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AI for Capital, or AI for Society?

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Artificial intelligence is entering human society at an unprecedented pace. From factory floors and office desks to hospitals, schools, and everyday life, AI is becoming a foundational force in the production of knowledge, the distribution of wealth, and the organization of social relations. Public debate oscillates between hope and fear. Some anticipate a leap in productivity that will free humanity from repetitive and exhausting labor. Others warn that machines will displace workers, concentrate wealth, and ultimately undermine the social structures on which human life depends.

Both perspectives reflect genuine possibilities, yet they share a common assumption: that artificial intelligence is an autonomous force whose technological capabilities will determine the future of society. But technology has never developed in a vacuum. Who finances it, who owns it, who controls it, and whose needs it is designed to serve are not peripheral questions. They shape how technology enters society and determine who benefits from its advances, who bears its costs, and whose lives are transformed in the process.

The fundamental question, therefore, is not simply what kind of future AI will create, but who has the power to decide what that future looks like.

Every major technological transformation in modern history has contained two distinct possibilities: the expansion of human capabilities and the reorganization of power between people. The steam engine increased productive capacity without automatically eliminating workers’ poverty. Electrification and assembly-line production enabled mass manufacturing while often making labor more standardized and tightly controlled. The internet lowered barriers to communication and knowledge sharing, yet also facilitated the emergence of powerful digital platforms capable of monopolizing markets, information, and public attention. Technology expands what society can do, but it does not determine how those possibilities will be realized, nor does it guarantee that their benefits will be shared.

Artificial intelligence is no exception. It can accelerate scientific discovery, widen access to knowledge, improve medical services, and help people accomplish tasks that were previously beyond their individual capabilities. Yet the social consequences of these advances depend on the institutional and economic arrangements into which they are introduced. The same AI system might help a doctor spend less time completing paperwork and more time caring for patients. It might equally become a justification for reducing medical staff and increasing workloads. In education, AI could help teachers understand individual students’ needs, or it could be used to standardize assessment and reduce the complexity of learning to a set of measurable indicators. Technological capabilities alone cannot determine which path society takes. Those choices are made by people and institutions operating within particular structures of power and interest.

This is why the current AI boom must be understood within a broader political and economic context. Capital flows into artificial intelligence not only because the technology has genuine innovative potential, but also because it embodies enormous expectations of future growth. Under competitive pressure, companies must continually present compelling visions of the future to attract investment, sustain valuations, and secure market dominance. Model size, computing capacity, and user growth consequently become more than measures of technical progress: they become financial narratives through which uncertain future returns are translated into present economic value.

This does not mean that private investment inevitably produces a speculative bubble. Large-scale investment can sustain long-term research, build essential infrastructure, and support innovations whose benefits may take years to emerge. Many important technological advances would have been impossible without commercial enterprise. 

The problem arises when expectations of future profitability become detached from demonstrable social value, and when companies must continually expand simply to justify their valuations. Under these conditions, technological competition can gradually drift away from concrete human needs. Vast resources may flow toward ever-larger and more expensive models, while persistent problems in education, healthcare, housing, and public services receive comparatively less attention because their returns are less immediate or less easily captured by private investors.

Here lies a central contradiction of the AI economy: the capacity to generate wealth is not the same as the capacity to distribute it. Higher productivity does not automatically translate into higher wages, just as lower production costs do not necessarily result in better services for ordinary people. If the gains from technological progress accrue primarily to corporations, shareholders, and those who already possess bargaining power, society may become more productive without becoming more prosperous in any broadly shared sense. The question is not merely how much wealth AI can create, but who will have the power to claim it.

The future of work illustrates this tension particularly clearly. It is misleading to frame AI as a simple contest between human workers and machines. Technology can eliminate certain jobs, create new occupations, transform existing tasks, and strengthen workers’ capabilities at the same time. The more consequential questions are whether workers can participate meaningfully in the transition, whether they can share in the gains from increased productivity, and whether they will retain the ability to secure dignified livelihoods and negotiate the conditions of their employment.

When businesses approach automation primarily as a means of reducing labor costs and weakening their dependence on workers, technological progress can be accompanied by declining job security, the erosion of skills, and increasingly intensive forms of management. Even when jobs are not eliminated, algorithmic systems can reorganize work through granular performance metrics, continuous monitoring, and automated task allocation. Workers may no longer receive every instruction directly from a human supervisor, yet find themselves increasingly dependent on algorithmic scores, rankings, and recommendations. A workplace can become more intelligent without becoming more humane.

Nor is the intelligence displayed by AI entirely detached from human labor. Behind seemingly autonomous systems lie countless tasks involving data preparation, content annotation, safety moderation, infrastructure maintenance, and other forms of work that remain largely invisible to end users. Beyond the digital interface are mines, semiconductor factories, data centers, power grids, and global supply chains. The apparent immateriality of AI rests on a substantial physical foundation. Some labor is concealed behind the polished image of intelligent products, while some environmental and social costs are transferred to other communities. The more seamless and automated a technology appears, the more important it becomes to ask who performs the work that sustains it, where its resources originate, and who bears the consequences of its material footprint.

These questions lead directly to the problem of global inequality. Advanced AI depends on highly concentrated resources, including capital, computing infrastructure, semiconductors, and specialized expertise. These resources are unevenly distributed across countries and regions. Those who control critical infrastructure can consequently exercise disproportionate influence over technical standards, commercial rules, and the international governance of AI. Meanwhile, the natural resources, data, and labor contributed by countries in the Global South may help generate technological value without ensuring that those societies share proportionately in its benefits. When AI is increasingly treated as an instrument of national competition, the space for international cooperation can narrow further.

