collaboration as an alternative path for innovation.

Chinese open-source AI models have now accumulated more than 10 billion downloads globally. International platforms, including Pinterest and Airbnb, have already incorporated Chinese open-source models into their products and services. Meanwhile, the establishment of the World Artificial Intelligence Cooperation Organization in Shanghai marks another step toward international collaboration on the development and governance of artificial intelligence.

The same spirit of openness is visible in pharmaceuticals. Chinese companies are not only investing in independent research and development; they are also pursuing overseas licensing agreements, joint development projects and joint ventures, helping expand the global ecosystem for medical innovation.

The history of global industrial development has repeatedly shown that openness creates progress, while excessive isolation ultimately limits it. China’s “new three”, robotics, AI and innovative pharmaceuticals, are therefore more than a new engine of Chinese economic growth. They are increasingly becoming channels through which technological advances can be shared, adapted and put to practical use around the world.

The rise of these industries offers a broader lesson about China’s economic transformation. The country’s development is no longer defined simply by its ability to manufacture products efficiently and at scale. It is increasingly defined by its capacity to develop new technologies, build integrated innovation ecosystems and bring advanced products and services to global markets.

China’s technological rise should therefore not be viewed solely through the lens of competition. Its greater significance lies in the opportunities it can create: more accessible technologies, more affordable healthcare, more efficient industries and new possibilities for economic development.

Source: cgtn, xinhua, guancha

The US-China AI Race: The New Battle Between Open and Closed Models

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The United States is entering a new phase in its debate over open and closed artificial intelligence models. As Chinese AI companies continue to release open-weight models that approach the performance of leading proprietary systems, Washington and Silicon Valley are increasingly treating openness not simply as a question of technology policy, but as an issue of national competitiveness.

The shift is revealing. For years, leading American AI companies emphasized the risks associated with highly capable models, including misuse, intellectual-property concerns and the difficulty of controlling systems once their capabilities are widely distributed. Yet major technology and infrastructure companies are now making the case that excessive restrictions on open-weight models could undermine America’s position in the global AI market.

On July 24, Nvidia, Microsoft, Meta and other companies and organizations jointly issued a statement titled “Open Weights and American AI Leadership,” urging policymakers not to impose premature restrictions on open-weight models. Three days later, Nvidia joined Microsoft, IBM, the Linux Foundation and others in launching the Open Secure AI Alliance, extending the discussion from model weights to AI agents, security tools and cyber-defense technologies.

These initiatives should not be interpreted as a sudden embrace of traditional open-source ideals. Rather, they reflect a broader strategic adjustment: the United States increasingly recognizes that technological leadership depends not only on producing the world’s most capable models, but also on ensuring that its technologies become the foundation on which the rest of the world builds.

There is an important distinction between “open source” and “open weights.” In conventional open-source software, developers receive source code, dependencies and build instructions, allowing them to understand, modify and reproduce the software. AI models are fundamentally different. Their capabilities emerge from the interaction of architecture, training data, data-processing methods, training code, computing resources and model parameters.

Under the stricter definition promoted by the Open Source Initiative, merely releasing model weights does not constitute fully open-source AI. A genuinely open AI system would require sufficient access to code, data information and training processes to allow qualified researchers to build a substantially equivalent system. Many models marketed as “open” therefore fall more accurately into the category of open-weight systems.

Yet for businesses, the distinction does not eliminate the strategic value of openness. An open-weight model can be downloaded, deployed locally, fine-tuned, quantized and adapted to specific industries without requiring constant access to a proprietary API. It can therefore turn AI from a service controlled by a small number of companies into a component that can be integrated into a much wider range of organizations and industries.

This is particularly important for Nvidia. The company’s core business is not selling AI models. Its principal sources of revenue are GPUs, networking equipment, computing systems and software platforms. From this perspective, the proliferation of AI models is not necessarily a threat. It can be an opportunity.

