This article was inspired by a spoken-word piece on the Heart Sutra by the Taiwanese channel AI巷仔內 (”AI Alley | Awake Living”). The creator, who also runs a small oden shop in Taipei called 彼岸 (”The Other Shore”), used the metaphor of a child’s lump of clay to make one of Buddhism’s most impenetrable texts feel like something you already knew.

I hope this piece does justice to the beautiful lyrics.

I misunderstood the word “emptiness” for years.

I thought the Buddha wanted us to hollow ourselves out. To strip away all attachments, all feelings, every messy human impulse until we became cold and untouchable, like a stone that the world could no longer hurt because it could no longer feel.

It made enlightenment sound like emotional anaesthesia. If the goal of spiritual practice is to stop caring about anything, then what exactly are we living for?

Then I came across a Taiwanese piece about the Heart Sutra. Set to ambient folk music, the creator reframed the whole concept with a single image that moved me, and has stuck with me since. So simple, yet so completely right.

Emptiness is the “you” that existed before you became who you are now.

A child’s lump of clay

Watch a child play with a lump of clay.

She shapes out a dinosaur, grins at it for half a second, then smashes and starts over again. No regrets. No hesitation. She doesn’t cling to the clay dinosaur because she understands something that adults don’t: the dinosaur was never the goal or the purpose. The playing and creating were.

The block of clay in the box has no fixed shape. In a technical sense, it is “nothing.” But that nothingness isn’t a void. It’s potential. It could become a dog, a castle, a flower, or a lopsided thing that only makes sense to its creator. The absence of a fixed form is exactly what makes every form possible. It is what makes the lump of clay fun.

In Buddhist philosophy, this is what Anatta (or “non-self”) points to. Not this, not that. You are not the dinosaur. You are not even the hands that shaped it.

The shape we mistake for ourselves

The trouble starts when we forget.

As we grow up, life moulds us into different shapes. Useful ones, mostly. We become The Father. The Provider. The Employee. The Boss. The One Who Must Succeed. These shapes serve us. They give us identity, a way to move through the world.

But over time, we begin to confuse the shape with the clay. We start to believe the role is who we are. And once we believe that, and cling to it, everything becomes a threat. Losing your job becomes an existential crisis. A breakup feels like proof that you’re unlovable. The shape must be protected at all costs, because if it breaks, you break.

The creator of that piece told his own version of this. He spent over a decade in advertising, moulded into the shape of a Creative Director. When that title eventually disappeared, he felt shattered until he realised that what broke was only the shape. The clay hadn’t lost a single piece.

He went on to open a small oden shop in Taipei, which he named 彼岸, meaning “The Other Shore.” The name comes directly from the Heart Sutra’s closing mantra. A man who once built his identity around a senior title in advertising, now ladling broth in a six-seat izakaya, and somehow feels more whole than before.

It’s a story about clay remembering what it is.

What was your face before your parents were born?

There is a Zen riddle (koan) I share in many conversations:

It’s designed to stop the thinking mind in its tracks. But it’s also a genuine question. Before anyone named you. Before you were moulded into a son or daughter, a high achiever or a disappointment, a somebody or a nobody. What were you? What is underneath all the faces you’ve put on?

The question, or riddle, is meant to sit with you until the answer surfaces on its own. But the clay metaphor helps me answer it: your original face is the clay before it had a shape.

Not blank. Not empty in the cold, hollow sense. It’s you that existed before the roles began, the unrestricted potential before life started pressing it into different forms. The Heart Sutra calls this śūnyatā, emptiness. Zen calls it your original face. They’re both pointing at the same thing.

And here’s what makes it reassuring rather than frightening: that face hasn’t gone anywhere. It didn’t dissolve when you got your first job or your first heartbreak. It’s still there, underneath every shape you’ve worn since. You’ve just forgotten it’s there.

What the Heart Sutra is saying

The Heart Sutra is one of Buddhism’s most revered texts, and one of its most misunderstood. Many recite it without fully understanding it, tattooing its lines onto their skin. But when you use the clay metaphor to explain its most famous passages, they stop being mystical and start to make sense.

“Form is emptiness, emptiness is form.”

This doesn’t mean your life is an illusion or that your roles don’t matter. It means your current shape, although real, is not permanent, and it is not the deepest truth of who you are. Underneath every role you play, the soft, adaptable clay remains. Don’t forget that.

“No birth, no death; no stain, no purity; no adding, no taking away.”

Shapes are born, and shapes die. You get hired, you get fired. You fall in love, you fall out of love. But the clay, the essence of who you are beneath, neither begins nor ends. It can’t be stained because it was never contaminated in the first place. Every time a shape breaks, it’s not a loss. It’s a return to the place where you start over again.

“The five aggregates are empty.”

The five aggregates (form, sensation, perception, ideas, and consciousness) are Buddhism’s map of the entire human experience. Saying they are “empty” is not an instruction to stop seeing, feeling, or thinking. It’s a reminder that none of those experiences defines you permanently. They are NOT you. Once you stop clinging to who you think you must be, you become less afraid of being hurt. Not because you’ve stopped feeling, but because you’ve stopped mistaking your feelings for who you truly are.

Emptiness is the lack of fear about losing what cannot be lost.

The softer you are, the harder it is to break.

We spend enormous energy building fortresses around our identities: titles, reputations, carefully managed self-images. And things. We think rigidity equals safety. But rigidity is exactly what makes things brittle. A ceramic vase can be destroyed easily. A lump of clay, however, absorbs the impact when it falls.

The Heart Sutra’s promise is not that you’ll stop suffering. It’s that suffering loses its permanence when you stop treating each shape as your final and permanent form. You can grieve the dinosaur. You can miss the Creative Director you once were. But you don’t have to lie down next to the broken pieces and believe that you, too, are broken.

You are the clay. You were always the clay.

Gate, gate, pāragate, pārasaṃgate, bodhi svāhā

The Heart Sutra ends with a mantra that sounds like a dare. A challenge!

Go, go, go beyond. Go completely beyond. And awaken!

Go out. Love fiercely. Live fully. Get moulded and broken and moulded again. Day after day, life after life. Don’t be afraid to change, because you are not your shapes, past or present. You are what remains when all the shapes fall away.

Emptiness was never about having nothing.

It is about knowing you are free to become anything.

I was scrolling through Instagram the other night when an ad caught my attention. An artisan chilli oil. Slick, catchy, great packaging. And expensive, by chilli oil standard.

The ad copy goes something like this:

Established brand Lao Gan Ma (LGM) vs Small Local Business (Artisan)

The ad says LGM is mass-produced, while Artisan is hand-made by a passionate chef. What does “hand-made” really mean? Did you skip the food processor? It’s still produced, just in smaller batches.

LGM uses pre-fried ingredients that supposedly taste “old.” Does that mean they aren’t fresh? Artisan claims to use “fresh” ingredients, but you actually have to pre-fry fresh ingredients to keep them from spoiling. Besides shallots (and maybe garlic), which are sliced and then pre-fried, chilli flakes and spices are already dry, so are they “old” too? And honestly, it’s hard for small-batch producers to get good-quality dried chilli flakes outside China, which are key to good chilli oil.

LGM is fast and cheap. Artisan is slow-cooked and expensive.

LGM is famous because it is “accessible”. Artisan is not because it is “exclusive”.

LGM is at the bottom. Artisan is at the top.

If you’ve only ever had LGM, you can only go up the quality ladder.

The ad truly annoyed me.

I do not think that Artisan’s chilli oil is bad. In fact, I had wanted to try it since following their Instagram page. Having made my own chilli oil when I ran a restaurant, I have no doubt it probably tastes good. What annoyed me was the arrogance and presumption of it all.

It left a bad aftertaste.

So I’d like to share a bit of history about the “Godmother,” the woman behind Lao Gan Ma chilli oil.

The Godmother

Her name is Tao Huabi (陶华碧). Born in 1947, the eighth daughter in a poor family in Meitan County, Guizhou Province, one of the poorest regions in China. Tao never learned to read or write.

During the Great Chinese Famine, when she was just a teenager, she survived by digging up wild vegetables and learning to make flavours from roots and wild herbs. Years of poverty taught her that spice and fermentation could turn simple ingredients into delicious meals, a lesson that later became the foundation of her billion-dollar company.

She married young but soon became a widow, left to care for her two young sons.

She left her factory work in Guangzhou and opened a street stall in her hometown in Guizhou, selling liangfen (凉粉) and cold noodles (冷面). Then, in 1989, she opened a tiny shop in Guiyang called 实惠食堂 (meaning Affordable Canteen). It was a simple, working‑class eatery serving inexpensive home‑style Guizhou dishes and staple carbs (rice, noodles), with her signature chilli oil on the side.

It was the chilli oil that customers loved.

She gave discounts to students who couldn’t afford full meals. She gave extra food to those who looked like they needed more. Soon, they started calling her Lao Gan Ma (老干妈), which translates commonly as “Godmother.”

Note: In Chinese, Lao (老) doesn’t really mean “old” the way English uses it. It’s a word that carries respect, familiarity, and seniority. Your teacher is Lao Shi (老师). Your boss is Lao Ban (老板). When you call a close friend Lao plus their surname, like Lao Chen (老陈), it’s a term of warmth and familiarity.

And Gan Ma (干妈) actually means “honorary or adoptive mother”, someone who is like family but has no biological relations. This is unlike the Christian concept of godmother via baptism.

So Lao Gan Ma isn’t “Old Godmother.” It’s closer to something like “the adopted mother we all know and love.”

At that point, it wasn’t a brand yet. Lao Gan Ma was an affectionate nickname, earned through her generosity towards students and working-class customers.

Three Million Bottles a Day

By the mid-nineties, truck drivers passing through Guiyang were buying her sauce in bulk.

Long-haul truck drivers in China often cook their own meals while travelling. Usually, it’s just plain boiled noodles, maybe with some pickled vegetables—just enough to fill up. But a spoonful of Tao’s chilli oil could turn those simple roadside meals into something special.

That’s the power of a good condiment.

At her restaurant, customers wouldn’t eat the noodles if the chilli oil ran out.

So Tao stopped selling noodles and focused on selling her chilli oil instead.

In 1996, she rented a village committee house, hired forty workers, and started bottling her chilli oil in small batches.

Today, the company produces three million bottles a day and sells in over 160 countries. Tao never took the company public or borrowed money to expand. She built everything based on her instinct, a focus on quality, and a refusal to compromise on quality.

The Big Mistake

In 2014, Tao stepped back from running the company and let her sons take over. They followed typical business school advice.

They optimised.

They replaced the high-quality Guizhou chilli peppers, which are grown at high altitudes and have a special depth of flavour, with cheaper peppers from Henan province.

While margins improved, the taste changed.

And customers noticed.

Revenue fell from 4.5 billion yuan to 4.3 billion yuan. Online forums were full of complaints that it didn’t taste the same anymore. Tao’s sons treated a heritage product like any other business, thinking they could optimise it without considering its impact.

In 2019, at age seventy-two, Tao returned. She brought back the original Guizhou peppers and ordered 500 tons of chilli oil, worth over a million yuan, to be destroyed because it didn’t meet her standards.

By 2024, revenue had climbed back to 5.39 billion yuan.

Customers came back because the chilli oil was back to its original recipe.

The “Better” Product

Now, let’s return to the Artisan chilli oil.

LGM’s success opened the door for Western brands to enter the market. Brands like Fly By Jing, Momofuku, Bowlcut, and many “passionate chefs” have jumped in with their own “better versions” of LGM. You’ll find these names in the premium aisle of supermarkets, usually with higher prices.

Some of these can be quite good.

But here’s the thing: if you’re proud of what you’ve made, just say so. Tell me about your peppers, your process, your awards, even your grandmother’s secret recipe. That’s great. There’s room for more than one bottle on the table.

You don’t have to prove yours is good by putting down someone else’s.

But that’s how many brands market themselves. Look at the language: “Clean ingredients.” “No MSG.” “Artisan.” “Original.” “We use only fresh, hand-selected peppers.” “We never pre-fry our ingredients.” “Small batch, never mass-produced.” “We focus on quality, not quantity.”

Every single one is a comparison dressed up as a statement. They’re telling you what someone else doesn’t.

The message is clear. LGM, the Chinese-made, mass-produced, five-dollar bottle, isn’t clean, isn’t fresh, isn’t careful. Western markets have a long history of framing Asian food in certain ways. They often suggest that traditional means unrefined, or that low cost means low quality.

Being the Better Product

This isn’t really about who can make the best chilli oil. Anyone can make a better chilli oil. The real question is what we mean by “better.”

You can use fancy ingredients (hand-cut Spanish organic shallots), design a beautiful label, write clever marketing copy that positions your product as the “better” choice, and charge more for it.

None of that is difficult.

What’s truly hard is what Tao Huabi did. She built something so connected to who she was that you couldn’t separate the product from the person. She couldn’t read her own contracts and tasted every batch herself because that was the only way she knew to ensure quality. She earned the name “Godmother” by feeding students who couldn’t pay, year after year.

It’s not hard to make a better product. It’s hard to be a better product.

I probably think about this more than I should. I’ve worked in marketing for most of my life, helping people tell better stories about their products. I know how the game works, and I know how easy it is to mix up style with substance, assuming that better packaging means better everything.

Then I am reminded of Tao Huabi, who built a billion-dollar company without being able to read or write. She didn’t have a content strategy or focus on optimisation. She just showed up every day and let her product speak for itself.

That’s something worth knowing and remembering.

Recently, I watched The Last Dance, a Hong Kong film set in the world of funeral work, centred on Po Di Yu (破·地獄). The literal translation of Po Di Yu is “Breaking (the gates of) Hell.” I see it as a kind of “jail-break.”

I didn’t quite expect the movie to have such a strong impact on me.

I used to be dismissive of Chinese funeral rituals. I saw them as noisy, superstitious, and unnecessarily dramatic. This prejudice changed as I grew older, and watching this film now, I feel something stirred inside me. There is wisdom embedded in Po Di Yu, not just a commercial performance for the dead. It is a structured way for the living to mourn and deal with the shock of losing a loved one.

The movie follows Dominic, a wedding planner whose life was turned upside down during the pandemic and who ended up taking over a funeral parlour. He clashes with a traditional Daoist priest, Master Man, because Dominic approaches funerals like an event to be managed, while Man treats them as a sacred rite with strict rules. Over time, it becomes less about the business and more about what rituals do for the living: giving grief a form, and families a way to act when they feel helpless.

I’m not writing this as a movie review. I’m writing because it moved me, and poses the question: when someone dies, what can we, the living, do for them?

That’s where Po Di Yu comes in.

If you want to watch it, there’s an official trailer on YouTube. As for where to watch it: in Australia, it’s currently available on SBS On Demand and can also be rented or bought on Apple TV or YouTube.

Death comes to us all.

Death is traumatic as it is disruptive.

In the immediate hours, there is usually a lot that needs to be done. Practical stuff, like calls to make, relatives and friends to inform, arrangements that need to happen while you are still trying to digest what just happened.

The truth doesn’t sink in immediately. They’re gone. Forever. The person you have loved for so long is no longer here.

It feels like something from you has just been ripped out. Violently. Just a sudden…end. Like hitting a brick wall as you turn a corner.

Grief is often described as sadness, but in the first moments, it feels closer to helplessness. You want to do something, but you cannot.

This is where a Cantonese Daoist funeral rite offers something strangely practical: Po Di Yu (破地獄), or “Breaking the Gates of Hell.”

It’s a rite performed for the dead, a spiritual intervention meant to free the departed soul from the underworld, Di Yu (地獄), and help guide them toward reincarnation.

But it also gives the living a sense of agency at a time when they feel most helpless.

What happens when a person dies

In the Chinese worldview, death marks a transition, not an end, unfolding in stages.

Traditional beliefs hold that the spirit has three aspects after death. The earthy (po, 魄) soul remains with the body in the grave. The ethereal (hun, 魂) soul settles in the ancestral tablet for family veneration. A third aspect, sometimes referred to as the spirit (shen, 神), journeys through the Ten Courts of Hell (Di Yu) before reincarnation.

That underworld journey typically unfolds over forty-nine days, marked by weekly milestones.

The seventh day, Tou Qi (头七), carries special weight. The spirit is believed to return home. Families keep the lights on for them. They’re also told to stay in their rooms and not come out to meet the spirit because attachment can make it difficult for the departed to move on.

These beliefs offer a clear sequence to navigate the haze of “after”, transforming death from a sudden void and shock into a predictable process, one that even the living can participate in at every step. This is the classic function of mythology in Joseph Campbell’s traditions.

Di Yu, a bureaucracy of the afterlife

Di Yu isn’t framed as the eternal damnation in the Western sense of Hell.

It’s closer to a bureaucratic purgatory, a system where souls atone for the wrong they’ve done before they are allowed to re-enter the cycle of rebirth.

A common way Di Yu is described is the Ten Courts of Hell, a kind of underworld bureaucracy, each court presided over by a Yama King, a judge who listens, weighs, and decides.

The first court is a kind of pre-trial. A reckoning in which the life lived is exposed. The good and the evil, what was done out of kindness, what was done out of bad intentions, what was left undone. The soul arrives disoriented and vulnerable, and the journey begins with the unveiling of truth.

The middle courts are where consequence takes form. These courts are corrective and punitive, to extract a punishment for the wrongs one has committed while alive. In Buddhist tradition, one will be punished BY one’s sins, not FOR one’s sins, so that ultimately, you are also the judge of the life you live. Everything has to be accounted for, and debt has to be paid. And the spirit moves from chamber to chamber, through judgments and suffering that are meant to cleanse.

The Naihe Bridge marks the threshold, a slender crossing from the known world into the unknown. It captures the image of a loved one departing for a place where we cannot follow. It is the final letting go.

Then comes Meng Po’s soup of forgetfulness. A reset. For rebirth, the soul must release its hold on its past life; no grudges, no yearnings, no bonds can follow into the next life. The soup grants complete severance. A clean slate.

So, death and the journey through the underworld aren’t all horrible.

It’s a process of letting go and moving on. Not to pass away but to pass from one life into the next.

What the Daoist priest is doing in Po Di Yu

Po Di Yu is often treated as the main spiritual rite in a Cantonese Daoist funeral. On the surface, it’s about helping the deceased, guiding the soul out of Di Yu and toward reincarnation. At the same time, it gives the family some structure to hold onto when the shock of death makes everything feel unreal.

It is also a very physical ritual.

The space is set up to represent the underworld. A fire basin is lit at the centre, commonly described as the “Furnace of Hell.” Around it, usually 9 ceramic tiles are arranged, representing the gates of Hell.

When the Nam Mo master (喃呒师傅) enters, he is doing battle. He is there to jailbreak.

He carries a ritual sword and uses it throughout the rite, but the sword is not “his” power in the personal sense. In Daoist ritual logic, he acts under a borrowed authority (from the gods), granted through ordination, lineage transmission, and the celestial bureaucracy he is licensed to invoke.

A properly ordained priest receives registers (lu, 箓) that function like credentials. These registers link him to a named lineage and, in many traditions, list the divine officials, generals, and spirit soldiers he can lawfully petition or command during ritual. Without that ordination framework, the actions are unauthorised.

That is the background for why he “dares” to do what he does in Po Di Yu. When he swings his sword, he is not claiming personal dominance over the underworld. He is issuing orders as an agent of higher powers, backed by the gods and ancestors of his tradition, and by the ritual office he has inherited and maintained through training.

Scholarly descriptions of Daoist ritual practice are explicit about what the sword signifies in this context: it is a key implement used to convene spirits, mobilise divine agents, subdue harmful forces, and, in mortuary settings, to “break open the prisons of hell” and help liberate the dead.

So when the sword cuts the air, it is a visible sign to the family that the priest is acting with divine authority and, within the ritual’s protocol, opening the way for the deceased to move forward.

The first major action is the breaking.

The Nam Mo master moves in a circuit around the fire, chanting and working with his sword. Then he strikes the tiles one by one, breaking them. This is the “破” in Po Di Yu, a physical act that represents smashing through the gates of hell, so the deceased is no longer trapped.

After the tiles are broken, the rite shifts into the “guiding” phase.

The master takes up the deceased’s memorial tablet (荐位 or 牌位), holding it close as he leads the spirit through the threshold. At the pivotal moment, he whispers to the tablet, loud enough for the family to hear, “跟住我” (Follow me!), giving the deceased a clear instruction as he spits alcohol at the flames, then makes a dramatic leap across the flames to the other side.

In the common explanation, that jump is the “crossing over,” the embodied claim that the deceased is being led out of hellfire and away from bondage. The symbolism is clear and psychologically assuring: the passage has been opened, and the dead are being brought through it.

Why does it matter to the living

Po Di Yu assumes that the dead do not always move easily from one state to the next. A soul can get stuck, held back by the weight of karma, fear, confusion, or unfinished business. In that context, passages can be obstructed.

Without intervention, the spirit may remain trapped, unable to cross the Naihe Bridge and reach Meng Po’s soup of forgetfulness, and enter reincarnation. The 49-day underworld journey can last forever.

So the Daoist priest becomes an envoy. He isn’t a grieving family member. He acts as an agent, trained, authorised, and “registered” within the ritualistic system, someone who can enter the underworld to do a mission. He does for the dead what the family cannot do, no matter how much they love the deceased. He “breaks the gates”, clears obstacles, and pushes the journey forward.

But if you look closely, the emotional centre of Po Di Yu is family and loved ones witnessing the rescue.

Death also creates a kind of hell for the living. It takes away agency. It turns you into a helpless witness. You can only watch while someone you love becomes unreachable. There is nothing you can do to change the fact. That helplessness is often what people are really reacting to in the early days of grief. That helplessness is hell on its own.

Breaking the gates of hell also serves to free the living, to help them move on.

It gives structure to the tragedy that affects them. It provides a mythical sequence of actions to guide the psyche out of emotional turmoil. It creates the sense that love can still be expressed as a duty, and that duty can still be carried out even after the person is gone.

The bond that continues after death

A lot of modern advice circles around the idea of “closure,” as if the goal is to shut a door and move on. But many people don’t experience grief that way. A more accurate phrase from grief psychology is “continuing bonds”: the idea that the relationship doesn’t disappear but changes form. You don’t stop loving the dead. You learn how to live with them differently.

Chinese ancestral practices make that idea visible through rituals.

This is why many families maintain a small shrine or altar at home, why there is incense on certain days, food offerings on festivals, visits to the cemetery, and the careful keeping of a tablet. On one level, it’s devotion. On another level, it’s practical. It gives the relationship a place to live after death, so the dead are not sealed away as “the past,” and the living are not forced into “closure”, or pretending the bond has ended.

Po Di Yu fits into this same idea.

The rite frames the deceased not simply as “gone,” but as someone still on a journey that can be supported. That framing does real work. It turns grief from loss into responsibility and care. It gives love somewhere to go, in a form that feels legitimate.

In a Confucian frame, filial piety doesn’t stop at death. If anything, death makes duty more explicit, because you can no longer rely on everyday acts of care. Maintaining the shrine, remembering dates, performing rites, and offering incense are ways of staying accountable to the people who came before you, and by extension, to the standards they represent. You answer them.

This is why small actions matter so much in these settings. Lighting incense is a way of keeping a presence. Offering paper money is to provide, it is the same impulse as packing food for a parent or paying a bill when they no longer can. Standing close enough to witness the Nam Mo master “break the gates” is not passive observation; it’s a kind of participation. It’s saying: I am still here, and I am still doing what I can for you.