None of this means that AI is inherently destined to reproduce existing structures of domination. The significance of these problems lies precisely in the fact that current arrangements are not inevitable. Technological infrastructure can be organized under different ownership models. Knowledge can be shared through different institutional arrangements. Public institutions can support research and applications guided by social needs rather than commercial returns alone. The trajectory of technological development is not a predetermined destiny; it emerges from countless economic decisions, institutional choices, and collective actions.

We must therefore reconsider what it means for AI to serve the public interest. Public value does not require every technological system to be developed directly by the state, nor does it demand the exclusion of commercial innovation. It means that technologies profoundly affecting the basic conditions of social life cannot be evaluated solely through market prices and investment returns. AI in education should support human development rather than merely improve administrative efficiency. AI in healthcare should improve patients’ lives rather than further marginalize those who cannot generate sufficient profit. AI in the workplace should reduce unnecessary drudgery rather than transform every minute saved into an opportunity to impose higher performance targets.

Achieving these goals requires us to move beyond technical regulation and address the distribution of wealth, labor protections, public services, and democratic participation. Rules governing corporate conduct may be necessary, but they cannot by themselves transform the distribution of technological gains. Ethical principles are equally important, yet they cannot substitute for changes in the actual relationships through which power is exercised. Workers need a meaningful voice in technological decisions that reshape their employment. People should be able to understand and challenge automated decisions that affect their rights. Public institutions need sufficient technological capacity to avoid complete dependence on a small number of commercial providers. Open-source development, public research, and international collaboration also deserve stronger institutional support, so that essential knowledge does not become entirely enclosed within the proprietary assets of a few organizations.

None of these approaches is a universal solution. Governments may lack technical expertise, and public institutions can be vulnerable to bureaucracy, conflicts of interest, and abuses of power. Open-source development can broaden participation without eliminating inequalities in computing resources. Market competition can encourage innovation without necessarily protecting fundamental rights. The challenge, therefore, is not simply to choose between the state and the market, but to establish institutions capable of limiting concentrated power, protecting rights, accommodating diverse needs, and remaining accountable to the public. Whether AI is controlled by corporations, governments, or other organizations, the same question should apply: does it give the people affected by it greater opportunities to understand, influence, and challenge the decisions that shape their lives?

This is also where a humanistic perspective becomes indispensable. We habitually measure technological progress through speed, scale, accuracy, and productivity, but rarely ask how much efficiency society actually needs, or what that efficiency should enable us to achieve. Human worth cannot be reduced to the speed at which tasks are completed. Education is more than the transmission of information; healthcare is more than the identification of disease; social life is more than a collection of processes awaiting optimization. Companionship, trust, dignity, creativity, and mutual understanding are difficult to quantify, yet they constitute much of what makes life meaningful.

If AI can take over more repetitive work, will people gain more genuine freedom over their time? If machines can generate greater wealth, will people enjoy greater security, or will they remain trapped in constant competition and fear of becoming economically redundant? If access to knowledge becomes easier, will our capacity for independent judgment deepen, or will we gradually outsource the act of thinking itself? These questions cannot be answered by technological development alone. They concern the kind of society we wish to build and the meaning we attach to human freedom.

We need not reject artificial intelligence because capital seeks profit, nor should we assume that its extraordinary potential will automatically benefit everyone. A more mature response requires us to recognize both the possibilities technology creates and the ways in which economic interests can shape those possibilities. Openness to innovation is entirely compatible with skepticism toward concentrated power. Supporting technological progress does not require abandoning the pursuit of fairness, dignity, or public accountability.

Ultimately, AI for capital and AI for society are not two fundamentally different technologies. They represent different social relationships through which the same technology can develop. In one, intelligence is primarily treated as an instrument of accumulation, while people become costs to be minimized, data to be extracted, or markets to be captured. In the other, technological development is subject to broader public deliberation, efficiency serves human flourishing, and the gains of innovation become accessible to a wider share of society. The distinction lies not simply in corporate philosophy, but in labor institutions, public policy, ownership structures, and the actual capacity of people to participate in decisions affecting their lives.

We still do not know where artificial intelligence will ultimately lead humanity. But one principle deserves to remain beyond dispute: the future should not belong exclusively to technology developers, nor should it be determined solely by financial markets and their expectations of growth. It must also belong to the people who use these systems, live with their consequences, and will shape the societies in which they operate.

Technology can help us reorganize the world, but it cannot decide for us why that world is worth organizing in the first place. Genuine progress does not mean creating machines that become increasingly powerful while requiring human beings to surrender their dignity, autonomy, and capacity for care. It means building a society in which technological advancement expands the conditions for human flourishing.

The moment we begin asking who owns technology, who benefits from it, and who has the authority to determine its purposes, the debate over artificial intelligence moves beyond speculation about the future. It becomes a discussion about the choices we can make in the present, and the kind of future we are willing to build together.

Source: toda, ncbi, washington crossing advisors, theconversation

Chinese Modernization: A Historical Synthesis of Centralization and Democracy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Source: cssn, cgtn, chinadaily, xinhua, guancha

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Source: xinhuanet, tech gmw, sohu, tech cnr 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Source: people cctv, sohu, jfdaily

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How a Small Chinese County Became the World’s “Hair Capital”

“Buying hair, especially long hair.” For decades, this familiar call could be heard in streets and villages across China. In Juancheng County, Heze, Shandong Province, however, the humble business of collecting hair has evolved into a major industrial cluster serving markets around the world.