Whether developers use models from OpenAI, Meta, Chinese companies or Nvidia itself, training, fine-tuning and inference require computing infrastructure. The more models are deployed, and the more widely AI applications spread, the greater the potential demand for Nvidia’s hardware and software ecosystem.

Nvidia’s strategy therefore illustrates a classic platform-economy principle: open the complementary products in order to strengthen the core platform. The company does not need to control every model. It can instead benefit by becoming the infrastructure on which competing models are trained and deployed.

The geopolitical dimension, however, is becoming equally important. Chinese AI companies have demonstrated that open models can spread rapidly across the global developer community. Models such as Qwen and DeepSeek have challenged the assumption that open systems must necessarily lag far behind the best proprietary models.

This changes the nature of the competition. If open models remain significantly weaker than proprietary systems, the debate is primarily about business models and product positioning. But once open models approach frontier performance, the competition moves beyond benchmark scores. Cost, deployment flexibility, fine-tuning, developer adoption, licensing, hardware compatibility and ecosystem effects become increasingly important. That is precisely where openness acquires strategic significance.

The United States’ AI policy has already recognized that global leadership cannot be measured solely by the performance of individual models. America’s AI strategy increasingly emphasizes the importance of technological ecosystems, international standards and global adoption. An open model can travel much further than a proprietary API. It can be downloaded, modified, distilled, translated and embedded into local systems. Developers can build tools around it, companies can adapt it to specific industries, and third countries can deploy it without depending entirely on an American service provider.

Once an open model becomes widely adopted, its influence can extend well beyond the model itself. Interfaces, evaluation methods, development tools, licenses and infrastructure may gradually become de facto standards.

This is why the American debate over openness is increasingly linked to competition with China. Washington has an interest in preventing Chinese open models from becoming the default foundation for developers and enterprises around the world. At the same time, American infrastructure companies have an interest in ensuring that the global expansion of AI continues to run through technologies, standards and computing platforms in which American firms remain dominant.

The result is a distinctly dual-track strategy. Proprietary frontier models remain essential. They allow companies to preserve technological advantages, protect intellectual property, maintain high-value commercial services and exercise centralized control over safety measures. Open-weight models serve a different purpose: they expand the developer base, lower deployment costs, support local and sovereign AI systems, encourage experimentation and help establish technical standards.

The two models are therefore not necessarily competitors. They can function as complementary components of a broader industrial strategy: frontier control at the top and broad diffusion underneath. This represents a broader redefinition of technological leadership. In the past, technological power was largely associated with possessing capabilities that others did not have. Increasingly, leadership also means persuading others to build on your technology.

The first model of leadership depends on scarcity. The second depends on adoption and ecosystem effects. A country that can achieve both may enjoy a more durable technological advantage than one that excels at only one.

The implications for China are equally significant. The next stage of competition will not be determined simply by which country produces the strongest model. It will also depend on whose models are easier to obtain, modify and deploy; whose licenses are more attractive; whose developer communities grow faster; whose models work across different chips and cloud platforms; and whose safety and evaluation standards gain international credibility.

This means that open AI should not be understood merely as a mechanism for sharing technology. It is increasingly becoming an instrument of technological diffusion, industrial organization and geopolitical competition.

At the same time, openness should not be confused with safety. Once model weights are released, they can be difficult to recall. Users may remove safeguards, conduct malicious fine-tuning or connect models to systems capable of causing real-world harm. Proprietary systems, meanwhile, are not inherently safe. They can also be abused, attacked or deployed without sufficient transparency, while excessive dependence on a small number of providers can create its own systemic vulnerabilities.

The policy debate should therefore move beyond the simplistic choice between “open” and “closed.” AI governance should instead take a layered approach that considers at least four factors: the capabilities of the model, the degree of information being released, the environment in which the model is deployed, and the distribution of responsibility among developers, distributors and users.

A highly capable model connected to the internet, financial systems or physical infrastructure presents a very different risk from the same model used for offline research. Likewise, releasing weights alone creates a different set of risks and benefits from releasing training data, code and complete development pipelines.