For many, when you love someone, your duty to them does not end at death. It continues in the form of these rituals.

Writer’s note

You don’t have to share the metaphysics of Di Yu or reincarnation to understand what this ritual is doing. I invite you to recognise the humanity underneath it: when someone dies, love continues. Po Di Yu is one traditional answer to that continuation.

This is a follow-up article.

In my last article, The Fire Horse Returns, I explored why the Bing Wu year is important in Chinese history.

Since publishing that article, just before the end of the Chinese New Year, the US and Israel took military action against Iran during ongoing negotiations. It seemed nearly timed, as if the Fire Horse was waiting for this moment. I nearly said, “I told you so.”

In this article, I want to look at the bigger picture. The Fire Horse and its partner year, the Fire Goat (Ding Wei), matter not only in Chinese history but also in world history. These years show up across societies and continents over the past thousand years. While difficult events can happen at any time, I believe the pattern during these two-year periods warrants attention.

The message here is: be prepared. History teaches us that periods of extreme pressure tend to arrive in clusters, and the people who come through them best are those who saw them coming and took steps early.

The “Red Horse and Red Goat Calamity”

As I explained in The Fire Horse Returns, the “Red Horse and Red Goat Calamity” (赤马红羊之劫) means the two-year period of Bing Wu followed by Ding Wei. Both years are linked to fire energy. Together, they create a time when things get very intense, and weak systems are likely to break.

A Thousand Years of Upheaval

1066–1067: The Norman Rupture

On 14 October 1066, two armies met at Senlac Hill, near Hastings, in what became one of the most consequential battles in Western history.

King Harold II of England had already fought one battle that month. On 25 September, he defeated a Norwegian invasion force under Harald Hardrada at the Battle of Stamford Bridge in Yorkshire. It was a decisive victory, but it left his army exhausted and depleted. When news arrived that William of Normandy had landed on the southern coast, Harold force-marched his troops over 400 kilometres in roughly two weeks to meet him.

The battle itself lasted most of the day. Harold’s forces held the high ground with a tight shield wall, and for hours, the Norman cavalry couldn’t break through. But late in the afternoon, Harold was killed. The exact manner of his death is still debated by historians, though the famous image of an arrow striking his eye comes from the Bayeux Tapestry, produced years after the event. What is not debated is the result: with Harold dead, the English defence collapsed.

William’s coronation on Christmas Day 1066 was only the beginning. Over the following years, he dismantled the Anglo-Saxon aristocracy and replaced it with a Norman ruling class. Land was redistributed. English was pushed out of courts and governance in favour of Norman French. The legal system was restructured. Castles were built across the country as centres of control.

The English language itself was changed, taking in thousands of French words that are still used today. The system of lords and land that William established became the model for England’s governance for hundreds of years.

1066 was a Fire Horse year. And it changed the history of England forever.

1126–1127: The Jingkang Catastrophe

I covered this in an earlier piece, but it bears a brief mention here for context. The Jurchen-led Jin dynasty breached the Northern Song capital of Kaifeng, captured two emperors, and forced a dynastic fracture that reshaped China’s demographic and economic centre for generations. It remains one of the most traumatic events in Chinese collective memory and is considered the prototype for the “Red Horse/Red Goat” prophecy.

1246–1247: The Mongol Consolidation

By the mid-1240s, the Mongol Empire was the largest land empire the world had ever seen. But it had a succession problem. Ögedei Khan, the son of Genghis, had died in 1241, and for nearly five years the empire drifted under the regency of his widow, Töregene Khatun. She was politically astute, but the lack of a confirmed Great Khan created uncertainty across the empire’s vast territories.

In August 1246, a grand assembly was convened near the Mongol capital of Karakorum. Güyük, Ögedei’s eldest son, was formally elected as the third Great Khan. The event drew envoys from across Eurasia. Among them was Giovanni da Pian del Carpine, a Franciscan friar sent by Pope Innocent IV, who became one of the first Europeans to travel deep into the Mongol heartland and leave a written account of what he saw.

Güyük’s coronation stabilised the succession at a critical moment. Under his brief reign (he died in 1248), the empire reasserted its administrative reach and continued its expansion westward. The Mongol military machine, which had already devastated Eastern Europe in 1241 and 1242, remained the dominant force on the continent.

Meanwhile, in Europe, the old order was cracking. The Babenberg dynasty in Austria, which had ruled for over 250 years, came to an end when Duke Frederick II was killed in battle against the Hungarians in 1246. His death left Austria without an heir and triggered a decades-long struggle over who would control one of Central Europe’s most strategic territories. That vacuum was eventually filled by the Habsburgs, a family whose rise would change European politics for the next 600 years.

1366–1367: The Fall of the Yuan

By the 1360s, the Mongol-led Yuan dynasty, which had ruled China since Kublai Khan’s conquest, was falling apart. Decades of flooding along the Yellow River, repeated outbreaks of plague, ruinous inflation from over-printing paper currency, and widespread famine had pushed the population to breaking point. Rebellions had been erupting across southern China for years.

Zhu Yuanzhang, a former peasant and novice monk who had risen through the ranks of the rebel Red Turban movement, had by this point consolidated control over much of the Yangtze River basin. In 1363, he fought and won the Battle of Lake Poyang against his rival, Chen Youliang, in what is considered one of the largest naval battles in history, with hundreds of thousands of combatants on both sides.

By 1367, Zhu launched his northern campaign against the Yuan capital of Dadu (modern Beijing). His forces swept through the north with remarkable speed. Dadu fell in 1368, and the last Yuan emperor, Toghon Temür, fled to the Mongolian steppe. Zhu proclaimed the founding of the Ming Dynasty and took the reign name Hongwu.

Zhu, a man who had been orphaned and destitute and had begged for food at a Buddhist monastery as a teenager, became the founder of one of the greatest Chinese dynasties, lasting nearly 300 years. The Ming Dynasty brought the restoration of Chinese cultural identity after a century of Mongol rule, major infrastructure projects, including the reconstruction of the Grand Canal, and eventually the maritime expeditions of Zheng He.

1426–1427: National Liberation in Southeast Asia

In 1407, the Ming dynasty invaded and occupied Đại Việt (Vietnam), dissolved its government, and absorbed it as a Chinese province. For nearly two decades, the Ming rule imposed Chinese administrative systems, Confucian education, and heavy taxation on the Vietnamese population. Resistance movements were suppressed with force.

In 1418, Lê Lợi, a wealthy landowner from Thanh Hóa province, launched the Lam Sơn uprising against Ming occupation. The early years were brutal. His forces were small, poorly equipped, and repeatedly defeated. Lê Lợi spent years hiding in the mountains, at times reduced to eating wild plants to survive. But he persevered, and his movement gradually attracted broader support.

By the mid-1420s, the tide had turned. Lê Lợi’s forces won a string of decisive victories, and in 1426 and 1427, the uprising reached its climax. The Battle of Tốt Động–Chúc Động in 1426 defeated a major Ming relief army, and in late 1427, after the decisive Battle of Chi Lăng–Xương Giang, the remaining Ming garrison surrendered.

What followed was unusual for the era. Lê Lợi chose not to humiliate the defeated Ming forces. Instead, he provided the retreating Chinese army with supplies, horses, and ships for their journey home. It was designed to preserve future diplomatic relations. In 1428, he formally proclaimed the Lê dynasty, restoring Vietnamese independence after 20 years of occupation.

The Lam Sơn uprising is remembered in Vietnam as a founding national story. Lê Lợi remains one of the country’s most revered historical figures, and the legend of the restored sword at Hoàn Kiếm Lake in Hanoi (where he is said to have returned a magical sword to a golden turtle after the victory) is part of Vietnamese cultural identity to this day.

1486–1487: Stability and Discovery

The 1486 Fire Horse year saw Europe emerging from one of its bloodiest periods. In England, the Wars of the Roses, a 30-year dynastic conflict between the Houses of Lancaster and York, had finally been settled by Henry VII’s victory at the Battle of Bosworth Field in 1485. Henry’s marriage to Elizabeth of York in January 1486 united the two warring houses and established the Tudor dynasty.

This was more than a royal wedding. It was a political settlement that ended a generation of civil war, usurpation, and instability. Henry VII proved to be a shrewd administrator who rebuilt the Crown’s finances, reduced the power of the nobility through legal and financial mechanisms rather than force, and laid the foundations for one of England’s most consequential dynasties. His son, Henry VIII, and granddaughter, Elizabeth I, would change England’s religious, cultural, and geopolitical identity.

Meanwhile, on the other side of Europe, the Portuguese were pushing the boundaries of the known world. In 1487, King João II appointed Bartolomeu Dias to lead an expedition south along the African coast to find a sea route to the Indian Ocean. Dias rounded the Cape of Good Hope in early 1488, becoming the first European to do so. He didn’t reach India (his crew forced him to turn back), but the route was now proven. A decade later, Vasco da Gama followed Dias’s path and reached Calicut, India, opening sea trade routes that would transform global commerce and shift the centre of economic power toward maritime European nations.

1546–1547: New Tsars and Dead Kings

On 16 January 1547, Ivan IV was crowned as the first Tsar of Russia in a ceremony at the Cathedral of the Dormition in Moscow. He was 16 years old. The title “Tsar” (derived from Caesar) was a deliberate claim to imperial legitimacy, positioning Moscow as the successor to both the Byzantine Empire and Rome. Ivan’s early reign was marked by genuine reform: he convened the first Zemsky Sobor (a national assembly), revised the legal code, reorganised the military, and significantly expanded Russia’s territory, including the conquests of Kazan and Astrakhan. His later years earned him the name “Ivan the Terrible” for the oprichnina, a campaign of domestic terror that devastated the Russian boyar class. But the centralised state he built would endure.

In the same year, two of Europe’s most powerful monarchs died within weeks of each other. Henry VIII of England died on 28 January 1547, ending a reign that had cut England from the Catholic Church, dissolved the monasteries, and altered the relationship between the Crown and religion. His legacy was a country in religious turmoil, with a nine-year-old heir (Edward VI) and decades of instability still to come.

Francis I of France died on 31 March 1547, closing a reign defined by Renaissance patronage, the Italian Wars, and a long rivalry with the Holy Roman Emperor Charles V. Francis had invited Leonardo da Vinci to France and built the foundations of the French Renaissance, but he also left behind mounting debts as well as unresolved religious tensions that would erupt into the French Wars of Religion within a generation.

1606–1607: The New World Order

The year 1606 opened with one of the most dramatic trials in English history. On 27 January, Guy Fawkes and his co-conspirators were tried for the Gunpowder Plot, the failed attempt to blow up the House of Lords during the State Opening of Parliament on 5 November 1605. The plot, hatched by a group of English Catholics frustrated by continued persecution under James I, aimed to assassinate the King and much of the Protestant establishment in a single explosion.

Fawkes was executed on 31 January 1606. What happened after changed English politics. Laws against Catholics became even stricter, and the event became part of English national identity (the yearly Bonfire Night is still celebrated). More generally, the Gunpowder Plot strengthened Protestant control in England and deepened the religious divisions that would later lead to the English Civil War.

In the same year, the Virginia Company received its royal charter from James I, authorising the establishment of colonies in North America. The first permanent English settlement, Jamestown, was founded in Virginia in May 1607. The colony nearly failed multiple times (the “Starving Time” of 1609-1610 killed the majority of settlers), but it survived and became the template for English colonisation of North America.

Also in 1606, the Dutch ship Duyfken, under the command of Willem Janszoon, made the first known European landing in Australia, landing on the west coast of Cape York Peninsula. It would be another 164 years before James Cook mapped the east coast, but the first European visit to the southern continent had happened.

Three events in two years: the end of a Catholic conspiracy in England, the beginning of English America, and the first European sighting of the Australian continent. Each is a significant event in the fabric of modern history.

1666–1667: The Great Fire and Plague

London in the mid-1660s was under siege from nature itself.

The Great Plague of 1665 killed about 100,000 people in London, around a quarter of the city’s population. Lists of deaths were published every week, showing the extent of the problem. The rich escaped to the countryside. The poor, who could not leave, died in their homes, which were boarded up and marked with red crosses.

Then, on 2 September 1666, a fire started in a bakery on Pudding Lane. Over the next four days, it burned down 13,200 houses, 87 churches, and most of the buildings in the City of London, including the old St Paul’s Cathedral. The fire left about 70,000 of the city’s 80,000 residents without homes.

The destruction, although catastrophic, was also a kind of “cleansing”. The plague, which had been concentrated in the densely packed medieval streets and timber-framed buildings, effectively ended after the fire. The rebuilding effort, overseen by Christopher Wren and Robert Hooke among others, replaced the medieval city with wider streets, brick and stone construction, and improved sanitation. Wren’s new St Paul’s Cathedral, completed in 1710, became one of London’s defining landmarks and a symbol of the city’s resilience.

The “Double Catastrophe” of plague and fire was London’s destruction and rebirth compressed into two years. The Fire Horse burned the old city down. What rose from the ashes was the foundation of modern London.

1786–1787: Revolutions and Nature’s Fury

In the newly independent United States, the excitement of defeating Britain was turning into a crisis over how to run the country. The Articles of Confederation, the first attempt at a national government, created a central government so weak it could not collect taxes, control trade, or maintain a regular army.

In 1786, the cracks became visible. In western Massachusetts, Daniel Shays, a former Continental Army captain, led a rebellion of indebted farmers who were losing their properties to aggressive tax collection and debt enforcement. Shays’ Rebellion was relatively small in military terms, but its political impact was enormous. It demonstrated that the new nation’s government was incapable of maintaining order or responding to grievances. George Washington, in retirement at Mount Vernon, wrote in a famous letter to James Madison dated 5 November 1786, that the republic was on the verge of anarchy.

The rebellion catalysed the Constitutional Convention of 1787 in Philadelphia, where delegates, including James Madison, Alexander Hamilton, and Benjamin Franklin, drafted the United States Constitution. The document that emerged, with its system of checks and balances and federal authority, replaced the failing Articles and became the foundation of American governance. Without Shays’ Rebellion exposing the weakness of the existing system, the political will for such a radical overhaul may not have existed.

1846–1847: Expansion and Famine

In May 1846, the United States declared war on Mexico after a series of border fights in Texas. The Mexican-American War was, in many ways, a fight to take land. Over the next two years, US forces took Mexico City, and the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo (1848) gave about half of Mexico’s land to the United States, including what is now California, Nevada, Utah, Arizona, New Mexico, and parts of Colorado and Wyoming. The discovery of gold at Sutter’s Mill in California in January 1848, just nine days before the treaty was signed, sparked the Gold Rush and accelerated changes in the American West.

At the same time, the Great Famine of Ireland, caused by the potato blight that destroyed the staple crop of the Irish poor, killed roughly one million people between 1845 and 1852 and forced another million to emigrate. The British government’s response was inadequate and callous. The famine reshaped Irish society permanently: Ireland’s population, which had been over 8 million before the famine, would not return to that level (and as of today, the Republic of Ireland’s population remains below it). The Irish diaspora created by the famine, particularly in the United States, Canada, and Australia, became one of the most significant migration events of the 19th century.

1906–1907: Redefining Disaster

At 5:12 a.m. on 18 April 1906, a massive earthquake struck San Francisco. The tremor itself lasted less than a minute, but the fires that followed burned for three days, destroying over 80% of the city. Roughly 3,000 people were killed, and more than half the city’s population of 400,000 was left homeless. The rebuilding of San Francisco became a defining story of American resilience, with the city largely reconstructed within a decade.

The following year, the Panic of 1907, triggered by a failed attempt to corner the copper market, caused a cascading bank run that threatened to collapse the American financial system. J.P. Morgan personally intervened, organising a consortium of bankers to shore up failing institutions. The crisis exposed the fragility of a financial system without a central bank or a lender of last resort. The direct result was the creation of the Federal Reserve System in 1913, the institution that still governs American monetary policy today.

1966–1967: Ideology and Middle East Transformation

In Southeast Asia, the Vietnam War got much worse. By the end of 1966, the US had almost 400,000 troops in Vietnam, and the bombing of North Vietnam had grown much stronger. The war was becoming the main political and social issue for a whole generation, leading to protests that would change American politics and culture.

In June 1967, the Six-Day War completely changed the borders of the Middle East. Israel attacked Egypt, Syria, and Jordan first, and in just six days took over the Sinai Peninsula, the Gaza Strip, the West Bank, East Jerusalem, and the Golan Heights. The land changes from those six days are still at the heart of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict almost 60 years later. The war made Israel the strongest military power in the region and set up the political map that shapes the Middle East today.

2026: The Pattern Repeats

Now here we are again. Bing Wu, 2026. And the pattern has already started.

The conflict between the US, Israel, and Iran feels like just the kind of sudden change this cycle has brought before. Iran’s gradual wear-down of its enemies over time aligns with the long-term struggles that often occur in these periods. The risk of the conflict getting bigger, possibly involving Europe, Russia, and China, is real. The similarities to 1967 are worrying.

I want to be clear: I’m not saying Chinese astrology controls world events. What I am saying is that history, over a thousand years and across many cultures, shows a pattern of significant stress, sudden change, and transformation during the two-year periods of the Fire Horse and Fire Goat. Whether the reason is astrology or just cycles, the lesson is the same.

Be prepared.

Navigating the Inferno

So what does “be prepared” actually look like?

Move with intention, not panic.

The Fire Horse moves quickly. Things are happening faster and faster, and it is natural to want to react to everything. Try not to do that. Panic leads to bad choices. The events happening around the world are shaking things up, yes, but they are also signs. Notice what they are telling you about where the world is going, and act based on that.

Let go of what no longer works.

Every single historical example above has one thing in common: the old structure failed, and something new replaced it. The Anglo-Saxon aristocracy. The Northern Song court. The Yuan dynasty. The Articles of Confederation. The medieval city of London.

If something in your life, like your job, your money plan, or your beliefs about how things work, is only continuing because it has always been that way, this is the year it will be challenged. It is better to change by choice than to have change forced on you.

Build what can survive the furnace.

As I wrote in my previous article: 真金不怕红炉火. Real gold does not fear the furnace. Focus on building things that can withstand extreme pressure. Skills that remain valuable regardless of economic conditions. Relationships grounded in trust rather than convenience. Financial positions that can absorb shocks.

This applies to nations as much as it applies to individuals. The civilisations that emerged strongest from these periods were those that had invested in real capacity, competent governance, genuine social cohesion, and systems designed to endure extreme shocks.

Take care of each other.

The Horse archetype is independent by nature, but history has shown that those who survive these periods lean into community. London was rebuilt because its citizens rebuilt together. The American Constitution was written by a group of people who disagreed on almost everything but recognised that the alternative was collapse.

If there’s one takeaway from a thousand years of Fire Horse and Fire Goat history, it’s this: extreme pressure reveals one’s true nature. In governance, in institutions, and in people. The heat will come. What matters is what we do with it.

Fire as Purification and Hope

I’ll end with the same conclusion as my previous article.

Fire doesn’t only destroy. It reveals. It shows what is solid and what is fragile, what is real and what is fake. The Fire Horse year is a stress test for the world and for each of us individually.

History shows that when systems fracture, people rise. From the ashes of London came a modern city. From the failure of the Articles of Confederation came the US Constitution. From the fall of the Yuan came the Ming Dynasty. From the devastation of 1906 came the Federal Reserve and a new San Francisco.

We can’t always control the fire. But we can choose whether to be consumed by it or to build something from what it leaves behind. Stay safe. Remain grounded. And trust that careful, sincere actions will lead toward a more truthful and resilient future.

The cycle turns for a thousand years. But on the other side of every Fire Horse, there has always been renewal.

I was born in 1966, a Bing Wu (丙午) year, the Year of the Fire Horse.

As a Catholic, then, regarding myself as a “Fire Horse” was considered superstitious. It was just something “heathens” believed in. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve noticed that this ancient Chinese wisdom points to a deeply profound collective experience that should not be ignored.

This year, 2026, is one of those years. Not just because the world already feels so unstable. For people born in 1966, it’s also a return point in the traditional 60-year cycle. The sign returns, offering a perspective of warning and opportunity.

The 60-year cycle

The Chinese see time as cyclical. The sexagenary cycle (干支) combines ten heavenly stems and twelve earthly branches into sixty pairs, so that a full cycle is 60 years.

(If you’re wondering why not a 120-Year cycle, there’s an explanation at the end of this article.)

In the traditional system, Bing (丙) is Yang/Fire, often compared to the sun: direct, visible, forceful. Wu (午) is the Horse branch (also fire by nature) tied to noon and midsummer. Together, you get what the Chinese call “double fire,” intensity on intensity.

A Warning for those in power

One of the most cited “volatility” frames is the “Red Horse and Red Goat calamity” aka 赤马红羊之厄. It refers to the two-year span of Bing Wu (丙午) followed by Ding Wei (丁未). In our context, this is 2026 and 2027.

Bing and Ding are both fire stems, linked to “red.” Horse and Goat are adjacent branches. This does not mean that calamity is inevitable, but that when the heat is high, weak governance and fragile social structures get tested to the extreme.

Chinese history is filled with such examples and lessons from the red “Horse and Goat” periods.

1126–1127, Northern Song: Jingkang Incident 靖康之变

The Jingkang Incident was not a single “bad day.” It was a rapid sequence that exposed just how unprepared the Northern Song Dynasty was for a steppe war from the invaders of the North.

The trigger was the rise of the Jurchen-led Jin dynasty, founded in 1115, which turned on the Northern Song after the Song had allied with the Jurchen against the Liao. From 1125, the Jin launched a full-scale war against the Song, and by December 1126, they besieged the Song capital, Kaifeng (then called Bianjing).

Facing an inevitable invasion, Emperor Huizong abdicated, and his son, Emperor Qinzong, inherited a collapsing empire. The city’s defences included early experiments with gunpowder weapons (not decisive in the modern sense, but notable as an early recorded battlefield use), yet no effective relief force arrived. Kaifeng fell in mid-January 1127.

What followed was remembered as humiliation as much as defeat: looting and destruction, mass atrocities, and the seizure of the imperial house. Emperor Qinzong and his father, Huizong, were taken prisoners, along with large numbers of court officials and members of the imperial clan. Qinzong remained captive until his death.

The political consequence was immediate and permanent. With the capital lost and both emperors captured, the Northern Song effectively ended, and Qinzong’s half-brother, Zhao Gou, escaped south and reestablished the dynasty in 1127 as the first emperor of the Southern Song (Gaozong). The dynasty survived, but with vastly reduced territory, while the north remained under Jin control.

The human consequence was just as profound: 靖康 also helped trigger one of China’s great north-to-south population shifts, often compared to the earlier 4th-century flight south after the Yongjia-era upheavals, as officials, elites, and families moved into the Yangtze basin and the southeast, accelerating the long-term drift of China’s demographic and economic centre toward the south.

That is why the Jingkang Incident endures in Chinese memory: it’s not just a military loss. It’s a moment when a state’s strategic misjudgments, fiscal and military weaknesses, and inability to mobilise effective defence were exposed under extreme pressure, and the cost was a dynastic fracture that reshaped China for generations.

1846–1847, late Qing: pre-Taiping unrest

The 1840s were a turning point for the Qing Dynasty. In 1840, the First Opium War broke out, opening a new era of foreign pressure and internal crisis for China. By the mid-1840s, the dynasty was already under tremendous structural stress: rural hardship, local security problems, and a growing gap between central authority and what counties could actually control. Guangxi in particular was a combustible region facing sharp resource pressure and social conflict, where poor farmers, miners, charcoal workers, and migrant communities were vulnerable to banditry and clan violence.

