In Beyond Nationality and Success: Two Daughters, Two Relationships to Power, I noted a quiet shift in how people respond to success. It is not always visible at the level of headlines. It appears instead in tone—in hesitation, in irony, in a reluctance to admire too quickly.

Stories that would once have been received as aspirational are now met with distance. Not rejection, exactly. But something more reserved.

A question, held just beneath the surface: What made this possible?

For a long time, success was narrated through a relatively stable framework: talent, effort, discipline, opportunity. The system, whatever its imperfections, was assumed to be broadly coherent. Rules existed. Boundaries held. And while not everyone succeeded, success itself felt legible.

That coherence is beginning to fracture. Not because success has disappeared, but because the conditions surrounding it have become harder to trust. What appears fixed at the level of principle increasingly feels negotiable in practice.

Power, in other words, is experienced as flexible.

This flexibility rarely announces itself directly. It appears through exceptions—cases where procedures are adjusted, where ambiguity is tolerated, where outcomes align just a little too smoothly with broader interests.

Each instance, taken alone, can be explained. There are always reasons: context, complexity, consideration. But over time, a pattern becomes visible. Not one of explicit violation, but of selective elasticity. And it is this elasticity—not necessarily injustice in the strict sense—that begins to erode credibility.

Elite narratives do not depend on perfection. They depend on coherence. Not equality of outcome, but a belief that the same logic applies across cases. Once that belief weakens, success no longer reads as purely earned. It becomes entangled with questions of proximity: proximity to institutions, to influence, to systems capable of adjusting themselves.

This does not mean that those who succeed are undeserving. But it changes how their success is interpreted. Recognition becomes conditional. Admiration becomes cautious. And the distance between achievement and legitimacy begins to widen.

This shift is not confined to any single country or system. It appears, in different forms, across institutions—in business, in media, in sport, in diplomacy. Across domains, the same underlying tension emerges: a gap between what is stated
and what is perceived to be practiced.

This gap also exposes a deeper strain within institutional communication. Much of its traditional logic assumes that legitimacy flows outward from established authority. That alignment with institutions signals credibility. But as perceptions of power become more contingent, that flow becomes less reliable.

What once read as authority can begin to read as distance. Organizations whose language centers on people can appear increasingly removed from them—not necessarily in intention, but in reception.

The language remains stable. The interpretation shifts. And where alignment with power is emphasized—through partnerships, positioning, or narrative framing—it can create the impression that relevance is being maintained upward, rather than outward.

What erodes here is not formal authority, but something quieter: relatability.

Those who have worked inside large institutions will recognize this pattern. Authority is not only exercised; it is also absorbed. Over time, proximity to institutional structures shapes how reality is interpreted. Alignment begins to feel like validation. And what is internally experienced as coherence may be externally read as distance.

This tension becomes especially visible in how merit is described.

Within institutional narratives, success is often presented as the outcome of a merit-based process—structured, principled, internally coherent.

From the outside, it is not always read that way. What appears as merit within a system
may be interpreted, externally, as proximity to power—to networks, to access, to forms of recognition that are not equally available.

The distinction matters. Because once merit is perceived as contingent, it no longer stabilizes legitimacy in the same way.

This is not a new concern.

As Michael Sandel argues in The Tyranny of Merit, meritocratic narratives can produce their own form of disconnect—not only by rewarding success, but by shaping how both success and failure are morally interpreted.

When outcomes are attributed primarily to merit, structural conditions recede from view. And when those conditions are uneven, the narrative begins to strain.

In such an environment, communication that relies on institutional authority—or on the assumption of merit as self-evident—begins to lose resonance. Not because its principles are rejected, but because its underlying logic is no longer taken for granted.

What follows is not immediate collapse, but a gradual reconfiguration of trust. Admiration becomes provisional. Authority becomes contingent. Narratives that once relied on symbolic clarity—progress, merit, leadership—lose some of their persuasive force. Not because they are entirely false, but because they no longer feel complete.

In this environment, a different kind of value begins to emerge. Not smaller success, but success that appears less mediated. Less aligned with power. Less dependent on institutional adjustment. Less contingent on exception. In other words: success that feels more self-contained. More bounded. More legible. More real.

The question, then, is not whether power exists. It always has. The question is whether it remains legible—whether its operations can still be understood as consistent, or whether they appear increasingly contingent, adjustable, and selective.

When power becomes too flexible, it does not necessarily become weaker. But it becomes harder to believe in. And once belief shifts, so too does the meaning of success—and the authority of those who seek to define it.

This is not a crisis in the traditional sense. It is a change in perception. A recalibration of how legitimacy is granted. Quiet, uneven, and still unfolding. But already visible—
in the space between achievement and how we choose to receive it.

If effortlessness is what makes elegance possible, then context is what makes effortlessness real.

It is easy to think of elegance as something we design. We choose the form. We refine the details. We adjust until it looks right. And only then do we ask: does this fit where it will be seen?

But this sequence is backwards. You don’t design something and place it into reality. You design from within it. Before deciding how much presence, emphasis, or structure something should carry, one question comes first:

Where does this need to live?

Context is not a constraint added afterward. It is the condition that defines what is possible.

This becomes clearer in everyday life. Living in Europe, you begin to notice not a rule, but a boundary. Not something explicitly stated, but something consistently observed. Most expressions stay within a certain range. Not invisible, but not insistent. Not reduced, but not dominant.

What this reveals is not a preference for minimalism. It is a sensitivity to what the environment can hold.

This is also visible in how jewelry is worn. In everyday life, large center stones are rare. Not because they are undesirable, but because they shift the balance of presence too far toward the individual object. What is valued instead is proportion — pieces that integrate into daily movement rather than stand apart from it.

Recently, this balance has begun to shift in subtle ways. Advances such as lab-grown diamonds have made larger stones more accessible, and with that, a different aesthetic tendency has emerged — one that leans toward scale and visibility.

What is interesting is not the material itself, but the change in how presence is carried. The emphasis moves from integration to focal display, from distribution to concentration. In some contexts, this reads as expression. In others, it begins to create friction.

And that sensitivity defines the real question:

What level of presence can exist here without creating friction?

This is why elegance is so often associated with understatement here. Not because less is inherently better, but because misalignment is immediately visible.

When something exceeds its context — slightly too large, too bright, or too insistent — it creates friction. And friction, even in small amounts, breaks the sense of effortlessness.

But there is another side to this that is less often discussed. It is equally possible to go too far in the opposite direction. To reduce so much that nothing remains. To become so careful not to stand out that one begins to shrink. That, too, breaks elegance — not through excess, but through absence.

So the real question is not how to stay minimal, but:

What is the full range this context can hold? And how can it be occupied precisely — without exceeding it, and without shrinking below it?

In my own life, this question became unexpectedly concrete. This is where context stops being an abstract idea and becomes a design condition. It defines how much presence is possible, how visible something can be, how often it can appear, and how easily it can integrate into daily life.

Within that framework, I began to look differently at something very specific: my rings.

For a while, I considered whether I should upgrade to a larger center stone. On its own, that decision would make sense. A larger diamond carries more presence. It solves the problem of scale in isolation.

But the moment I place that decision back into context, the logic changes.

A larger stone would draw concentrated attention, feel out of place in certain everyday situations, and require adjustment depending on where I am. In other words, it would introduce friction. And once friction appears, effortlessness disappears.

I want the rings I wear to exist across all contexts: on public transport, in a café or a store, at home and at work, in meetings and in play with my child, in daylight and in low light. I do not want to switch, adjust, or remove pieces depending on where I am.

If something cannot be worn all the time without friction, it does not belong to my system.

So the question is no longer: would this look better on its own? But: can this live everywhere I need it to live?

This is where I realized something that now feels obvious:

Elegance does not begin with composition. It begins with context.

Before deciding how much light, emphasis, or structure something should carry, one must first decide:

What kind of presence can this environment sustain?

Only then can anything be designed properly. Otherwise, even a perfectly composed system can feel misplaced.