The central question, therefore, is not whether AI should be open or closed. It is who will control the technological frontier, who will shape the process of global diffusion, and whose standards will become embedded in the infrastructure of the AI economy.

America’s current embrace of open weights should be understood in this broader context. It does not represent a retreat from proprietary AI. Nor does it mean that American companies have abandoned commercial control. Rather, the United States appears increasingly determined to compete on both fronts: preserving its lead in frontier proprietary systems while using open models to expand its developer ecosystem, infrastructure footprint and influence over global standards.

The emerging contest between the United States and China will therefore be fought not only in laboratories and benchmark rankings. It will also be fought in developer communities, cloud platforms, chip architectures, licensing systems, safety standards and enterprise deployments.

The ultimate winner may not be the country with the single most powerful AI model. It may be the country whose models, tools, infrastructure and rules become the default foundation on which the rest of the world chooses to build.

Source: IPP, guancha

From Kitchen Scraps to Rich Soil: China’s Green Approach to Food Waste

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Once regarded simply as waste, kitchen scraps are increasingly being transformed into a valuable resource in China. From Hami in Xinjiang to Shunyi in Beijing, cities and residential communities are exploring ways to turn food waste, fallen leaves and other organic materials into compost, soil conditioners, soil remediation materials and microbial fertilizers. Through waste sorting and scientific composting, materials that would otherwise enter the waste stream are being returned to the soil, creating a practical link between urban waste management, ecological restoration and sustainable development.

Kitchen waste contains a significant amount of organic matter and therefore has considerable potential for resource recovery. Conventional disposal methods, such as landfill and incineration, can reduce the volume of waste but do not fully utilize its organic value. As China continues to promote household waste sorting, the treatment of sorted waste has become a critical part of establishing an effective waste management system. Composting provides one possible solution by using microorganisms to break down organic materials and convert them into stable substances that can be used to improve soil.

Hami, one of the cities participating in China’s pilot program for household waste sorting, has been exploring this approach in its urban landscaping system. Local horticultural authorities have experimented with mixing kitchen waste and garden waste for composting, while using biological enzymes to accelerate fermentation. Fruit peels, vegetable leaves, roots and other food scraps are combined with plant residues and processed under controlled conditions. After decomposition and maturation, the resulting organic material can be used as a soil conditioner and remediation agent.

Scientific composting is considerably more than simply piling organic waste together. The proportions of different materials, moisture levels, temperature, ventilation and microbial activity all affect the quality and efficiency of the process. Fallen leaves and kitchen waste, when properly combined, can provide suitable conditions for microorganisms to break down organic matter. As decomposition continues, unstable organic compounds are gradually converted into more stable humus-like substances. The result is a material that can improve soil structure and increase organic matter, rather than waste requiring further disposal.

Some Chinese cities and communities are also experimenting with enzymes and microbial preparations to improve the composting process. Such methods can shorten the time required for organic waste to mature and help control odors and undesirable substances. The resulting products can then be used in landscaping, gardening and agricultural applications, creating a cycle in which organic waste from cities is returned to the land as a resource.

A community composting project in Jiangshanfu Community in Beijing’s Shunyi District provides another example of how this approach can work at the neighborhood level. Kitchen waste is mixed with fallen leaves and other garden residues and placed in specially designed composting boxes. Through appropriate layering, moisture and temperature control, and regular turning, the organic materials gradually decompose over several months. The finished compost, often described as “black gold soil,” is dark, loose and rich in organic matter, and can be used for planting and community landscaping.

The significance of such projects extends beyond waste reduction. When residents can see food scraps being transformed into usable soil, waste sorting becomes a tangible process rather than an abstract environmental concept. Some communities have introduced programs allowing residents to exchange sorted kitchen waste for compost. Such initiatives provide a direct and visible incentive for participation and help transform waste sorting from a policy requirement into an everyday habit.

Community composting can also create new opportunities for public participation. Composting sites can become places where residents learn about gardening, soil, microorganisms and ecological cycles. Children can take part in environmental education and planting activities, while older residents can contribute their experience in horticulture. Through these activities, an environmental project can gradually develop into a platform for communication and community engagement.