This is the backdrop for why 1846–1847 matters.

The Taiping story begins with Hong Xiuquan, a failed civil service exam candidate who developed a syncretic Christian-inspired doctrine and a mission to purge “evil” from society. His schoolmate Feng Yunshan was the organiser. In 1844, Hong and Feng preached in Guangxi; Hong returned home, but Feng stayed behind to build what became the God Worshippers’ Society (拜上帝会) among impoverished communities in Guangxi.

In 1847, Hong rejoined Feng in Guangxi and was accepted as the society’s leader. This was the moment the movement became organised and formidable, with a shared doctrine and a growing base.

From there, things escalated quickly. When Qing troops attacked the God Worshippers in July 1850, open rebellion broke out. Within months, Hong proclaimed a new dynasty, the Taiping Tianguo (太平天国, Heavenly Kingdom of Great Peace), and assumed the title Tianwang (Heavenly King).

The war that followed (1850 to 1864) was one of the deadliest conflicts in human history. Britannica estimates about 20 million deaths, and other modern historians estimate up to 30 million deaths, reflecting uncertainty and the huge proportion of deaths from famine and disease tied to the war.

So 1846–1847 earns its place in history because it captures the moment when the fuse is lit: hardship is rising, local governance is weakening, and a movement with both a spiritual claim and a social program acquires leadership, structure, and a mass base, setting the stage for an explosion a few years later.

1906–1907, late Qing: reform scramble and social shocks (leading to the fall of the Qing)

In these years of the Fire Horse, the turmoil in China was institutional in nature. After the shocks of the late 19th century, the Qing court tried to modernise rapidly enough to survive, but the effort satisfied no one. Conservatives saw reform as surrender. Reformers saw it as too slow. The result was a growing legitimacy crisis, playing out in public view: a dynasty still wearing imperial robes but increasingly forced to speak the language of constitutionalism.

This matters because 1906–1907 also marks the end of the empire’s final break. By 1911, a chain of political and financial missteps, including the railway nationalisation crisis and resulting unrest, helped trigger the tipping point. On 10 October 1911, the Wuchang Uprising broke out, an event widely treated as the formal start of the Xinhai Revolution.

Provinces declared separation from Qing rule, power fractured, and negotiations reshaped the state. On 12 February 1912, the child emperor Puyi abdicated, ending China’s last imperial dynasty and opening the Republican era.

1966–1967, modern China: the Cultural Revolution as rupture, and the long runway to reform

The Cultural Revolution did not begin as a vague mood shift. It began as a political decision, with a date you can put on the timeline.

Many historians treat 16 May 1966 as the moment the movement was declared, when a key Party document warned of “bourgeois” infiltrators inside the system. Mao then formally launched the Cultural Revolution at the Eleventh Plenum of the Eighth Central Committee in August 1966, and the country moved rapidly into mass mobilisation and institutional breakdown.

Mao pursued his goals through the Red Guards, mobilising urban youth to attack “bourgeois” elements and the “Four Olds.” Schools were shut, public struggle sessions spread, and violence escalated with little oversight. Key leaders were purged early, most notably Liu Shaoqi and Deng Xiaoping, who were removed from power during the initial phase.

By January 1967, the movement shifted from symbolic denunciation toward the overthrow of provincial Party committees and attempts to build replacement power structures. Through 1967, factional conflict worsened, including armed clashes between rival Red Guard groups, and Mao called on the PLA to intervene, which did not stabilise the situation but deepened the chaos.

The Cultural Revolution ran on until 1976 (and was officially declared over later), leaving the economy disrupted and the political system traumatised.

After Mao’s death in September 1976 and the fall of the Gang of Four in October 1976, the internal conditions changed. In the years that followed, Deng Xiaoping emerged as the central figure who restored domestic stability and pushed China toward economic growth. Scholars frame Deng’s legacy specifically as restoring stability and growth “after the disastrous excesses of the Cultural Revolution.”

In other words, the Cultural Revolution is not “the beginning of reform,” but it is part of the reason reform became politically and economically necessary. It burned through the old system, and the post-1976 leadership had to rebuild a workable model for the country.

Bing Wu can also mark golden years

Chinese history also remembers the Fire Horse years as periods of extraordinary competence and cultural bloom. A golden age when those in power got their act together.

646, Tang Taizong: Zhenguan Good Governance

This Bing Wu year sits near the mature end of Tang Taizong’s reign, inside the period later praised as the Zhenguan era of good government. What makes it more than a nostalgic label is that we can point to specific state capacities: tax relief for disaster-stricken regions, relief granaries to buffer famine, and a countryside described as enjoying low prices and general prosperity.

But “flourishing” in the late 640s was not only about domestic administration. It was also visible in how the Tang Dynasty projected confidence outward. In 646, Tang forces defeated the Xueyantuo, turning them into Tang vassals, part of a wider expansion of Tang influence across the north and into the Tarim Basin. This mattered because it stabilised corridors that promoted trade, diplomacy, and the sharing of knowledge.

This was expressed in the Capital Chang’an (Perpetual Peace) as a key eastern terminus of the Silk Roads and, under the Tang Dynasty, a major trade hub with a “surprisingly diverse” population, including many from Sogdiana, the Central Asian merchant culture whose networks connected Eurasian routes into China.

UNESCO notes that one of the few surviving Tang structures that reflects these Silk Road exchanges is the Big (Giant) Wild Goose Pagoda, built to house the scriptures brought back by the monk-scholar Xuanzang. The pagoda’s construction, dated to 652, is a sign of the prosperity and stability of the Zhenguan era, which created the stable, wealthy capital where large scholarly projects like Xuanzang’s translation work could be protected and scaled.

1726, Yong Zheng: the reform furnace

This Bing Wu year sits inside Yong Zheng’s reign (1722–1735), which historians consistently describe as a period of hard, technocratic consolidation. Yongzheng is remembered less for glamour than for a governing style that tightened control, attacked corruption, and rebuilt state revenue. He checked corruption, enforced laws, and reorganised finances, thereby increasing state revenue.

Rebuilding fiscal legitimacy by changing how taxes are assessed
One of Yong Zheng’s hallmark reforms was expanding the policy commonly known as tanding rumu (摊丁入亩), folding the head (poll) tax into the land tax. Yongzheng extended and rolled this out nationally beginning in the mid-1720s, shifting taxation away from counting people and toward taxing land, easing burdens on landless peasants while improving state control over revenue and reducing tax evasion.

Reducing “informal extraction” by making local finance more rules-based
Another major Yongzheng era move was to rationalise the messy world of local surcharges and hidden fees that encouraged corruption and instability. A recent quantitative study of Ming-Qing fiscal revenue describes Yong Zheng’s attempt to legitimise extra-legal conversion surcharges (huohao) into official revenue, including the well-known yanglian silver (养廉银), often treated by scholars as a hallmark of rational fiscal reform because it aimed to fund local administration more transparently and reduce the incentive for predatory fee-taking.

Therefore, in 1726, the “fire” horse was not chaotic. It was the concentrated heat that purified governance, pushed reforms that hardened the state: tightening discipline, rationalising fiscal flows, and rebuilding trust in the administration’s ability to function competently.

Bing Wu can become an accelerator that amplifies both weakness as well as strength.

“Great changes unseen in a hundred years”

Chinese President Xi Jinping’s phrase “great changes unseen in a hundred years” (百年未有之大变局) resonates well in the Year of the Fire Horse in 2026 because it captures something that’s almost impossible to miss: the world’s old structure is failing, and everything is shifting. One key reason is that, over the past several decades, China has shown it can plan ahead, marshal resources, and deliver results at scale.

As of 2025, China has about 50,000 kilometres of high-speed rail, the largest such network on Earth. In energy, China’s clean-power capacity recently surpassed its fossil-fuel capacity, and the International Energy Agency now calls China the main global driver of renewables.

On the human side, the World Bank estimates that nearly 800 million people in China were lifted out of extreme poverty in 2020, accounting for the largest share of global poverty reduction. This was no small feat for a country of 1.4 billion people. As of 2021, China is focused on consolidating its gains and preventing a return to poverty.

In technology, China’s space program has hit major milestones, like bringing back the first samples from the far side of the Moon with Chang’e-6 in 2024, a mission that demonstrates serious depth in engineering and project discipline.

None of this means China is perfect or without problems. But it’s clear that when China sets its mind to something, it can make things happen, and fast. That’s part of why this Bing Wu feels like an accelerator: the familiar routes are gone, new ones are opening up. Change is here.

What the Fire Horse means for us

The Fire Horse year is best understood as a stress test.

Fire doesn’t only destroy. It reveals. It shows what is solid and what is fragile, what is real and what is fake. There’s a Chinese saying: 真金不怕红炉火, real gold does not fear the furnace. Extreme heat reveals our true nature.

That’s a useful way to welcome the Year of the Fire Horse. It accelerates. Weak structures will collapse. Empty slogans will fail. But competence will compound. Good systems will earn trust. People with real skill and steady values gain an edge because they will pass the test.

The question isn’t whether the year is “good” or “bad.” It’s whether we will survive the heat. Focus on building what can pass the furnace test: skills that endure, relationships that hold, institutions that are legitimate, and projects that will leave a useful legacy behind.

Bing Wu will turn up the temperature. And when the temperature rises, the strong become recognisable, in the world, and in ourselves.

Note: Why 60 and not 120?

The reason the sexagenary cycle consists of 60 unique combinations instead of 120 is due to the mathematical concept of the Least Common Multiple (LCM) and a structural restriction known as the “parity rule”.

Why only a 60-year cycle?

The ten Heavenly Stems and twelve Earthly Branches are paired sequentially. Because 10 and 12 share a common factor of 2, the two cycles do not produce every possible mathematical permutation. Instead, the sequence restarts as soon as it reaches the Least Common Multiple of the two numbers:

LCM(10, 12) = 60

After 60 pairings, the sequence returns to its starting point (Jia-Zi), leaving half of the theoretical 120 combinations unused.

The Parity Rule (Yin and Yang)

Metaphysically, the cycle is governed by the law that Yang and Yin elements cannot pair with one another. Every stem and branch is categorised as either Yang or Yin based on its position in the sequence:

• Yang (Odd-numbered): Stems 1, 3, 5, 7, 9 and Branches 1, 3, 5, 7, 9, 11.

• Yin (Even-numbered): Stems 2, 4, 6, 8, 10 and Branches 2, 4, 6, 8, 10, 12.

A Yang Stem will only ever pair with a Yang Branch, and a Yin Stem will only ever pair with a Yin Branch. This restricts the total number of valid pairings to:

(5 Yang Stems X 6 Yang Branches) + (5 Yin Stems X 6 Yin Branches) = 60

Consequently, combinations such as a Yang Stem with a Yin Branch (for example, Jia-Chou) never occur in the traditional calendar. This completed 60-year cycle is often referred to as a Jiazi, figuratively meaning a full human lifespan.

Happy New Year! Time seems to move so quickly.

January often brings a sense of hope and anticipation. We think about new habits, new routines, and higher goals. Our resolutions are full of plans to improve what is already stretched thin. We want to do better, do more, and keep improving.

But underneath that optimism, there is a familiar tiredness. It becomes more common as we get older. It’s not a sharp fatigue, but a steady, dull exhaustion that comes from doing everything right and still feeling worn out.

We tell ourselves we’re tired because life is hard and moves quickly. The world is always changing, and work and life are demanding. All of this is true, but it leaves out something deeper and more uncomfortable.

Most people aren’t tired because they’re failing. They’re tired because they’re too useful.

If you’re reliable, people depend on you. If you’re good at your job, you get more tasks. If you stay calm, others will bring their problems to you. Being capable rarely leads to rest. Instead, it just means more keeps piling up.

This is the trap. Being good at what you do doesn’t always protect you. It just creates more demand. The better you perform, the more it costs you, and it never seems to stop.

So maybe this year doesn’t need another promise to be more productive. Maybe it needs something older and less common, a kind of survival wisdom. The skill of being a little less useful. Not lazy, just not always perfectly helpful.

The Equation We Rarely Question

From a young age, we are taught a simple formula: worth equals usefulness.

Our parents tell us to be useful to society. School rewards those who do well. Work promotes people who get results. We’re encouraged to do more than what’s required. Over time, being useful becomes part of who we are. I’m valuable because I’m needed.

Being useful makes you stand out. That creates expectations, and those expectations lead people to ask more of you. What starts as recognition soon becomes an assumption. An obligation: you’ll handle it, you’ll step up, you always save the day.

At work, the most capable and cooperative people are often the first to burn out. Not because they’re weak, but because systems will shift more tasks their way. Responsibilities pile up without discussion. There’s no relief, because nothing seems wrong on the surface.

The Peter Principle is often seen as a joke about people being promoted until they can’t do the job. But it also shows that being good at your work leads to more demands, not more support. The system keeps asking for more until someone reaches their limit.

When you show how useful you are, the world doesn’t protect you; it just asks for more. The reward is more roles, more responsibilities, and more demands added to what you already do.

The system never asks if you should keep going. It only asks if you can.

The Twisted Tree

Long before performance reviews and email, a Daoist philosopher told a story about a tree.

Zhuangzi described a tree with twisted, uneven branches and wood full of knots. Carpenters walk by without stopping. Nearby, straight trees stand tall and useful. They are cut down young and turned into beams, planks, and tools.

The twisted tree survives.

The twisted tree survives not because it’s impressive, but because it’s seen as useless. No one wants to cut it down or use it, so it stays. It keeps growing, provides shade and habitat, and outlives the useful trees.

Zhuangzi wasn’t telling people to be lazy. He was showing the risk of being too useful. When everything is judged by usefulness, those who aren’t as useful are the ones who last.

In this way, being useless acts as a disguise. The world doesn’t destroy what it can’t easily take from. It just ignores it.

According to Arendt, unlike those who participate in a culture focused solely on relentless productivity, the twisted tree is not trying to compete but instead opts out of a system where the most industrious often experience burnout first.

The ‘straight trees’ are always available, always responsive, and always working to improve themselves. They organise their schedules, build their skills, and handle emotional work. They try to make every interaction as smooth as possible.

This makes them highly useful and, as a result, more easily taken for granted. In modern society, human activity is increasingly centred on labour, emphasising usefulness above all else. When usefulness becomes a person’s defining feature, their time and energy may be claimed by others before they even realise it. Your energy is used up without your say. Over time, you stop feeling like a person and start feeling like just a function.

That’s why exhaustion often shows up without a clear reason. Nothing dramatic happened; you just kept saying yes, kept working, and kept taking on more.

Then one day, you might have a heart attack, and everything stops.

“Yes, he was a very good employee. Too bad he had to go like this.”

The real danger isn’t being useful, it’s becoming nothing but useful.

Hannah Arendt warned that a life reduced to endless labour becomes cyclical and disposable. Valuable only as long as it continues to perform. Once it pauses, it is replaced.

And you are always replaceable.

Being inconvenient

This way of thinking isn’t about being irresponsible. It doesn’t encourage giving up or abandoning your commitments. It’s not about becoming useless.

It’s about understanding the need to take care of yourself.

Instead of always being useful, try being strategically inconvenient. Be a little slower, not always available, and sometimes a bit inefficient or selfish if it helps protect your well-being.

Don’t answer every message right away. Wait. Let someone else take the lead sometimes. Don’t volunteer for every task you could do. Allow small problems to exist instead of fixing everything.

This is how you stop yourself from being used up all the time.

The safest place isn’t at the top of the usefulness list. It’s on the edge, where expectations are lower. You’re respected, but not pushed to your limits. Your value isn’t easy for systems to measure or exploit.

Like the twisted tree, you might not stand out, but you stay whole.

A Resolution for the Twisted

Straight trees don’t last long. The ones seen as useless are the ones that last.

As 2026 starts, maybe the goal isn’t to do more, learn faster, or work harder. Maybe it’s to avoid burning out.

The old philosophers weren’t telling people to be useless. They were teaching them not to let themselves be used up.

Maybe this year, that’s enough.

Last weekend, a friend said, quite out of the blue, that she “could not, in good conscience, continue buying from Temu.” I was curious because I was the one who introduced Temu to her. She said that because things are so cheap, it must involve forced labour and inhumane working conditions. I explained, as I usually do in such situations, that it’s the business model and efficiency that allows them to bring the price down. I talked about how factories work in China, and about work culture, etc.

“Well, I guess then I can go crazy on Temu again.”

The message was clear: Temu and Shein equals forced labour, exploitation, copyright theft, and environmental harm, all tied to the idea that “things shouldn’t be that cheap unless something ‘immoral’ is happening behind the scenes.”

This is not new to me. I’ve heard versions of the same statement from almost everyone I’ve known in Australia since we moved here in 2009.

No matter what the topic is: shopping apps, TikTok, Chinese cuisine, culture, history, it eventually loops back to topics like Tibet, Xinjiang, genocide, human rights abuses, authoritarianism, communism, or whatever the latest ABC headline happens to be propagating.

Last weekend was just the latest version of a 16-year ordeal.

Before responding to any of the moral claims, I want to start with something simpler: why Temu can sell at such low prices and how its business model actually works.

How Temu Actually Works

Temu sits atop a very different supply chain structure. Traditional retailers like Big W, Kmart, and Target, as well as Amazon, move a product through several layers before it reaches the customer.

The path looks something like:

Manufacturer → Exporter → Importer → Distributor → Warehouse → Store → Customer

Every step takes a cut. Every step adds cost. These costs are built into the structure. It’s how the business model works.

Temu removes nearly all of it.

It goes straight to the factory

Temu uses a Consumer-to-Manufacturer (C2M) model. Instead of buying through wholesalers, the app collects orders and sends them directly to a factory. No inventory, no retail rent, no layers of distributors.

It holds no stock

Traditional retailers face constant pressure to predict what customers will want weeks or months in advance. When they get it wrong, they’re stuck with unsold inventory. That leads to clearance bins, fire sales, and wastage, all of which are built into the final retail price.

Temu’s model removes that risk entirely. The platform doesn’t carry inventory. Factories produce only after orders are placed, which means production is tied to actual demand rather than forecasts. It’s a form of just-in-time manufacturing that significantly reduces overproduction and the waste caused by incorrect predictions.

Temu sets the price, and manufacturers decide whether to accept the margin

Manufacturers do not set the retail price on Temu. The platform does. Temu adjusts prices based on demand, promotions, and competition, then offers manufacturers a margin. The supplier chooses whether to accept that margin in exchange for access to a global market they could never reach on their own.

In this model, manufacturers are price takers. It’s similar to how restaurants work with Uber Eats. The platform controls pricing, visibility, and customer flow. The supplier participates because the volume and reach outweigh the lower margins.

This is why something that sells for five dollars on Temu might cost twenty-five dollars at Kmart. For decades, retailers quietly protected their margins. Temu stripped out the middle layers and revealed how much of the final price was markup rather than manufacturing cost.

Manufacturers aren’t exclusive to Temu

It’s also worth saying that Temu’s suppliers are not locked into the platform. Many of them sell the same products on AliExpress, Alibaba, Amazon, TikTok Shop, or their own online stores. Some even run small local retail outlets. Temu is simply one channel among many, but it is the channel that brings them the most significant volume of international orders. That volume is why manufacturers accept the margin Temu offers. The trade-off is global reach.

The “missing” costs

When you remove:

• retail rent

• warehousing

• storage

• forecasting

• transport

• staff

• importer markup

• wholesaler markup

• retailer markup

…the price drops. Often significantly.

Cheap doesn’t automatically mean unethical. Sometimes it just means efficient.

The factories themselves are diverse

Many Australians (and Westerners) imagine every Chinese factory as a vast industrial complex. In reality, Temu works with hundreds of thousands of suppliers, from full-scale operations to family-run workshops and village clusters.

Many westerners do not know this, but it explains Temu’s pricing structure and business model.

The Reality of Small-Scale Manufacturing

When friends here jump to the conclusion that low prices must involve forced labour, they’re drawing from a narrow image of what “factory work” looks like. But much of China’s manufacturing is flexible, informal, and deeply embedded in community life.

I’ve seen it firsthand in Fujian during our visit to my wife’s relatives. Oyster shucking in Zhangzhou is big business. Large oyster farms rely on small groups of families to process oysters by hand, which are then distributed to restaurants, markets, and even exported to places like Australia.

The work is paid by weight. Not by hour. Not by formal contract. Women gather in sheds outside their 3-storey houses, talking, gossiping and laughing while they shuck millions of oysters. Retirees, housewives, and aunties earn supplemental income in the hours when children are at school or when there’s nothing else to do.

There is no award wage. No paid leave. No overtime. No staff benefits. No employer-funded insurance.

Imagine doing a workplace audit on a factory like this. You will be led to think that this is your classic Dickensian sweatshop. Low wages. Forced-labour. Slavery.

Except it isn’t.

It’s flexible piecework that fits around family responsibilities and local rhythms. These women are not victims. They are not trapped. They are not living in fear. They choose to do it because it supplements their household income, gives them company, and fills their day with purpose.

The government covers healthcare, so they are not dependent on employer benefits the way workers in Western countries often are.

Temu’s supplier base includes tens of thousands of small operations like these, making slippers and T-shirts. And coffee mugs. In Jieyang, I came across a martial arts school that also makes paper packaging materials during the day (kung fu lessons at night). I had met the owner at a noodle shop where she invited my son and me to visit her school. Her husband is a kung fu teacher.

Manufacturing in China is not as neat or regulated as an Australian factory, but it is not a hidden empire of slavery either.

I remember helping my mother sew buttons onto dresses, paint miniature plastic toy animals, and even bake CNY cookies to sell. We would do this after school for a few dollars a day back in the 1970s. Slavery? No, just extra money to feed a family of 8.

Most Australians, including my friends at lunch, have never seen how small-scale production works in Asia. And when you don’t understand something, you fill the gap with dark assumptions.

When the Same Thing Happens in Australia, We Call It Something Else

Before anyone condemns informal or low-paid work in Asia, it’s worth looking at what happens here in Australia.

A few years ago, a neighbour found out that a local farm was employing workers from Vanuatu. She was shocked to see the workers eating vegetables that had been thrown out, cutting off the rotten bits. She thought the farm was neglecting them and wanted to call the authorities.

The workers begged her not to.

They explained that the farm gave them meal allowances, but they wanted to save every dollar to send home. Eating discarded vegetables was a choice. If we complained, and the farm got into trouble, they could lose the only income that allowed them to support their families back home.

Australia’s agriculture sector relies heavily on arrangements like this, with Pacific Islanders, backpackers, and Vietnamese migrants all working long hours for low pay. Farmers themselves are squeezed by supermarkets, which push prices down to keep groceries affordable.

And Australians, we enjoy the benefit from that system every time we buy fruits and vegetables on special.

We don’t call this “forced labour.” We call it “keeping cost of living affordable.”

So why is informal work in Australia understood as an economic reality, while similar work in China is framed as exploitation? The answer must inevitably be racism.

Moral Judgement Without Understanding

I don’t expect everyone to know the details of Temu’s business model and supply chain. Most people haven’t seen the workshops I’ve seen or the informal networks that make up a large part of China’s grassroots economy. What I hope for is a desire to understand before making a judgment.

When someone looks at a five-dollar item from Temu and jumps straight to the “forced labour” narrative, the accusation doesn’t land on the company alone.