Today, Juancheng is recognized as an important hub for human-hair raw materials and a major production base for hair products. Its industry covers the entire chain from raw-material collection and processing to product design, manufacturing, branding, logistics and international sales. The county has developed a particular strength in real-human-hair products, especially hair extensions, rather than synthetic wigs.

The origins of the industry date back to the 1960s and 1970s, when people in towns such as Zhengying and Fuchun began collecting and trading human hair alongside other materials such as horsehair and animal hides. As demand increased, local traders expanded their procurement networks from nearby areas to other parts of China and eventually to India and Southeast Asia.

Human hair became a valuable raw material because of its natural appearance, texture and versatility. Compared with synthetic fibers, high-quality human hair offers a more realistic look and feel, making it particularly suitable for premium wigs, extensions and customized hair products.

For many years, Juancheng mainly served as a raw-material trading center. At the beginning of the 21st century, however, rising demand for hair extensions and the upgrading of the beauty industry created an opportunity for local businesses to move further up the value chain. Enterprises began processing raw hair locally, and family workshops and small factories expanded rapidly.

This transformation greatly increased production capacity, but it also exposed structural weaknesses. Many businesses operated independently, with inconsistent product quality, limited standardization and intense price competition. Although the number of enterprises increased, the industry lacked strong coordination and brand influence.

The turning point came with the development of industrial parks and stronger government support. In 2012, Juancheng began planning and developing dedicated hair-product industrial parks. A third industrial park started construction in 2024. Concentrating enterprises in specialized industrial zones enabled businesses to share infrastructure and public services, including water, gas and environmental treatment facilities.

The county also incorporated hair products into its key industrial development programs and established mechanisms to coordinate enterprises, industry associations and government departments. These measures helped transform a fragmented network of workshops into a more organized industrial cluster.

The results have been substantial. Juancheng now has hundreds of hair-product enterprises and a large workforce engaged in the industry. In 2024, the county’s hair-product industry recorded an industrial output value of 54.6 billion yuan. From January to July 2025, output reached 41.68 billion yuan, an increase of 12.46 percent year on year.

The industry has also developed a complete production chain. Products now include hair wefts, wigs, extensions, ponytails, hairpieces and customized products, with thousands of varieties available for different markets.

Behind these products is a production system that combines traditional craftsmanship with modern manufacturing. Human hair must first be sorted according to length, color, thickness and direction before undergoing disinfection, cleaning and processing. In the production of high-end products, weaving and hair-setting processes can require highly skilled manual work.

A premium wig or hair extension may go through dozens or even hundreds of individual procedures. The direction, density and arrangement of each strand can affect the final appearance and comfort. This accumulated craftsmanship has become one of Juancheng’s most important competitive advantages.

For a long period, however, Juancheng remained heavily dependent on contract manufacturing and wholesale trade. Many enterprises had strong production capabilities but limited control over international brands, distribution channels and pricing. As a result, much of the added value was captured elsewhere in the supply chain.

In recent years, local enterprises have increasingly shifted toward independent design, branding and direct international sales. Companies are paying greater attention to consumer preferences, fashion trends and differences between overseas markets. Product development now covers not only manufacturing techniques but also styles, colors, materials and customized solutions.

Digital platforms have accelerated this transition. Juancheng businesses are increasingly using international e-commerce platforms and independent websites to reach customers directly. Social media and livestreaming have also become important tools for marketing hair products and demonstrating their appearance and application.

Cross-border e-commerce has opened another channel for small and medium-sized manufacturers. Instead of relying entirely on traditional trading companies, businesses can now respond more quickly to consumer demand, test new products and build direct relationships with overseas customers.

Logistics has also become a key part of the county’s internationalization strategy. As an inland county, Juancheng once faced relatively high transportation and international shipping costs. To address this challenge, the county has developed public bonded warehouses, cross-border e-commerce service centers and other trade-support facilities, while strengthening connections with Heze Mudan Airport and its international cargo functions.

These improvements are helping create a more efficient system for importing raw materials and exporting finished products, reducing logistics costs and improving the speed of international shipments.

The industry’s global reach continues to expand. Juancheng’s hair products are now exported to more than 80 countries and regions. In 2024, the county’s hair-product import and export volume reached approximately € 3.21 billion, accounting for around 70 percent of the county’s total foreign trade. In the first seven months of 2025, imports and exports reached about € 2.6 billion, up 48.75 percent year on year.

The county has also sought to strengthen its international visibility through trade fairs and industry events. Its first hair-products expo in 2025 brought together domestic manufacturers and international buyers, providing a platform for business cooperation and helping promote the “China Hair Capital” brand.

Juancheng’s development demonstrates how a traditional rural industry can evolve through specialization, industrial clustering, technological improvement and digital transformation. What began with people collecting hair door to door has developed into a sophisticated supply chain connecting raw-material networks, skilled manufacturing, modern logistics and global consumer markets.

The significance of Juancheng’s hair industry lies not simply in the volume of hair it processes, but in the industrial ecosystem built around it. Decades of experience in sourcing and processing human hair have created a deep pool of skills and suppliers, while industrial parks, e-commerce platforms and logistics infrastructure have provided new channels for expansion.

As global consumers increasingly seek personalized and high-quality hair products, Juancheng is moving toward higher-value segments of the market. Greater investment in product design, technology, international branding and direct-to-consumer sales will determine whether the county can further strengthen its position in the global hair-products industry.