The experiences of Hami and Beijing demonstrate two complementary approaches to the resource utilization of kitchen waste. At the city level, organic waste can be incorporated into broader systems for composting and the production of soil conditioners and microbial fertilizers. At the community level, smaller-scale composting can enable organic waste to be processed locally and reused within the neighborhood. Although the scale and technology may differ, both approaches follow the same principle: waste should be separated according to its characteristics and treated according to its resource value.

This transformation, however, requires more than simply collecting and composting kitchen waste. Effective source separation, collection and transportation systems, appropriate treatment facilities, technical standards and quality controls are all essential. Compost products must also meet relevant safety and quality requirements before they can be used in agriculture, landscaping or soil restoration. Only when these elements are connected can waste resource utilization develop from isolated pilot projects into a stable and scalable system.

The broader significance lies in a changing understanding of what constitutes waste. A fruit peel, a vegetable leaf or a pile of fallen leaves may appear to have little value once discarded, yet these materials contain organic matter that can re-enter the natural cycle. Turning them into compost and soil improvement materials reduces the amount of waste requiring final disposal while returning nutrients and organic matter to the soil.

As China continues to advance household waste sorting and pursue greener patterns of urban development, the resource utilization of kitchen waste is likely to become an increasingly important part of the urban environmental system. From large-scale municipal treatment facilities to modest composting boxes in residential communities, these practices demonstrate that waste management can go beyond disposal. With appropriate technology, participation and institutional support, what was once considered the end of the consumption cycle can become the beginning of a new ecological one.

Source: bjnews, sohu, sina, xinjiang gov cn

Beyond Porcelain: How Jingdezhen Preserved a Thousand-Year Craft System

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On July 25, 2026, in Busan, South Korea, the 48th session of the UNESCO World Heritage Committee adopted a resolution to inscribe the Jingdezhen Handicraft Porcelain Industry Sites on the World Heritage List. With the inscription, the number of World Heritage properties in China rose to 61.

For Jingdezhen, the moment marked not only the culmination of more than a decade of work toward World Heritage inscription, but also an international recognition of the way the city has come to understand and protect its own history.

People tend to think of Jingdezhen through individual objects: blue-and-white porcelain, imperial kilns, and the celebrated description of porcelain as “white as jade, bright as a mirror, thin as paper, and resonant as a bell.”

But what Jingdezhen presented to the world this time was neither a single masterpiece nor a single ancient kiln. It was an entire handmade porcelain-making industry and the landscape that sustained it.

The heritage property comprises five components: the urban porcelain-production center, the Hutian Ancient Porcelain Kiln Site, the Gaoling Kaolin Mining Site, the Changling Porcelain-Stone Mining Site, and the Jiaotan kiln-fuel production area. Together, they contain 15 groups of heritage elements and 45 individual heritage sites.

From mountain mines to kiln workshops, from the processing of raw materials to the transportation of finished products, these remains, scattered across the city, countryside and surrounding mountains, bear witness to more than nine centuries of continuous development in Jingdezhen’s handmade porcelain industry.

It is also the first time that China has submitted a World Heritage nomination centered on an industrial heritage system. The fundamental question facing Jingdezhen was therefore not whether the city possessed enough historic remains. It was something more difficult: What, exactly, was it about Jingdezhen that the world needed to understand? It took more than a decade for the answer to emerge.

Jingdezhen formally began its World Cultural Heritage nomination process in 2015. At the time, the city possessed an extraordinary number of ancient kiln sites, mining pits, docks and historic roads. Fuliang County, meanwhile, retained the clay, porcelain stone and kiln fuel resources that had once supplied the entire porcelain-making industry and formed the upper reaches of its production chain.

At first, the instinct was to include as many valuable remains as possible. But as research deepened, the nomination team came to understand that a World Heritage nomination could not simply be an exhaustive inventory of local historical resources.