It lands on the people who make the products. It lands on the culture behind them. And whether intended or not, it lands on people like me.

After sixteen years here, this is familiar to me. The topics vary, but the assumptions don’t: China is bad, dangerous, suspicious, untrustworthy; “I don’t buy Chinese crap”, you often hear.

Anything cheap must be morally compromised; anything efficient must be exploitative; anything unfamiliar must be sinister. Communist. Authoritarians. Dictators. “You Chinese people.”

It wears you down.

I recommended Temu because I thought it was a good place to find value. But that turned into another round of the same: if it comes from China and it’s cheap, it’s unconscionable. There must be something wrong. And by sharing Temu, I must be naive at best, complicit at worst.

Temu (and Shein) is not flawless. No supply chain is. Not in China, not in Australia, not anywhere. But the world is more complicated than a headline, and prices do not tell the whole story.

If someone wants to talk about Temu’s model, I welcome that conversation.

Start with how it works. The business model.

How costs are stripped out. How informal labour functions in different cultures. How much of Western retail pricing is built on massive markups?

Don’t just reduce an entire group of people to the darkest assumptions without pausing to understand.

When a discussion starts from curiosity, we can talk and learn. When it starts with an accusation, it goes nowhere. And we remain ignorant.

That’s why I’m writing this: not to defend a shopping app, but to open a space for learning. Maybe next time, the conversation can begin with a question rather than an accusation.

I was recently talking with an Australian friend about one of my sons. When he was born, the fortune teller told us he would have “Peach Blossom” luck or 桃花运 (táohuā yùn) until he turned 29. Therefore, it was advised that he should avoid getting married or settling down too early.

In Chinese culture, “Peach Blossom” refers to luck in love, romance, and relationships, particularly magnetic attraction that seems to come from nowhere. It suggests a period where romantic opportunities appear effortlessly: Someone catches your eye, a chance meeting leads to a romantic encounter, or an admirer suddenly enters your life.

Many (younger) people consider this a good thing. After all, who doesn’t want to be seen as sexy and attractive, especially if there is an opportunity for romantic encounters?

But as with all luck, the Peach Blossom is double-edged. While it can bring genuine connections, chemistry, and even a soulmate into your life, it can also bring about entanglements or unnecessary distractions. At the wrong time, it will lead to broken families and failed marriages.

My Australian friend was surprised that I saw the Peach Blossom not necessarily as a good thing, but our conversation led me to think about the dualistic nature of luck. It can either overwhelm us with abundance or overburden us with hardship, often in the blink of an eye.

The Old Man Who Lost His Horse

Many of my friends would have heard me tell this story from the famous Daoist Philosopher, Zhuangzi (369 BCE). It is based on a famous Chinese idiom:

The story goes like this:

One day, an old man’s horse runs away. The neighbours feel sorry for him. “How unlucky!” they say.

He replies, “Maybe.”

The next day, the horse returns, bringing three more wild horses. The neighbours say, “How lucky!”

Again, he says, “Maybe.”

Then, his son tries to tame one of the wild horses. He fell and broke his leg. Again, the villagers sigh, “How unlucky!”

The old man repeats, “Maybe.”

Several days later, war broke out, and young men everywhere were conscripted. The old man’s son was spared because of his broken leg.

Fortune and misfortune are often intertwined and unpredictable. Perhaps that is why we often describe some events as “a blessing in disguise."

Was it good luck for the old man eventually? Maybe.

What Is Luck?

In Western mythology, Luck is personified as the Roman goddess Fortuna, associated with prosperity, fertility, and abundance. Her nature was deeply dualistic. She could bestow blessings of good fortune (Fortuna Bona) or unleash a series of misfortunes (Fortuna Mala). Her ever-turning wheel of fortune embodied life’s unpredictability, reminding us how quickly things can change.

In Chinese culture, luck (运, yùn ) is a multifaceted and deeply rooted concept with much in common with Fortuna: fleeting, unpredictable, and ultimately unreliable. The Chinese attitude toward luck reflects a fascinating blend of enthusiasm and pragmatism. On one hand, we actively seek to invite good fortune and ward off misfortune through time-honoured traditions and superstitions. We wear red for prosperity and display characters like 福 “upside down” to symbolise the arrival of blessings. We avoid sweeping the floor on the first day of the Chinese New Year to avoid “sweeping away” good luck, and we consult almanacs or feng shui masters to align our actions with auspicious timing.

Many of our friends who attended our “groundbreaking” ceremony for our restaurant on the first day of the Chinese New Year in 2018 would have witnessed the lengths we went to ensure future good luck and prosperity.

On the other hand, we see luck not as mere random chance (like picking up a fifty-dollar bill at the car park) but as part of a broader cosmological order, in which an intricate balance of forces shapes events. This duality shapes a worldview that embraces rituals while remaining grounded in the understanding that, although luck cannot be fully controlled, it moves in cycles. It may come and go as it pleases, but it will come and go, eventually.

Good Can Be Bad, and Bad Can Be Good

Good luck can sometimes lead to unforeseeable trouble, and bad luck may open unexpected doors to new opportunities. Understanding this helps balance life’s uncertainties by staying optimistic in bad times and avoiding arrogance in good.

“Peach blossom luck” might feel like a romantic opportunity for some, but it can also destroy relationships if it comes at the wrong time or too often. Similarly, financial windfalls often carry the risks of jealousy, betrayal, poor financial decisions, and shattered relationships if not managed properly.

On the other hand, tragedy and misfortune can sometimes bring opportunities and favourable outcomes, as in the case of the old man losing his horse. Good and bad luck are intertwined, flowing into each other like day into night. This perspective reflects a pragmatic view many Chinese take of luck: it brings temporary blessings or challenges; it is unwise to rely on it because we can’t control it.

Instead, focus on controlling what we CAN control. Personal effort, preparation, and fortitude to protect ourselves against uncertainty.

We Can Only Depend On Ourselves

Translated as “Man proposes, heaven disposes”.

This captures a profound truth about life: we can only do our best and leave the rest to fate. This is not a call to self-help heroics or pulling ourselves up by our bootstraps, but rather an invitation to embrace a quiet, deliberate path of persistence and faith.

In moments of hardship, looking outward for answers, to others, to fate, or even to divine intervention can be tempting. Yet true transformation begins when we turn inward, recognising that the only things we truly control are our own effort, attitude, and integrity. By focusing within, we align ourselves with the deeper rhythms of life, trusting that the outcomes will unfold as they are meant to, in their own time.

The Only True Foundation

Chinese philosophers have warned that fortune is unpredictable. Zhuangzi mocked those who prayed to heaven for good luck while neglecting personal cultivation; Confucius taught that true nobility comes from self-discipline, not fate. Like bamboo that deepens its roots unseen during drought, the wise know that luck may come and go, but the strength you build within becomes unshakable.

The Unshakable Core

At the heart of most Eastern philosophy lies a profound emphasis on cultivating an unshakable core, a symbolic centre within ourselves that remains steady as the world around us spins out of control. This idea is captured in Confucius’s practice of 修身 (xiū shēn ), or self-cultivation. While we cannot control the chaos outside of us, we can master our response. Strength comes not from trying to bend the world to our will but from developing an inner foundation so deep that nothing can uproot it.

Why is this core so crucial? Because the world is messy, filled with noise, demands, and distractions. When everything around us seems to be falling apart, it’s easy to feel lost or powerless. Yet, if we have nurtured an unshakable centre, we gain clarity amidst confusion and stability amidst chaos. Challenges are not insurmountable barriers but opportunities for growth.

Ultimately, the core anchors us in a world of constant change. We build an inner sanctuary by committing ourselves to becoming the best version of ourselves. No matter how bad life becomes, we are always grounded. From this place of inner strength, we discover the freedom to face whatever comes with confidence and grace.

The Wisdom of Indifference

For the most part, luck comes and goes as it pleases, caring little for our hopes and fears. The better approach is to cultivate an attitude of calm indifference, neither becoming overly elated by good fortune nor consumed by despair when misfortune strikes. Instead, focus on doing your best, fulfilling your duties to your family and society, and building resilience and good character. This is the foundation upon which you can face life’s uncertainties with strength and grace.

When good luck arrives, seize the opportunity and make the most of it. And when bad luck inevitably appears, adapt, persevere, and wear it out. This is not a fatalistic resignation but a proactive adaptability. As we say, “In every crisis lies an opportunity.”

By focusing on yourself, you take charge of what you can control while remaining flexible in the face of what you cannot. Your ability to respond ensures that you remain in control of your own steps.

Be prepared for fortune and misfortune, stay grounded in your values, and trust your ability to adapt. That is the best we can do, in love, in life, and in everything.

For a long time, I had very little interest in the Great Wall of China. I couldn’t grasp its significance. I couldn’t see the point of 7-meter-high walls built along the thousand-meter mountain range. It seemed like a monumental waste of time and resources. My initial thought was that, according to the Western narrative, it must be nothing more than a display of vanity and tyranny.

I was wrong...

Its origins lie in centuries of conflict between the settled farmers of the Central Plains and the nomadic herders of the north, representing a fundamental clash between two distinct cultures and ways of life. The wall was initially built by various warring states as a strategic defence against raids from these nomadic tribes. It was later unified and expanded by Qin Shi Huang to secure the borders of the newly unified China.

In this article, I want to share my thoughts and reflections on this extraordinary architectural feat and its enduring legacy, examining how this structure, with its origins dating back 2,500 years, continues to shape China today.

The Great Wall of China

The Great Wall of China is often regarded as a monument to Qin Shi Huang's ultimate show of power as the first emperor of China. Like many other aspects of Chinese culture, this perspective is often shallow and biased. The Great Wall wasn’t just a physical wall to keep chaos and troubles out. It was also a psychological bulwark that shaped China’s perception of itself and the world outside.

Stretching over thousands of miles across mountains, deserts, and plains, the Great Wall endures as one of the most ambitious feats of human engineering. But its true legacy is hidden in the Chinese psyche as a boundary between order and disorder, civilisation and barbarism, us and them.

Originally built to defend against raids by nomadic tribes from the north, the Great Wall evolved into a symbol of resilience. It wasn’t a single structure, but a series of layered defences rebuilt across many dynasties, each one reaffirming the idea that what lay inside The Great Wall was ours, and worth protecting. It is home, the Motherland. That safety and unity were physical as well as cultural and spiritual.

The Great Wall of China encapsulates the cultural outlook of many Chinese over more than two millennia. It’s always about what’s inside the Great Wall: a profound sense of continuity, a wariness of invaders, and a belief that survival often means knowing where to draw the line. And what it takes to hold it. It’s about how the Great Wall protected China and shaped its national identity.

The Clash of Cultures

The Great Wall of China was built to separate two fundamentally different cultures that had endured centuries of conflict. Inside the wall were the farmers of the Central Plains, whose livelihoods depended on cultivating fertile lands and building stable communities.

As people of the soil, farmers hate wars and disruptions. People are a valuable resource because they allow food production to scale up. This, in turn, leads to greater security for the future. Farmers prefer stability and do not like to move because they cannot take their livelihood with them.

Outside the wall stood the nomadic herders of the northern and western steppes, who roamed vast expanses of grassland in search of grazing grounds for their livestock. Herders compete for access to grasslands to support their livestock. Herders do not like large populations, so massacres often follow raids. They must move, expand, and conquer.

These contrasting cultures, rooted in geography, climate, and survival strategies, created an enduring clash that shaped the course of Chinese history.

Farmers vs. Herders

At the heart of this divide lay the stark differences between farming and herding societies. The people of the Central Plains lived in a region with abundant annual rainfall, typically over 400 millimetres. Climate conditions determined their lifestyle as people of the soil. It enabled them to cultivate crops such as wheat, millet, and rice. Agriculture fostered sedentary lifestyles, large populations, and complex social structures. Villages grew into towns, towns into cities, and cities into states, all interconnected by shared traditions, governance systems, and economic networks. For these farmers, land was their source of food, wealth, and identity. It was everything.

In contrast, the nomads of the steppe inhabited a harsher environment where rainfall rarely exceeded 200 millimetres annually, dwindling further as it stretched towards the desert. They relied instead on herding animals, such as horses, sheep, goats, and cattle. Mobility was crucial to their survival; they required vast tracts of open land with minimal human presence to sustain their herds. Nomadic groups lived in small, decentralised bands, prioritising flexibility, speed, and adaptability over permanence or hierarchy.

This fundamental difference in lifestyle created inherent tensions. For the nomads, densely populated farmland represented both opportunity and threat. Raids provided access to scarce resources, including food, tools, textiles, and slaves. But because large settlements disrupted their need for open space, entire villages were often slaughtered during raids to eliminate competition and ensure future access to grazing lands. To the nomads, killing villagers wasn’t just an act of cruelty; it was a strategic necessity.

So the farmers of the Central Plains viewed the nomads as barbaric invaders who threatened their way of life. Their focus was on protecting their farms, families, and communities from destruction. Over time, they developed organised armies, fortified cities, and sophisticated administrative systems to defend against incursions. Unlike the nomads’ hit-and-run tactics, the people of the Central Plains relied on disciplined troops, strategic planning, and long-term solutions to secure their borders.

China endured nearly 700 years of wars and invasions during the Warring States period, until Ying Zheng, the ruler of the Qin State, sought to end the wars, unify China under a single dynastic empire, and keep the invaders out for good.

Qin Shi Huang

In 221 BCE, Ying Zheng unified China under a centralised state, ending 700 years of chaos and warfare, and called himself Qin Shi Huang Di, meaning The First Emperor of Qin (259–210 BCE). Qin Shi Huang’s first task was to secure the borders against the nomadic threat. He ordered the construction of a monumental defensive system that would later become known as the Great Wall of China. Building on earlier walls constructed by individual states during the Warring States period (475–221 BCE), Qin Shi Huang unified and expanded these fortifications into a cohesive network spanning 5000 kilometres.

Constructed mainly using forced labour from criminals, conscripts, soldiers and even political prisoners, the wall served several purposes. First, it acted as a physical barrier, impeding the movement of mounted nomads and giving Qin forces valuable time to mobilise in response to raids. Second, it functioned as a psychological deterrent, signalling the might and determination of the newly unified empire. Finally, it reinforced the cultural boundary between “civilisation” (the agrarian society within) and “barbarism” (the nomadic world beyond).

How does the Great Wall work?

At first glance, the Great Wall might seem like an impractical solution to the threat posed by nomadic tribes. Only recently did I learn that the wall’s design reveals a profound understanding of military strategy, geography, and psychology. Far from being a physical barrier, the Great Wall was a system that neutralised the nomads’ greatest strengths while leveraging the advantages of settled agricultural societies.

Neutralising the Nomads’Advantage

The nomads were masters of mobility. Their cavalry could strike quickly, raid villages, and retreat before organised resistance could respond. These hit-and-run tactics enabled them to operate effectively in small numbers, often overwhelming larger, slower-moving infantry forces. For centuries, this asymmetry gave the nomads a significant edge over the Chinese armies of the Central Plains.

The Great Wall altered this dynamic. While individuals or small groups could scale parts of the wall, their horses could not. This effectively turns cavalry into infantry once they cross over. Without their horses, the nomads lost their speed, agility, and ability to strike unpredictably. Moreover, the act of scaling the wall itself slowed them down, giving the Chinese defenders time to respond.

Once inside, the nomads are at a severe disadvantage. Chinese armies were typically composed of large, well-trained infantry units supported by archers and siege weapons. Even if the nomads managed to breach the wall, they now faced numerically superior forces operating on familiar terrain. The wall thus disrupted the nomads’ most effective advantage: their mobility.

A Network of Watchtowers and Beacons

Another critical function of the Great Wall was communication. Contrary to Hollywood beliefs, soldiers did not patrol its entire length or defend from the walls; instead, the wall connected a series of strategically placed signal towers (风火台) spaced within sight of one another. When danger was detected, soldiers would light fires or create smoke signals on these towers. The signals could be seen from a distance and relayed from one tower to another, allowing messages to travel rapidly across vast distances. These became an early warning system unparalleled in the history of ancient warfare.

This network of signals enabled Chinese commanders to pinpoint the location of an invasion and the direction of its movement. Armed with this information, they could deploy troops efficiently, concentrating their forces at designated points of attack rather than spreading them thinly along the frontier. This ability to anticipate and respond swiftly transformed what had once been chaotic, surprise raids into predictable countermeasures.

In essence, the Great Wall served as a physical barrier and a means of communication and intelligence gathering. By slowing invaders and issuing warnings, it shifted the balance of power in favour of the defenders. Instead of reacting to the nomads’ unpredictable movements, the Chinese could dictate the terms of engagement.

Psychological Warfare and Symbolic Power

Beyond its tactical functions, the Great Wall also served as a potent psychological deterrent. To the nomads, the sight of an unbroken line of fortifications stretching across the horizon must have been daunting and highly discouraging. It was a testament to the wealth, organisation, and resolve of the Chinese. Scaling such a structure required immense effort, and even then, success wasn’t guaranteed. For many tribes, the wall likely discouraged all but the most desperate or determined attempts at invasion.

For the people of the Central Plains, the wall symbolised security and unity. It reinforced the idea of a shared identity, distinguishing “us” (the civilised, agricultural society) from “them” (the barbaric, nomadic outsiders). This cultural distinction fostered a sense of collective purpose, encouraging communities to invest in maintaining and repairing the wall despite its enormous labour and resource costs.

Why Dynasties Kept Rebuilding The Great Wall

Given the challenges of constructing and maintaining such a massive structure, one might wonder why successive dynasties continued to repair and enhance the Great Wall. During the Qin Dynasty, the Great Wall was approximately 5,000 kilometres (about 3,100 miles) long. This early version, often referred to as the “10,000-li Wall” (with one li roughly equivalent to 500 meters), was eventually extended and rebuilt, especially during the Ming Dynasty, into the more iconic form we see today, spanning 21,000 kilometres.

The answer lies in its enduring utility. Every dynasty faced similar threats from northern nomadic groups, including the Xiongnu, Turks, Khitans, Jurchens, and Mongols. Though the specific enemies changed over time, the underlying dynamics remained constant: mobile raiders versus sedentary farmers, agility versus numbers, chaos versus order.

For rulers seeking to consolidate their authority, the wall offered a tangible demonstration of their commitment to protecting the realm. It also employed thousands of peasants during peacetime, creating jobs and helping to prevent unrest among the rural population. In times of crisis, the wall became a rallying point, uniting disparate regions under a common cause.

Moreover, the lessons learned from previous iterations of the wall informed later improvements. Under the Ming Dynasty (1368–1644), for example, engineers constructed stronger walls using bricks and stone, added fortified gates, and expanded the network of watchtowers. These enhancements reflected centuries of accumulated knowledge on how best to counter evolving nomadic threats.

How the Great Wall Explains China

The Great Wall was never meant to be impenetrable. Its brilliance wasn’t in brute strength, but in strategy, in how it blunted the nomads’ speed, disrupted their formations, and bought time for Chinese defenders to mobilise. It was designed to alter the enemy’s characteristics. Beyond its military function, the Great Wall carried a more profound message for invaders: We will survive you.

For the Chinese, the Great Wall reinforced a cultural boundary between “civilisation” (內, nèi) and “barbarism” (外, wài), a distinction central to Confucian teaching. This distinction matters. Throughout its long history, China has rarely sought to expand beyond its cultural borders. Its energies have mostly turned inward: toward harmony, continuity, and preservation. The Great Wall is the most enduring proof of that mindset. It was not a launching pad for conquest but a boundary of protection. A line that said: this is who we are, and this is where YOU stop.

This makes China fundamentally different from the nomadic cultures against which it defends itself, as well as from the seafaring colonisers of recent times. Nomads and seafarers pushed outward, initially driven by scarcity and the need for survival, then by ideology, capital, and greed: the Bible or the sword. If you are not with us, you are against us. Conquest is a god-given right.

These are the heirs of the western steppe.

And that’s why the West often misreads China. It sees the rise of China as it sees itself. But China is not a mirror. It’s a wall. A Great Wall. It builds to endure, not to dominate. It defends rather than conquers. It is a civilisation shaped by floods, famine, and foreign invasion, not by the need to dominate others.

To understand China, look to the Great Wall. Contemplate what it represents: a civilisation that draws lines to hold itself together. Who, for 5000 years, have faced the outside with resolution and endurance.

I wrote about this about a year ago, but I would like to revisit the subject.

It was based on my experience as a Jesuit novice and Zen Buddhist student. I want to share my thoughts on this common symptom of the monkey mind and some lessons I’ve learned over the years about taming it.

One of the reasons I write is to vent my pent-up thoughts. There are endless discussions and debates about many things, from the relevance of the Heart Sutra in modern society to my being upset over a recent betrayal by a close friend. My blood pressure increases, and my inner arguments intensify as I lie awake at 4 in the morning.

I have always had this inner dialogue. Prolonged ramblings and feelings manifest as internal conversations and arguments. Sometimes, they lead to profound insights, but mostly, they are just noise.

My experience as a Jesuit novice might have helped me cope with this chattering. We “contemplated”, which was applied through an ongoing spiritual exercise designed by St Ignatius of Loyola. The daily Examen required me to reflect on each day’s actions, morning and night, to discern God’s will in my decisions.

I became interested in Zen Buddhism after I left the Catholic Church. I liked the non-religious aspects of “When sitting, just sit. When eating, just eat.” I felt it was more like a mental exercise in taming the mind than in understanding divine purpose.

What Is the Monkey Mind?

It is the constant chatter in our minds. When you try to study for your final Biology exam at 11 p.m., it is the distracting dialogues you are having with yourself about what to do after the exam and why Charles said what he said about your new jacket.

The essence of the Monkey Mind is that it prevents you from focusing on a designated task. Imagine trying to sit still for 30 minutes and “count your breath.” I have found that it is tough to do something so straightforward. If our bodies moved as frantically as our minds, we wouldn’t survive crossing the road!

It was necessary for survival.

While it might feel like a nuisance, this mental restlessness served a purpose in our evolutionary past.

When we were living in caves and jungles, having a hyper-alert brain was crucial for survival. The ability to notice little things, like the unusual rustling of leaves or “I wonder if we have enough for the cold weather,” gave us an edge. It helped us stay alert and ahead.

Today, however, that exact survival mechanism often works against us. Instead of spotting predators, our minds obsess over deadlines, social media likes, and imaginary worst-case scenarios.

From a spiritual perspective, the monkey mind takes on additional layers of meaning. It represents the ego-driven part of ourselves that resists stillness and craves distraction.

Religion addresses intrusive thoughts during prayer (meditation) as distractions or temptations that pull the novice away from God. I remember my struggle with “bad thoughts” as I contemplated the passion of Christ on Good Friday.

But the monkey mind isn’t inherently “bad.” It’s not trying to sabotage you; it’s just doing its job. The problem arises when we let it run unchecked, allowing it to hijack our attention and drain our energy.

That’s where meditation comes in.

Why Does the Monkey Mind Happen?

There is science behind it.

This phenomenon is identified as the default mode network (DMN), a network of brain regions that activates whenever we’re not focused on a specific task. This part of your brain is responsible for daydreaming, self-reflection, and rumination. It is also the culprit for occasional “bad thoughts.”