This is also why I no longer think of elegance as restraint. Restraint is only one way to stay within context, but it is not the only way. It is entirely possible to operate at the upper boundary of what a context allows — to carry presence, light, and visibility — without breaking elegance.

But that requires precision. It requires knowing exactly where that boundary is. And that boundary is not defined by rules. It is defined by sensitivity. Once that sensitivity is in place, the task becomes clear: not to reduce everything, and not to amplify everything, but to calibrate presence.

In the next piece, I’ll move from context into composition. Because once the range is defined, the question becomes: How should presence be distributed within it?

That is where elegance becomes architectural.

Not in the sense of taste or refinement, but in a more structural way — why certain things feel immediately right, and others, even when beautiful, feel slightly off.

The more I think about it, the more it seems that elegance is not a fixed quality at all. It is something that only appears under certain conditions. When those conditions are met, it feels effortless. When they are not, no amount of adjustment quite fixes it.

So I want to explore this more carefully.

This piece is the first in a short series — an attempt to understand elegance not as a style, but as a way of making decisions. A way of placing things so that they work within the reality they enter.

A Study of Elegance: The Architecture of Calibrated Presence (I) Effortlessness

Living in Europe, you start to notice a certain pattern.

People rarely wear things that feel excessive in their everyday lives. Not in a strict or moralistic sense, but in a way that reflects a shared sensitivity to proportion. On the tram, in a café, at work, walking through the city — most expressions of style stay within a certain range. Nothing too insistent unless it’s a theme party. Nothing that asks too much attention from its surroundings.

It is easy to conclude from this that elegance is simply about restraint. Less visibility. Less signal. Less emphasis. And for a long time, I accepted that logic.

But the more I observe, the less convinced I am that restraint itself is the point. It is something else. What restraint is really trying to achieve is effortlessness.

That moment when nothing feels out of place. When nothing looks like it needs to be negotiated. When a presence seems completely at ease with where it is. That is what we recognize as elegant.

But effortlessness is often misunderstood. It is not the absence of intention. It is the absence of friction. Something feels effortless, not because no thought went into it, but because the thinking has already been resolved.

Decisions have been made in advance: how much presence is appropriate, where emphasis should sit, what should merge, and what should stand alone. So that when it appears, it does not need to adjust itself to the situation. It simply fits.

This is why restraint became such a reliable shorthand. By reducing scale and signal, you reduce the risk of misalignment. Less is easier to place. Less is less likely to disrupt. Over time, “less” starts to feel synonymous with “elegant.”

But this is only a partial truth. Because safety is not the same as precision. It is entirely possible to reduce too much. To become so careful not to exceed the environment that you begin to shrink below it. To remove so much that nothing is left to carry presence at all. At that point, what remains is not elegance. It is absence.

This is where I think the real distinction lies. Effortlessness is not about doing less. It is about being in proportion. To be in proportion to where you are means: not exceeding what the environment can hold, but also not diminishing yourself beneath it

It means occupying the space that is available — fully, but not forcefully. This shifts the question entirely.

Not: Is this too much?

But: Does this create friction here?

Because friction is what breaks elegance. When something feels slightly out of place, slightly over-emphasized, slightly too aware of itself, we notice it, not necessarily as wrong, but as effort. And once effort becomes visible, elegance disappears.

So perhaps elegance is not restraint at all. Perhaps it is something more precise: Relevance, expressed without friction. That is a much more demanding standard. Because it requires not only sensitivity to form, but sensitivity to context. Not only the ability to design something coherent, but the judgment to know where that coherence will hold.

In the next piece, I’ll take this further — into the question of context itself. Because elegance does not begin with what we design. It begins with where that design has to live.

Looking back, Vienna has quietly overtaken Paris as the city I’ve called home longest in my twenty-plus years in Europe. There is a certain irony in the fact that my German still pales in comparison to my French, yet this very awkwardness speaks to the city’s quiet inclusion. Almost everything in my life is resolved seamlessly in English, leading me to a recurring delusion: Is Austrian German merely “borrowed” from Germany? After all, this country is so understated that “Austria” is perpetually confused with “Australia,” and more bizarrely, “Vienna”—a perennial champion of the world’s most livable cities—is often mistaken for “Vietnam.”

The deeper I look, the more I appreciate Vienna’s restraint. It is a masterful composition of the classical and the modern, the pluralistic and the pragmatic, the grandiosely luxurious and the enigmatically hidden. I find myself increasingly curious: how has this land, resting in the gargantuan shadow of its neighbour, Germany, managed to preserve a national character so distinct—one still infused with the languid air of an old empire?

I. The Genesis: The Habsburg “Below-the-Belt” Miracle

The divergence between Austria and Germany begins with memory.

From the 15th century to the dawn of the 20th, Austrians lived under the roof of Europe’s ultimate “Old Money” dynasty—the Habsburg Empire. This leviathan spanned Central and Eastern Europe, ruling Spain, the Netherlands, Hungary, and Czechia, with Vienna as its beating heart. Meanwhile, the rest of Germany was a fragmented mess of over 300 petty principalities—impoverished, provincial, and perpetually squabbling. Berlin in the 18th century was little more than an unremarkable town. This historical chasm birthed a deep-seated Austrian superiority—much like how a native Shanghainese might view anyone else as a “country bumpkin.”

In the 15th century, Maximilian I did more than just hold the title of Holy Roman Emperor; he launched the family’s legendary “matrimonial winning streak.” In 1477, he married into the Netherlands and Belgium; in 1496, his son secured Spain and the American colonies. By 1526, after the kings of Hungary and Bohemia fell fighting the Turks, his grandson Charles V simply stepped in via marriage ties. By the 16th century, the Habsburgs ruled an empire upon which “the sun never set.”

As the family motto famously put it: “Let others wage war; thou, happy Austria, marry.”

This map, stitched together by contracts rather than cannons, made 18th-century Vienna a multilingual cosmopolis of Latin and French. While the Hofburg Palace glittered with diplomats and artists, Berlin remained a swamp-ridden outpost of a few thousand souls. The class divide between “Dynastic Fortune” and “Agrarian Poverty” was set in stone.

II. The Religious Pivot: The Goose-Step vs. The Waltz

If politics drew the borders, the Reformation dug the trenches.

In 1517, Martin Luther nailed his Ninety-five Theses to the door in Wittenberg, attacking the sale of indulgences. The Church was then a greedy black hole, and Luther’s doctrine of “Justification by Faith” was lethal: if salvation is a private matter between man and God, why pay taxes to Rome? Why feed a bloated clergy?

This wasn’t just a theological debate; it was a liberation of Northern Germany’s wallet. Northern princes smelled freedom and seized the chance to nationalize Church lands. But the Habsburgs, as the “Chief Defenders of the Faith,” had to hold the Catholic line to maintain their imperial legitimacy.

By 1555, the Peace of Augsburg established the principle of Cuius regio, eius religio (Whose realm, his religion). If you didn’t like your ruler’s faith, you packed your bags. The first great split of the German soul was finalized: the Protestant North vs. the Catholic South.

This tension exploded in the Defenestration of Prague in 1618. When Habsburg officials tried to shutter Protestant churches, local nobles threw them out of a 20-meter-high window. Miraculously, they landed in a pile of manure and survived. The Catholics called it a miracle; the Protestants called it devil’s luck.

The resulting Thirty Years’ War turned Germany into Europe’s slaughterhouse, wiping out a third of the population. When the dust settled in 1648, the scar was permanent: the North learned to find security in iron, thrift, and Prussian discipline; the South found solace in the Baroque—sensual, artistic, and ritualistic. One began to goose-step; the other began to waltz.

III. Baroque Splendour vs. Prussian Iron

Post-1648, Austria embraced the Baroque. After defeating the Ottomans at the gates of Vienna in 1683, the city erupted in a building frenzy of palaces and cathedrals. The Church used Baroque art—the grand frescoes and gilded sculptures—to mock Protestant austerity. Austrians learned to savour life: wine, dance, and the Gemütlichkeit (coziness) that became their core value.