More heritage sites do not necessarily make a clearer heritage story. What mattered was identifying those remains that could most convincingly demonstrate Jingdezhen’s outstanding universal value, and connecting them into a coherent system that could be understood internationally.

The nomination therefore became a process of subtraction. Some ancient kiln sites, despite their long histories and relatively good preservation, were ultimately removed from the proposed property. Other remains that had once seemed ordinary or received little attention were brought back into focus.

The center of the research shifted as well. The history of Jingdezhen’s porcelain industry had traditionally been told through famous kilns, celebrated wares and renowned techniques. This time, researchers stepped back from the finished object and began asking a different set of questions.

How did kaolin from Gaoling, porcelain stone from Changling and kiln fuel from Jiaotan enter the production system? How were raw materials processed? How were they transported by land and water to the urban workshops? How was labor divided among different stages of production? And how did thousands of workers, workshops and production facilities together sustain one of the world’s great centers of porcelain manufacture?

Once these questions were placed back into their historical context, Jingdezhen’s distinctiveness became clearer. The city was not simply home to a collection of ancient kilns. It had developed a vast industrial ecosystem, with an extensive spatial reach, a highly integrated production chain, complex systems of labor organization, and remarkable continuity over time.

It was this system that helped Jingdezhen emerge as one of China’s, and the world’s most important centers of porcelain production during the Song, Yuan, Ming and Qing periods. Porcelain made in Jingdezhen traveled along the Maritime and overland Silk Roads to distant markets. Behind that global reach stood a complex network linking mountains and cities, mines and kilns, waterways and workshops, craftsmen and markets.

The term “industrial heritage” therefore became central to the nomination. It also fundamentally changed the way Jingdezhen prepared for the inscription.

To demonstrate the integrity of the system, the city undertook years of field surveys, archaeological investigation, historical research and heritage interpretation. Heritage elements were repeatedly reviewed, boundaries were adjusted, and the city gradually established a conservation and management system aligned with international World Heritage standards.

The preparation was never simply about putting old sites behind fences. Jingdezhen had to demonstrate not only why its remains mattered to the world, but also whether it possessed the institutional capacity to protect them over the long term.

Unlike many World Heritage properties concentrated within a single site, Jingdezhen’s 45 heritage sites stretch across urban and rural areas, different natural environments and multiple administrative jurisdictions. Some are located in the historic production center; others lie deep in the mountains; still others are closely connected with mineral resources and traditional communities.

How could such seemingly scattered remains be managed as one coherent heritage property? This became one of the central governance challenges of the nomination.

Over the course of the preparation, Jingdezhen developed a coordinated conservation framework linking the heritage conservation center, relevant government departments and local protection stations. The heritage conservation center undertakes overall monitoring and supervision; administrative departments provide professional guidance; and local protection stations are responsible for routine inspection and maintenance.

The city also developed a digital monitoring platform, bringing information on the condition of heritage structures, changes in their surrounding environments and inspection records into a unified system. Such institutional arrangements may be less visible than ancient kilns or porcelain vessels, but they are fundamental to the credibility of a World Heritage nomination.

An international evaluation does not ask only how glorious a place was in the past. It also asks whether there is a credible system capable of protecting that heritage into the future. The city also faced a more complicated question: how to integrate the protection of the natural environment, tangible heritage and living traditions.

Porcelain production in Jingdezhen did not emerge in isolation. High-quality porcelain stone and clay, local water systems and climatic conditions provided the natural foundations for the industry. Centuries of production, in turn, generated a rich body of craftsmanship and traditional knowledge.

Mines, kiln sites, historic roads and docks are visible forms of heritage. The knowledge embedded in washing clay, shaping vessels, applying glazes and controlling firing is less visible, yet remains alive in the hands of craftsmen.

For this reason, Jingdezhen’s nomination placed emphasis on the relationship between culture and nature, and on the interaction between tangible heritage and intangible traditions.