Source: xinhua, dzplus, eastmoney, sina

An Open China, A Flourishing Sinology: Growing Through the Exchange of Civilizations

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The formation of any culture is never an isolated process. Every civilization is rooted in its own historical soil, yet it is also shaped and enriched through encounters, exchanges, and mutual learning with other civilizations. 

The history of Sinology is a vivid example of this process. Its emergence and development reflect not only the enduring vitality of Chinese civilization, but also the long history of dialogue between China and the wider world.

Chinese civilization has a long and continuous history. Its philosophy, writing, language, institutions, literature, and arts have together formed a cultural tradition that has endured for thousands of years. Confucianism, Daoism, and the diverse schools of thought that flourished in ancient China provided a profound intellectual foundation for Chinese culture. 

They also became an important basis through which people beyond China came to understand and study the country. Without the accumulated vitality and richness of Chinese civilization, Sinology could not have emerged.

More than two thousand years ago, the Chinese began to reach beyond their immediate geographical surroundings. Zhang Qian’s missions to the Western Regions opened important channels connecting China with Central Asia, West Asia, and regions farther west. 

Silk, porcelain, tea, and other Chinese products traveled along these routes, while ideas, religions, technologies, and cultural practices from other civilizations entered China. What later came to be known as the Silk Road was therefore much more than a commercial route. It was also a bridge between civilizations.

The arrival of Buddhism in China offers a particularly important example. Originating in India, Buddhism entered China during the Han period and gradually became integrated with Chinese culture. Chinese monks traveled westward in search of Buddhist scriptures, while foreign monks came to China to translate and teach Buddhist texts. 

The journeys of Faxian and Xuanzang were not simply religious pilgrimages; they were also extraordinary intellectual journeys that expanded Chinese knowledge of Central and South Asia. Xuanzang’s travels, for example, produced valuable records of the geography, history, society, and customs of the regions he visited. Buddhism itself was transformed through its encounter with Chinese thought, eventually giving rise to distinctly Chinese traditions such as Chan Buddhism.

Christianity, particularly Nestorian Christianity, also entered China during the Tang dynasty. The Nestorian Stele erected in Chang’an in 781 provides important evidence of the religious and cultural exchanges between China and the West. These examples demonstrate that Chinese civilization was not a closed system. Throughout its history, it repeatedly encountered foreign ideas, absorbed what it found valuable, and transformed those ideas within its own cultural context.

The maritime world created another important channel of communication. Beginning in 1405, Zheng He’s voyages connected China with numerous countries and peoples across Southeast Asia, South Asia, the Middle East, and East Africa. His fleets carried Chinese silk, porcelain, tea, and other goods abroad and returned with spices, medicines, animals, plants, and other products. More importantly, these voyages facilitated the exchange of institutions, knowledge, customs, art, religion, and technology.

The significance of these journeys lies not only in their scale, but also in their spirit of engagement. The voyages represented a tradition of seeking contact and friendship with other peoples. They demonstrated that maritime exploration could serve not merely commercial or military purposes, but also the cause of peaceful communication between civilizations. Together, the land and maritime Silk Roads created channels through which China and the wider world gradually came to know one another.

It was within this long history of contact that the foundations of Sinology were laid.

At first, European knowledge of China came largely through merchants, travelers, diplomats, missionaries, and explorers. Their travel accounts and reports introduced European readers to China’s geography, government, economy, products, customs, language, and social life. Marco Polo’s famous account was among the most influential of these works, while numerous other travel diaries, letters, reports, and books followed. Although such writings inevitably reflected the authors’ own cultural assumptions and sometimes contained misunderstandings or exaggerations, they nevertheless played an important role in bringing China into the intellectual horizon of Europe.

From the sixteenth century onward, missionaries became particularly important intermediaries between China and Europe. They studied the Chinese language, read Chinese classics, interacted with Chinese scholars, and recorded their observations of Chinese society. At the same time, they introduced Western knowledge of mathematics, astronomy, geography, and other sciences into China. The resulting process was characterized by both “Western learning spreading eastward” and “Chinese learning spreading westward.”

Among the most important figures in this process were Michele Ruggieri and Matteo Ricci. Rather than treating Chinese culture simply as an obstacle to missionary activity, they sought to understand it from within. They studied Confucian texts and engaged Chinese intellectuals in dialogue. Their efforts demonstrated that meaningful cultural exchange requires more than the transmission of information; it requires the willingness to understand another civilization on its own terms.

A number of major works gradually transformed European knowledge of China from scattered observations into a more systematic body of learning. Juan González de Mendoza’s History of the Great and Mighty Kingdom of China, published in 1588, brought together a vast amount of information concerning China’s history, geography, government, education, military affairs, customs, products, and everyday life. It was translated into several European languages and circulated widely.

Another landmark appeared in 1687 with the publication of Confucius Sinarum Philosophus, or Confucius, the Chinese Philosopher. Written in Latin, the work introduced European readers to Confucius and major Confucian classics in a systematic manner. Its influence extended far beyond the study of China. European thinkers including Leibniz, Voltaire, Rousseau, and Montesquieu encountered Chinese philosophy and political thought through the growing body of literature on China. Chinese civilization thus became not only an object of curiosity but also a source of intellectual reflection for Europe.

This was a decisive stage in the emergence of Sinology as an independent field of study. In 1814, Jean-Pierre Abel-Rémusat began teaching Chinese and related languages and literature at the Collège de France. Chinese language, history, literature, and geography subsequently entered European academic institutions. Sinology gradually developed in France and then in many other countries, including Portugal, Spain, Italy, the Netherlands, Germany, Russia, Japan, and the United States. It increasingly incorporated methods from linguistics, history, anthropology, archaeology, sociology, and other disciplines.

