Zhai Xiang
@ZhaiXiang5 • 18,260 subscribers
Stanfordian, Cornell'11 Scholar on China-US Relations Member of China's National Cultural Relics Society
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China just released an audio recording of a recent radio exchange between Japan's Maritime Self-Defense Force and the Chinese Navy. The Japanese side identified itself by saying: "This is Japan Navy." The Chinese Navy immediately responded: Your so-called Japan Navy has violated your own constitution. To understand how inappropriate "Japan Navy" is, imagine an employee whose official title is "staff member" walking into a board meeting and declaring: "Good morning. I'm the chairman." That is exactly what happened on the radio. A self-defense force is the strictly defensive organization Japan was permitted to retain after WWII. A navy is a full military branch of a sovereign state, capable of offensive operations. The distance between the two words is huge enough to separate the postwar order from its collapse. According to Article 9 of Japan's Constitution: "Aspiring sincerely to an international peace based on justice and order, the Japanese people forever renounce war as a sovereign right of the nation and the threat or use of force as means of settling international disputes. In order to accomplish the aim of the preceding paragraph, land, sea, and air forces, as well as other war potential, will never be maintained." And this is only the tip of the iceberg. Consider Japan's growing list of "small moves" in recent years. 1. Using offensive weapons in military exercises 2. Sending vessels of the Japan Maritime Self-Defense Force to pass through the Taiwan Strait 3. Putting an active-duty service member on the ruling party's stage 4. Promoting discussions on nuclear deterrence One word at a time. One step at a time. From "self-defense force" to "navy." From "exclusively defense-oriented" to counterstrike capabilities. From preserving the pacifist Constitution to campaigning for constitutional revision. From honoring three nonnuclear principles to opening questioning nuclear taboos. Taken together, they reveal a much larger transformation: A force created in the name of self-defense is gradually shedding that label and reclaiming the identity of a full-fledged military, inch by inch. The most important changes often do not begin with a declaration. Sometimes, they begin with a few words over the radio: "This is Japan Navy." And history is watching who lets them pass.
Zhai Xiang223,385 Aufrufe • vor 24 Tagen
A video released today by China's State-owned Assets Supervision and Administration Commission, which oversees over 100 major central enterprises, became one of the biggest trending topics on Chinese social media today. The footage was shot on the Gobi Desert in Ruoqiang County (若羌县) in eastern Xinjiang, at the foot of the Altun Mountains (阿尔金山), beyond which stands the Qinghai-Xizang Plateau. There, the site spans 17 square kilometers of what was once empty sand. Now, a robot is taking over: automatically moving and precisely mounting solar panels at a pace that makes the whole operation look less like a construction site and more like a Martian base. "Did I just wake up in the future? Is Mars installing solar panels now?" Chinese netizens joked. By the end of November, this will be a 1-gigawatt solar plant, powering 500,000 homes. The robot is homegrown. The panels? 32 kilos each. Not long ago, this was all muscle and sweat, and a dangerous job at height. Now, the robot with suction cups moves them like paper, at least 60 an hour. No fatigue. No mistakes. No falls. Xinjiang is rich in solar and wind resources. Now, over 60% of its power generation comes from renewables. That clean power is helping China hit carbon peak by 2030 and neutrality by 2060, while supplying grids in eastern, central, and southwestern China. So no, "Mars" is not installing solar panels for now. But the Gobi Desert is becoming China's own energy planet. Over to you, Mars and Elon.