Protecting the wider heritage environment, the city argued, could allow people to understand that the traditional idea that a place is “suited to pottery by virtue of its soil and water” is not merely a poetic expression. It reflects a long historical interaction between natural conditions and human technology. This relationship was captured in remarkable detail in a book published more than two decades ago.

In the late 1990s, Bai Ming, a professor at Tsinghua University’s Academy of Arts and Design and a practicing ceramic artist, began systematically documenting traditional porcelain-making in Jingdezhen.

To complete Traditional Crafts of Porcelain Making in Jingdezhen, he spent seven years repeatedly visiting workshops, mountain areas and production sites. He took nearly 2,000 photographs and ultimately selected more than 600 for the book.

He deliberately refused to reconstruct the workshops for the camera. If the light was dim, he photographed the dim light. If the workshop was untidy, he left it that way. He recorded how individual craftsmen worked, where they placed their tools and how they organized their spaces.

What he wanted to preserve was not a carefully staged image of “tradition,” but tradition as it actually existed. Years later, as Jingdezhen began to seek World Heritage status not simply for individual kiln sites but for an entire industrial system, those records took on another significance.

In an old workshop, even a pool of water could form part of the porcelain-making process. Craftsmen combined a water pool with drying racks above it, creating what they called a “drying-rack pond.” In hot weather, water evaporated more quickly, increasing humidity around the workshop and slowing the loss of moisture from freshly formed clay bodies, thereby reducing the risk of cracking.

In other workshops, craftsmen treated water before using it to wash porcelain clay, relying on methods developed through generations of practical experience. Such knowledge rarely appears on the surface of a finished porcelain vessel. Yet it is precisely this knowledge that reveals how deeply the production system was rooted in the local environment.

Bai came to realize that most people see only the finished piece of porcelain. Far fewer understand what happened to the clay before it ever reached the kiln. The Jingdezhen nomination was, in many ways, an effort to make that invisible process visible. This understanding gradually became central to the city’s World Heritage narrative.

In January 2025, the Jingdezhen Handicraft Porcelain Industry Sites was formally submitted as China’s World Heritage nomination. By then, the city had already spent years conducting surveys and archaeological investigations, refining the heritage boundaries and components, articulating the site’s outstanding universal value, and building a conservation and management system.

In September of the same year, an international expert team arrived in Jingdezhen for a technical evaluation. It rained heavily throughout the visit, but the experts continued their intensive schedule, spending four and a half days visiting key heritage sites, examining their state of conservation, studying protection measures and reviewing management arrangements. Digital presentations were also used to reconstruct the ancient porcelain-making process.

At the command center of the heritage conservation system, a digital monitoring platform displayed information from sites across the property. What the experts saw was not simply a group of old kilns and abandoned mines. They saw an integrated conservation system covering multiple areas and different categories of heritage.

The evaluation reinforced a lesson that Jingdezhen had learned throughout the nomination process: World Heritage status is not simply a reward for the past. It is also a test of a place’s capacity to safeguard that past in the future. From a global perspective, the significance of Jingdezhen’s nomination extends beyond the city itself.

China’s existing World Heritage properties already include ceramic-related remains, including the Dehua and Cizao kiln sites associated with Quanzhou. But Jingdezhen is the first Chinese nomination to present porcelain-making itself as the central theme through a complete industrial heritage system.

It demonstrates not only the development of Chinese porcelain technology and ceramic art, but also how a traditional industry can become intertwined with natural resources, urban development, labor organization and international trade.

During the nomination process, Jingdezhen also became more active in international discussions on heritage conservation. At the World Heritage-related events in 2025, the city hosted a thematic side event on the creative conservation of industrial craft heritage, engaging with international peers on the protection and adaptive use of craft-based heritage.

The ambition is broader than securing a place on the World Heritage List. Jingdezhen hopes its experience can contribute to the research, conservation and future nominations of similar craft and industrial heritage sites around the world. But ultimately, the significance of the nomination returns to the city itself.

One of the immediate outcomes has been the expansion of Jingdezhen’s recognized heritage resources. Archaeological surveys and nomination research have brought previously overlooked sites back into public view.