Sinology is therefore both connected with China and distinct from traditional Chinese scholarship. Its object of study is Chinese civilization, but its development has taken place within different intellectual and cultural traditions. Chinese scholars and foreign Sinologists may examine the same historical subject while approaching it from different perspectives, using different questions and methodologies. This difference is not necessarily a weakness. On the contrary, it can provide valuable opportunities for mutual reflection.

Sinology can serve as a mirror through which the world sees China, but it can also become a mirror through which China sees itself.

The history of Sinology reminds us that the vitality of a civilization does not lie in resisting all change. It lies in its ability to communicate, absorb, transform, and renew itself. Chinese civilization has survived and developed over thousands of years partly because of its capacity to incorporate elements from other cultures. Buddhism became deeply integrated into Chinese intellectual and spiritual life; foreign artistic, religious, scientific, and technological influences enriched Chinese society; and in modern times, China has continued to learn from other civilizations.

Cultural exchange, however, is never a one-way process. It is not simply a matter of one civilization giving and another receiving. Genuine exchange is a process in which both sides are changed. Through dialogue, each civilization gains the opportunity to reconsider its own assumptions and discover new possibilities.

This lesson is particularly important in the twenty-first century. Modern transportation and communications have brought societies closer together than ever before, but geographical proximity does not automatically produce mutual understanding. Differences in history, religion, values, and social experience can still create misunderstanding and conflict. In such a world, the importance of understanding, respect, and equal dialogue has become even greater.

The significance of Sinology therefore extends beyond the academic study of Chinese language and culture. It represents a way of understanding another civilization through sustained intellectual engagement. To study a civilization seriously is not simply to judge it by one’s own standards, but to enter, as far as possible, its historical experience and cultural context.

Chinese civilization has produced many ideas that continue to possess value beyond their original historical setting: self-renewal, moral responsibility, respect for others, honesty, trust, and harmony between human beings and nature. At the same time, China has much to learn from the achievements and experiences of other civilizations. Cultural confidence should not mean cultural isolation. Genuine confidence allows a civilization to appreciate its own heritage while remaining open to the strengths of others.

Sinology was born from encounters between civilizations. It began with the movement of people, goods, religions, books, and ideas along ancient roads and across seas. It grew through travel accounts and missionary writings, matured through the translation and study of Chinese classics, and eventually became an established academic discipline. Its history is therefore not merely the history of a field of scholarship. It is also a history of humanity’s long search for understanding across cultural boundaries.

Looking ahead, the value of Sinology should not be measured only by the number of scholars, universities, or publications devoted to the study of China. Its deeper value lies in its capacity to promote dialogue. When different civilizations are willing to understand one another, recognize their differences, learn from one another, and seek common ground, cultural diversity becomes a source of strength rather than division.

Harmony does not mean the disappearance of difference. It means that differences can coexist with mutual respect. The history of Sinology demonstrates that civilizations can meet without losing their identities, and that through sustained exchange they can enrich one another.

Humanity may still be far from the ideal of a world in which different peoples live together in mutual understanding. Yet distance should not be a reason to abandon the journey. The ancient dream that people across the world might live as members of one human family remains worth pursuing.

Sinology came into being through the meeting of civilizations, and its future should continue to be shaped by that meeting. When cultures become more open, more understanding, and more willing to learn from one another, the study of China becomes more than an academic enterprise: it becomes part of the broader human effort to build bridges across differences and to create a world in which civilizations can coexist, communicate, and flourish together.

Source: qstheory, sass org cn, people, uwtsd 

The Return of Japanese Militarism: How Tokyo’s Intelligence Expansion Threatens Global Security

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On May 27, Japan’s Diet formally approved the Act on the Establishment of the National Intelligence Council, marking a significant step in Tokyo’s efforts to fundamentally strengthen its capabilities for intelligence collection, analysis and interagency coordination. Driven by Prime Minister Sanae Takaichi and unfolding alongside an accelerating military buildup and the resurgence of a new form of militarism, Japan’s increasingly centralized intelligence architecture warrants close scrutiny.

During World War II, Japan relied on an extensive intelligence apparatus to facilitate its overseas aggression and expansion. Intelligence operations served not only military campaigns but also penetrated deeply into domestic governance, social surveillance and ideological control. 

Following Japan’s defeat, the country underwent demilitarization and democratization, and its wartime intelligence apparatus was dismantled. In the decades that followed, Japan gradually developed a system characterized by parallel intelligence institutions, interagency checks and balances, and a significant reliance on the United States.

Today, intelligence responsibilities are distributed among a number of Japanese institutions, including the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, the Ministry of Defense, the Ministry of Justice, the Public Security Intelligence Agency and the National Police Agency. 

Since the beginning of the 21st century, however, Japan has sought to upgrade its intelligence capabilities in response to changes in the international security environment and as part of a broader transformation of its national security strategy. In 2001, the government established the Cabinet Intelligence and Research Office and the Cabinet Satellite Intelligence Center, while the Act on the Protection of Specially Designated Secrets formally took effect in December 2014.

The Act on the Establishment of the National Intelligence Council represents an important turning point in this latest phase of intelligence reform. Its stated objective is to enhance coordination across government, but its institutional implications point toward a far more centralized structure in which the Prime Minister’s Office assumes greater control over the country’s intelligence resources. 