Zhai Xiang59,144 Aufrufe • vor 1 Monat
Before we get into that ingenious cooling stunt, let's first meet the star of the story: Yuncheng (运城), north China's Shanxi Province. This seemingly low-key city actually has a few remarkable identities that may completely change the way you see it. China's "No. 1 City of National Treasures" Yuncheng is home to 100+ cultural heritage sites under national-level protection, with an astonishing concentration of ancient architecture. Step into almost any county in the area, and you may come across a temple, pagoda, or mural that has survived a thousand years. East Asia's Oldest Paleolithic Site? It is home to one of the earliest known Paleolithic sites in East Asia, dating back approximately 1.8 million years. Some European studies even suggest that the site may be more than 2.4 million years old. Salt Lake City, meet your Chinese twin Yuncheng is home to a salt lake spanning roughly 154 square kilometers, with a salt-harvesting history stretching back some 4,000 years. Salt Lake City, meet China's Salt Lake City. Perhaps it's time to make this a sister-city relationship, Salt Lake City Government ? And its waters are actually saltier than those of the Dead Sea, buoyant enough to let a person float effortlessly on the surface. The only thing that doesn't float here is its fame. Hometown of Guan Yu (关羽) China's legendary warrior saint, Guan Yu, was born there more than 1,800 years ago. Celebrated for his unwavering loyalty and valor, and immortalized by the tragedy of a fatal misjudgment in his final years, he went on to influence Chinese culture for nearly two millennia. Even today, countless temples across China dedicated to him remain active, from Taiwan to Xinjiang. By all accounts, Yuncheng has no shortage of history and culture worthy of making headlines. Yet what recently propelled the city into the national spotlight was not its cultural heritage, though. It was the rooftop of an ordinary residential complex-where it suddenly began to "rain." This summer, a punishing heatwave has swept across Europe, while much of China has also been gripped by prolonged high temperatures. Against this backdrop, an unusual cooling system that sends a fine mist drifting down from above has captured nationwide attention. According to the property developer, the system was officially put into operation in August 2024. Each building, 100 meters tall, is equipped with more than 200 high-pressure misting nozzles installed along the rooftop. The fine droplets absorb heat as they evaporate, helping to lower the surrounding temperature. The system enters regular operation each June, with a single cycle lasting about 10 minutes. My colleagues took on-site measurements. Before the system kicked in, the ground temperature within the complex had climbed to 44 degrees Celsius. Once the system began operating, clouds of fine spray descended from above. Children opened umbrellas and played in the artificial "rain." After the spraying cycle ended, measurements showed that the ground temperature had fallen to around 33 degrees Celsius, while the temperature within the mist-covered area dropped significantly, turning a sweltering afternoon into something noticeably cooler and far more comfortable environment. According to the property management, the operating costs are fully covered by the community's shared property-management budget, meaning residents pay nothing extra. The system draws on ordinary tap water. Because the droplets are so fine, most of the water evaporates before it ever reaches the ground. Beyond cooling the air, it helps reduce dust and provides some irrigation for nearby greenery, allowing the same water to serve multiple purposes. This residential community is not the only place experimenting with creative ways to cope with extreme heat. As high temperatures continue, cities across China are introducing increasingly practical and locally adapted cooling measures. In Beijing, Turpan, and many other cities, air-conditioned service stations have opened their doors to sanitation workers, delivery riders, and other outdoor workers. These stations provide watermelon, chilled drinks, ready-to-eat food, and heatstroke-prevention supplies, all free of charge. In some locations, field workers have also been equipped with cooling vests and other protective gear designed for extreme heat. Kaifeng (开封), in central China's Henan Province, has taken an approach that carries a touch of romance all its own. About a thousand years ago, Kaifeng served as the capital of China, during a period when science and technology, urban civilization, and the visual arts flourished. Today, the city is home to several large theme parks and has become one of China's major cultural tourism destinations. Some have even dubbed it "China's Orlando." Kaifeng is also renowned for its watermelons. This year's bumper harvest, however, has left some local growers struggling to find enough buyers. In response, several theme parks have stepped in to purchase large quantities of local watermelons in bulk. The initiative helps farmers expand their sales channels, and allows the parks to hand out thousands of kilograms of free watermelon to visitors each day, offering a refreshing respite from the summer heat. From mist raining down on rooftops, to icy drinks pressed into the hands of delivery riders, to free watermelons handed out by the truckload-different cities, one shared answer. Fighting the heat doesn't always take billion-dollar mega-projects. Sometimes, it just takes a little imagination, and a lot of heart. It might be a shower of mist falling from a rooftop, a wearable cooling suit, or a slice of freshly cut, ice-cold watermelon. What's the coolest heat-relief idea in YOUR city? Drop it in the comments, let's see who wins summer. (And to our friends in the Southern Hemisphere and Alaska-tell us your winter survival tricks instead. We'll need them in December☕)
Zhai Xiang13,477 Aufrufe • vor 1 Monat