Although the DMN plays a vital role in creativity and problem-solving, it also contributes to many of our mental struggles. Overactive DMN activity is linked to anxiety, depression, and chronic stress. When left unchecked, it tends to dwell on negative thoughts (“What if I fail?” “Why did I say that stupid thing?”) or endlessly replay past events. The DMN also acts as a gatekeeper, resisting anything unfamiliar or uncomfortable. For example:

When you first begin meditation, you may notice your mind won’t shut up. Trying to “still your thoughts and just breathe” is met with an ever-increasing chatter of random thoughts. Thoughts that generally would not bother you intensify when you try to shut them down.

As a Jesuit novice, this is a daily struggle. When I participated in the 4-week Spiritual Exercises as part of my training, practising “Major Silence” for 30 days (not speaking or communicating with anyone except my Spiritual Director for an hour each day) became a significant distraction. The monkey mind thrives on resistance. The harder you fight it, the louder it gets.

This brings us to a critical point.

Don’t Fight the Monkey

My mistake was to treat the monkey mind as something to be controlled and defeated. As a Zen student, I try to sit still and count my breaths, only to end up frustrated and defeated. Most days, I can only manage a minute of mindfulness.

It was worse when I was a religious novice because the idea of “sin” permeated everything. The monkey mind becomes temptation from the devil, and failing is often seen as falling (from grace). The moral struggle didn’t help me achieve any spiritual growth.

But meditation isn’t about wrestling your thoughts into submission. Trying to suppress the monkey mind only amplifies it, creating a vicious cycle of frustration and distraction.

I suspect that the effort to suppress could lead to other problems like depression, anxiety and chronic stress, and even manifest themselves in more horrible ways like neurosis and psychosis. I experienced this potential darkness towards the middle of my Spiritual Exercises, and would have fallen into “desolation” if not for the timely intervention of my Spiritual Director.

The soul has deep and dark places.

How Meditation Helps

Meditation is a tool to train your mind to become less reactive. The idea of not fighting the restless mind but gently guiding it is a core teaching in meditation. We know that the “monkey mind” is a natural tendency of the mind. It can be calmed through practice: Work with the monkey and not against it.

While I am no guru or spiritual director, I have observed what has worked for me and what hasn’t. Learning meditation has three stages: Awareness, Concentration, and Contemplation.

Awareness

This is when you learn to observe your thoughts without judgment. When you notice your mind wandering, acknowledge that this is happening and return to whatever you were doing, whether sitting still and counting your breath, reciting the rosary (yes, it’s a mantra), or doing visualisation exercises. Make it fun and relaxing. For me, I write.

It doesn’t have to be in a formal “meditation” setting. You can do this on the bus, while waiting for your latte, or when stuck in a traffic jam. The goal is to achieve a state of mindfulness at all times. Eventually, this awareness helps to calm the mind.

Concentration

As you practice being aware of your thoughts, you may notice these intrusive thoughts becoming less frequent. You may be able to sit through 15 minutes of counting your breath before remembering that Paul owes you money from last week’s lunch.

These exercises of returning to your anchor are like weightlifting for your mind, gradually increasing your capacity for attention. Work becomes less stressful, and you generally sleep better. Your ability to focus improves.

But it is just that: the ability to focus and to pay attention. It is also what you need to begin meditation.

Contemplation

Once the concentration is sufficiently developed, you can begin meditating. If concentration is the ability to hold attention, contemplation directs that attention toward something meaningful. It is about focusing with purpose.

Contemplation can take many forms, depending on one’s intent. A Buddhist might meditate on the Noble Eightfold Path, profoundly reflecting on its significance. A Christian might meditate on the Passion of Jesus, immersing in the gift of divine grace. A scientist or an artist might use it to solve complex problems, allowing insights within the subconscious mind to surface.

In each case, it shifts from holding attention to engaging with a subject in a way that deepens understanding. Now trained to remain steady, the mind is no longer all over the place and wrestling with distractions. Instead, it focuses entirely on the task at hand.

The Practical Benefits of Meditation

As I mentioned earlier, beyond spiritual insights, meditation has practical applications. It helps refine problem-solving skills, enhances creativity, and fosters emotional resilience. Great thinkers throughout history, whether philosophers, scientists, or poets, have used meditation to cultivate breakthroughs. On a very secular and practical level, meditation trains the mind to remain calm in the face of stress, to focus on what matters, and to navigate the modern world more easily.

While meditation is commonly viewed as an esoteric or religious practice, it is ultimately a discipline of the mind. And like any discipline, it rewards those who practice consistently. With persistent practice, meditation refines concentration and expands one’s capacity for wisdom, insight, and inner peace.

How to Meditate

Meditation requires patience and practice. A few minutes a day can make a difference. It is essential to be consistent rather than going all out occasionally. There is nothing to achieve. Just be aware.

When distractions arise, label them (“This is me worrying about tomorrow’s interview”, “This is me planning for this year’s holiday”). Be indifferent. Create distance, and let them go.

Create daily rituals to build consistency. It doesn’t always have to involve sitting in the lotus posture. Cutting carrots can be meditation. Washing dishes, mopping the floor, and filing your tax returns. Approach the process with curiosity and self-compassion.

You strengthen your mind each time you notice a distraction and gently return to the present. Over time, this simple act rewires your brain for clarity and focus. Meditation isn’t about achieving perfect stillness; it’s about learning to navigate the mind’s natural tendencies with ease and grace.

Embracing the Monkey Mind

The monkey mind is a part of you. Without it, there would be no creativity, imagination, or sparks of insight. The goal is to cultivate a healthy relationship with it. Like the Monkey King, Sun Wukong, see it as an energetic companion that, with the proper guidance, can become a helpful ally in your life.

If you’re ready to start working with your monkey mind, check out my article How to Meditate for a step-by-step guide to building a practice that works for you. With patience and consistency, you might find that the mind you once struggled with becomes your greatest superpower.

Here is something practical that you can do in the comfort of your own home.

Meditation sounds simple: sit still, focus on your breath, and find peace. But if you’ve ever tried it, you know how quickly your mind rebels. Thoughts pull you in every direction: memories, worries, plans, distractions. This restless, wandering mind is what Buddhists call the ‘monkey mind.’

In Taming the Monkey Mind, I explored why this happens. Our brains are wired to think, analyse, and anticipate. This is useful for survival, but relentless when we seek stillness. Many assume meditation means stopping all thoughts, but that’s a mistake. The goal is not to silence the monkey mind but to train it, to bring it back to focus, again and again, until it settles.

Meditation is a practice of returning. It’s not about achieving perfect stillness but strengthening the ability to remain present. Over time, the mind stops jumping from thought to thought and learns to rest. If you’re wondering how to begin, that’s what this article is for.

So, you don’t need to travel to an ashram in India or the Kunlun Mountains in China. You can begin exactly where you are, with whatever you have. Right now.

Step 1: Start Where You Are

First, forget about achieving stillness. Forget about clearing your mind. Forget about achieving singularity. Meditation is not about forcing silence or anything. It begins with learning to observe. Just being aware.

Find a quiet place. Sit comfortably. You can sit cross-legged on the floor, on a cushion, or in your favourite chair with your feet flat. Keep your back straight but relaxed. Not forcefully stiff, but, as the Tai Chi Master says, imagine a string pulling you gently upward from the crown of your head. Relax, but stay alert.

Then, set a timer. Start with five minutes. If that feels easy, go longer. If that feels impossible, five minutes is exactly where you need to start.

Close your eyes or soften your gaze. I hold my eyes half-closed and gently focus on the floor about a metre before me. You can look anywhere or nowhere. I do find myself dozing off sometimes if I close my eyes. Dim the lights if it helps.

Step 2: Focus on the Breath

Then breathe.

Take a deep breath in, then slowly exhale. Feel the air enter and leave your body. This is your anchor, the sensation of the breath. You don’t have to control it, just observe it. Like a sunset.

Your breath is your anchor. Close your eyes, inhale naturally, and notice the sensation of cool air entering and warm air leaving. Your mind will wander, so that’s normal. The moment you realise you’ve drifted, gently return to the breath.

This is the practice. It is not about staying focused, but returning when you lose focus. Each return is a repetition, like training your biceps.

I visualise my inhaling and exhaling as a thread of silk entering and leaving my nose. It helps me stay focused. I sometimes count my breaths:

One-and-two-and-three-and-four-and
One-and-two-and-three-and-four-and
One-and-two-and-three-and-four-and

Numbers for when I am inhaling, “and” when I am exhaling.

I avoid counting upwards because then I start to feel that higher and higher means I am progressing, and I start to compete with myself. I counted 100 yesterday and 150 today.

The goal is to return.

Step 3: Expect the Mind to Wander

This is also known as Monkey Mind.

Thoughts will arise. Some will be trivial. Some will be profound. Some will be ridiculous. Don’t judge them. Don’t engage with them. Let them pass like clouds drifting across the sky.

Your only job is to notice them and return to your breath. If your mind races the entire session, that’s fine. You showed up, and that’s all that matters

Step 4: Find a Rhythm

Showing up is important. It is more important than achieving enlightenment.

Meditation is not about duration but consistency. Five minutes a day is better than an hour once a week. Once you have set a time, stick to it. Decide when it is most convenient, whether morning, midday, or evening. Link it to an existing habit, like after waking up, before bed, or after making coffee.

Some days will feel effortless, and others will be frustrating. Sit anyway. It is a practice, not a performance.

Step 5: Expand Your Awareness

Once you’re comfortable focusing on the breath, you can learn to expand your awareness.

Shift your attention to your body’s sensations. Start by noticing any physical tension or discomfort, the warmth of your skin, or the feeling of your clothes against your body. Simply observe without judgment or the urge to change anything. If you feel tension, notice it without trying to fix it. If you feel discomfort, acknowledge it, but continue to breathe deeply.

Let your awareness expand to the sounds around you. Don’t try to identify or interpret them; simply listen. Notice the hum of the environment, the sound of birds in the garden, the neighbour’s dog whining, or even your own breathing. Let these sounds come and go without grasping at them.

As thoughts and emotions arise, don’t try to push them away. Simply notice them. Recognise your emotions if you feel anger, sadness, or joy. Imagine each emotion as a cloud drifting across the sky: visible but not permanent.

Let them pass without attaching to them. If your mind lingers on a thought or emotion, gently bring your focus back to your breath without self-criticism.

The goal is not to feel a certain way or achieve a specific state. Instead, you are building awareness. You are learning to see things as they are without becoming entangled in them. This practice isn’t about controlling the mind but about observing clearly and being present with whatever arises.

Step 5: Keep Going

Meditation isn’t about achieving perfection or reaching some grand state of mind. It’s about learning to return to the present moment, again and again, no matter how chaotic your mind may be. Some days, the monkey mind will be restless; others will feel calm and clear. Both are natural. The key is to show up, even when it feels difficult.

Real progress isn’t measured by how still your mind is, but by your ability to keep returning to your practice. With time, you’ll notice subtle shifts: a greater ability to focus, a calmer mind, and an increased sense of awareness in your daily life. The monkey mind may never fully disappear, but it will no longer dominate your thoughts or control your actions. And that is a form of freedom.

Beyond the Cushion

Zen Buddhist monks often find less time for formal meditation, or zazen, as they advance in their practice. Their daily duties and responsibilities gradually take up more and more of their time. By this point, however, the goal isn’t to find time to meditate but to bring mindfulness into every moment of the day. The practice becomes part of everything they do, and they are, in essence, always meditating.

If you’re waiting for the perfect moment to start, it will never come. Start now. Start messy. Start with a wandering mind. Just begin. The monkey mind may never fully disappear, but you’ll learn to stop chasing it through consistent practice. Instead, you’ll simply notice it, return to your breath, and continue.

“The highest virtue is to act without a sense of self-achievement. The sage does nothing, yet nothing is left undone.” Laozi, Dao De Jing.

This article is a reflection on the idea of “doing nothing.” It comes naturally to me as I age and my energy wanes.

Wu Wei is the Daoist principle of non-action, although it is a rather clumsy interpretation. This difficulty comes from a dualistic approach to everything: black vs. white, right vs. wrong, action vs. inaction. It also differs significantly from the Eastern idea of yin and yang.

The Chinese philosophy of yin and yang represents the dualistic, complementary forces that underlie all aspects of life. Yin is often associated with qualities like darkness, passivity, receptivity, and softness, while yang is associated with light, activity, assertiveness, and hardness. Both are equally important and are not absolute or static. They are interdependent and constantly shifting in a dynamic dance, like inhaling (yin) leading to exhaling (yang). You can’t just do one without the other.

“Yin and yang are like inhaling (yin) leads to exhaling (yang). You can’t just do one without the other.”

The boundary between yin and yang is represented by a curved line, symbolising their natural flow and transformation. Within each lie is the seed of the other; a small dot of yang lives within yin, and a dot of yin lives within yang. This reflects the idea that extremes naturally give rise to their opposites.

We are men of action

Today’s culture places an extraordinary emphasis on action. From a young age, people are taught that success comes from relentless effort and persistence. “Work harder,” “make it happen,” and “never give up” are common mantras. In every aspect of our lives, there is a deep-rooted belief that doing more is always better.

While hard work and perseverance have their place, this bias toward action can lead to exhaustion, frustration, and counterproductive results. When things don’t go as planned, the instinct is to double down rather than reassess whether we are moving in the right direction. We glorify effort and set KPIs as the measure of self-worth. How many hours have you worked? How much money do you make? What was your score? The more, the merrier. Keep going, and never give up.

But what if the secret to success and happiness isn’t in doing more but in non-doing?

Growing up as a Catholic in a predominantly Western environment in Singapore, I acquired the characteristics of such thinking. I understand the obsession with doing—always moving, solving, and striving. A mindset that sees the world as something to be conquered and problems as obstacles to be overcome. Only as I get older am I considering a more sustainable way.

Such relentless activity ignores the more profound truth: that life unfolds according to its mysterious design, indifferent to our plans and ambitions. Life happens.

What is Wu Wei?

For many, action and stillness appear as opposites—one marked by movement, effort, and purpose, the other by rest, passivity, and surrender. However, in Chinese philosophy, although they are separate, they are also the same. Like the yin-yang symbol, they represent the natural state of being. True action arises not from struggle but from alignment with the natural order of things. This principle is known as Wu Wei.

Wu Wei is not doing nothing. It is not about giving up or “lying flat” (tǎng píng, 躺平). Wu Wei is “effortless action”, aligning yourself with the universe’s rhythms.

The river does not strive to reach the ocean; it flows there because it yields to gravity, embracing its nature. Similarly, the wise person acts naturally when the time and situation are right, allowing their deeds to emerge spontaneously from the harmony between self and universe.

One achieves more than could ever be attained through sheer willpower by ceasing to force outcomes. As Laozi teaches, “The soft overcomes the hard; the gentle overcomes the rigid.” In yielding lies strength; in stillness lies power.

Wu Wei in Strategy: The Subtle Art of Non-Action

If Wu Wei appears to be an abstract mambo-jumbo, consider its practical application in the realm of strategy, particularly as articulated by Sun Tzu in The Art of War. While warfare may not gel with the Taoist ideal of non-contention, Sun Tzu’s teachings reveal a profound synthesis of martial prowess and spiritual insight.

At the heart of Sun Tzu’s philosophy is the principle of Wu Wei: “To subdue the enemy without fighting is the ultimate aim.” True victory, he argues, comes not from brute force but from understanding the conditions of conflict and responding accordingly. It means flowing with circumstances rather than opposing them.

Sun Tzu also advocates patience, advising commanders to wait for the right moment before striking. He writes, “He who knows when to fight and when not to fight will be victorious.” Such restraint reflects the Taoist virtue of timing—acting neither too soon nor too late, but precisely when the situation demands. Like water carving a canyon over centuries, the strategist employs subtle, incremental movements to achieve monumental results.

My Wu Wei Experience

Although the idea is over 2,500 years old, Wu Wei offers timeless guidance for navigating the complexities of the modern world. Its lessons extend across domains, from leadership and creativity to interpersonal relationships and personal growth.

In Leadership

Leadership effectiveness is not always defined by leading the charge into the thick of battle. True leadership often involves recognising when to step back and allow situations to unfold naturally rather than forcing outcomes through relentless effort.

My ex-boss exemplified this principle during my time in Singapore. On the surface, he was ordinary, but his quiet manners masked a profound effectiveness. He provided the space and autonomy for us to do our job, taking responsibility but giving credit. This ultimately led to significant successes within our business unit. He also warned me against trying too hard: “Pace yourself. Don’t go for the kill every time.”

However, our success attracted the envy and unwanted attention of executives higher in the corporate food chain who were hungry for credit. Eventually, we went our separate ways as new management teams moved in. My former boss was transferred to another division in another country, where he continued to thrive until his retirement, while I eventually moved to Australia.

In Creativity

I understand that ideas and inspiration cannot be forced as a writer. Some days, the words flowed effortlessly. Other days, they trickle like a leaky tap. When this happens, “working harder” rarely makes a difference.

Instead, I step away. Go for a walk, watch a movie, binge eat, or nap. Do nothing. These moments are essential to the process. Creativity is a strange beast. It’s not, as Hemingway suggested, “opening a vein.” While there’s merit in showing up every day and putting in the work, effort alone doesn’t guarantee results.

Creativity requires trust. Let go, and let it…happen. Like waiting for a sunrise or for your baby to call out “Mama!” The most profound breakthroughs often occur when you stop chasing. Ideas come when you least expect them, strolling through a shopping mall, sipping a shot of whiskey, or lying awake at 3 in the morning. It happens when it happens.

In Relationships

Relationships grow naturally, unforced, and free from manipulation or coercion. By practising Wu Wei, we let go of the need to control others and instead create space for trust and mutual respect to flourish. Relationships become a gift, a journey of shared discovery, evolving and harmonising with the natural rhythms of life. In Chinese culture, we call this Yuan (缘), or affinity.

Hence, when conflicts arise, sometimes the best course of action is to do nothing. Resist the urge to talk back, assert your truth (yes, your truth, because truth is often relative), or let your ego take over. Trust that time, patience, and the natural flow of the relationship will usually resolve what words and actions cannot.

And if the time has come for a relationship to end, let it go gently and without regret. Just as “Yuan” brings people together, it can also guide them apart when their shared journey is over. Forcing a relationship to continue against its natural course rarely leads to happiness, and clinging only creates suffering for both. By releasing the bond with compassion and acceptance, you honour what was while allowing new connections and experiences to emerge. After all, “Yuan” works in cycles, and endings are often the prelude to new beginnings.

Embracing the Art of Wu Wei

To practice Wu Wei is to live in accordance with the Dao—to act without attachment, create without ego, and lead without domination. It is a path of humility, patience, and trust, inviting us to surrender our illusions of control and embrace the mystery of life.

May your journey toward Wu Wei bring clarity, serenity, and alignment with the eternal flow of the Dao.

May you do nothing so that nothing is left undone.

I recently watched Ne Zha 2 in a small cinema in Adelaide (Nova Palace Eastend), one of the 2 or 3 places screening it. I missed the first Ne Zha (2019) because I assumed it would eventually appear on Netflix, but it never did. This time, I wasn’t taking any chances. I’m so glad I did.

As of 4 March 2025, Ne Zha 2 has crossed the US$2 billion milestone at the global box office. This makes it one of the most successful films in cinema history. The movie has achieved many records in its short theatrical run. As the highest-grossing animated film of all time, it also shows the influence of Chinese cinema in the global industry.

Ne Zha 2 is expected to conclude its theatrical run with total receipts of $2.09 billion. This means it would rank the fifth-highest-grossing movie in history, surpassing Star Wars: The Force Awakens ($2.07 billion) while trailing Titanic ($2.26 billion). With the film continuing to perform and officials aiming to keep it in cinemas throughout March, Ne Zha 2 could exceed even these projections.

I watched it twice—and might even watch it a third time. There’s something about the story, the characters, and the themes that speaks to my heart. It’s a deep reflection of life, identity, and the struggle to define oneself against all odds.

Who is Ne Zha?

In Chinese mythology, Ne Zha (哪吒) is the third son of General Li Jing, a revered military commander, and is considered a child deity born with supernatural powers. His story is derived from the Ming Dynasty novel Fengshen Yanyi (Investiture of the Gods), which blends folklore, Daoist cosmology, and historical fiction.

According to the myth, Ne Zha gestated for three years and six months before being born as a ball of flesh. This unusual birth terrified his father, General Li Jing, who interpreted it as an evil omen. He attempts to destroy the mysterious object by cutting it open with a sword. Upon doing so, Ne Zha emerges as a fully formed 3-year-old boy with superhuman abilities.

Ne Zha’s story is one of rebellion, redemption, and transformation. As a headstrong and impulsive youth, he causes widespread chaos wherever he goes. Disaster struck when he killed Ao Bing (敖丙), the third son of Ao Guang (敖光), the Dragon King of the East Sea. In the myth, Ao Bing is often portrayed as arrogant and oppressive, but Ne Zha’s killing him escalates the incident into a larger conflict with the Dragon Clan, threatening his family and the celestial order.

To protect his family from divine retribution, Ne Zha makes the ultimate sacrifice: he commits suicide by dismembering himself to absolve his parents of any liability (Ne Zha was 3 years old, after all).

Ne Zha resurrected through the intervention of his mentor, Taiyi Zhenren (太乙真人), a Daoist immortal. Taiyi reconstructs Ne Zha’s body using lotus roots, lotus flowers, and other sacred elements, granting him a new, immortal form. This resurrection symbolises purification, rebirth, and transcendence, allowing Ne Zha to continue serving as a protector of humanity and a warrior in the celestial hierarchy.

But the director of Ne Zha 2, Jiao Zi, whose real name is Yang Yu, takes this myth and reimagines it in a refreshing, moving way. While the movie keeps the core elements of Ne Zha’s character, the interpretation adds layers of complexity and humanity that make Ne Zha relatable and very lovable.

A New Take on an Old Legend

In the movie, Ne Zha and Ao Bing become friends. Ne Zha’s parents, Li Jing, and Lady Yin, are devoted towards Ne Zha, willing to do anything to protect their son. Even the village that fears and ostracises him becomes a place he fights to protect.

The movie deepens the story’s conflict by introducing a profound critique of the celestial realm’s hypocrisy and its exploitation of the mortal world. The celestial order, portrayed as an upper class maintaining rigid hierarchies, perpetuates inequality under the guise of justice and compassion. Mortals are deceived into believing their suffering will be removed if they surrender to divine will, only to become “spiritual food” for the gods, who consume their energy for personal gains.

This makes the movie more compelling. It’s not just about a boy with supernatural powers; it’s about identity, love, the struggle to define oneself in a world that tries to dictate who you should be, and the hypocrisy of those who claim moral superiority over others.

Themes in the movie that moved me

Defying Destiny

“我命由我不由天” (My Destiny Is Up to Me, Not Heaven). This iconic mantra from the first film takes on a new weight in Ne Zha 2. It’s the battle cry throughout the sequel, and becomes a manifesto for Ne Zha’s defiance against heavenly mandates.

Ne Zha is born with a curse, destined to bring destruction and chaos to the world. But he refuses to accept this fate. Instead, he takes control of his life and decides who he is and aspires to be.

Unconditional Parental Love

In a striking departure from tradition, Ne Zha’s parents are transformed into embodiments of unconditional love. They are unwavering in their devotion to him. Despite the curse and the danger he poses, they never give up on him. Their love gives Ne Zha the will to change his fate. Similarly, Ao Guang’s love for Ao Bing is another testament to the bond between parent and child. No matter who you are or what you’ve done, your parents will always love you.