Under the legislation, a National Intelligence Council chaired by the prime minister will be established to investigate and deliberate on major intelligence activities and counterintelligence matters, effectively serving as a central command and coordination mechanism for intelligence collection and analysis.

The legislation further requires the chief cabinet secretary and the heads of relevant administrative agencies to provide the council with useful information and materials in a timely manner and, when requested by the chair, to provide explanations and other necessary assistance. In institutional terms, these provisions establish a legally backed mechanism for the upward flow of intelligence from individual agencies to the central government. The Japanese government also plans to establish a National Intelligence Agency in July, initially with a staff of approximately 700, with personnel numbers expected to expand in stages.

On the surface, these reforms can be presented as an effort to overcome bureaucratic fragmentation and make more efficient use of intelligence resources. In practice, however, they represent a fundamental restructuring of Japan’s intelligence system toward greater centralization and a significant departure from the postwar model of dispersed institutional authority. 

The command center of Japan’s intelligence operations is likely to become increasingly concentrated in the Prime Minister’s Office, creating a vertically integrated structure extending from the political leadership downward. This development raises questions about whether an important institutional safeguard established during Japan’s postwar democratization, the dispersal of intelligence authority intended to prevent the re-emergence of militarism, is gradually being weakened.

Japan will remain dependent on the United States for intelligence capabilities and information sharing in the short term. Over the longer term, however, the establishment of a National Intelligence Council and a centralized National Intelligence Agency could provide Tokyo with the institutional foundation to develop greater autonomy in intelligence planning, collection and analysis.

The connection between intelligence reform and military expansion is particularly significant. Historically, Japan’s overseas military campaigns were frequently preceded and supported by extensive intelligence-gathering and espionage activities. From the First Sino-Japanese War through the Pacific War, intelligence operations played a central role in identifying targets, gathering battlefield information and facilitating military expansion.

Against this historical backdrop, the intelligence reforms pursued by the Takaichi government deserve particular attention. On May 14, Chief Cabinet Secretary Minoru Kihara stated during questioning before the House of Councillors Committee on Cabinet Affairs that the newly established National Intelligence Council would cooperate with the Self-Defense Forces in intelligence collection. 

Earlier, on March 23, the Takaichi government formally initiated a reorganization of the Self-Defense Forces. The Maritime Self-Defense Force established a new Intelligence Operations Group, bringing together units responsible for intelligence, cyber operations, communications and maritime surveillance, while the Ground Self-Defense Force established its own Intelligence Operations Unit.

At present, Japan’s intelligence capabilities within the Self-Defense Forces are centered on the Defense Intelligence Headquarters and specialized intelligence units belonging to the individual services. These capabilities have nevertheless been constrained by personnel shortages and institutional fragmentation. 

Greater coordination under the National Intelligence Council could enable the government to integrate resources from civilian agencies and other intelligence organizations with those of the Self-Defense Forces, potentially strengthening Japan’s military intelligence capabilities. At the same time, Tokyo is expected to place greater emphasis on mobilizing civilian resources, incorporating advanced technologies and recruiting specialized personnel to expand its capacity for intelligence collection and analysis.

International intelligence cooperation is another important dimension of Japan’s evolving defense strategy. Tokyo has signed military information protection agreements with the United States, South Korea and India, and has established similar arrangements with Britain, France, Germany, Italy, Australia, Canada, Ukraine and NATO. 

On May 12, Japan and the Philippines also announced the launch of negotiations on a related agreement. Through these arrangements, Japan has developed bilateral intelligence-sharing mechanisms with many of the principal members of the Five Eyes community and has increasingly been described by some observers as a potential “sixth eye” within the broader Western intelligence network.

The strategic implications are considerable. By integrating its domestic intelligence resources and strengthening intelligence capabilities within the Self-Defense Forces, Japan could become more deeply embedded in the U.S.-led intelligence architecture in the Asia-Pacific. 

In flashpoints such as the Taiwan Strait and the South China Sea, closer intelligence cooperation could allow Japan to play a more prominent role in surveillance, reconnaissance and information operations conducted in coordination with the United States. From Beijing’s perspective, such a development would reinforce the perception of Japan as an intelligence outpost supporting U.S. efforts to contain China militarily and strategically. The resulting deterioration in regional strategic trust could, in turn, increase the risks of miscalculation and military confrontation.

Even more troubling are the potential domestic consequences of a highly centralized intelligence structure. The legislation focuses heavily on building a unified institutional framework for intelligence agencies but provides comparatively limited safeguards concerning the boundaries of intelligence activities, particularly the surveillance of Japanese citizens or foreign targets. 

Nor does it establish a robust independent parliamentary or third-party oversight mechanism capable of scrutinizing intelligence operations. This creates concern that agencies entrusted with extensive intelligence powers could acquire broad authority without sufficiently clear or enforceable limits.

The potential risks are particularly acute in an era in which governments possess unprecedented access to personal information. Tax records, social-security data, immigration records, communications information and other forms of personal data have traditionally been administered by separate government agencies under different legal frameworks. 

If such information were increasingly integrated and made available for centralized intelligence purposes, the potential implications for privacy and personal-data protection would be substantial.

Takaichi has also indicated that her government intends to pursue additional legislation and institutional measures, including an anti-espionage law, an external intelligence agency and a national intelligence strategy. Taken together, these initiatives suggest that Japan is not merely making incremental adjustments to existing institutions but is moving toward the construction of a much broader intelligence and surveillance architecture.