Prussia, however, followed the Calvinist work ethic. Wealth was a sign of grace, but only if earned through “Calling” (Beruf) and tireless duty. This birthed the industrious, punctual, and rule-bound Prussian character.

Even today, the slogans endure. Berlin’s mantra is Ordnung muss sein (There must be order)—the cultural totem of the German machine. Vienna, however, believes in In der Ruhe liegt die Kraft (In stillness lies strength). It is the philosophy of the unhurried: life is not a race; the work will get done, but the coffee must be finished first. To a Viennese, German efficiency often looks like a frantic lack of respect for the art of living.

By the 18th century, the two models were polar opposites. Vienna was the musical capital of the world—Mozart’s playground. Berlin, under the “Soldier King” Frederick William I, was a barracks. He hated art, disbanded the court orchestra, and spent his time kidnapping 1.9-meter-tall men for his “Potsdam Giants” regiment. His son, Frederick the Great, was forced to trade his flute for a sword, eventually seizing Silesia from Austria in 1740 and cementing Prussia as a military titan.

IV. The Sunset of Empire and the Upstart’s Charge

The 19th century turned the “Old Money” disdain for the “Prussian Country Bumpkin” into a bitter rivalry. In 1866, the two finally clashed for the leadership of the German world.

It was a slaughter of the old ways. Austria, the “Cultural Purist,” fought with Napoleonic tactics and muzzle-loaders. Prussia, the “Industrial Specialist,” used breech-loading rifles with triple the rate of fire. In seven weeks, the “Old Money” dream was shattered. Austria was kicked out of the German club and forced to form the Austro-Hungarian Empire in 1867, giving the Hungarians equal status—a move that would have been unthinkable just years prior.

Then came 1914. Why did the ageing, crumbling Habsburg giant tether itself to the ambitious Germany in a suicidal war? The truth is chilling: Austria-Hungary wasn’t helping Germany; it was a drowning man clutching at Germany as its last straw.

When Archduke Franz Ferdinand was assassinated, Vienna feared that without a brutal show of force against Serbia, the empire’s credibility would vanish. But they feared Russia more. So they asked Berlin: “Will you back us?” Kaiser Wilhelm II, the quintessential arrogant “New Rich,” gave them a “blank check”.

The “Old Money” thought the war would preserve their life; the “New Rich” thought it would bring a swift victory. Instead, it was a bloodletting. The “Coffee House Empire” was held together by the thin glue of loyalty to an ageing Emperor. When the bread ran out, and the British blockade tightened, that glue dried up.

In 1918, the empire dissolved into fragments. Austria was reduced overnight from a world power of 50 million to a 6-million-soul “German remnant” at the foot of the Alps. This “fall from the clouds” left Austrians in a state of terminal identity crisis. To many, the only hope for survival was to join their powerful, if defeated, German “brother.”

V. Brief Union, Eternal Separation

In 1938, Hitler’s tanks rolled into Vienna. The roar “Ein Volk, ein Reich, ein Führer”（One People, One Empire, One Leader）of 200,000 people at Heroes’ Square was the collective hysteria of a nation lost. For many, it wasn’t an “invasion”; it was “coming home.”

Seven years later, the Soviet tanks arrived in Vienna and American troops marched into Salzburg. The Allies declared the 1938 union void, and Austria was ordered to stand alone once more. From that moment on, the two German-speaking souls were severed, never to be reunited. Facing the ruins of defeat, the Austrians displayed a masterful political cunning: they crafted the ‘Victim Narrative.’ By claiming to be Hitler’s first casualty, they successfully traded their complicity for sovereignty.

It wasn’t until the 1980s that Austria truly began to reflect on its role as a perpetrator. But the victim narrative had already done its work, allowing Austria to emerge as a neutral, stable state by 1955.

On October 26, 1955, the last occupation forces left. That day became the National Day, the final answer to the question of identity.

Today, the difference is no longer about blood, but about historical temperament. The Austrian still carries the calm of a fallen aristocrat: valuing life, mood, and culture, happy to spend an entire afternoon in a café. The German remains the Prussian: a precision instrument of order and punctuality, unable to tolerate a half-second of indecision.

One waltzes; the other goose-steps.

One says, “In der Ruhe liegt die Kraft.” The other insists, “Ordnung muss sein.”

By defining what they were not—German—the Austrians finally had to figure out what they were. The result is a country that feels like a museum of its own memories, and a capital, Vienna, that feels like a cosmopolitan island in a sea of Alpine tradition. But that is a story for next time: why the world’s most livable city is often accused of not being Austrian at all.

As the United Nations marked its 80th anniversary at last week’s General Assembly, questions of credibility and financial sustainability loomed large. Against this backdrop, the U.S. call for the early removal of UNODC chief Ghada Waly is particularly telling. On the surface, it looks like a last-minute personnel dispute. In reality, it illustrates how politics, funding, and management intersect in shaping the UN’s future at eighty.

I witnessed such tensions up close during my five short years at UNODC working on a Justice and Rule of Law campaign. The mandate was clear on paper: promote justice, strengthen institutions, protect human rights. But in practice, political considerations dictated what could be said and what had to remain silent.

One moment remains vivid. In 2020, during the global outcry over George Floyd’s murder, I drafted messaging to address police brutality and promote the office’s own guidelines on policing: Handbook on police accountability, oversight and integrity. However, the leadership hesitated, softened, and ultimately abandoned the message altogether. For a campaign centred on justice and the rule of law, the silence was deafening. Yet it was not unusual: across the UN system, silence on politically sensitive issues often prevails, outweighing even the clearest evidence — from individual incidents of abuse to cases of genocide. That was when I understood how relentlessly politics define the boundaries of principle in international institutions.

Fast forward to today. The U.S. has formally asked Secretary-General António Guterres to remove Ghada Waly, UNODC’s Executive Director, just weeks before her planned departure in November. Washington also “strongly recommended” that Chhaya Kapilashrami, Director of the Division for Management, be appointed acting head.

Why now? Why force out someone already stepping down?

According to Devex reporting, U.S. officials pointed to her extended remote working arrangements. But many observers see this as part of a broader effort to secure influence over the agency’s direction at a moment when global drug policy is shifting toward securitization. Washington has recently authorized armed interventions against Venezuelan drug vessels and promoted enforcement-heavy responses to narcotics trafficking. Ensuring that UNODC’s leadership is aligned with this posture seems far from accidental.

While parts of the U.N. system (WHO, UNAIDS, OHCHR) emphasize health- and rights-based drug policy, UNODC’s portfolio remains heavily weighted toward law enforcement and criminal justice.

If the balance shifts further toward an enforcement-first agenda, the space for health, harm reduction, and rights risks being squeezed out. The consequences are not abstract. They can mean disillusionment among staff, the erosion of the office’s autonomy, and growing skepticism from countries in the Global South, many of which already question Washington’s motives.

This episode also reflects the wider fragility of the UN as it marks its 80th year. The chronic funding crisis leaves agencies like UNODC especially exposed. Management shortcomings have compounded frustrations within the office. And across the system, the UN’s ability to stand on principle is under sharp scrutiny. From Gaza to climate action, the perception is that power, not principle, sets the agenda. The U.S. intervention in Vienna reinforces this perception at precisely the moment the UN hoped to showcase resilience.

Of course, there are those who defend Washington’s move. They argue that UNODC has lacked cohesion, that drug trafficking has grown more violent, and that major donors deserve a stronger voice. These points are not without weight. But history shows that enforcement-heavy strategies fail to reduce drug harms. What they do instead is entrench cycles of violence, fill prisons, trample on rights, consume public resources and erode public trust. And when expedience dictates leadership, human rights are often the first casualties.

The question today is not simply who will replace Ghada Waly. It is whose vision will define UNODC. Will it become a securitized agency doubling down on punitive strategies? Or will it reclaim space for evidence, dignity, and human rights in global drug policy?

As the UN moves from UNGA80 commemorations into the remainder of its 80th anniversary year, the stakes could not be clearer. This is not just about one agency. It becomes once again a test of whether the United Nations can resist capture and act on principle — or whether, once again, politics will silence the very values it claims to defend.