Xinjiang, where over 90% of China's cotton is grown, has kicked off this year's planting season. It is also one of the largest cotton-producing regions in the world, with approximately 5.69 million tonnes of cotton harvested in 2024 alone. Last year, I visited Xinjiang twice for work, though both trips focused on pastoral communities and archaeological sites. However, I've been curious about the lives of local farmers, especially those who grow cotton, naturally due to some noises and debates concerning this topic over the years. So I reached out to colleagues familiar with the field-and their insights offered some perspectives I hadn't delved into before. Today, cotton planting in Xinjiang is not even labor-intensive. It has been replaced by highly mechanized and intelligent farming practices. Take Xayar County (沙雅县) in southern Xinjiang's Aksu (阿克苏) for example-one of the first places in Xinjiang to start planting cotton each year (Incidentally, over 50 years ago, my father, then just a primary school student, moved from Beijing to Aksu with my grandparents. Life there was much tougher than in the capital, but he still recalls it as one of the happiest and most unforgettable periods of his life. He witnessed firsthand the harmonious ties between different ethnic groups and made several Uygur friends. The ties are so profound that he has returned several times to visit his old buddies). According to 2024 data, Xayar has a population of 261,257, with 225,938 Uygurs, accounting for 86.48% of the total. Uygur farmers make up about 80% of all cotton growers in the county. One of them is Ababekri, who farms alongside his father and four brothers. They use a driverless cotton planter equipped with BeiDou satellite positioning technology. While one person usually remains in the cabin as a precaution, the machine moves in perfectly straight lines according to its programmed route, performing sowing, laying drip irrigation tubing, and applying plastic mulch-all in one go. The efficiency of driverless planter is 30% to 40% higher than manual seeding machines and can even operate at night. For the Ababekri family, they manage 320 hectares of cotton fields (equal to over four times of the Forbidden City), and it takes just over 10 days to complete the entire planting process. "We chose to grow cotton to live a better life-and we're getting there." The 37-year-old farmer told my colleague. That choice, however, didn't start with him. Ababekri's father made the switch to cotton around 2003, replacing about 1.33 hectares of wheat after observing neighbors earned strong profits from the cash crop. At the time, Ababekri was still a teenager and didn't appreciate the decision at all. He found cotton-planting exhausting, especially during harvest season when the entire family had to manually pick cotton in the fields (Yes! Before automation, aside from melons, cotton was probably the most labor-intensive crop in Xinjiang. During harvest season, large numbers of temporary workers had to be even recruited from other provinces across China to help pick cotton up). Yet, that very first year, their household income exceeded 20,000 yuan-a considerable sum even in Beijing at the time, let alone in Xinjiang. He quickly realized that cotton offered a path to a better life, with returns several times higher than any other crops. Over the years, the family steadily grew their cotton operation into a thriving business. Not only has planting become automated, but cotton harvesting in Xinjiang has also largely moved away from manual labor. According to the Xinjiang Cotton Association, as of 2024: ✅100% of cotton planting in Xinjiang is mechanized ✅Approximately 90% of harvesting is also done by machine Ababekri has, for the past three years, hired a Han Chinese driver, around the same age as him, to operate a cotton harvester during the autumn season. The machine can pick about 33 hectares per day, and it takes also only 10 days to complete the entire harvest on his land. In a place where western media headlines often dwell on "ethnic tension," the quiet, seamless cooperation between farmers like Ababekri and his team speaks to a different truth. He employs dozens of workers, several of whom are Han Chinese. Being asked if he had heard about the portrayed division, he replied simply: "I don't care what ethnicity someone is. I only care who can help me grow better cotton." A few statistics help paint a clearer picture of cotton production in Xinjiang: ✅In 2024, Xinjiang's cotton planting area reached 36.72 million mu, accounting for 86.2% of the national total ✅Total production reached 5.686 million tonnes, or 92.2% of China's total output ✅There are 327,000 smallholder cotton farmers in the region, over 70% of whom are ethnic minorities ✅The industry provides employment and livelihoods for over 2 million people from all ethnic backgrounds For many families, cotton farming is the main source of income. However, many export-oriented enterprises have faced serious challenges due to America-led sanctions. Dozens of companies in Xinjiang have been blacklisted over labor allegations. Some companies had to cut production, lay off workers, or even shut down entirely, leaving many employees jobless. A lost job is never just a number-for me it's how they put decent food on the table, send their children to better education, and build a future. The irony is stark: Xinjiang's cotton industry has been fundamentally transformed by modernization. Accusations of "forced labor" are not only baseless, but also deeply disrespectful to the people whose lives depend on this honest work-people like Ababekri and his family, who work hard make the life better. There has been no shortage of headlines and discourse surrounding Xinjiang cotton. But to truly understand this land, we need to look beyond the noise-to the fields, the machines, and the hands who guide them. Their stories aren't about politics. They're about dignity. Not about labels, but about livelihoods. Not ideology, but about effort. Let facts be louder than prejudice, and let truth travel farther than rumors.