These concerns have already been voiced within Japan. The Japan Federation of Bar Associations and other civic groups have expressed opposition to the legislation, while lawmakers have raised concerns that intelligence institutions could be politicized and used for partisan purposes. 

Both chambers of the Diet adopted supplementary resolutions calling for consideration of privacy and personal-information protection in the organization and operation of the National Intelligence Council. Yet such resolutions do not carry the same binding legal force as statutory safeguards and therefore offer limited protection against potential abuses of surveillance powers.

Japan’s history provides ample reason for such caution. During the wartime period, the Special Higher Police, commonly known as the Tokkō, developed an extensive system of domestic surveillance and repression. It targeted anti-war activists, suppressed dissent, controlled public discourse and pursued political opponents in the name of national security. Even after the war, controversies involving police wiretapping of Communist Party officials in Kanagawa Prefecture and surveillance operations by the Public Security Intelligence Agency have periodically raised concerns about the persistence of intrusive intelligence practices.

The issue, therefore, is not simply whether Japan should possess stronger intelligence capabilities. In an increasingly complex security environment, every major power faces legitimate demands to improve its ability to collect and analyze information, counter espionage and respond to emerging threats. The more fundamental question is how such capabilities are organized, who exercises ultimate authority over them, what legal limits constrain their activities, and whether independent institutions possess sufficient power to hold intelligence agencies accountable.

Japan’s current trajectory raises legitimate concerns precisely because institutional centralization appears to be advancing faster than mechanisms of independent oversight. A powerful intelligence apparatus operating under increasingly direct political control can improve the state’s capacity to respond rapidly to security threats, but it can also increase the risks of politicization, mission creep and excessive surveillance. These risks become particularly serious when intelligence institutions are being strengthened simultaneously with military expansion and closer integration into a U.S.-led regional security network.

The significance of Japan’s intelligence transformation consequently extends beyond the technical organization of its security bureaucracy. It touches on the broader question of what kind of security state Japan intends to become. The postwar constitutional order was built in part around institutional restraints designed to prevent the return of militarism and unchecked state power. If intelligence authority is increasingly concentrated at the political center without corresponding safeguards for privacy, parliamentary scrutiny and judicial or independent oversight, one of those postwar restraints could gradually be eroded.

The historical memory of Japan’s wartime intelligence apparatus should not be invoked mechanically, nor should every contemporary security reform be equated with a return to militarism. Yet history does demonstrate that intelligence institutions are never politically neutral. They can strengthen a democratic state’s capacity to protect its citizens, but they can also become instruments of political control when oversight fails.

Japan is therefore approaching a consequential crossroads. The creation of a centralized intelligence structure may enhance the country’s strategic autonomy and military effectiveness, but it also carries significant risks if institutional power expands without equally strong safeguards. As Tokyo seeks a larger role in regional security and deeper integration with its allies’ intelligence networks, the international community will have reason to watch not only how much intelligence capability Japan acquires, but also how that capability is governed.

For Japan, the central challenge is not simply to build a stronger intelligence state. It is to demonstrate that greater intelligence power can coexist with democratic accountability, protection of individual rights and meaningful institutional checks. Without those safeguards, efforts presented as modernization of the national security system could instead deepen political centralization, intensify regional confrontation and revive precisely the historical anxieties that Japan’s postwar order was designed to prevent.

Source: xinhua, china diplomacy, people, theconversation

AI for Whom? Who Benefits from Artificial Intelligence?

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Artificial intelligence is emerging as a powerful force reshaping the global order. From the reorganization of industrial supply chains to the production of knowledge, from transformations in the nature of work to international competition, the impact of AI has already gone far beyond a mere technological revolution. It is becoming a question of the very structure of the societies of the future.

When large corporations control the most advanced AI technologies, could this give rise to a new form of colonialism toward smaller countries that lack such technological capabilities? Are the data generated by people in Africa truly equal, in the eyes of AI, to the data generated in Europe and the United States? Whose intelligence? Who, ultimately, does artificial intelligence serve? Is it creating a more inclusive and equitable future, or is it reproducing, and perhaps deepening, existing inequalities in new technological forms?

In this conversation, Professor Yin Zhiguang of Fudan University speaks with Hansong Li, Assistant Professor at American University and Research Fellow at the Harvard Kennedy School’s Center for International Affairs, about AI from the perspective of the Global South, examining the global division of labor, data power, and knowledge justice behind the technology.

Why are you interested in AI, and what are your main concerns about its impact on society and the global order?

AI is an unavoidable question of our time because it represents one of today’s most advanced productive forces. But we should neither assume that technology follows a single, linear path nor believe that AI can automatically solve all social problems. Its significance lies not only in transforming production, but also in reshaping social relations and collective consciousness.

I think we can understand AI on at least three levels. The first is the restructuring of global supply chains and the international division of labor: why do some countries and companies control large language models, computing power, and core algorithms, while others are left providing data, labor, minerals, and energy? How did this new division of labor emerge?

How does the future envisioned by large data companies like Palantir differ from our existing forms of social organization, and does it truly promote equality or instead reproduce inequality?

If AI is truly empowering us, is that empowerment universal and equal, or does it accelerate and amplify existing inequalities? This raises a deeper question: What will the AI utopia of the future actually look like?

Many visions promoted by tech leaders appear human-centered, but are in fact centered on a technological elite, surrounded by robots while ordinary people remain outside. In the Global South, this raises an especially urgent problem: as automation advances, many workers may never experience the kind of industrialization that transformed East Asia, nor gain access to the high-end technology sector. Such a future could therefore reproduce profound structural inequalities.