Several years ago, a justice campaign that I led sparked my interest in the rule of law. I was not a legal professional, but as a good marketer, you must first believe in the product you sell, and that is what I did. Part of it was a no‑brainer—calling on people to act in line with the law; the other, however, is less popular: holding power equally accountable to law, particularly when governments, law enforcement, and highly political institutions are involved.

Last week, the passing of Judge Frank Caprio got me thinking about another two‑sided coin of justice: procedural justice and substantive justice. Caprio, the longtime chief judge of the Providence Municipal Court, died on 20 August 2025 at the age of 88. He became world‑famous because clips from his courtroom showed a rare mix of firmness and kindness. His story helps explain why how we apply the law is just as important as what the law says.

Lawyers and philosophers use the terms procedural and substantive justice. Procedural justice is about fairness in the process: people have a chance to speak, the rules are applied the same way to everyone, and decisions are transparent. Substantive justice looks at the result: does the outcome feel fair and just? A court can follow the correct procedures and still reach a result that feels wrong to ordinary people. Both sides matter. Fair procedures build trust in the system, but fair results are what improve lives.

When people talk about the rule of law, they usually mean that no one is above the law. Clear, public rules are supposed to restrain both citizens and those who hold power. Just as important, the rule of law is meant to protect people by guaranteeing basic rights and placing limits on the state’s power. The law should be predictable, and it should apply equally. When the law serves to protect the vulnerable rather than simply punish them, it crosses over into the terrain of substantive justice—fairness in outcome as well as process. Some legal theorists draw a line between a formal rule of law (which cares mainly about clear rules and procedures) and a substantive rule of law (which says those rules must also respect fundamental rights and moral values). Scholars note that even a formal approach can’t avoid questions of justice entirely; in practice, the rule of law implies a commitment to certain fundamental rights and fairness.

Much of the public conversation around the rule of law puts the burden on ordinary people: follow the rules, pay your fines, don’t break the law. That message is important, but on its own, it is incomplete. The law’s primary job is to tame power and protect those who have little of it. When we obsess over whether people at the bottom respect the rules while turning a blind eye to abuses committed by those at the top, we miss the point. A legal system that punishes the poor for minor missteps while allowing the powerful to act with impunity betrays its own foundations. For the rule of law to mean anything, it must first safeguard the vulnerable and hold public authorities accountable. That is where procedural and substantive justice meet: the process must be fair to everyone, and the outcome must recognise unequal power dynamics.

Judge Caprio’s courtroom was a glimpse of this vision. By listening to defendants’ circumstances and using discretion to soften the impact of petty penalties, he upheld the law while shielding the vulnerable from disproportionate harm. His approach shows that the rule of law is at its most persuasive when it protects the bottom, and a good reminder of why the human element matters. He presided over minor offences, such as parking tickets and speeding. Instead of just rubber‑stamping fines, he listened to the stories behind the violations. In one widely shared clip, a young woman explained through tears that she was homeless and living in her car. Caprio used money from a charitable fund to pay most of her fine and asked whether she had enough left for food. In another case, he dismissed a ticket for a 96‑year‑old man who sped while rushing his sick son to the doctor. These examples weren’t about letting people off the hook; they were about recognising circumstances and trying to reach a fairer outcome.

Caprio also enforced the law when he thought it was warranted. When excuses were flimsy, he confirmed the fines. He made clear that empathy is not the same as leniency for its own sake—it is about judgment. This blend of listening and accountability is why many saw him as the “nicest judge” and yet respected his rulings.

Caprio’s approach illustrates the balance we need in a healthy legal system. Following proper procedures is critical—it protects everyone from arbitrary power and ensures that decisions are made openly and consistently. But the outcome should also reflect common sense and fairness. If courts operate by the book yet ignore the human cost, people lose faith in the law. On the other hand, if decisions are made purely on sympathy with no regard for rules, the system loses coherence.

For those of us who work outside the law, the lesson is simple: the rule of law is not just a slogan. It requires that ordinary people obey the law and that those in power be held to the same standards. And, as Judge Caprio showed, it can also mean applying the rules with enough flexibility to ensure that justice feels just. In a society that sometimes sees the law as either rigid or irrelevant, his example reminds us that compassion and accountability can, and should, go hand in hand.

Toward the end of his life, Caprio summed up this ethos in a speech to university graduates. He told them that he was never a traditional judge because under his robe, he carried not a badge but a heart. He also expressed his belief that personal success is not measured by how much you get but by how much you give and how many people you help. Those who hold power, he said, have an obligation to “build ladders” so others can climb up behind them. It is a vivid metaphor for the rule of law’s protective duty: the law is not meant to be a wall that locks people out but a ladder that helps them climb up. Coming from a man who spent nearly 40 years on the bench, it was a reminder that the law’s ultimate purpose is to protect and lift people, not simply to punish. In this sense, his message dovetails with substantive justice—the idea that laws and legal processes should result in outcomes that improve lives. When laws are applied with that spirit, the protective side of the rule of law and the fairness of substantive justice come together.

If you’ve followed the US–China trade war over the past few years, you’ve likely heard about tariffs, tech bans, and semiconductor chips. But one of the most quietly powerful forces in this standoff hasn’t made as many headlines — rare earth elements (REEs).

These 17 metals are essential for a wide range of applications, from electric vehicles to missile systems. Without them, modern technology and military capability don’t work.

And here’s the twist: China controls more than 85% of the global rare earth processing capacity.

From smartphones and wind turbines to fighter jets and EV batteries, rare earths power the 21st-century economy. Their role in clean energy and national defense makes them strategic assets, not just commodities.

Despite having significant deposits, the U.S. outsourced most of its rare earth mining and processing decades ago, largely due to environmental and economic concerns. That decision created a dangerous dependency — one that’s become painfully clear during times of geopolitical tension.

In 2019, amid rising tensions after the U.S. blacklisted Huawei, Chinese state media dropped a veiled threat: rare earth exports might be restricted.

China didn’t have to act. The threat alone rattled global markets. Xi Jinping even made a high-profile visit to a rare earth plant — a subtle but potent message to Washington.

This wasn’t just about minerals. It was about leverage.

Since then, the U.S. and its allies have taken action to de-risk, diversify and rebuild, including reopening and investing in domestic mining such as Mountain Pass, California; partnering with allies like Australia and Canada for diversified supply chains; pushing for rare earth recycling and substitution technologies, and invoking the Defense Production Act to support independent processing.

However, rebuilding a full rare earth supply chain outside of China is a long-term endeavour. It requires sustained investment, industrial policy and global coordination.

Rare earths represent something deeper than trade friction. This is bigger than trade. It’s about power. They’re part of a global contest over who controls the inputs to the future—energy transition, advanced weaponry, AI, and beyond.

The rare earth story is a powerful reminder: in a multipolar world, economic resilience isn’t just about GDP. It’s about strategic autonomy.

For businesses and policymakers, the message is clear: resilience is no longer a luxury. It is a strategic necessity. Understanding the origin and vulnerability of critical materials like rare earths must become part of standard risk and supply chain assessments.

The rare earth issue highlights a deeper truth about the US–China relationship and the evolving global order. As both nations vie for leadership in technology and energy, materials once considered obscure have become central to global power dynamics.

In China, academic discourse on the Taiwan issue tends to focus on military capabilities and strategic positioning, while my career at the United Nations led me to focus instead on Taiwan’s internal political dynamics — and how shifts in public sentiment could influence the prospects for peaceful dialogue. On the one hand, I believe in the principle of self-determination; on the other, I’ve come to realize that political environments shape ideology, no matter where we are in the world.

This article seeks to trace the major turning points in cross-strait relations since the founding of the People’s Republic of China, while examining how public opinion in Taiwan has evolved — and how these shifts are influencing the growing momentum behind a force-based unification narrative.

Over the past decade, China has been steadily modernizing its military—expanding its defense budget, upgrading air and naval capabilities, and refining joint operational strategies. The underlying goal is clear: to cross a strategic threshold—the capacity to resolve the Taiwan issue by force, if necessary.