Zhai Xiang84,185 Aufrufe • vor 1 Jahr
This might be the most ambitious Three Kingdoms film ever made. Light Chaser, China's top animation studio, is dropping its first heroic Three Kingdoms film, Battle of Luoyang, on July 10. Two years ago, I had the chance to be involved-accompanying the creative team on a research trip across Henan Province, where we explore ruins of the imperial palace, various museums, and the tomb of Cao Cao. I also help connect them with some of China's leading archaeologists to answer their questions as they worked to reconstruct the era in the most authentic way possible. Their goal? Not just to tell a story, but to rebuild a lost world. Their commitment to realism goes so far that they would repeatedly question and refine every single detail, down to each brick and bamboo slip. I haven't seen the full film yet. But the short clips released today are already enough to give you chills: The heroes of 1,800 years ago are breathing again. The Three Kingdoms period is one of the most remembered eras in Chinese history, spanning from 220 to 280 AD, though in a broader sense it also includes the final years of the Eastern Han dynasty. Named after the states of Wei (魏), Shu (蜀), and Wu (吴), the era was marked by marked by ceaseless warfare, political intrigue, courage, diplomatic maneuvering, and heroism, producing countless figures who remain legendary and inspirational in China today. The film zooms in on the turbulent years leading up to the Three Kingdoms period, portraying the pivotal political clash between Cao Cao (曹操) and Yuan Shao (袁绍). Cao Cao is a household name across China and East Asia. Originally a low-ranking but ambitious official of the late Eastern Han dynasty, he aspired to restore the imperial court. But amid chaos, he seized his own moment, kidnapping the emperor as a political tool, defeating the powerful aristocrat Yuan Shao, and coming close to unifying China. He abandoned his youthful ideals, yet through bold and controversial ambition, achieved something far "greater." However, in what could be called China's version of the Trojan War, the Battle of Red Cliffs (赤壁之战), he was defeated by the far weaker allied forces of Liu Bei (刘备) and Sun Quan (孙权) along the Yangtse River, losing his final chance at unifying the realm. The year of Cao Cao's death, 220AD, marked the formal beginning of the Three Kingdoms era in Chinese history. Cao Cao was not only a master strategist and military commander, but also a gifted poet. His verse still resonates today, echoing across centuries. For the past 1,800 years, discussions have never ceased: Was Cao Cao a hero or a traitor? A brilliant strategist or a ruthless villain? Warrior. Politician. Poet. Admired. Feared. Debated. Even today, no one agrees. Maybe this film will give us an answer. Or maybe…it will make him even more unforgettable.