Towards the end of the movie, there is also an acknowledgement that, despite all our good intentions, our children must walk their own paths. The experience and knowledge that we, as parents, have gained and occasionally try to impart may be irrelevant to them. They must embark on their personal journey.

This idea deviates from traditional Chinese norms. It inspires parents, like me, to consider that our love should not be conditioned on our children doing and being what we want them to be. Our job is to love and let them be.

Shen Gongbao: The Complex Villain-Hero

For me, the most intriguing character in the movie is Shen Gongbao (申公豹). He’s introduced as a villain, but as the story unfolds, we see his complexity. He is disillusioned with the system he once believed in. A system that promised rewards for hard work but only exploited him. This was so artfully expressed in his dialogue with his younger brother.

His love for his father and younger brother humanises him, and his ultimate sacrifice to save Ne Zha’s parents from Wuliang reveals his innate heroism. Shen Gongbao is a reminder that people are never just good or evil. They’re often shaped by their circumstances and choices, and try their best to make it in a hypocritical society.

The Real Villain: Hypocrisy and Exploitation

Then there are the “good guys” who pretend to be compassionate but are ultimately selfish and manipulative.

The primary antagonist is Wuliang, who is the leader of the Chan Sect. Wuliang represents the hypocrisy and exploitation that exist in our society. They use those beneath them for their own gain, all while maintaining a facade of benevolence and social justice. True evil often hides behind a mask of virtue.

Rebirth Through the Fires of Samadhi

This is the part when everyone cries. Lady Yin’s sacrifice and Ne Zha’s subsequent transformation under the Fires of Samadhi. The Fires of Samadhi (三昧真火) are a powerful, primordial flame that is invisible, boundless and inextinguishable.

After her passing, Ne Zha undergoes a harrowing and (visually) painful rebirth, tearing his body apart before he is consumed by the Fires of Samadhi. He eventually emerges as the complete version of himself. This sequence is both horrifying and beautiful, a metaphor for rebirth and the achievement of one’s potential after extreme suffering.

The symbolism is profound: To become who he truly is, he must break free of everything (the blades) that holds him back. Watching him endure unimaginable pain while emerging stronger and complete is nothing short of breathtaking.

The visual imagery amplifies the impact: flames engulfing his form, energy coursing through his veins, and finally, the triumphant emergence in a new form. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes.

A Cultural Awakening

Ne Zha 2 is a cultural awakening for the Chinese. It explains its global popularity. For Chinese audiences, Ne Zha’s story mirrors the historical experiences of being bullied, marginalised, and oppressed. Ne Zha’s journey of self-reconstruction with the Fires of Samadhi is a powerful metaphor for cultural rejuvenation. It speaks to the collective consciousness of a people who have endured more than a hundred years of suffering and humiliation.

But the movie’s appeal isn’t limited to Chinese audiences. Its themes of defiance, love, and self-discovery are universal. Whether or not you’re familiar with Chinese mythology, Ne Zha 2 has the power to inspire and move you. It’s a reminder that no matter how dark the path is, there’s always a way to rise above it.

My Thoughts

Watching Ne Zha 2 was a journey of reflection and inspiration. The movie’s numerous themes left me with a sense of hope and empowerment. We are not defined by our circumstances or the expectations of others, even gods. We have the power to shape our own destinies, to rise above adversity, and to become who we want to be.

In a world that often feels chaotic and hopeless, Ne Zha 2 is a catalyst for spiritual awakening. Beneath the story of disobedience, love, and the unyielding spirit of humanity, it is also a call to break free from the confines that society imposes on us. It encourages the audience to question the inherited paths we took, and to accept the ones that our children will take.

Last year, I returned from a trip to Hong Kong and southern China. In Fuzhou, I visited the Lin Zexu Memorial Hall, which is a must-see for tourists and visitors. I was deeply moved by my experience there.

Lin Zexu (林则徐) was a prominent Chinese statesman and philosopher during the Qing Dynasty, and best known for his staunch resistance against the British opium trade in the 19th century.

Appointed as the Imperial Commissioner in 1839, Lin arrived in Guangzhou (Canton) with a mission to eradicate the widespread opium addiction that was devastating Chinese society.

The Memorial displays Lin Zexu’s efforts to suppress the opium trade, including his famous letter to Queen Victoria and the destruction of 20,000 chests of opium at Humen.

Other artifacts, such as manuscripts, personal belongings, and official documents from the Qing Dynasty, provided detailed insights into his legacy as a reformer, patriot, and moral leader.

I recalled having a conversation with a neighbour several years ago about the 2019-2020 Hong Kong protests. I mentioned in the conversation that Hong Kong was part of China and that it was ceded to the British after the First Opium War.

I reiterated that Hong Kong was returned to China. Not, as she said, “China had taken Hong Kong (away) from the British.” She had not heard of the Opium Wars and sadly didn’t really want to know about them.

Having visited the Memorial Hall, I thought this could be an opportunity to share with you some of the darkest chapters in Chinese history.

Those were dark times

The 19th century witnessed the darkest chapter in Chinese history, marked by exploitation by the British Empire, among others. What began as a trade imbalance soon escalated into a series of conflicts, starting with the Opium Wars. It also exposed the moral bankruptcy of imperialism.

These wars were a deliberate campaign of aggression, fuelled by the greed of the (British) East India Company, and supported by the might of the British Empire. It was the military industrial complex of the day.

The Opium Trade

The roots of the Opium Wars lie in the unequal trade relationship between Britain and China. By the early 19th century, Britain was importing vast quantities of tea, silk, and porcelain, while struggling to find commodities that the Chinese market wanted.

This led to a significant outflow of silver from Britain, creating a crippling trade deficit. Unable to find a solution, the East India Company turned to opium to reverse the flow of silver.

Though used medicinally in some cultures, opium had become a recreational drug in the European colonies. The East India Company monopolised the production and export of opium from Bengal and Malwa, flooding the Chinese market despite prohibitions imposed by the Qing government.

The British, fully aware of the destructive effects of opium, deliberately exported it to China. Smugglers bribed corrupt officials, bypassing customs checkpoints, and ensured the distribution of opium throughout China.

Social Devastation and Economic Ruin

By the 1830s, opium addiction had reached epidemic levels in China. Millions of Chinese, estimated to be around 4% of the population, were addicted.

The social cost was immense, with families torn apart as men squandered their earnings on opium. Public spaces were filled with opium dens. The social fabric of Chinese society fell apart as productivity plummeted.

The economic impact was equally devastating. Silver poured out of the country to pay for the imported opium. This drain destabilised the currency, causing massive inflation and crippling local industries. Farmers abandoned crops to grow poppies, exacerbating food shortages and rural poverty.

Young men neglected their duties, while elders despaired at the loss of traditional values. Temples and schools fell into disrepair as communities prioritised survival over spiritual and intellectual pursuits.

Opium was threatening to destroy China’s thousand-year cultural heritage.

Lin Zexu

In the face of all these, Lin Zexu (林则徐) emerged as a heroic figure who would come to embody resistance against imperial exploitation.

Appointed as Imperial Commissioner in 1839, Lin arrived in Guangzhou (Canton) to eradicate the opium problem. Lin issued stern warnings to foreign traders, demanding they surrender their opium stocks. When they resisted, he blockaded foreign trading houses and cut off supplies. He also confiscated over 20,000 chests of opium worth millions of sterling pounds for destruction.

Before taking drastic steps, Lin sought to appeal directly to Queen Victoria, hoping to persuade her to stop the immoral opium trade. He framed his argument in humanitarian terms, appealing to the queen’s sense of justice and responsibility as a ruler.

The letter (reconstructed) was written in classical Chinese and later translated into English by British officials. It was never delivered to Queen Victoria, although it was published in British Newspapers and pamphlets, sparking debates about the morality of the Opium trade.

The Letter that never reached the Queen

Letter of Advice to Queen Victoria

By Lin Zexu (1839)

To Her Majesty, Queen Victoria of Great Britain:

I humbly address Your Majesty with respect and sincerity, hoping that you will graciously consider the words of a loyal servant of the Chinese Empire. My purpose is not to offend, but to appeal to your sense of justice and humanity.

Your country is 60,000 li from China. Yet there are barbarian ships that strive to come here for trade, for the purpose of making a great profit. Among the goods they bring, opium is the most harmful and destructive. This drug has caused immense suffering in our land, ruining countless lives and families. It has drained our silver reserves and weakened our people. Surely, no civilised nation would knowingly allow such harm to be inflicted upon another.

Your Highness, we understand that within your own dominions, the smoking and sale of opium are strictly prohibited by law. If this is true, then why do you permit your merchants to export this poison to other countries? Is it not cruel and unjust to enrich yourselves at the expense of our misery? If you forbid your own subjects from using opium, how can you justify allowing it to be sold abroad?

We have learned that many of your merchants engage in this wicked trade because they seek wealth without regard for morality. They deceive our people, corrupting them with this vile substance. But as their ruler, you bear responsibility for their actions. A sovereign must ensure that her subjects act with integrity and fairness. How can you claim to be a just and benevolent ruler if you allow such evil practices to continue?

We now demand that all opium trade cease immediately. Your merchants must leave our shores and never return with this poison. If they refuse to comply, we will take decisive action to protect our people. Already, we have confiscated over 20,000 chests of opium. We will destroy them to send a clear message that we will not tolerate this menace any longer.

Your Majesty, we urge you to reflect deeply on this matter. Consider the consequences of continuing this immoral trade. It will only lead to conflict and mutual destruction. We hope that you will act wisely and with compassion, ending this scourge once and for all.

In closing, I implore you to heed this advice. Do not let greed and selfishness blind you to the suffering of others. As rulers, we are entrusted with the welfare of our people. Let us work together to promote peace and prosperity, rather than perpetuating harm and injustice.

With utmost respect,

Lin Zexu - Imperial Commissioner of China

In June 1839, Lin oversaw the destruction of 20,000 chests of opium at Humen, near Guangzhou.

The First Opium War

Lin’s resistance infuriated British merchants and officials. They lobbied London for military intervention, framing the issue as a matter of “free trade,” a defence of economic interests, and national pride, and as a defence of the “honour of the Queen.”

This led to the First Opium War in 1839. The British navy, equipped with steam-powered, iron-clad ships and advanced artillery, easily overwhelmed China’s outdated wooden junks and coastal defences. Key battles included the capture of Dinghai, the bombardment of Xiamen, and the occupation of Shanghai.

British forces did not limit themselves to military targets. Villages along the coast of the Yangtze River and southern China were burned, crops destroyed, and civilians massacred.

Lieutenant Colonel George Malcolm, who took part in the First Opium War, wrote candidly about the brutality of his fellow soldiers, noting that “no quarter was given” to those who resisted, regardless of age or gender.

However, not all Westerners condoned the behaviour of British forces. Some missionaries and diplomats stationed in China condemned the violence inflicted on civilians.

Reverend Charles Gutzlaff, a German missionary who worked with the British, criticised the indiscriminate shelling of towns and the suffering inflicted on innocent people.

Karl Marx, writing in the New York Daily Tribune in 1853, denounced the Opium Wars as “piratical expeditions” motivated by greed and imperialism. He highlighted the hypocrisy of Britain’s actions, pointing out that the nation claimed to be bringing civilisation to China while engaging in barbaric acts.

These atrocities underscored the ruthlessness of the British. The tactics instilled fear and ensured compliance. By deliberately destroying farmland and crops, they weaken Chinese morale and cripple their food supplies.

This “scorched-earth” approach was intended to pressure local populations to surrender and discourage further opposition. The war ended in 1842 with the signing of the Treaty of Nanking, which imposed the following terms on China:

• Cession of Hong Kong Island to Britain: This strategic outpost became a crucial British colony and a major financial centre.

• Opening of five treaty ports (Guangzhou, Xiamen, Fuzhou, Ningbo, and Shanghai) to foreign trade: These ports became hubs for Western commerce, allowing Britain to dominate Chinese trade and grow the opium trade.

• Payment of reparations to cover British losses: The Qing government was forced to pay 21 million silver dollars in war indemnities, further draining China’s struggling economy. Some calculations estimate this amounts to $200-$300 billion in US dollars based on today’s labour/wage comparisons.

• Extraterritorial rights for British citizens in China: British citizens were no longer subject to Chinese law and could only be tried in British consular courts.

These concessions effectively opened China to further exploitation by Western powers in the years to come. It forced China to accept terms that prioritised British financial interests above the well-being of the Chinese people.

Lin Zexu was made a scapegoat by the Qing court for his aggressive anti-opium policies, which were seen as provoking the British into war. In 1840, he was dismissed from his position as Imperial Commissioner and exiled to the remote western regions of Xinjiang.

The Second Opium War

If the First Opium War was a wake-up call, the Second Opium War (1856-1860) was a full-blown catastrophe. Sparked by disputes over treaty enforcement and renewed demands for expanded access to Chinese markets, the conflict involved not only Britain but also France, Russia, and the United States.

The war saw even greater devastation, including the sacking and burning of the Summer Palace in Beijing by Anglo-French troops in 1860. This architectural marvel, filled with priceless artifacts and treasures, was looted before being set ablaze.

The resulting treaties, most notably the Treaty of Aigun and the Convention of Peking, further eroded Chinese sovereignty. More ports were opened, missionaries gained unrestricted access to the interior, and opium was formally legalised.

The legalisation of opium further institutionalised addiction in China. Perhaps most damaging was the cession of the Kowloon Peninsula to Britain, expanding its control over Hong Kong.

The Century of Humiliation

The Opium Wars left an enduring scar on China’s national psyche. They are often cited as the beginning of the Century of Humiliation, a period of repeated defeats and encroachments by imperialist powers.

The wars also exposed the Qing dynasty’s weaknesses, hastening its decline and paving the way for waves of internal rebellions.

Troubles at Home

The Taiping Rebellion (1850–1864) was one of the deadliest conflicts in human history. It was a massive civil war led by Hong Xiuquan, a self-proclaimed Christian prophet and younger brother of Jesus Christ, who sought to overthrow the Qing Dynasty and establish a utopian kingdom called the “Heavenly Kingdom of Great Peace” (Taiping Tianguo).

Millions died as the rebellion ravaged southern and central China. Although the Qing eventually suppressed it, the conflict left the dynasty severely weakened.

The Nian Rebellion (1851–1868) was a peasant uprising in northern China, fueled by poverty, famine, and anti-Qing sentiment. Though smaller in scale than the Taiping Rebellion, it further drained Qing resources.

The Muslim Rebellions (1855–1873) resulted from ethnic and religious tensions that erupted into violence in western China, especially in Xinjiang and Yunnan. Although these rebellions were suppressed, they revealed the Qing Empire's tremendous weakness.

Opening the floodgates

As the Qing Dynasty struggled to recover, foreign powers took advantage of its weakened state to expand their influence in China. These encroachments were part of a broader “scramble for concessions” that eroded Qing sovereignty and further destabilised the empire. Each foreign power pursued its own imperial ambitions, carving out spheres of influence and exploiting China’s vulnerabilities.

Russian Expansion

Russia emerged as one of the most aggressive imperial powers in northern and central Asia during the 19th century. Its expansion into Chinese territory was driven by strategic interests, including access to warm-water ports, control over trade routes, and the establishment of buffer zones against rival powers.

Treaty of Aigun (1858)

Following the Second Opium War, Russia pressured China into signing the Treaty of Aigun, which ceded vast territories in Outer Manchuria, an area larger than France, to Russian control. This included key regions along the Amur River, giving Russia significant leverage over Northeast Asia.

Treaty of Beijing (1860)

The Treaty of Beijing (aka Convention of Peking) further expanded Russian gains, granting control over the Ussuri region, including the vital port of Vladivostok. By the late 19th century, Russia had established dominance over much of northern China, building railways (such as the Trans-Siberian Railway) and fortifying its military presence.

Central Asian Advances

Besides its territorial acquisitions in northern China, Russia also extended its influence into Central Asia, annexing regions such as Xinjiang and Kazakhstan. These moves created additional pressure on China’s western and northern borders.

French Involvement in Vietnam

France’s colonisation of Vietnam marked another blow to Qing China’s regional influence. As part of the Qing tributary system, Vietnam had long been a vassal state of China. However, France’s imperial ambitions in Southeast Asia clashed directly with Qing interests.

Colonisation of Vietnam

Beginning in the 1850s, France launched a series of military campaigns to conquer Vietnam, dividing it into three regions: Tonkin (northern Vietnam), Annam (central Vietnam), and Cochinchina (southern Vietnam). By the 1880s, France had effectively colonised the entire country.

Sino-French War (1884–1885)

When tensions escalated between China and France over Vietnam, the two nations went to war. Despite initial resistance, the Qing forces were defeated. The Treaty of Tientsin (1885) forced China to recognise French control over Vietnam, severing its centuries-old relationship with the region.

Losing Vietnam not only diminished Qing prestige but also exposed its inability to defend its traditional sphere of influence. It signalled the beginning of China’s retreat from Southeast Asia, allowing European powers to dominate the region.

German Encroachments

Germany, a latecomer to the imperial game, sought to establish a foothold in East Asia during the late 19th century. Its actions showed the growing competition among Western powers for influence in China.

Seizure of Qingdao (1897)

In response to the murder of two German missionaries in Shandong Province, Germany dispatched warships to occupy the port city of Qingdao in 1897. Under the guise of protecting Christian missionaries, Germany forced the Qing government to lease the entire Shandong Peninsula for 99 years.

Economic Exploitation

Germany developed Qingdao into a major industrial and naval base, constructing railways, factories, and infrastructure to exploit Shandong’s resources. This encroachment angered local populations and fuelled anti-foreign sentiment, contributing to later uprisings like the Boxer Rebellion (1899–1901).

Further British Expansion

Britain, already dominant in South Asia through its control of India, extended its influence into neighbouring regions, further encircling China.

Annexation of Burma

In the late 19th century, Britain completed its conquest of Burma (now Myanmar), incorporating it into British India. This move cut off China’s southwestern trade routes and secured British control over the resource-rich Irrawaddy Valley.

Invasion of Tibet

Concerned about Russian advances in Central Asia, Britain sought to counterbalance Russian influence by asserting control over Tibet. In 1903–1904, British forces led by Colonel Francis Younghusband invaded Tibet, forcing the Tibetan government to sign the Treaty of Lhasa, which opened the region to British trade and influence.

Yangtze River Concessions

Britain also consolidated its economic dominance in central China, particularly along the Yangtze River. The British controlled key treaty ports like Shanghai and Hankou, using them as hubs for trade and exploitation of China’s interior.

Japanese Emergence as an Imperial Power

Japan’s rise as a modern imperial power posed perhaps the greatest threat to Qing China. After undergoing rapid modernisation during the Meiji Restoration (1868), Japan sought to assert itself as the dominant force in East Asia, challenging China’s traditional hegemony.

Rivalry Over Korea

Korea, a long-time tributary state of China, became a flashpoint for Sino-Japanese rivalry. Both nations sought to control Korea’s political and economic future, leading to escalating tensions throughout the 1880s and 1890s.

First Sino-Japanese War (1894–1895)

The conflict erupted when Japan intervened in Korea during the Donghak Peasant Revolution (1894). Outmatched by Japan’s modernised military, Qing forces suffered crushing defeats at land and sea. The war ended with the Treaty of Bakan (1895), which imposed humiliating terms on China:

• Cession of Taiwan, the Penghu Islands, and the Liaodong Peninsula to Japan.

• Recognition of Korean independence (effectively placing it under Japanese influence).

• Payment of a massive indemnity of 200 million taels of silver (7.5 million pounds of silver).

Triple Intervention (1895)

Although Japan was forced to return the Liaodong Peninsula to China after protests from Russia, Germany, and France, the war solidified Japan’s status as a rising imperial power. It also marked the beginning of Japan’s aggressive expansion into mainland Asia, culminating in the Russo-Japanese War (1904–1905) and the eventual occupation of Manchuria (1931).

The late 19th century saw foreign powers ruthlessly exploit the weakened Qing Dynasty, carving China into spheres of influence and imposing unequal treaties that crippled its sovereignty.

From Russia’s territorial seizures in the north to Japan’s victory in the First Sino-Japanese War, each act of aggression eroded Qing authority, dismantling the traditional tributary system and leaving China fragmented and humiliated.

Massive indemnities, economic exploitation, and military defeats drained the dynasty’s resources, while internal rebellions like the Taiping and Nian uprisings exacerbated the chaos.

By the turn of the 20th century, China had become a semi-colonial state, stripped of its regional dominance and at the mercy of imperialist ambitions.

A Legacy of Exploitation and Suffering

This era of exploitation also sparked a wave of nationalism and reformist fervour, as intellectuals and revolutionaries called for modernisation and resistance to imperialism.

The humiliations inflicted by foreign powers ignited aspirations for self-strengthening and rejuvenation, setting the stage for movements that would eventually topple the Qing Dynasty and reshape China’s future.

This period of decline not only marked the end of an era but also laid the groundwork for China’s eventual rise as a modern nation determined to reclaim its place on the global stage.

The Opium Wars serve as a sobering lesson for China and the world. Today, the East India Company has a different name, but its ambition remains the same. The military industrial complex and the atrocities they commit today are just as horrific for the countries and societies affected.

The Opium Wars highlight the dangers of internal weakness and disunity, which opportunistic powers and organisations can exploit to devastating effect. It is a reminder that staying alert, strengthening national resilience, and addressing internal challenges are critical to safeguarding sovereignty and ensuring survival in an ever-changing global landscape.

I thought this could be a fun piece in the Year of the Wood Snake.

Although I am no astrologer, there is no lack of astrological advice during this period, especially on social media and YouTube. So, I would like to share some celestial insights into the coming year. And a bit of history of the Chinese Calendar.

This article is written mainly for my Aussie friends, though I suspect there is some information here that even many Chinese (like me) are not familiar with.

I wanted to use this opportunity to welcome the Year of the Wood Snake in 2025, and to wish all of you, my readers, a Happy and Prosperous Year of the Snake.

Rooted in the lunisolar calendar (not just lunar), the Chinese New Year marks not only the beginning of a new year but also the transition to a new zodiac sign, which influences the year’s energies and themes.

If you want to find out your Chinese Zodiac sign, here’s a chart from the Travel China Guide that you can use.

Chinese Zodiac Chart

The Dance of Animals and Elements

Chinese astrology revolves around a 12-year zodiac cycle, with each year represented by an animal: Rat, Ox, Tiger, Rabbit, Dragon, Snake, Horse, Goat, Monkey, Rooster, Dog, and Pig. These animals are then combined with the Five Elements—Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, and Water—to create a 60-year cycle. This unique permutation of animals and elements shapes each year’s characteristics.

In reality, the Chinese Zodiac extends beyond years to include months, days and hours so that a person’s complete zodiac is known as the Ba Zi (八字 or 8 characters).

Origin of the Chinese Calendar

Emperor Wu of Han (汉武帝) is credited with establishing the Chinese lunisolar calendar during the Han Dynasty. In 104 BCE, he introduced the Taichu Calendar (太初历, translated as ‘Grand Beginning Calendar’), a landmark reform in Chinese timekeeping.

Emperor Wu commissioned the astronomer Deng Ping (邓平) to refine these calculations, using the 81 Rule (八十一分律历) to ensure accuracy. This calendar became the foundation for later traditional Chinese calendars, incorporating several key characteristics:

• It introduces a more accurate lunar-solar system that aligns lunar months with the solar year.