Former U.S. Indo-Pacific Commander Admiral Philip Davidson referred to this timeframe as the “Davidson Window,” estimating it to fall between 2027 and 2031. Other assessments, while slightly more conservative, still point to a critical window between 2030 and 2035. In geopolitical terms, that window is rapidly approaching.

Why China Is Rushing to Cross the Military Threshold

The rationale behind Beijing’s urgency lies in a sobering strategic assessment: the possibility of peaceful reunification is now seen as virtually nonexistent. What China’s leadership appears to be preparing for is a scenario of "compelling peace through strength"—developing overwhelming military superiority to force Taiwan into political negotiations.

But what if Taiwan refuses to negotiate under pressure? In that case, the endgame could indeed be a full-scale war.

A History of Missed Opportunities: From Secret Envoys to Silent Departures

Beijing’s original vision was not devoid of hope for peaceful reunification. As early as the 1980s, China initiated secret communications with Taiwan. In 1981, Chiang Ching-kuo’s close aide, Shen Cheng, carried confidential messages to Beijing. At that time, aging leaders on both sides still held a vision of eventual unification.

By 1986, Beijing proposed equal-party negotiations between the Chinese Communist Party (CCP) and the Kuomintang (KMT). Chiang Ching-kuo was intrigued but hesitant, distrusting the CCP’s credibility and wary of the asymmetry between the mainland and Taiwan. In response, Deng Xiaoping introduced the “One Country, Two Systems” framework, aiming to assuage Taiwan’s fears through a model later applied in Hong Kong.

However, just as initial communication mechanisms were being set up, Chiang passed away in 1988. This marked the quiet collapse of the nascent path toward negotiated reunification.

Taiwan's new leader, Lee Teng-hui, initially supported peaceful engagement. In 1991, the KMT passed the National Unification Guidelines, outlining a phased process: exchanges, mutual representation, and eventually, political negotiation. But Taiwan's democratization and the rise of the pro-independence Democratic Progressive Party (DPP) gradually sidelined that vision.

Democratization and the Shift in Identity

The DPP’s platform—rooted in Taiwanese identity and sovereignty—reshaped public sentiment. The notion that “Taiwan is Taiwan, China is China” became increasingly mainstream. Even the KMT, once committed to unification, recalibrated its stance under public pressure.

In 1999, President Lee proposed the “Two-State Theory,” plunging cross-strait relations into a deep freeze. When the DPP won the presidency in 2000, it pledged not to declare independence or provoke Beijing. But at its core, the party’s strategy was to avoid unification rather than facilitate it.

Although relations warmed slightly during Ma Ying-jeou’s presidency (2008–2016), with trade agreements and cross-strait exchanges, that era ended abruptly after the 2014 Sunflower Movement. Public distrust toward China, especially among younger generations, surged to an all-time high.

The Strategic Reality Check in 2025

Looking back from the vantage point of 2025, the trajectory is evident. Decades of missteps, failed negotiations, and political realignments have led Beijing to one central conclusion: peaceful unification is no longer viable.

This is not an indication that war is imminent, but rather that China aims to build the capability to win without fighting—a “fait accompli” scenario in which Taiwan has no choice but to negotiate under duress.

However, Taiwan's societal identity has moved beyond that premise. The collective memory, especially among the younger population, is no longer aligned with the idea of unification. Without a dramatic reversal on either side, a future conflict is becoming increasingly difficult to avoid.

After the Sunflower Movement: Diverging Paths

The 2014 Sunflower Movement was a turning point. Taiwan’s youth—now the core of its professional and civic sectors—rose in protest against a trade deal that symbolized deeper economic integration with China. What they feared wasn’t just economic dependence, but political and cultural erosion.

The movement catalyzed a national conversation: Who are we? What future do we choose?

Following the protests, Taiwan’s political landscape shifted dramatically. The DPP returned to power in 2016, and has since consolidated its position. The KMT, meanwhile, has struggled to resonate with younger voters. President Tsai Ing-wen has consistently emphasized the “status quo,” but has subtly recalibrated Taiwan’s mainstream away from the once-dominant “One China” narrative.

In parallel, Beijing’s strategy also hardened.

Having failed to sway public opinion through economic incentives like ECFA and the 31 "preferential policies" for Taiwan, China pivoted to military intimidation and diplomatic coercion. Fighter jets now regularly circle Taiwan. International allies are pressured to cut ties with Taipei. And global institutions are under strain to exclude Taiwanese representation.

Post-Hong Kong: The End of ‘One Country, Two Systems’

The 2019 Hong Kong protests further deepened Taiwan’s mistrust. What was once pitched as a model for peaceful unification became a cautionary tale. Tsai Ing-wen declared the framework “dead.” In the 2020 elections, she won re-election in a landslide, campaigning on a platform of defending Taiwan’s autonomy.

Beijing responded with military exercises simulating a blockade of Taiwan, missile launches over Taipei, and increasingly aggressive rhetoric. The intention was unmistakable: to demonstrate that military action is not off the table.

The Global Dimension: Taiwan’s Strategic Position

The Taiwan Strait is no longer a regional flashpoint—it’s a fulcrum of global geopolitics.

The United States, while maintaining its “One China” policy, has sharpened its position. Military aid, weapons sales, and joint training have all increased. President Biden has stated multiple times that the U.S. would defend Taiwan if attacked, signaling a shift from strategic ambiguity toward greater clarity.

Japan, too, has become more vocal. After former Prime Minister Shinzo Abe’s remarks that “a Taiwan emergency is a Japanese emergency,” Tokyo has tightened its strategic calculus around Taiwan’s security. If Taiwan falls, Japan’s own first island chain is exposed.

Even European nations, long seen as neutral on the Taiwan issue, have begun voicing concern—at the UN, the WTO, and in bilateral dialogues.

Beijing recognizes this. The longer it waits, the more international recognition Taiwan accrues—and the harder it becomes to justify unification through force, both morally and diplomatically.

The Shape of the "Ultimate War" Is Taking Form

Looking back from 2025, the outline is clear: peaceful overtures have been tried and failed. From Deng Xiaoping’s proposals to Ma Ying-jeou’s engagement policies, the political will on both sides has eroded.

This isn’t just a disagreement over national sovereignty. It’s a clash of systems, values, and identities. Beijing’s vision of unification is not a negotiated federation—it is a political annexation under a one-party regime. For Taiwan, democracy is not just a governance model—it’s a way of life.

As China accelerates military buildup, Taiwan fortifies its defences, and the U.S. and allies recalibrate global supply chains, the world is preparing—consciously or not—for the worst-case scenario.

That scenario is a war. Not necessarily in 2025 or 2026—but very possibly in the 2030s.

Conclusion: Peace Is Not Passive—It’s a Choice

This analysis is not meant to provoke fear or alarmism, but to underscore a fundamental truth: peace is not the default state of international affairs. It is an achievement—built on institutions, diplomacy, public vigilance, and a shared understanding of war’s true cost.

The Taiwan Strait does not have to become the next global battlefield. But avoiding that fate requires more than hope. It demands realism, preparedness, and a collective commitment—across the region and the world—to protecting stability.

An ultimate war may still be avoided. But only if the world first acknowledges that its shadow is already on the horizon.

April 10, the U.S. government announced a further increase in the "reciprocal tariffs" on Chinese goods imported into the U.S., raising the rate to 125%.

April 11, China announced another increase in tariffs on U.S. goods to 125% and stated that, “Given the current tariff levels, American goods exported to China already have no market acceptability. If the U.S. continues to impose additional tariffs on Chinese goods in the future, China will disregard them.”

In a renewed escalation of trade tensions, U.S. President Donald Trump has once again taken aim at Chinese exports—this time proposing an additional 50% tariff, on top of previous rounds. If implemented, these tariffs would amount to a staggering 104% on Chinese goods entering the U.S. market.