Another has been a closer relationship between heritage and local communities. By incorporating porcelain-stone mining areas, kiln-fuel production zones and surrounding communities into the heritage system, the nomination has connected places of everyday life with the broader history of Jingdezhen’s porcelain industry. And perhaps most importantly, the process has strengthened the city’s conservation capacity.

Meeting international standards has required Jingdezhen to rethink how government departments coordinate, how heritage sites are monitored over the long term, how communities participate in conservation, and how development can be balanced with authenticity and integrity.

This may be the least visible, but one of the most important, legacies of the nomination. A World Heritage property is not truly successful simply because it has been inscribed. Its deeper test is whether it can establish a sustainable system of conservation after the ceremony is over.

Today, Jingdezhen remains a living porcelain city.

In the historic Taoyangli district, traditional workshops exist alongside new public spaces. At Taoxichuan, former industrial buildings have been revitalized as places where young ceramic artists and creative teams work and exchange ideas. Across the city, artists from around China, many of them part of the community known as “Jingpiao”, are experimenting with new forms, colors and designs while drawing on traditional techniques.

Master craftsmen continue to perform familiar gestures. Younger makers are finding their own language within them. This is also the new challenge facing Jingdezhen. How can more people experience the heritage without excessive commercialization undermining its authenticity? How can traditional techniques be passed on to younger generations rather than reduced to demonstrations for visitors? How can heritage conservation become part of community life instead of turning living communities into museum displays?

There are no simple answers, and none can be resolved on the day a property is inscribed on the World Heritage List. But Jingdezhen has taken an important step: it has found a clearer way to understand itself. A thousand years ago, porcelain clay was extracted from the mountains, washed and processed, shaped and fired, and transformed into vessels that traveled along rivers and across seas.

Today, the production system that once supported one of the world’s great porcelain centers has been made visible again through 45 heritage sites.

They reveal that great craftsmanship is never simply the achievement of a pair of skilled hands, nor is it contained in the beauty of a finished object. It is the accumulated knowledge of generations learning how to live with mountains and rivers, how to work with materials, how to respond to time, and how to pass experience from one generation to the next.

Jingdezhen nominated a collection of historic remains. What it is ultimately protecting is a civilization that has never entirely stopped. The kilns are still burning. And the story is still being written.

Source: tsinghua, brcn, cgtn, xinhua, sina, sohu

AI: China Sees Opportunity, America Sees Threat

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“Artificial intelligence as nuclear energy” or “artificial intelligence as a nuclear weapon”? The metaphor may not be perfect, but it captures a profound difference between China and the United States in how they understand the future of AI.

The debate over AI is often presented as a race over chips, computing power and frontier models. But beneath the technological competition lies a deeper question: What is AI for?

For China, a developing country still undergoing massive industrial and economic transformation, AI is first and foremost a source of productivity and growth. It can make factories smarter, agriculture more efficient, scientific research faster and public services more accessible. It can help small businesses compete, lower the cost of knowledge and allow developing countries to leapfrog traditional stages of development.

For the United States, however, AI is increasingly viewed through the lens of strategic power. Washington worries about whether China will gain an advantage, whether an AI breakthrough could change the military balance and whether advanced models should be allowed to spread beyond America’s control. In this worldview, frontier AI begins to resemble a nuclear weapon: immensely powerful, potentially dangerous and therefore something that must be tightly controlled.

This difference is not accidental. It reflects two very different strategic experiences.

The United States has spent decades at the center of a global military and intelligence system. Many important American technologies have had strong links to national security. The internet grew out of U.S. government-funded research. GPS was developed by the U.S. military before becoming a civilian technology. Drones, satellites, autonomous systems and advanced sensing technologies have all been deeply connected to defense applications.

As a result, when a new technology emerges, one natural American question is: How can it strengthen our strategic advantage?

China often begins from a different question: How can this technology increase productivity and accelerate development?

The difference can be seen in something as simple as the rise of robotic dogs.