A second vision is human–machine integration, in which AI becomes an extension of human capabilities, a kind of “second brain” that gives us instant access to knowledge and information. But this does not automatically solve social problems. It may increase individual productivity while simultaneously creating new forms of labor, social relations, and alienation. Ultimately, how humans integrate with machines is not simply a technological question; it is a question of political economy and the kind of society we choose to build.

To what extent does AI-enhanced human–machine integration actually increase productivity across different forms of labor, and how should we understand its impact when AI becomes an extension of human capabilities rather than merely a tool?

AI may increase efficiency without necessarily increasing social productivity as a whole, and its impact remains highly uneven across sectors. In developed economies, service-sector jobs such as legal assistants, accountants, financial analysts, and programmers are already being significantly reshaped, while the rise of AI agents and human–machine integration could make the future of human labor increasingly uncertain.

By contrast, agriculture, small-scale production, and the informal economy have a much more complicated relationship with AI. In countries like India, where a vast informal economy exists alongside a rapidly growing AI sector, it is still unclear how deeply AI is actually transforming the lives of ordinary workers. At the same time, the Global South also offers alternative possibilities, such as using AI for weather monitoring, telemedicine, and agricultural services. The question, then, is not simply whether AI increases productivity, but whose productivity it increases, and under what conditions.

Does AI create new forms of inequality, or does it primarily deepen existing disparities between agricultural and industrial countries and between the primary and tertiary sectors?

Both dynamics are happening at the same time. On the one hand, AI is creating new inequalities within its own global supply chain. Countries at the bottom often perform data labeling and content moderation, labor-intensive and psychologically damaging work involving violent, sexual, or otherwise disturbing content. They effectively become the “filters” of the AI industry, absorbing the risks and trauma while others receive the clean data. This echoes older patterns of global production, in which developing countries have long borne the environmental and human costs of global consumption.

On the other hand, AI empowers countries, regions, and social groups very unevenly, creating new forms of dependence and exclusion. Some become the “front of the train,” while others are left behind, or never get on the train at all. When the knowledge economy fails to be inclusive, those excluded may understandably ask, “What does AI have to do with me?” That sense of exclusion can fuel resentment toward technological elites and, ultimately, populist politics.

Given the deep inequalities within and beyond the AI industry, how can we rethink global AI governance to account for these differences and build a more equitable framework?

This goes beyond inequality in the AI supply chain and raises a broader question of global knowledge injustice. Inclusive AI governance must begin with inclusive data. Although AI models are trained on enormous datasets, they still capture only a small fraction of human experience. What gets included as “valid data” is itself a political and epistemic choice, largely shaped by major technology companies and engineers in the Global North.

That is why we need to bring more countries, languages, cultures, and forms of local knowledge into AI development. We can already see this in Africa, where startups in countries such as Uganda and Ethiopia are developing models based on local languages, data, and social realities rather than simply reproducing existing English-language models. This shows that AI does not have to follow a single Silicon Valley model.

Ultimately, this is a question of epistemic justice: Whose data enters the model? Whose knowledge is represented? And who remains excluded from knowledge production? If AI governance is to be genuinely inclusive, we must diversify not only the languages of AI, but also the data, knowledge, and perspectives that shape it.

The third level concerns our imaginaries of the future. Some technology elites in Silicon Valley envision futures in which a small minority controls AI, embodied robots, and other advanced technologies—or even escapes to Mars while the rest of humanity is left behind. Such visions point toward an increasingly technocratic and hierarchical future, with echoes of what has been called the Dark Enlightenment.

What are the material conditions required for AI to become truly accessible and inclusive worldwide, from affordable and open models to low-cost, reliable energy?

Beyond open source, AI needs to be meaningfully integrated into social life and economic production. We could even slow the race to push the limits of generative AI and large language models, and focus more on what they actually contribute to ordinary people and society.

A second priority is sustainable energy. AI depends heavily on electricity, so a diverse and sustainable energy system is itself a foundation for AI development. This is also why energy security and AI governance cannot be treated as separate issues.

Ultimately, however, the most important question is where society wants AI to go. Countries and regions such as Singapore, ASEAN, and the African Union are already exploring new approaches to AI governance, while the United States has traditionally relied more on market-driven innovation, intervening only after problems become serious. This reflects a broader tendency to pursue technological progress without first building the social foundations necessary to sustain it.

We need to bring human needs and lived realities back into discussions of technological development and global governance. Technology cannot be an end in itself; it must be grounded in the material and social conditions of human life. Otherwise, we risk building a technological “second floor” while forgetting that the foundations beneath it are already cracking.

How can we put human needs and lived realities back at the center of technological development and global AI governance, rather than assuming that technological progress alone will solve broader social problems?

The key is collaborative governance. For too long, global resources and decision-making power have been concentrated in the hands of a few countries and corporations, leaving many developing countries with little voice in the rules that govern them. As the old slogan goes, “no taxation without representation.” The same principle should apply to AI governance: countries should not simply be expected to accept rules they had no role in creating.

The most fundamental principle of global AI governance, therefore, should be co-creation and shared governance. We need to develop a shared wisdom around AI, build consensus through participation, and gradually establish norms that everyone has a stake in. These norms will inevitably evolve, but through continued cooperation they can develop into genuinely universal mechanisms of governance.

This also creates an opportunity for the Global South to move beyond being merely a recipient of supposedly “universal” rules. By participating in the construction of those rules, the Global South can become a co-creator of what universality itself means.

Source: guancha, live science, techradar