In response, China acted swiftly and decisively. Within 24 hours, Beijing matched the tariff hike with its own set of countermeasures—raising tariffs by 34% on U.S. imports, restricting the export of rare earth materials, and tightening regulations on 11 American companies operating in China. Meanwhile, all negotiation channels between China and the U.S. have come to a standstill.

Unlike the 2018 trade war, when China initially responded with restraint, the tone this time is strikingly different. Why is China more confident this time?

Much of this confidence can be traced back to a long-term national strategy known as “Made in China 2025.”

Launched in 2015, this plan set out to transform China from a manufacturing giant into a global leader in high-tech industries within a decade. Key sectors targeted include electric vehicles (EVs), semiconductors, biotechnology, advanced robotics, and clean energy.

Now in its final year, several international assessments—including those from South China Morning Post and BBC—have noted that China has achieved roughly 86% of the plan’s stated goals. U.S. politicians have taken note too. In a 58-page report, U.S. Secretary of State Marco Rubio acknowledged China’s leading position in electric vehicles, shipbuilding, energy infrastructure, and high-speed rail.

One standout example is China’s EV industry. Back in 2015, the goal was to produce 3 million EVs by 2025. That benchmark was reached in 2021. By 2024, annual output exceeded 12 million units—more than 50% of the domestic car market. China now produces 70% of all EVs globally and has become the world’s largest car exporter.

This was not a result of market forces alone. The Chinese government played an active role by offering targeted subsidies, tightening technical standards year by year, and implementing a “dual credit” policy that pushed automakers to prioritize clean energy.

While EVs often steal the headlines, China's shipbuilding industry tells an equally powerful story of industrial ascendancy.

According to the Rubio report, China’s shipbuilding capacity now exceeds that of the U.S. by more than 200 times. Fueled by low-cost steel production, skilled labor, and a well-integrated industrial base, China has outpaced traditional leaders like Japan and South Korea to become the undisputed global leader in commercial shipbuilding.

From cargo ships and tankers to increasingly complex vessels, China’s shipyards are now responsible for a significant portion of global orders. This sector not only reflects industrial strength but also has strategic implications for global trade and naval projection.

China’s rise in shipbuilding mirrors a broader trend: transforming low-end production into high-value, technically advanced manufacturing—just as outlined in the “Made in China 2025” blueprint.

In addition to strong policy support, China’s advantage lies in its dense industrial clusters, highly skilled workforce, and capacity for rapid scaling. From semiconductors to robotics, industries have been nurtured through a combination of domestic innovation and strategic overseas acquisitions—such as the German robotics company KUKA, acquired by Chinese firm Midea.

These are not just price-based advantages. China’s supply chain strength, speed to market, and manufacturing depth are proving difficult to replicate—even in lower-wage countries like India or Vietnam.

At the heart of the U.S. trade war is more than just concern over trade imbalances. It’s a structural worry that China is moving up the value chain—fast—and potentially challenging America’s global economic leadership.

Rubio’s report openly warns that if China’s manufacturing dominance continues unchecked, it may reshape global values and norms—not just supply chains. He argues that even if China were to plateau economically, the competitive pressure it exerts will persist for decades.

The “Made in China 2025” strategy reflects a different economic model—state-guided but market-driven. While it has drawn criticism for being top-down and overly ambitious, it has demonstrated a clear ability to coordinate resources, guide innovation, and adapt policy in real time.

This model has sparked debates in the West about the future of globalization. Should manufacturing leadership be left solely to market forces? Or is there room for strategic industrial policy?

With China now accounting for 35% of global manufacturing output, compared to the U.S.’s 12%, the stakes are high. The current trade tensions are not just about tariffs—they’re about who defines the future of manufacturing, innovation, and economic influence.

Whether this confrontation results in deglobalization or a restructured world order remains to be seen. But one thing is clear: China is no longer just a player in the global manufacturing game—it’s aiming to lead it.

i’m stuck in
this constant cycle
of running off to build my life
and running back cause
I feel guilty about not
spending enough time with them

- rupi kaur (parent-guilt)

My father often voiced his regret about not spending enough time with me during my childhood. Shortly after I was born, he pursued his master’s studies abroad. Then, he left again to serve as a UN peacekeeper in war zones. Afterward, it was his Ph.D. studies in the capital city, followed by various work assignments across the country. By the time I turned 18 and moved to Europe, we had spent less time together than either of us had hoped.

Yet, my memories are filled not with his absence, but with the beautiful moments we shared. I recall him teaching me music and calligraphy, the trips we took to the northern and southern coasts, and the honey-roasted chicken wings and braised fish he cooked on weekends. I can still taste the ice-cold green bean drink he made on those humid tropical summer nights. He took me and my Japanese best friend to the swimming pool, and I still remember the wind in my face as I sat on the front of his bicycle or the back of his motorcycle. We shared lamb skewers on the street after he picked me up from school.

Family friends used to say they couldn’t imagine how he would love me more if I had been his son. To that, he would reply, "Neither can I. It has nothing to do with gender."

Then, it became my turn. I took him to a Parisian café for breakfast, walked with him through the gardens of Versailles where we couldn’t take enough photos, and strolled down the Champs-Élysées from the Arc de Triomphe to the Concorde, ending at the Louvre. I proudly showed him where I worked — the UNESCO headquarters in Paris and the United Nations headquarters in Vienna.

Now, I find myself experiencing the same guilt that my father once felt as a parent.

It's impossible to be present all the time. And even when we are physically present, it doesn’t always translate into meaningful connection. What truly matters is how we fill those moments with love. That’s what shapes our characters, instills values, and fosters confidence, independence, and resilience in our children.

But space matters too. By giving a child room to grow without hovering, we allow them to learn self-reliance, face challenges on their own, and ultimately develop their own identity.

Thank you, Dad. And happy birthday.

Many of us, especially those born before China’s recent economic boom, grew up thinking of Europe as the symbol of luxury. This belief persisted as I moved to Paris, where I spent my first few months mentally converting every expense from euros to Chinese yuan. The conversion often reinforced my fear but gradually, I stopped converting, and that’s when I realized: the costs in local currency were quite similar: living expenses, when measured against average incomes, weren’t that different after all.

This realization took on a harsher reality when I returned to China in 2015 and lived on a local salary for 10 months. The cost of living in China — particularly in major cities — has skyrocketed. Take rent, for example. In major cities, renting a modest one-bedroom apartment in a decent neighbourhood can easily cost anywhere between ¥4,000 and ¥7,000 per month ($553-$1,069). Compare that to similar accommodations in Paris or Geneva where I spent another five years, and it’s no longer the Europe-China divide we once imagined. Yet, the average salary in China is still far lower than in Europe, making this rent unaffordable for many.

Food costs, which were once incredibly cheap in China, have followed the same trajectory. A dozen eggs cost around ¥12​, and a litre of milk hovers between ¥20-¥30. Even staple items like rice, vegetables, and meat have seen substantial price increases. Meanwhile, imported goods, from cosmetics to electronics, are often priced similarly to what you’d expect to pay in Europe, but for a population that still largely earns much less.

China, often hailed for its economic rise and success in lifting millions out of poverty, has developed an incredibly skewed income distribution. While a small fraction of its population enjoys wealth and prosperity, the majority struggle with the relentless rise in daily expenses. What baffles me is how normal this has become. When I walk into a Chinese mall, many of the stores seem almost exclusively tailored to the wealthy. The shiny façades hide the grim reality that the vast majority of the population can’t afford what’s inside.

What options do ordinary Chinese people have? Many resort to purchasing lower-quality products from online marketplaces like Alibaba and Temu. Food safety and product quality are often dubious at best, the climate impact of products of poor quality that lasts a very short lifespan is another concern. This dual economy — a world of luxury for the wealthy and bare survival for the rest — paints a stark picture of modern China. It’s a reality that deeply troubles me.

The media often celebrates China’s growing affluence, but these narratives are based on the experiences of a privileged few. China’s size means even a small percentage of the population can give the illusion of massive wealth. But beyond this privileged class lies a reality where most people cannot afford decent housing, proper healthcare, or even reliable safe food.