• It established a 19-year cycle (Metonic cycle) to reconcile the lunar and solar calendars. In this period, 235 lunar months (synodic months) almost exactly equal 19 solar years. This means that after 19 years, the phases of the moon (e.g., new moon, full moon) will occur on the same dates of the solar year.

• It defined the length of a solar year as 365 + (385/1539) days (approximately 365.25 days).

• It standardised the lunar month as 29 + (43/81) days. (approximately 29.53 days)

• It introduced the 24 solar terms, dividing the year into equal segments to track seasonal changes. The 24 Solar Terms (二十四节气) are a unique feature of the traditional Chinese lunisolar calendar, dividing the solar year into 24 equal segments of about 15 days each.

• It developed a system for naming months and determining leap months to keep the lunar and solar cycles in harmony.

• It improves the prediction of eclipses and planetary movements.

The Taichu Calendar’s structure remained influential for centuries, with later dynasties refining its calculations to enhance precision.

Liu Xin’s Contributions to the Chinese Calendar

Liu Xin (c. 50 BCE to 23 CE), a prominent scholar of the Western Han Dynasty, further advanced the Chinese calendar system.

Recognising the need for greater accuracy, he introduced improvements to the Taichu Calendar, refining the 81 Rule with updated astronomical theories and observations.

One of Liu Xin’s major achievements was the development of the Triple Concordance Calendar (三统历; San tong li), a sophisticated model for predicting celestial movements. He compiled his findings in the Book of the Three System Calendar, a comprehensive text that detailed theories on calendar formulation, solar terms, planetary movements, and astronomical events.

His work enhanced the precision of celestial calculations, aligning the calendar more accurately with the agricultural cycle.

Liu Xin also undertook an ambitious project to reconstruct historical astronomical records, applying his system to analyse past celestial phenomena.

His contributions significantly improved the reliability of Chinese timekeeping, laying the groundwork for the Astronomical Calendar (天文年历) and influencing astronomical and mathematical advancements for centuries.

The Significance of the Snake

The Snake is the sixth animal in the Chinese zodiac, associated with wisdom, intuition, and transformation. In Chinese culture, it is often seen as enigmatic and graceful, embodying a calm yet determined spirit. The Snake’s energy encourages introspection, strategic thinking, and adaptability.

The Element of Wood

In 2025, the Snake pairs with the element of Wood, bringing a fresh dimension to its personality. Wood is associated with growth, creativity, and vitality. When combined with the Snake, it emphasises personal development, nurturing relationships, and long-term vision.

What to Expect in the Year of the Wood Snake

The Year of the Wood Snake invites personal growth and introspection. With the Snake’s innate wisdom paired with the nurturing energy of Wood, 2025 is an ideal time for setting long-term goals and fostering meaningful relationships.

This combination encourages creativity, innovation, and strategic thinking while urging us to find a balance between ambition and patience.

How the Year of the Wood Snake Will Affect You

Here are some insights into how the Year of the Wood Snake will influence each of the 12 zodiac signs.

Rat

The clever and resourceful Rat is known for its adaptability and quick thinking, which will shine in 2025. Strategic planning will open doors to unexpected opportunities, but the Rat’s occasional impulsiveness could lead to missteps if not sufficiently cautious.

In relationships, open communication will strengthen bonds, while balancing a busy schedule with proper rest is essential for good health. This year offers the chance to learn the value of patience and appreciate life’s victories.

Ox

Steady and reliable, the Ox thrives in 2025, with financial stability and career growth on the horizon. Known for its determination and hard work, those born in the Year of the Ox will see their efforts pay off, especially in leadership roles.

However, their stubborn nature could create challenges in relationships if they do not learn to compromise. Prioritising balance in work and personal life will ensure both emotional well-being and continued success.

Tiger

Tigers are natural leaders, and 2025 encourages them to harness their courage with strategy. While luck favours calculated risks, the Tiger’s tendency to make impulsive decisions could derail long-term plans.

In relationships, the Tigers’ passion can bring excitement but may also spark conflicts if not tempered with understanding. Physical activity will help Tigers stay focused, while cultivating humility will enhance their personal growth.

Rabbit

The Rabbit, known for its kindness and diplomacy, finds steady growth in 2025. Opportunities arise through collaboration and networking, while harmony prevails in love and friendships.

However, the Rabbit’s tendency to avoid confrontation may lead to unresolved issues. Focusing on mental well-being and exploring creative outlets will bring balance and joy this year.

Dragon

Dragons are often the centre of attention. In 2025, their natural confidence must be balanced with careful planning to achieve success. Overconfidence may strain relationships or career prospects, but Dragons who embrace collaboration will unlock new opportunities.

Health is maintained through a balanced approach to diet and exercise, and reflecting on long-term goals leads to meaningful transformation.

Snake

The enigmatic Snake enjoys a time of personal and professional growth. Snakes’ innate wisdom and strategic thinking position them for success in their careers, while their natural charm strengthens relationships and bonds.

However, they tend to overthink, which leads to unnecessary stress. Relaxation and self-care will be crucial. This is also a year for Snake to take bold steps toward their aspirations.

Horse

The energetic and independent Horse finds steady progress in 2025 by channelling its vitality into focused projects. Known for their adventurous spirit, Horses must practice patience to avoid unnecessary conflicts.

Relationships benefit from empathy and open communication, while physical activity, balanced with mental relaxation, supports overall health. This year is an opportunity to turn boundless energy into productive pursuits.

Goat

Creative and compassionate, the Goat enjoys nurturing energies in 2025, fostering harmony in relationships and recognition at work. While their artistic talents and sensitivity bring inspiration, Goats may need to guard against overindulgence or emotional overwhelm.

Exploring new interests and prioritising self-care will strengthen their personal growth and ensure a fulfilling year.

Monkey

Monkeys thrive on challenges and creative endeavours. In 2025, their charm opens doors to new opportunities, but they must avoid overconfidence and remain attentive to detail to succeed.

Relationships flourish with sincere effort, and managing stress through relaxation techniques will keep them balanced. This year encourages Monkeys to learn new skills and showcase their talents.

Rooster

Practical and hardworking, the Rooster values order and precision. Stability and financial growth are likely in 2025, especially in complicated projects where their strengths shine.

However, their critical nature may strain relationships, so practising flexibility and understanding is essential. Staying active to reduce stress and embracing a more open-minded approach will lead to breakthroughs in both personal and professional life.

Dog

Dogs will enjoy a rewarding year in 2025 by staying open to change and collaboration. While their dependable nature strengthens relationships, Dogs may need to overcome their tendency toward scepticism to fully embrace new opportunities.

Building a consistent wellness routine supports physical and emotional health, and trusting their instincts will guide them toward meaningful achievements.

Pig

Generous and warm-hearted, the Pig thrives in 2025, with opportunities to deepen connections and achieve professional milestones. Their nurturing nature brings harmony in relationships, but they must guard against overextending themselves.

Rest and relaxation are crucial for maintaining energy, and sharing their wisdom with others enhances both their personal growth and the lives of those around them.

Beliefs and Practices

Chinese New Year is steeped in symbolic rituals that carry deep cultural significance. Here are some uncommon practices and their meanings:

Do Not Sweep the Floor: Sweeping or cleaning the house on the first day of the New Year is strictly avoided as it symbolises “sweeping away” good fortune. Cleaning should be done before the New Year to ensure the home is ready to welcome good luck.

Leave the Lights On: On New Year’s Eve, families keep their lights on overnight to chase away evil spirits and welcome prosperity. This practice stems from the legend of Nian, where bright lights and noise were used to scare away the beast.

Visit Relatives and Friends: Known as “bai nian” (拜年), visiting loved ones symbolises the renewal of relationships and the strengthening of family bonds. It is a way to exchange blessings and well-wishes for the year ahead.

Avoid Using Sharp Objects: Knives and scissors are avoided on New Year’s Day, as they are believed to “cut off” fortune and prosperity.

Wear New Clothes: Dressing in new clothes, often in vibrant red, signifies a fresh start and is thought to bring good luck. Red is favoured because it symbolises happiness and is effective at warding off evil spirits.

Reunion Dinners

The Chinese Reunion Dinner, or 年夜饭 (Nián Yè Fàn), is a deeply cherished tradition held on Chinese New Year’s Eve, symbolising family unity, prosperity, and good fortune for the coming year.

It brings family members together, no matter how far apart they are, emphasising the importance of family bonds and cultural heritage.

The meal features symbolic dishes such as fish (for abundance), dumplings (for wealth), and noodles (for longevity), each with its own auspicious meaning.

Despite modern adaptations, the essence of togetherness and cultural continuity remains at its heart.

Ancestor Worship

Ancestor worship is a cornerstone of many cultures, particularly in Chinese tradition, where it reflects deep respect, gratitude, and a sense of continuity among generations.

It honours deceased family members, acknowledging their influence and blessings in the lives of the living. By offering prayers, food, and incense, descendants maintain a spiritual connection with their ancestors, ensuring their well-being in the afterlife and seeking their guidance and protection.

This practice reinforces family unity, cultural identity, and filial piety, emphasising the belief that ancestors play an active role in the family's prosperity and harmony.

It also serves as a reminder of one’s roots and responsibilities, bridging the past, present, and future.

Embracing the Wisdom of the Wood Snake

The Year of the Wood Snake offers a unique opportunity for personal growth, creative exploration, and meaningful connections. By embracing the Snake’s wisdom and the Wood element’s vitality, 2025 can be a year of transformation and progress.

With the Chinese New Year just around the corner, I wanted to share something that is commonly discussed in many Chinese families around the world, especially among older folks.

My mother-in-law, for example, gives specific instructions to my wife and her siblings on how to take the necessary countermeasure when we Fan Tai Sui (犯太岁) this Chinese New Year. I never knew what it was all these years, and so decided to find out.

What is Fan Tai Sui?

Fan Tai Sui refers to the phenomenon of clashing with or offending the god Tai Sui, also known as the Grand Duke Jupiter or the Guardian God of the Year. When it happens, it can lead to bad luck in various aspects of your life in the coming year, especially in health, relationships and finances.

This belief, which dates back to the Warring States period (475 BCE to 221 BCE), typically affects individuals born under the zodiac sign corresponding to the current year, known as Ben Ming Nian (本命年), a.k.a. Zodiac Year, along with three to four other signs.

So in the coming year of the snake, those born under the year of the snake (6th) are said to Fan Tai Sui. The direct opposite, Pig (which is 12th), and the two quarters, Monkey (which is 9th) and Tiger (which is 3rd), will also offend Tai Sui, though to a lesser degree.

Parents and older folks will be busy planning for remedies and countermeasures to reduce the impact of Fan Tai Sui. These will include praying and making offerings at the local temple, wearing amulets and specific colours (especially red), associating with people of favourable zodiac signs, and performing good deeds to reduce negative impacts.

But who is Tai Sui?

Tai Sui (太岁), also known as the Grand Duke Jupiter, is a significant deity in Chinese astrology and culture. He governs the fortunes of individuals for a specific year, influencing various aspects of life such as health, wealth, career, and relationships.

The concept of Tai Sui originated from the planet Jupiter, which has a 12-year cycle that aligns with the 12 zodiac signs in Chinese astrology. Multiplied by the 5 elements, there are 60 Tai Sui deities, each presiding over a year in a 60-year cycle.

Tai Sui is often personified as a celestial general serving under the Jade Emperor. It is more like an appointment that rotates with different deities.

Each Tai Sui deity is associated with a specific direction and has its own characteristics and influences. This is important in Feng Shui practices and in fortune-telling.

The deity ruling is referred to as the “Liu Nian Tai Sui” (流年太岁, “yearly deity”), and is crucial for determining who will have good or bad luck based on their zodiac sign.

When individuals clash with Tai Sui, they may encounter obstacles, difficulties or misfortunes throughout the year. This typically affects those born under the zodiac sign corresponding to the current year, along with several others.

Your fortune in 2025

In 2025, General Wu Sui (吴造大屠) is the governing Tai Sui in the Year of the Wood Snake. The associated direction is South-Southeast.

So those born in the Year of the Snake will clash with Tai Sui in 2025. According to astrologists, they may face health issues, misfortunes, and other emotional troubles.

Other signs affected are:

Those born in the Year of the Pig will be in direct conflict with Tai Sui (冲太岁). It is considered the most severe form of offending Tai Sui. They may experience major life changes, financial troubles or instability, health issues, relationship challenges, and just plain bad luck.

Those born in the Year of the Tiger will be 害太岁 - Hai Tai Sui, or harming Tai Sui. Astrologists say this is less serious than being in direct conflict. They may face challenges such as betrayal, interpersonal conflicts, and emotional instability.

Finally, those born in the Year of the Monkey will be 破太岁 - Po Tai Sui, or “Destroying Tai Sui”. This is the mildest form of offence against Tai Sui. They might incur financial losses, experience relationship breakdowns, or face interpersonal conflicts.

The negative effects are almost similar, but the gravity of each differs accordingly.

What can you do?

To appease Tai Sui and mitigate the effects, there are several common remedies recommended:

You can pray:

This is countermeasure 101. Visiting a Tai Sui temple to offer prayers is the most basic method. Offerings usually include incense, fruits, and other symbolic items. However, when praying, remember to provide personal information, such as your full name, date and time of birth, and address, to establish rapport with Tai Sui. So he knows who’s praying.

You can display a Tai Sui Statue at home:

After all, Tai Sui will not harm the people in the home where he lives. Placing a Tai Sui statue invokes Tai Sui’s protection and goodwill. These items should be prominently displayed, particularly in the direction associated with Tai Sui for that year.

You can wear red:

Clothes, scarves, and even undergarments. Red is a powerful colour in Chinese traditions. It ​symbolises good fortune, happiness, and prosperity. It is deeply embedded in cultural practices, from festive decorations to wedding attire, and is believed to ward off evil spirits.

You can carry protective charms:

Carrying protective charms such as the Tai Sui talisman or Pixiu amulet can help ward off negative influences. These are protective objects in Chinese astrology and Feng Shui, designed to mitigate the negative effects of offending Tai Sui and attract good fortune.

You can focus on doing more good deeds:

One of the most important countermeasures is to engage in charitable activities and be kind to others. It is an effort to accumulate good karma, which is thought to counter the negative effects of Fan Tai Sui. It is also encouraged that you do your part to create harmony at home and in the workplace.

Avoid making major changes:

This means avoid taking unnecessary risks. Refrain from major decisions such as marriage, moving, investing, or major renovations during the year of Fan Tai Sui, as these actions may exacerbate negative influences.

Celebrate auspicious events:

This is also unique to Chinese traditions. When met with a string of bad luck or misfortune, families sometimes throw a huge feast to celebrate an occasion. It’s like a “hard reboot” to reset your fortunes.

Auspicious events can help “flush out” the bad luck associated with Fan Tai Sui. This includes celebrating birthdays or other significant milestones. I think such celebrations can shift a person’s mindset, making them more optimistic and positive about the future.

All these may not be just superstitions. In fact, I think there is a deep, significant purpose grounded in philosophy and even psychology.

The Practical and Philosophical Aspects of Fan Tai Sui

Life is full of ups and downs, and fortune is no exception. The concept of Fan Tai Sui in Chinese astrology serves as a reminder that sometimes, when things don’t go your way, it’s not always your fault. That certain years may bring challenges because of astrological clashes with Tai Sui also offers practical advice for navigating difficult times.

It is also aimed at harmonising one’s energy with the influence of Tai Sui throughout the year.

Fortune Changes

One of the central teachings of Fan Tai Sui is the acceptance of change. Just as the seasons shift, so too does fortune, good and bad. Experiencing setbacks, whether in health, wealth, or relationships, doesn’t mean you’ve done something wrong.

Fan Tai Sui serves as a framework for externalising misfortune, allowing individuals to acknowledge challenges without excessive self-blame or guilt.

Do Whatever You Can to Improve Your Life

When facing a year of Fan Tai Sui, be proactive. These include praying to Tai Sui, giving to charity, and performing acts of kindness. While these actions are rooted in religious traditions, their purpose is universal: That is to shift your focus toward the positive. Towards improving the status quo.

Doing positive things creates opportunities for improvement in your life. Kindness, generosity, and mindfulness can transform your mindset and, often, improve your circumstances. It can be infectious and attract others to help you.

Wait It Out

Fan Tai Sui teaches that bad fortune is cyclical. No matter how difficult the year may seem, it will eventually pass. This perspective can be incredibly grounding. Rather than fighting against circumstances beyond your control, sometimes the best approach is to wait. The inevitability of change is a comforting truth that can help you endure even the hardest of times.

Cultural Wisdom for Mental Health

At its core, Fan Tai Sui embodies cultural wisdom that extends beyond superstition. It provides a structured way to process misfortune and encourages resilience. The practice of engaging in rituals, offering prayers, or simply acknowledging the concept of Fan Tai Sui can have a calming effect on mental health.

By framing hardships as part of a greater cosmic cycle, individuals are encouraged to cultivate patience and resilience. These qualities, over time, can lead to personal growth and long-term well-being.

Resilience Will Pay Off

Enduring difficulties with grace and perseverance is one of the greatest lessons of Fan Tai Sui. Resilience is not just about surviving challenges, but about learning from them and growing stronger. By adopting this mindset, you’re better prepared to face future adversities with confidence and clarity.

Conclusion

Fan Tai Sui is more than a tradition; it’s a profound reminder of life’s ebb and flow. When fortune falters, it’s an opportunity to reflect, act, and grow. Pray, give, and be kind. Trust that even the hardest times will pass, and resilience will see you through. This blend of practicality and philosophy is a gift—one that helps us navigate life’s inevitable challenges with grace and hope.

Last month, my wife and I visited the village where my father was born in 1928. I had wanted to do this for more than a decade now, but never really got around to planning it. I had only heard of Mashou Village but did not know what it was like. Neither did my father, who left when he was just under two years old.

My father was born in Mashou Village (马硕村), in Putian Town, Jieyang City, Guangdong Province, China.

Mashou Village

Mashou Village is a serene and picturesque community, cradled by mountains on three sides and bordered by water on two. It is a relatively large village with over 4,500 people and 1,000 households, most of whom are farmers. The village is renowned for its bamboo shoots, often called “Lingnan mountain treasures.”

Initially, I wasn’t optimistic about setting foot into Mashou Village. Our inquiries suggested that it was quite remote and rural. There was no public transport that did not involve hours of walking. The hotel receptionist in Jieyang even warned us that we might not make it back without a car. My wife, as always, was resourceful and optimistic, and began calling her relatives in Fuzhou for help and advice.

As luck would have it, a friend of a friend of her distant cousin found someone in his WeChat network who was free in the afternoon to take us to Mashou and back. A young man who is a professional MC for weddings.

Driving into the narrow lanes of Mashou Village, I felt emotional. For years, I had been curious about this village, its people, its traditions, its history. These were glimpses of a life lived far from our own in Australia. Now, I am here, hoping to piece them together and, perhaps, find a sense of who I am. It was familiar, yet strange at the same time.

This is where I came from.

Meeting the Villagers

We made our way to the village square and found the administrative office. It was a modest building. Inside, we met the village secretary, a young man in his late twenties, and introduced ourselves and the purpose of our visit.

The villagers were overwhelmingly helpful. After I explained my visit, there was a buzz of activity as older folks began making calls and asking around.

“My grandfather’s name is Tan Kee Lai (陈奇来). He probably left in 1930 because my dad was two when they came to Singapore.”

“I know of a Tan Kee Leng and a Tan Kee Meng, but not sure about Tan Kee Lai,” said one elderly villager at the office. He would have been in his seventies.

“This name is familiar…” he added, giving me a glimmer of hope. He suggested we talk to some of the older villagers across the square. He will take us there.

Traditional Chinese names are not random but pre-determined.

In Chinese naming traditions, names typically consist of a family name (surname) followed by a given name. The zupu (family genealogy book) often guides the naming of descendants, especially through generation names (字辈, zì bèi), in which one character in the given name is shared by all members of the same generation, following a predetermined sequence outlined in a family poem or phrase.

So my given name is Zhiqiang (志强) and my brother is Zhiming (志明).

This practice ensures lineage continuity and family identity, with names reflecting virtues, auspicious meanings, or homage to ancestors. While these traditions remain strong in rural areas, modernisation has led to less adherence in urban settings, though some families preserve aspects like generation names to honour their heritage.

A small gathering soon formed, with several elders busy making phone calls. Eventually, we were told that I would likely need to refer to the records at the ancestral temple (祠堂 or cí táng) to find my grandfather’s name—and possibly my father’s. It’s a library of records and will take days, if not weeks, to check.

That would have to wait for another day.

A Long, Long Time Ago

I hadn’t expected to find anything or any relations on this first visit. It had been nearly a century since my grandfather left Mashou Village. He departed in 1930 for Singapore with his third wife (my grandmother), four or five children, and perhaps a younger brother.

I always thought that my grandfather had 3 wives all at once, but was told by my wife’s uncle that my grandmother was probably the third because the first two died or ran away because of poverty.

Life in those days was harsh, with life expectancy averaging 30–40 years, especially for women, because of high maternal mortality rates and limited healthcare.

My grandfather, a Chinese doctor, intended the move to Singapore to be temporary. He made a small fortune, which he sent back to China to purchase houses and land. Unfortunately, he passed away in Singapore around 1936-7, reportedly from anger and heartbreak after losing his wealth during the onset of the Second Sino-Japanese War.

My grandmother died of illness in 1942 in Singapore, just as WW2 began.

My father, barely 14, was left to fend for himself and his siblings. He never knew if he had uncles or cousins in China, a mystery that has lingered for decades.

Reflection on Identity

Some of my relatives in Singapore were mildly curious about my journey to Mashou Village. Many asked why I bothered: “Was it worth the trouble? Why not go to Chongqing? It’s more interesting…”

To some, this venture was little more than a novelty. But for me, its importance grows with each day. I can’t fully explain the urge to reconnect with my heritage, but my wife believes it’s my ancestors nudging me toward a sense of continuation. Perhaps it’s an awareness of my mortality that drives me—a desire to affirm that I’m part of a chain that won’t end with my sons or me.

After our visit to Mashou, we travelled to Shantou (汕头) and Zhangzhou (漳州) to visit my wife’s ancestral village. Along the way, her distant cousin reminded me to keep searching. “Follow up,” he said, “and I will help if I can.”

He believes it is important.

For ethnic Chinese, lineage continuity is more than tradition; it’s a way to honour those who came before and to pass on values, traditions, and legacy. It’s also a crucial part of understanding one’s identity.

This visit to Mashou Village was a deeply personal exploration of identity. As someone who has lived far from these roots, I’ve often felt disconnected from my heritage. Standing in the village, surrounded by the echoes of my grandfather’s past, I felt a profound connection to a lineage that stretches far beyond me.

I think of my life as a photograph, a single frame from a very long movie. Reconnecting with my heritage gives me a sense of what that movie was like. It’s now my role to continue the story, make it meaningful, and share it with my children and grandchildren.

Next Time

We didn’t stay in Mashou Village for long, and I could have been better prepared. Next time, I’ll have a clearer purpose: to trace my grandfather’s identity at the ancestral temple and, if he has any, locate and connect with his relatives and descendants.

As I left Mashou, I carried a renewed sense of identity, purpose, and hope for the future. For anyone seeking to reconnect with their roots, I encourage you to take that first step. Even if you don’t find what you’re looking for, you may discover that the answers you seek are waiting for you in unexpected places.