American military institutions have repeatedly explored robotic dogs for surveillance, security and combat-related applications. The U.S. Air Force has tested quadrupedal robots for patrol and base security, while U.S. military experiments have included robots equipped with weapons. The underlying technology is dual-use, of course, and China is also exploring military applications. But the contrast in emphasis is revealing.

Chinese companies such as Unitree have aggressively commercialized robotic dogs for industrial inspection, power-grid monitoring, emergency rescue and other civilian applications. The same basic technology can therefore be imagined in two very different ways: as a weapon on the battlefield or as a machine that performs dangerous work for ordinary society.

The point is not that American technology is inherently military or Chinese technology is inherently peaceful. That would be simplistic. The point is that national priorities shape which applications receive attention, investment and imagination.

If AI is treated primarily as a weapon, technological progress becomes a zero-sum game. One country’s advance is automatically seen as another country’s loss. Openness becomes a security risk. Open-source models become suspicious. Export controls become the default response. The objective is no longer simply to make AI safer and more useful; it is to make sure that strategic competitors cannot catch up.

But AI is fundamentally different from a nuclear warhead. Software, algorithms and knowledge can be copied, modified, distilled and improved at extraordinary speed. It is extremely difficult to build a permanent technological Iron Curtain around them.

This is why America’s restrictions on advanced chips and AI technologies may create an unexpected paradox. They can slow China’s access to certain technologies, but they also encourage China to develop alternatives, build independent supply chains and innovate under constraints. At the same time, excessive restrictions risk fragmenting the global technology ecosystem and pushing other countries to develop outside the American technological sphere.

China’s growing emphasis on open and affordable AI models illustrates the alternative approach. Models such as DeepSeek and Kimi demonstrate a strategy in which technological capability is not valuable merely because it is possessed, but because it can be used, adapted and improved by a much wider community.

For a country like China, this makes economic sense. The value of AI does not come only from owning the most powerful model. It comes from putting AI into factories, laboratories, classrooms, hospitals and businesses. A powerful model locked behind a wall may strengthen a company’s strategic position; a capable model used by millions can transform an economy.

Nuclear energy carries enormous risks, but humanity did not respond by banning all civilian nuclear technology. Instead, it developed safety standards, regulation, international institutions and mechanisms for managing risk. The lesson is not that powerful technology should be uncontrolled. The lesson is that risk management does not have to mean technological isolation.

China does not deny that AI can be dangerous. Quite the opposite: as AI becomes deeply integrated into society, safety, accountability and responsible governance become increasingly important. But managing risk is different from building an technological Iron Curtain.

The real question is whether humanity wants AI to become another battlefield of geopolitical rivalry or a new foundation for shared development.

This matters especially for developing countries. For them, AI is not an abstract contest between superpowers. It could mean better education, cheaper healthcare, more productive industries, more efficient agriculture and new opportunities for economic growth. If advanced AI becomes concentrated in a small number of wealthy countries, much of the developing world may once again be left behind. If AI becomes more accessible, it could instead become one of the greatest tools for narrowing the global development gap.

This is ultimately where the Chinese perspective deserves to be taken seriously.

China is not arguing that AI has no risks. It is arguing that technological progress should not be defined entirely by fear of one’s geopolitical competitors. Security matters, but so does development. Regulation matters, but so does openness. National interests matter, but so does the broader interest of humanity.

The United States now faces a difficult choice. It can continue to treat AI primarily as a strategic weapon and attempt to preserve its lead through technological restrictions. Or it can recognize that in the age of AI, long-term technological strength will depend not only on controlling technology, but on building the most innovative, open and productive ecosystem around it.

History repeatedly shows that walls can preserve an advantage for a time, but ecosystems create lasting power.

The future of AI should therefore not be measured simply by asking who can build the most powerful weapon.

It should be measured by asking who can turn the most powerful technology into the greatest source of human progress.

That is the difference between seeing AI as a weapon and seeing it as energy.

Source: huxiu, global times, cgtn, xinhua, the new york times, bloomberg, investmentmonitor