Zhai Xiang24,554 Aufrufe • vor 4 Monaten
In recent days, videos of the Huajiang Bridge (花江), the world's highest bridge, have gone viral on X. Many observers couldn't help but note the irony: the R&D cost of a single US fighter jet is nearly equal to that of this monumental bridge in China. Last year, during a business trip through Xiangxi, I came across another engineering marvel that deserves no less attention-the Aizhai Bridge (矮寨). Built for a little more than half the cost of an F-22, it remains the world's largest canyon-spanning suspension bridge. Like Huajiang, Aizhai sits deep within rugged mountains, where transportation was once nearly impossible. Its name, Aizhai (literally "Low Village"), comes from the view looking down from the cliffs above. The settlement seemed so small and sunken, as if fate itself had pressed it beneath the surrounding peaks. In the 1930s, during WWII, China's southwest became a strategic rear area, and a complex network of mountain roads was built here. In 2004, China planned a 3,000-kilometer expressway stretching from Baotou in Inner Mongolia to Maoming in Guangdong, a road literally running from the Gobi desert to the South China Sea. The route was set to pass through this deep canyon, and a major debate arose: should they build tunnels or a bridge? After much study, engineers concluded that although tunneling could save several hundred million yuan, it would cause far greater environmental damage due to the area's fragile karst geology. During field surveys, engineers hiked across mountains and valleys. On one occasion, they encountered a farmer weeping uncontrollably. When they asked what had happened, they learned that her cow had just fallen off a cliff. At that moment, they understood more deeply how dangerous and isolated this region truly was, and why building a bridge here was not just an engineering challenge, but a moral imperative. In 2011, after four years of construction, the Aizhai Bridge was officially completed. Its deck rises 355 meters above the town of Aizhai below. What once required a thirty-minute detour along winding mountain roads can now be crossed in just one minute. The transformation brought by better transportation is about more than just speed. Once a remote, impoverished mountain town cut off from the outside world, it has become a vital artery connecting China's north and south. Travel time from western Hunan to Changsha has been reduced by four hours, and to Chongqing by eight, rewriting not only distances, but the very radius of people's lives and possibilities. Aizhai is "low" no more. Suspended among the clouds, the bridge shortens distances, lifts lives, and reshapes futures. One fighter jet defends airspace. One bridge redefines possibility. Watch the one-minute video I filmed while crossing the bridge.
Zhai Xiang40,004 Aufrufe • vor 10 Monaten
Today, I saw a report on China Central Television: cotton planting for 2026 has already begun in Kashgar in southern Xinjiang. The planters are equipped with BeiDou navigation and autonomous driving systems. They operate with high precision and efficiency, so much so that workers do not even need to sit on the machines, but simply walk behind to monitor the results. What used to take over ten days of manual labor can now be completed in just three. In places like Kashgar, mechanized cotton planting has already reached 100%. Last autumn, I accompanied a delegation of foreign lawmakers to Aksu in southern Xinjiang. Visiting cotton fields and speaking with Uygur farmers was one of the most memorable parts of that trip. For me, Aksu is very personal. In the early 1970s, my father moved to Aksu from Beijing with my grandparents, who were sent there to support the agricultural development of Xinjiang. My father attended middle school there. He told me that my grandfather grew rice, wheat, fruits, vegetables, and cotton. During the cotton-picking season, my father's school would organize all students to help in the fields. He remembers working alongside classmates from different ethnic backgrounds. The work was intensive, but not exhausting, according to my father. Each student received a daily subsidy of 40 cents, enough at the time to buy about half a dozen eggs. Perhaps this is what some people today would call "forced labor," and my father happens to be a witness. After seeing the level of mechanization firsthand, a former Speaker of New Zealand remarked that is what comprehensive development looks like and that is modernization. A senior Mexican lawmaker also noted that more stories like this should be shared with the world, because China is turning what once seemed impossible into reality. What they responded to was not a narrative, but reality as it is. And that gap, between firsthand observation and distant interpretation, is worth reflecting on. According to official data, Xinjiang produced 6.165 million tons of cotton in 2025, accounting for 92.8% of China's total output. And yes, this is the same region labeled as relying on "forced labor," often cited as justification for sanctions on the entire cotton and textile industry. So it raises a question: If the reality on the ground is this level of mechanization, why does the "forced labor" narrative persist in some political, academic and media circles? Is it a matter of outdated information, distorted perception, or something else, perhaps vested interests tied to competing cotton industries? Why can't they constructively point to China's real shortcomings to help this country become better, instead of indulging in narratives that are simply fabricated? When machines have already replaced large-scale manual labor, the rumor of "forced labor" continues to be reproduced. So what is really being produced, cotton, or the story itself?