My encounter with the Heart Sutra began rather unexpectedly—it was on YouTube. It was through the haunting voice of a Japanese Zen monk and rock singer, Kanho Yakushiji. I have shared the link here: 

I remember feeling a certain stirring when I first heard it. The visual was interesting because it featured a Zen monk who is a rock star. What a combination!

I shared the video with my wife, and we watched it repeatedly. We found the song on Spotify and added it to our playlist. I listened while I was doing my prep in the kitchen, and I felt a sense of peace and calm I hadn’t felt in a long time. 

I am curious. I had to know more.

What’s the Heart Sutra?

The Heart Sutra, known as the Prajnaparamita Hridaya, is one of the most revered texts in Mahayana Buddhism. Its concise yet profound teachings on emptiness and wisdom have made it a central focus of Buddhist practice and philosophy. 

Prajnaparamita means “Perfect Wisdom”, and Hridaya means “heart”, so that the Heart Sutra literally means the “perfect wisdom of the heart.” 

In the Chinese version translated by Xuanzang, it’s only 262 characters, encapsulating the essence of Buddhism. It is so concise that nothing from the thousands of lines of scripture is left out.   

In this article, I want to share my thoughts and feelings about the Heart Sutra.

For those not familiar with the text, here’s my translation for my readers’ benefit. I wanted to write it as close to normal language as possible, which is quite challenging, so please bear with me. It is not a “translation” per se, since these are awkward considering it was originally in Sanskrit. 

The Heart Sutra - 心经

This is the sutra as I understand it.

Avalokiteshvara Bodhisattva, also known as “the Lord who looks down with compassion”, realised that all five 1Skandhas are empty, and with this realisation, he overcame all suffering.

Shariputra, my disciple, form does not differ from emptiness,
and emptiness does not differ from form. 
Form is emptiness, and emptiness is form. 
The same goes for feelings, perceptions, thoughts, and consciousness.” 

Shariputra, everything is emptiness; 
It is not born, nor can it be destroyed. 
It cannot be defiled, nor can it be made purer, 
It cannot be added to, nor can it be taken away from.

Therefore, in Emptiness, there are no forms, no feelings, no perceptions, no thoughts, and no consciousness.

There is no eye, no ear, no nose, no tongue, no body, no mind; 
There is no sight, no sound, no smell, no taste, no touch, no thoughts; 
There is no realm in which you can see, 
There is no realm in which you can be conscious. 

There is no ignorance or the end of ignorance, 
There is no death or the end of death; 
There is no suffering, or the cause of suffering, or the end of suffering, 
There is no wisdom to attain, and even attainment itself is emptiness!

Since there is nothing to attain, the bodhisattva simply dwells in Perfect Wisdom, so that the mind is free from illusion and fear.
And therein realise enlightenment.

All Buddhas of past, present, and future rely on Perfect Wisdom to arrive at this unsurpassed, complete, and perfect enlightenment.

So understand that Perfect Wisdom lies in this great mantra, this supreme mantra, this mantra beyond compare, which can remove all suffering.

Now repeat after me!

Go! Go! Go beyond! Go completely beyond! And awaken!

History of the Heart Sutra

The Heart Sutra originated around the 1st century CE. This original body of texts was developed about 400 years after the death of Shakyamuni Buddha (aka Siddhartha Gautama) and includes various versions ranging from 8,000 to 100,000 lines. 

The popular version of the Heart Sutra today is therefore a condensed version that captures the essence of these teachings, making it accessible for common practitioners.

One of the most significant figures in the history of the Heart Sutra is Xuanzang, a monk from the Tang Dynasty in China. Xuanzang embarked on an epic journey to India in the 7th century, driven by his quest to obtain authentic Buddhist scriptures. This was later fictionalised in the Chinese Classic Journey to the West. 

Xuanzang travelled thousands of miles across treacherous terrains, deserts, and mountains to reach India, where he studied with renowned Buddhist scholars at Nalanda, and collected many texts, including the Heart Sutra.

Upon returning to China, Xuanzang translated these scriptures into Chinese, including the Heart Sutra. His translation played a crucial role in popularising the text in China and throughout East Asia, contributing to the spread of Buddhism. 

Xuanzang’s translation is one of the most widely used versions today, and helped establish the Heart Sutra as a central text in Mahayana Buddhism. His efforts not only preserved the teachings but also made them accessible to millions, allowing the wisdom of the Heart Sutra to flourish across cultures.

The Essence of the Heart Sutra

The essence of the Heart Sutra centres on the concepts of emptiness (śūnyatā) and the interdependence of all things. These are some of the core themes that define the Heart Sutra and its significance for practitioners seeking a deeper understanding of reality.

Emptiness

The Heart Sutra teaches that all things, including physical forms and mental experiences, are empty of inherent existence. This means that nothing exists independently or permanently; everything is interconnected and arises because of various causes and conditions. 

This is often mistaken for nihilism in the West. But “Emptiness” is not “nothingness”. While nihilism holds that life is meaningless and denies the existence of intrinsic value or purpose, emptiness holds that everything lacks inherent existence. It does not mean that things do not exist; rather, they are interconnected and impermanent. 

Incidentally, Taoism has a simpler explanation of emptiness. A cup is useful because of the emptiness (non-cup, or space) in the cup. A cup with no space is not a cup. Therefore, form (cup) is emptiness (non-cup), and emptiness is form. The two cannot be separated.

Interdependence

The Heart Sutra emphasises that because everything depends on one another, they lack a fixed essence. This interconnectedness is key to understanding reality. When we see everything is interdependent, we also recognise the futility of clinging to any single aspect of existence. This is further explained in the article You are a lump of clay.

This insight encourages compassion, giving us a sense of connection with all beings, and reminding us that our lives are inextricably linked to those around us.

We are each of us and all of us.

The Nature of Reality

This immortal line: “Form is emptiness, emptiness is form” is the centre of the Heart Sutra. It illustrates that everything we perceive as real (form) is, at its core, empty. 

Emptiness cannot be separated from form, since it manifests as the very forms we see and experience. 

This paradox challenges how we usually perceive the world and encourages us to see beyond appearances. And to understand that form and emptiness are inseparable aspects of the same reality, like two sides of a coin.

Liberation from Suffering

By realising the emptiness of all phenomena, one can overcome attachment and aversion, which are the root causes of suffering (Saṃsāra). 

Saṃsāra is a Sanskrit term referring to the continuous cycle of birth, death, and rebirth across various realms of existence. Saṃsāra is caused by ignorance (avidya), particularly ignorance about reality, impermanence (anicca), and the concept of non-self (anatta). This ignorance leads to attachment and craving, which bind individuals to the cycle. 

A bit like William Blake’s “Mind-forg’d Manacles” in his poem London. 

Understanding emptiness allows us to let go of the delusions that bind us to the cycle of suffering. This insight leads to mental balance and even-mindedness, freeing us from fear, anger, and desire. 

Ultimately, the realisation of emptiness is the path to enlightenment, enabling each of us to experience liberation.

Compassion

The Heart Sutra also highlights the importance of compassion, especially through Avalokiteśvara, who embodies compassion itself. Realising emptiness should be accompanied by compassion towards all sentient beings. 

True wisdom is inseparable from compassion, since understanding the emptiness and interdependence of all things naturally gives rise to empathy and a desire to ease others’ suffering. 

I would like to recall my favourite story, attributed to Hui Neng, the Sixth Patriarch of Chan (Zen) Buddhism in China, about compassion. 

Lessons from the Heart Sutra

I remember when I first became interested in learning about the Heart Sutra; I used to listen to it while doing my prep in the kitchen, mostly wrapping dumplings. I would listen to it repeatedly, and it would bring peace to my heart. 

Realising Emptiness

There were moments of calm and clarity that vanished when I tried to cling to it. Perhaps that’s the nature of form and emptiness.  

It is difficult to always know that everything is interconnected. It is harder to reduce attachment and fosters compassion towards others. How do you look upon the suffering of others, the evil that men do, and not feel the anger and frustration? And suffer?

But I think the point is not to be indifferent but to cultivate empathy and compassion. Then let go. Do not cling to it. Good or bad. Letting go is inevitable when you realise everything is essentially empty. 

Meanwhile, we do all we can to help others ease their suffering.

Overcoming Duality 

Duality is a funny thing. I know what it is, but it is extremely difficult to pin down. 

That’s because we are all taught to think dualistically. This is right, that is wrong. This is an apple, and that is not an apple. I am me; you are you. I have previously written about it in:

The rejection of dualistic thinking is the foundation of Zen Buddhism. Not this, not that. It encourages us to move beyond simplistic notions of right and wrong, or of self and others, and helps us understand reality. There are many stories and instances of Zen masters helping the clumsy student realise the true nature of things. Usually through a koan (riddle). 

Direct experience

True wisdom arises from direct experience rather than intellectual understanding. But what is direct experience? 

Eating an ice-cream cone on a hot day. 

That’s a direct experience. 

Thinking about how you might put on weight and the calories you have to lose, and maybe you should have gone with sorbet instead of chocolate and caramel, and why is that person staring at me? Is there something on my chin? And these damn flies…oops, did one just land on my ice-cream? Can I eat it? Oh, I shouldn’t have walked this way…I hate summer…and I hate Paul. What a bloody crook! How could he do that! I should have…

That’s not a direct experience.

Conclusion

There is much to be said about embracing the concepts of emptiness, interdependence, and non-duality, so that one can move beyond the illusions that create suffering. That ultimately, the Heart Sutra can lead us toward enlightenment and liberation beyond the further shore. 

I hope I did some justice to the Heart Sutra. It is a personal take on something close to my heart. Something I want to share over dinner with friends and family. And I hope, like Zen masters, we do not take all of this too seriously.

I think realising Nirvana could be like trying to move your ears. I always wondered how I could do it. I have seen my uncle move his ears, so I know it is possible. But how?

Without wanting or really trying, it happened one day. I discovered my auricular muscles, and I can move my ears. It was there all the time.

I had a big belly laugh and said to my younger brother, “Hey, Meng! Watch this…” 

Last Saturday, as we were walking towards the Buddhist temple at Sellick’s Beach, I was bothered by the number of flies.

The temple is next to pasture land. With so many cows within walking distance from the car park, you can imagine why there are so many flies when you get out of the car. 

And, being in a place of worship where “killing” in any form is forbidden, I hopelessly waved my hands around like a madman as I hurried towards the temple kitchen.

It was our usual routine to help prepare for Sunday lunch.

My lovely wife said to me, “Why do you let them bother you? Just ignore it…” as I spat one out.

Summer is here. 

Why flies?

I hate flies. Unlike in Singapore, flies here are indestructible. I have noticed that I frequently swat a fly, certain I have killed it, only for it to be gone. Gone where? I think it flew away. I didn’t quite hit it hard enough. 

In Singapore, a gentle tap and they’re dead. Here, you need a hammer.

But why flies?

I know they’re a part of our ecosystem, but are they really necessary? They spread disease and can make you very sick. They contaminate everything, annoy you, and are often associated with decay and death.

If I could, with the wave of a wand, kill every single fly in the entire world, what would happen? 

I wonder... 

What would happen if all the flies died?

Imagine for a moment that all the flies in the world disappeared overnight. Imagine this: no more swatting, buzzing, or spitting them out when they get into your mouth. What would it be like?

Very, very, bad. Apparently.

Did you know…

That flies belong to the order Diptera, which is one of the largest orders in the animal kingdom. There are approximately 120,000 described species of flies worldwide. However, the total number of fly species, including those not yet discovered or described, could be significantly higher, possibly exceeding 1 million.

One Week

Within one week, the absence of flies would affect us in subtle but critical ways. Dead kangaroos along the expressway and dog shit along the Esplanade would accumulate. 

Dead rats under the car porch, half-eaten birds in gardens, would stay around much longer, creating unpleasant sights and potential health risks. There would also be a noticeable increase in foul odours because of the slower breakdown of organic material. 

Flies, it seems, also play an important role in pollinating certain plants, and their absence would affect reproduction, leading to reduced growth and productivity in the long term. 

But immediately, other scavengers, such as beetles and ants, would struggle to keep up with the increased volume of decaying matter, slowing down nutrient recycling. 

Without flies breaking down these materials and recycling nutrients back into the soil, decomposition would slow dramatically. The first brick of the ecological domino falls in our direction.

One Month

After a month, the effects would ripple through the ecosystem.  

Creatures that rely on flies as a vital food source, like birds, amphibians, spiders, and other insects, would die of hunger. Or they would go after other insects, like bees and cute little ladybugs. 

Predators higher up the food chain that depend on those that feed on flies will also struggle to find enough food. The populations of some animals will decline, triggering a chain reaction.

And it will get worse as it moves closer towards us.

In addition, the buildup of decomposing organic matter would attract various scavengers, potentially increasing rodent and other pest populations, creating new challenges for both natural and urban environments. 

The pollination of certain plants would further decline, affecting vegetation growth and health and potentially influencing agricultural productivity and biodiversity.

The balance would tip, and like dominoes, everything would collapse towards us. 

One Year

A year without flies would lead to dramatic, long-term consequences.

Decomposition would come to a near standstill, with piles of organic waste, dead animals, and rotting plant matter accumulating everywhere. 

The stench of decay would become unbearable as bacteria and other pathogens multiply unchecked, leading to widespread outbreaks of disease. 

The air would become heavy with the rancid odour of rotten things, especially in areas where sanitation relies on these natural decomposers.

Without flies to help break down waste, water sources would become contaminated, leading to a public health crisis. 

The temple at Sellicks Beach will be uninhabitable. As will every other place on earth.

And who would have guessed that without flies, diseases like cholera, dysentery, and other waterborne illnesses would spread rapidly, affecting humans and animals. The buildup of waste would also lead to an explosion in populations of other pests, such as rats and cockroaches, further exacerbating the spread of disease and making living conditions intolerable in many areas.

The collapse of the food web would continue to deepen. Birds, amphibians, reptiles, and mammals that rely on flies and their larvae would suffer massive die-offs, triggering a chain reaction that would ripple up the food chain. Towards us. 

The resulting ecological collapse would leave many species extinct or on the brink of extinction.

Agriculture would also be severely impacted. With the continued decline in pollination, crops would fail, leading to food shortages and rising prices. 

The biodiversity would diminish, and farm productivity would plummet. The combination of food scarcity, disease, and ecological collapse would make the world inhospitable. 

This would be the “end of times”. 

A philosophical perspective

So, thank goodness we still have flies.

Annoying as they are, they serve as a metaphor for the necessity of irritating and negative elements in life. 

I sometimes think about all the unpleasant and annoying things and people who crossed my path. Like flies. Although I cannot truly appreciate these, I recognise in my heart that they play a role in my spiritual ecology. 

Without these, I couldn’t have become who I am now. 

Some of these, annoying as they may have been, serve to force me to remove attachments and entanglements that should have been recycled out of existence a long time ago. 

Consider discomfort and failure in our lives. Like flies, they may break down old habits, force us to face reality, and even pave the way for transformation and growth. 

They recycle nutrients that enrich our character and offer us insights and resilience if we let them.

Chaos, discomfort, and even annoyance are often the catalysts for growth. They remind us that not everything valuable is pleasant.

Marcus Aurelius, in his Meditations, reflects on accepting reality as it is, including its unpleasant aspects. 

And my wife said, “Why do you let them bother you? Just ignore it.”

Accepting “flies” teaches us to find purpose amidst the chaos of the world. The concept of Amor Fati, the love of one’s fate, encourages us to embrace all, including the inconvenient and challenging aspects of our lives. 

Flies remind us of this necessity.

Flies also remind us of the interconnectedness of all things. No matter how insignificant something may seem, it plays a role in the grand scheme of things. 

This interdependence reflects our own lives, where every person, every experience, good or bad, contributes to our journey. And annoyances, setbacks, and moments of despair help us grow, connect, and find meaning.

Finding Beauty in the Necessary

More than just agents of decay, flies offer a spiritual lesson in finding beauty in the unpleasant. 

In many spiritual traditions, annoying elements are often seen as opportunities for growth, reflection, and even enlightenment.

This reminds me of the Buddhist concept of suffering, which is an integral part of life. Suffering, like flies, exists alongside us. By accepting and embracing these discomforts, we can find growth and peace. 

A spiritual journey is one of transformation, and suffering is much like the role flies play. They transform decay into nourishment, breaking down what is no longer needed and turning it into something valuable. 

Finding beauty in the necessary is about recognising that every experience, no matter how painful, contributes to our evolution.

The balance of everything

Now, I am less bothered by flies.

I accept that “flies” are a part of our spiritual ecology. Just as they serve a purpose in nature, so do the nuisances and difficulties in our lives. These people and events are catalysts for transformation, pushing us to confront what is unpleasant and, ultimately, helping us grow.

They remind us of the need to embrace both the light and the dark, the good and the bad. They help us develop resilience, patience, and a deeper understanding of the interconnectedness of all things. And of ourselves. 

By acknowledging the “flies” in our lives, we learn to transform our troubles into opportunities.

Although I do not hate them, I will still swat at them if they get too comfortable. I have no guilt about bringing out the insecticide, and if I grab one, I will kill it.

I guess flies have to accept that I am part of their ecology, too.

In a few weeks’ time, my younger son will move out as he begins his life at university. He will learn to be independent, live on his own, get a job, pay rent, and become an adult. My elder son is already doing that and having the time of his life. 

We are proud of them.

I watch my sons navigate their lives in Australia with pride and a quiet concern. They move through this world with an ease I never had when we first arrived. Their English is unmarked by accent (except for the occasional “lah” or “lor” these days), their mannerisms so naturally Australian. Yet sometimes, when I look at them, I see a shadow of what might be lost—fragments of a five-thousand-year heritage fading like old photographs.

The shadow of heritage

My sons were little when we left Singapore. We wanted to give them a less “exam-oriented” education. The stress of being a student in Singapore was unhealthy, and we wanted to encourage independent minds. 

They enjoyed school and their childhood. Growing up, they certainly had a much more active life than just constant tuition and ECAs. They spent plenty of time in parks, libraries and museums with my wife. They even grew up in an eco-village with plenty of space and friends.

I imagine life would be very different if we stayed in Singapore.

Losing the Chinese language is the most regrettable thing for me. Despite our attempts at home and years of Mandarin classes on Sundays, my sons cannot speak or understand Chinese. They might only count to 10 in Mandarin, and that’s it.

I remember the frustration of our elder son on a particular Sunday as we nagged them to get ready for Mandarin class.

“Daddy, why do I have to learn Chinese? I am Australian, I am not Chinese.”

Although I laughed and brushed it off, it broke my heart. 

I know how hard it must be when no one else speaks your language, much less cares about it. The school my boys attended offers Italian and Bahasa Indonesia as “cultural” options. Ironically, my younger son, who, according to his teacher, excelled in Bahasa and topped his class, could not string a sentence together. He said he was the only one who didn’t muck around during lessons. That earned him an A+ for Bahasa.

This linguistic disconnect runs deeper than just communication. It’s a barrier to understanding the nuances of Chinese culture, the wisdom in our idioms, poetry, folklore, and stories. Even our superstitions are more than just…superstitions. 

The importance of knowing one’s history

This phrase is attributed to Mao Zedong. The literal translation sounds like a poem, but what it means is that if you know your history of a thousand years (a very long time), you will have the confidence of a million soldiers in your heart (so that you can face any difficulty that comes your way).

It is about being rooted. Deeply, deeply rooted in one’s history and heritage. To reach up to the heavens, you need roots that go deep into hell. 

It pains me to think of how much is lost to them when the words of our ancestors become strange, unrecognisable sounds and marks, and their meanings are forever lost in a sea of unfamiliarity.

The (unfortunate) shadow of politics

Since about 2016, I’ve noticed another troubling dimension to their cultural disconnect. As the mainstream media’s portrayal of China has grown increasingly negative, there’s a subtle shift in my sons’ attitude toward things “Chinese”. There’s a slight distancing from it because it’s not “cool.” 

It’s complex being Asian-Australian amid growing geopolitical tensions. I see them downplaying their heritage from time to time. I understand. I too often tell strangers we’re from Singapore at the start of conversations… just so they know. You can often see a distinctive change in facial expression (of relief) when I say it.

It is unfortunate that our ancestral homeland was often cast as the other, the competitor, the threat.

Dumplings and Wonton Noodles may be the answer

But not all is lost. 

Like many children growing up in Australia, my boys love Aussie food: pizzas, fish’ n’ chips, Macca’s, and pasta. Chinese food was something Dad cooked occasionally, accepted but not celebrated.

As they grow older, their palates expand along with their curiosity, and they’re slowly gravitating towards the East. Running a Singapore restaurant with them helped, and our annual trips to Singapore played a role too. They’ve discovered that Singapore food can be surprisingly delicious. 

Hawker centres in Singapore become cultural classrooms, and each dish becomes a potential link to their heritage. They appreciate the complexity of laksa, the comfort of Hainanese chicken rice, and the incredible aroma of a good char kway teow.

I remember when we once went to Penang more than a decade ago, and I wanted to eat at some roadside stalls. My boys were extremely uncomfortable. But when we ordered some BBQ chicken wings, they dived in. Even ordered another round. Today, they still remember that experience with fondness. 

Food becomes our shared language that bridges their Australian present and their heritage past.

Chinese New Year and Black Jacks

Going back to Singapore for the Chinese New Year is always a challenge. Every 4 years, the Chinese New Year falls near the end of the summer school holidays. Otherwise, it is usually after mid-February or early March. 

On those occasions, we can celebrate the most important holiday in the Chinese calendar with our families in Singapore.

Surrounded by extended families, grandparents, cousins, aunties and uncles, these “pilgrimages” have become more than just another vacation. They were, in very essence, coming home. 

The first time they experienced a real Chinese New Year celebration was truly priceless. Receiving Hong Bao (Red Packets with money), playing Black Jack with their uncles and cousins, and our boys winning hundreds of dollars in gambling money. It was incredible!

The noise from 20+ cousins gathering around an overly generous “dealer-uncle” who keeps losing money makes these visits absolutely priceless. Endless rounds of soft drinks (even beer) with high-calorie snacks going late into the night.  

I see these encounters as threads that weave our collective past into their present. And hopefully, their future as well. 

I have previously written an article about Living in an extended family, if you are interested in reading it.

The (future) bridges we build

Although they are now on their own, our job as parents is not quite done. I (and my wife) meet every week with our elder son for dinner and to catch up. I will do the same when our younger son moves in with his brother. 

I will share stories, especially the funny ones, on WhatsApp, and keep the communication going in the group. I encourage them to post in the group where family members in Singapore are active and join in the conversation.

I will have less time to cook with them, but more time to share meals and experiences. And share recipes too.

I will plan future trips with them to Singapore, and even China, not as tourists but as sons returning home. 

I will discuss current events and show how our heritage gives us unique perspectives on them. 

I will continue writing here and sharing my thoughts. And hope that one day, they will make it a habit to read them.

The Wisdom of Letting Go

This is a common Chinese saying, “that children and grandchildren will have their own good fortune.” So don’t worry. Let it be.

Yes, my sons are becoming Aussie. But they’re also becoming themselves in the process, unique individuals who carry within them seeds of both worlds.

Perhaps culture isn’t something we possess, but something we live. It changes and evolves, like a river finding fresh paths to the sea. My sons may not speak Mandarin or yet know all the traditions, but they carry something more important, the yet undiscovered values and wisdom that have sustained us through millennia.