Having lived through this, I now realize how deep the divide runs. Despite China’s rise, the systemic inequalities that underpin the society create a profound gap — one that keeps getting wider as capitalism entrenches itself deeper. It’s a reality that hit me hard when I was there and one that should alarm all.

As early as 387 BC, Plato dedicated his Academy and its resources to his disciples, marking what is considered the first charitable foundation in Western history. In Europe, charity has long been seen as a social obligation, one that has shaped much of the discourse around philanthropy and public welfare.

The term "philanthropy" itself derives from two Greek roots: “phil,” meaning love, and “anthropy,” meaning humanity. In Chinese, the equivalent word is 慈善 (Ci-Shan), with ‘Ci’ representing compassion and ‘Shan’ representing kindness—compassion being the thought and kindness the deed. This parallels the Western understanding of charity: a one-directional act of giving, typically from those with more resources to those with less.

However, the public good differs from charity. While philanthropy is often driven by empathy and compassion, the public good is driven by rationality and the pursuit of the common interest. It's about redistributing social resources in ways that benefit society as a whole, not just one recipient. In this sense, contributing to the public good is a civic duty in which every individual or group can participate, and, crucially, it benefits the contributor as much as the receiver.

A Belated Start in China

The cause of the public good in China has only gained momentum in recent decades, a stark contrast to Western nations where charitable institutions have existed for centuries. The first significant domestic charity in China, the Chinese Children’s Fund, wasn’t established until 1981. Compare that with the UK, which had around 500 charities by the 13th century and passed its first philanthropic legislation, the Charity Uses Act, in 1601.

China’s equivalent legislation is still in development. Although a Charity Donation Act was passed in 1999, it came nearly 400 years after its Western counterpart. In a society where the public sphere has largely been defined by the relationship between the state and the individual, the contributions of civil society and the private sector to the public good have been slow to emerge.

Civil Society and Social Awareness

One of the most critical factors in advancing the public good is the development of civil society, which, in turn, depends heavily on social awareness or civic consciousness. In the West, this awareness is often rooted in religious traditions—whether Catholicism, Protestantism, or Islam—all of which emphasize giving without expecting anything in return. In contrast, China’s religious traditions often focus more on acquiring from deities rather than giving to society, which may partly explain the relative lack of civic consciousness historically.

The renowned Chinese writer Lu Xun was one of the first intellectuals to address this gap. He noted how foreign observers often found Chinese society overly focused on self-interest and obsessed with material wealth, with little concern for the public good. This cultural tendency has persisted, with many Chinese focusing more on acquiring from society than contributing to it.

However, as more Chinese citizens travel abroad, they are increasingly exposed to societies with a strong sense of social responsibility. Many returnees notice that ordinary citizens in the West are often deeply concerned with public welfare and are willing to work toward common social goals. This growing awareness is crucial for China as it seeks to build a sustainable model of public good.

Challenges Ahead

Despite the progress made in recent years, several challenges remain in the development of public good initiatives in China.

1. Regulatory Barriers: Establishing secular, non-profit organizations in China is still quite difficult, as legislation around this area is incomplete. The current framework doesn't yet provide the flexibility and protection that Western charities benefit from.

2. Lack of Transparency: Many existing charities in China are criticized for their opaque operations. Without clear communication about their finances and the impact of their work, it’s difficult to build public trust, which in turn limits their ability to grow and attract donations.

3. Limited Private Sector Involvement: While Corporate Social Responsibility (CSR) is well-established in the West, it is still a nascent concept in China. Chinese companies often focus solely on profit, with little regard for their social responsibilities. For example, while wealthy business owners in Fujian province spend lavishly on private events, few would consider donating comparable amounts to charitable causes.

4. International Collaboration: Another challenge lies in integrating international cooperation for the public good. While foreign NGOs are often welcomed in China for their material aid, there is a tendency to resist the Western values that underpin their work. This creates an ambiguous situation, limiting the influence of international organizations on Chinese society.

A New Era for the Public Good

Despite these obstacles, China has made significant strides in fostering public good programs. As social awareness grows, more non-profit organizations are emerging, focusing on critical issues such as environmental protection, poverty alleviation, health, and education. These organizations are playing a vital role in redistributing resources for the public good and, in doing so, are helping to shape a new consciousness in Chinese society.

At this moment in history, where inequality is growing globally, China's efforts to strengthen its public good sector could have a profound impact. As more Chinese citizens, especially returnees, take on the mantle of civic responsibility, there is hope that the country will see a shift toward a more collective mindset—one where social responsibility is shared by all.

Conclusion: The Road Ahead

For those of us who studied or worked abroad, we have both a unique opportunity and a civic responsibility to help spread progressive ideas and social awareness in China. Much like our ancestors who travelled overseas in the early 20th century and brought back ideas that helped build a new republic, we, too, can contribute to the development of the public good in our way.

As Gandhi warned of the dangers of wealth without work, pleasure without conscience, and commerce without morality, we must be vigilant. If we truly want to see change, we must first embody it ourselves. As Gandhi famously said, "Be the change you want to see in the world."

On the second day of my short field mission to Gu-Tian county, I came to Shan-yang town (杉洋镇, a town of Gu-Tian county) in the morning, and was received by the clerk and the deputy of the town at the local culture center.

Shan-yang town has a long history of culture and education, and is a “National village of tradition” since 2012.

On the day of my arrival, I was lucky to witness the founding ceremony of the calligraphy community of local farmers.

The calligraphy on the left above is of a famous poem for the moon festival (Mid-Autumn Day), showing the strong concept of family in the traditional culture: “The moon does wax, the moon does wane / And so men meet and say goodbye / I only pray our life be long / And our souls together heavenward fly.”

Amazed was I by the love and passion of the local people for the traditional art, I found that their talents certainly were not limited in just farming, but also in handwriting and wash painting. The youngest artists whose work of wash painting were selected for the exhibition were a boy of 7 and a girl of 12.

In the afternoon, the principal of a local school guided me to Bai-xi village (白溪村, meaning “white brook”, is a village of Shan-yang town). There, the head of the village was already waiting for us.

Bai-xi village is situated in the mountains 1000m above sea level. It is quite a remote area where I didn’t have mobile signals and couldn’t geotag my Instagram photos. But the natural environment is indeed very robust, and so is the life style of the villagers.

Taking advantage of the optimal ecological condition, a project to maintain and reinforce a natural tourist site has been going on by the village through out the surrounding area.

We went into the woods and onto the hills, surveyed the rocks and waters, and crossed the scattered houses. Conditions are abundant, people are friendly and warmly opened their doors to others.

There was the serenity and harmony between nature and men. Sustainable planning with anticipation is the most needed for Bai-xi village to protect the nature and benefit the people. It seems so clear here that these two are interdependent and mutual beneficial, like everywhere in this world.

At the end of this trip, the sun was setting one last time in the year of 2015 on the country road of my way back. And I was grateful, to my guides, to the host from the local government who took me around, and most of all, I was touched by the simplicity of the people of Gu-Tian, a county that was once left behind, yet has hope of a more promising future to come.

The End | Originally published at www.linkedin.com.

Beneath the water, there was the old town, there was the sad history, there was the struggling souls standing in the dim light of yesterday.

My mission into the mountains in the south-east China this time has brought me to 古田县 － Gu-Tian county, it means “the ancient fields” in Chinese. The local bureau of tourism has hosted this trip.

On the first day, I visited 翠屏湖 － Cui-Ping Lake (meaning the jaded green besel lake), and met with the contractors of a project to construct a natural retreat site by the lake. Tourism has been considered another source of income for Gu-Tian county, especially after the new highway and the intercity high-speed railway to the provincial capital being opened in October 2015.

Standing here facing the lake, seeing the islands spread out on the water, I was told by the head of Ban-Zhong village (坂中村, meaning the village in the middle of the hill slope, a village of Gu-Tian county), that beneath the lake, there lies the old town of the county. When the construction of Gu-Tian reservoir took place in 1958, residents of the county were obliged to relocate at the new area where nothing was built then.