Zhai Xiang20,462 Aufrufe • vor 5 Monaten
I once thought of Jingdezhen (景德镇) merely as an historic porcelain-producing town, quietly tucked away in the margins of history books. To my surprise, it's not only alive but also thriving with modern flair: A friend of mine recently returned from Jingdezhen, brimming with stories-about a little duck made of broken shards, lovingly restored porcelain factories now taken over by young artists from around the world, and some sixty thousand hand-painting workshops. Listening to these tales, I couldn't help but feel: this city is so worth writing about, even though I've rarely delved into ceramics and seldom write about places I haven't yet seen for myself. Before it became the renowned "Porcelain Capital," Jingdezhen was not particularly noteworthy. Prior to the Northern Song dynasty (960–1127), the region remained rather obscure, as the most advanced ceramic workshops were concentrated in China's central plains. That changed dramatically in 1127, when the Northern Song fell to the Jurchens from the north. Waves of skilled artisans migrated southward, bringing Jingdezhen an unprecedented historical opportunity. By the Southern Song (1127–1279), the town was already producing porcelain for the imperial court, and large quantities of its wares have been found in shipwrecks in the South China Sea from this era. Under Mongol rule (1279–1368), mature blue-and-white porcelain (青花瓷) was born here. Beyond breakthroughs in painting techniques, Jingdezhen's abundant kaolin clay resources allowed artisans to create larger, thinner porcelain bodies-a true leap in craftsmanship. From then on, Jingdezhen established itself as the very heart of Chinese porcelain. During the Ming and Qing dynasties, the imperial court even established official kilns in Jingdezhen dedicated to producing porcelain exclusively for royal use. After the founding of the PRC in 1949, several large porcelain factories were set up here. Astonishingly, half a century ago, one-third of China's foreign exchange earnings came from Jingdezhen porcelain. That number alone shocked me, but what I learned next surprised me even more. In my mind, an industrial city like Jingdezhen would be turning out ceramics that were rigid in design, lacking creativity, and largely mass-produced with printed patterns rather than hand-painted ones-something without sufficient artistic value. But my colleague told me otherwise: today Jingdezhen has more than 60,000 workshops, and over 90 percent of porcelain designs are still hand-painted: Machines may guarantee standardized mass production, but Jingdezhen's true strength lies in its culture of handcrafted customization. While many former industrial hubs shifted entirely toward the service sector in the post-industrial era, Jingdezhen has remained firmly rooted in porcelain. Last year alone, the city's ceramic industry reached an output value of over 93 billion yuan, exporting to more than 80 countries and regions. Even more impressive, the city has embraced bold innovations-reimagining what porcelain can be in the 21st century. Let's take a look at a few examples. Top left: You might not expect it, but ceramic materials can be transformed into musical instruments-flutes, chimes, even stringed instruments. And not just for show-they can really play. Hit play and listen for yourself. Can you believe this sound comes from clay? Top right: Shown here are the work of a Jingdezhen artist's daughter, who returned after studying in the UK: a ceramic speaker and a beautifully engineered teacup. Ingeniously designed with clever mechanics, this teacup will not topple no matter which angle the tea is poured from. With its simple form and distinctive texture, it carries both an Oriental heritage and a modern sensibility. She shared that her daily work involves constantly negotiating the space between tradition and innovation-often engaging in passionate, sometimes stubborn, debates with elder craftsmen. But she said it's exactly in those moments of tension that the most unexpected ideas are born. At one point, Jingdezhen stood in the brink of becoming China's Detroit. Once a glorious industrial powerhouse, prosperous for centuries longer than Detroit ever was, the city began to decline in the late 1990s. Large state-owned porcelain factories shut down one after another, tens of thousands of workers were laid off, and aging dormitories fell into disrepair, some crumbling into near slums. Meanwhile, Western ceramics companies, armed with more advanced industrial techniques, took over the mass-production market, and Jingdezhen's traditional advantages steadily eroded. As the city declined, a question loomed: What should be done with the husks of its abandoned factories? Some pushed to level them for new real estate projects, while others argued for preserving the industrial heritage. In the end, the preservationists won. Many of the old facilities were restored, repurposed, and left largely intact: transformed into artists' studios, small shops, and homes for young craftspeople. The porcelain fires no longer burn only in the kilns. They now fuel the city's way of life. It is precisely this unique blend of cultural atmosphere and youthful vitality that has brought Jingdezhen back to life. Over the past decade, the city has welcomed a net population inflow of 136,000 people, more than 80 percent of them young. In their twenties and thirties, ceramic artists have set up studios in alleys and courtyards, while young visitors wander through the streets, making it feel as though every lane holds a hidden story. What's equally surprising is that Jingdezhen's charm has crossed borders. Today, a growing number of young people from the United States, Japan, France, Turkey, and beyond have chosen to live here long-term, immersing themselves in the art of ceramics. They call this ancient-yet-youthful city "China within China." At the lower left and lower right are the Imperial Kiln Museum (yes, its architecture itself resembles a kiln) and its most popular artifact. Surprisingly, this piece is actually a "reject." Made in the mid-Ming dynasty for the emperor, it is a porcelain incense burner in the form of a duck. To date, the Palace Museum in Beijing has not discovered another example like it. As for its status as a flawed piece, there are a few theories: one suggests that the designer originally intended for smoke to spout from the duck's beak, but the effect proved unsatisfactory, and the craftsmen abandoned what was, perhaps, a rather avant-garde idea; another possibility is that a more perfect version was eventually produced, but those pieces did not survive through history. In Jingdezhen, porcelain rejects from the imperial kilns of the Ming and Qing dynasties were always smashed and discarded. Over time, they formed a mountain of shards. Archaeological work on this "porcelain mountain" continues to this day, with archaeologists patiently piecing fragments back together, like working with Lego bricks. The colleague told me that among this mountain, they even found some flawless porcelain pieces. When I asked why such perfect works would also be smashed, he explained one theory: certain pieces were so difficult to fire that, had the emperor seen them, he might have happily ordered, "Make ten more!" To spare themselves endless trouble, the craftsmen may have deliberately destroyed them, pretending nothing had ever succeeded in the first place. After the duck-shaped incense burner was pieced back together and put on display, its charming form earned it the nickname Suisuiya (碎碎鸭/Broken Duck) from Chinese netizens. Quite unexpectedly, it became something of a cultural phenomenon: quirky, creative, once a "failure," now rediscovered. Many young people see themselves in "Broken Duck": imperfect, but interesting; not yet celebrated, yet deserving to be seen. Artists, too, have embraced its odd yet endearing beauty, creating popular cartoon characters. Since the beginning of this year, merchandise and spin-off IP related to the Broken Duck have already generated more than 10 million RMB in revenue. In September, Khaby Lame, the most-followed creator on TikTok, visited the Imperial Kiln Museum and posed with the duck, pulling his signature expression (Though I must admit, I still don't quite get Lame's appeal…The duck, on the other hand, I find utterly delightful). Across China, Jingdezhen has emerged as a new model for urban renewal: one that does not blindly chase GDP growth or uncritical modernization, but instead draws from its own cultural roots to find common ground between tradition and the future. Sometimes, the hope of a city is hidden in the secret of a "Broken Duck." Not because it is flawless, but because it was once overlooked, and then reappreciated. Like Jingdezhen itself, true revival is not about rebuilding, but about learning to understand who you are, and learning to see it with new eyes.
Zhai Xiang27,928 Aufrufe • vor 10 Monaten
The Chinese have held a deeply romantic reverence for the universe. Over two thousand years ago, the poet Qu Yuan (屈原) composed Heavenly Questions, a long poem filled with inquiries about the origins of heaven and earth, and the movements of the stars, attempting to unveil the mysteries of the cosmos through poetic language. The ancients even coined the term tianlai (天籁), or "the sound of heaven," to describe music so beautiful and pure-an ideal of sonic perfection. Yesterday, I attended China's most prestigious cultural fair in south China's Shenzhen. In addition to representatives from more than 60 countries and regions, every province in China, including Taiwan, Hong Kong, and Macao, had its own pavilion showcasing the highlights of its cultural heritage. What left the deepest impression on me was a brief yet breathtaking musical performance I stumbled upon at the Shanghai Pavilion. Honestly, I hadn't heard of this performance. By chance, I happened to be nearby when it began. Sometimes, serendipity works in mysterious ways. Within moments, I realized I was hearing something truly extraordinary: the real sound of the heaven, or cosmos. The Shanghai Astronomy Museum had led the creation of the world's first musical instruments made from meteorites, and this was their debut performance. The instrument, known as qing (磬), or chime stones, dates back to China's Neolithic period and was traditionally made of stone. It reached its peak usage over two thousand years ago. Inspired by mythical beasts described in legends from the time of Qu Yuan, the museum used 3D printing to recreate the creatures as instrument bases, then cut 20 pieces of meteorite into chime stones. Due to the extreme difficulty of processing meteorites, several precious pieces were lost in the process. Nine chimes were brought and played publicly for the first time. Two young musicians performed two pieces: The first was "Big Fish," the theme song from a beloved Chinese animated film. Ethereal and profound, it conveys a sense of awe and reverence for nature, and calls for a deeper respect for life and the laws of the natural world. The second was "The East is Red," a song that carried the hopes of a generation for light and renewal. It was also the name of China's first man-made satellite, and has since become a symbol of the nation's space ambitions. From meteorites born billions of years ago, crossing time and space to arrive on the Earth, they responded to our wonder in the form of music. The mini-concert made me believe, more than ever: To gaze at the stars is humanity's deepest form of romance. Our reverence for the cosmos has never ceased. And the universe, in its own way, has never stopped answering.
Zhai Xiang25,443 Aufrufe • vor 1 Jahr
Last night, I took a sleeper coach from Wuhan back to Beijing. As the train crossed the Wuhan Yangtze River Bridge, I was surprised to find the view outside the window breathtakingly beautiful. The planning for the construction of the Wuhan Yangtze River Bridge began in the late Qing Dynasty. When Sun Yat-sen (孙中山), who established the Republic of China, arrived in Wuhan after the revolution, he gave a speech at Snake Hill (蛇山) by the Yangtze River, where he also mentioned the idea of building a bridge across the river. Between 1913 and 1948, there were four rounds of surveying, site selection, and design, with experts from the United States, the United Kingdom, Germany, Japan, and other countries participating. However, the plans were shelved multiple times due to technological challenges, economic issues and war turmoil. A local saying once mocked the efforts: "The Yellow River's waters, the Yangtze River's bridge, can't be tamed, can't be built." Construction began in September 1955, and it was completed at twice the originally planned speed. It officially opened to traffic in October 1957. The bridge was chiefly designed and built by Chinese, although there was participation from renowned Soviet specialists. However, many details, such as the pavilion-like bridgeheads, reflect Chinese aesthetic characteristics. Its starting point is the same Snake Hill where Sun Yat-sen once spoke of his hope for a bridge across the river and ends at the Turtle Hill (龟山) across the river. It is also the first permanent bridge to span the Yangtze River in Chinese history. In 2013, it was listed as a national historic site. In the distance is the Wuhan Yangtze River Second Bridge, completed in 1995, 40 years after the construction of the Wuhan Yangtze River Bridge. However, today, Wuhan has more than a dozen bridges and tunnels crossing the Yangtze River. The bridge's story is more than just about its construction. Nearby, Sun Quan (孙权) built a castle, whose watchtower became one of China's most famous towers, the Yellow Crane Tower (黄鹤楼); the defiant scholar Mi Heng (祢衡) wrote the Parrot Eulogy; and Li Bai (李白), one of China's greatest poets, spoke romantically of the plum blossoms falling in May in Wuhan the river town (江城五月落梅花). Crossing the river of history. From the unfulfilled dreams to the plethora of bridges today, Wuhan weaves a picture of the eras with resilience and commitment. As for me, I was fortunate enough to witness the ceaseless pulse and vitality of this heroic city on this bustling night.
Zhai Xiang26,947 Aufrufe • vor 2 Jahren
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