That was a special period of the history of the new republic, called “The Great Leap Forward”. It is known as the cause of the Great Chinese Famine. The unrealistic goals of industrialization and collectivisation demanded people at the time to move rapidly, bringing with them as little as possible, and to build their new home with the materials of their old. It was upon a great loss of the local residents that Gu-Tian reservoir was built, and with little compensation given back to them. Long time after that, the migrated generations were still struggling in poverty, and the fight for their rights lasted for decades.

Today the village of the migration — Ban-Zhong village has still the marks from yesterday: rustic living condition, typical rural buildings with slogan from the 60s (says in the photo: Chairman Mao is forever the reddest sun in our heart); but it has also become a village skilled in cultivation of tremella. All the 400 residents of Ban-Zhong village are engaged in this business for their living.

People of Gu-Tian have developed through a series of technics till the latest and the most famous one — Gu-Tian tremella bagging technic — was proven the most efficient. Each Gu-Tian tremella bag contains three tremella lobes, filled with nutriment that enables the tremella to grow 15–20 times faster than the original branch technic.

Next: Into the Field: Gu-Tian (2) | Originally published at www.linkedin.com.

As Greece has signed up to a painful and humiliating agreement with Europe this week, European democracy has officially died. Sometime ago, you could still hear criticism on how Chinese ‘State Capitalism’ is undemocratic and unsustainable. Now the E.U. has sent out what is, technically, the same message: We don’t care about people. We only care about money.

Since the time of Reagan and Thatcher, extreme Neoliberalism has taken over both Europe and the U.S. But Europe had a tradition of welfare policies to prevent revolutions led by ‘a critical mass’ (Wallerstein). This reasonable redistribution of a (limited) part of social wealth symbolized European the welfare state and social democracy. But forcing austerity on Greece has confirmed the increasing dominance of the ideology of neoliberalism in today’s Europe no less than in the U.S. Rather than building the social economy from the bottom up by investing on the public, the central idea of neoliberalism is to centralize power, concentrate wealth, privatize the public assets and resources, invest in capitalist elites, and self-deceptively thinking (or pretending) that somehow, in the process, some limited amount of wealth will trickle down to the masses.

Of course that was never to work out. The sole purpose of neoliberal capitalism is self-expansion, maximizing profits. The greed at its root contradicts any idea of giving back without quick benefits. Neoliberalism had only resulted in creating larger social and economic gaps, extreme concentrations of power, and a privileged group — the so-called 1% — being situated above the law. They can define the regulations supposed to regulate them, they can influence politics, they can push back against the public will, they can corrupt democracy, they can ruin a nation, and do anything, and do so with impunity, as long as it suits their very own interests.

Europe was once still somewhat more discrete than the U.S. on this road, but now with the case of Greece, the E.U. has also revealed their teeth without even bothering to keep the ‘progressive’ veil of social democracy and rights-based values they once proudly used to mask themselves. Worse, when even the IMF and the U.S. called to stop the further imposition of austerity policies on Greece — policies that went too far, never worked, and never will — the E.U. still insisted. This is truly astonishing, disappointing and disturbing.

When compared to ‘State Capitalism’ in China, this looks like the same story of extreme power concentration and wealth accumulation, but in a different package. Yet the results are similar — widening social and economic gaps, undemocratic and non-rights-based rule. None of this, no matter how they apparently seek to dress it up, is going to be sustainable, and one cannot help wondering what is going to happen when it inevitably collapses.

But, despite this, here I am — having left home and moved to Europe at 18, then spending years studying in Paris, followed by five more years juggling internships, consultancies, and short contracts. All this was just to build the career I dreamed of at the United Nations. I’m aware that, in many ways, I’m better off than others in my generation, and things could be worse. So, no, I can’t complain.

But swimming against the tide, especially for years on end, requires incredible strength and courage. Your arms will tire. Your vision will blur. And when that happens, what do you rely on? You need an anchor — a way to keep your perspective steady and hold your course.

In the end, career development boils down to one thing: persistence. The true competition lies in how long you can stay in the game, and that takes mental fortitude. Here are the three most important lessons that have kept me grounded, moving forward, and, above all, going.

1. One Step at a Time

Do not feel entitled. Just because you’ve earned multiple degrees — whether a master’s or PhD — doesn’t mean you’re guaranteed the job or salary you expect. It doesn’t automatically earn you respect or appreciation either.

Save yourself from disappointment. The direct path to success is a fantasy. In reality, it’s a series of stepping stones, each requiring effort, patience, and a strategic mindset. Seize every opportunity, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant. Every short contract or part-time gig contributes to building your experience and credibility.

This often involves movement — between jobs, cities, and even countries. Ask yourself: is this a journey you’re ready for? It’s exhausting, but the rewards — skills, experiences, and personal growth — are enormous. Success isn’t achieved overnight; it’s a result of continually placing one foot in front of the other, no matter how slow the progress feels.

2. Focus on the Long-Term Prize

Don’t trade your talent for the illusion of security. Security can be a mirage, a false sense of comfort that convinces you that safety equals happiness. But true success doesn’t grow in comfort zones. In fact, the comfort zone can drain your ambition, stifle your creativity, and rob you of growth.

Science shows that happiness isn’t tied to material security but to self-fulfilment. The human brain releases chemicals that reward us when we face challenges and achieve goals. The thrill of overcoming obstacles is what drives us. So keep your eyes on the long-term prize — focus on the career you’re shaping, and let others play the short-term political games. Prioritize building your experience and honing your skills, because that’s what will truly elevate you in the long run.

Comfort may feel good for a moment, but profound satisfaction comes from growth, and growth is never comfortable.

3. Always Dare. Dare to be different.

In a world where conformity often feels safer, daring to stand out is an act of bravery. Take risks in your career. Don’t be afraid to apply for a job that feels out of reach, speak up in a room full of experts, or propose an idea that no one else is thinking about. Bold moves are the ones that shape careers and create lasting impact.

It’s not about reckless ambition; it’s about trusting your unique perspective and strengths. Many times, the people who advance the farthest aren’t necessarily the most qualified — they’re the ones who dared to push the boundaries of what was expected.

It’s easy to get bogged down in the day-to-day grind, the pressure to “fit in” or “play the game,” but if you’re not taking risks, you’re not growing. And if you’re not growing, you’re stagnating.

In Conclusion

Navigating a career, especially in today’s turbulent economy, is no small feat. The path is rarely straight, and often, it feels like you’re swimming upstream. But with persistence, a long-term vision, and the courage to be bold, you’ll find your way.

Keep going, one step at a time. Trust that your efforts will pay off, even when the results aren’t immediate. Focus on the big picture, and don’t settle for temporary comforts. And most importantly, dare to be different. Success comes to those who are willing to risk being seen for who they truly are.

While talking about issues concerning child protection, online or offline, the first questions we may need to ask ourselves are probably: how well do we know our targets? How many of us still remember what it was like when we were children ourselves?

While most guidance focuses on the means families, schools, civil society and governments should employ to protect children from cybercrime and threats on the Internet, how close do we actually come to reaching those children whom we aim to protect?

We very often try to standardize or halt the activities of children in order to keep them away from the possible online and offline dangers we can foresee. However, we do this without realizing that such preaching techniques barely worked on us when we were children. It is indeed true that vulnerable social groups distinguished by age, gender, ethnic origin and disabilities need greater attention and protection, but there is also the question of how best to act for them.

Children, for example, although immature, are still intellectual. It may not be mere unawareness but also irresponsibility to themselves and others that can bring them and other children into a dangerous situation. Remember how as children we tried doing things that were not allowed or suggested by adults and kept them hidden. It is not always because, as a child, we did not know about making the right judgment at all, but more likely because children are little taught about their responsibility in their behaviour online and offline.

It is clear that the vulnerable are at the same time an important part of the social climate, influencing others. Furthermore, the vulnerable may also contribute to threats sometimes by creating passive negative effects on others. This is demonstrated by the fact that children may hurt themselves as well as each other. Threats on the Internet such as cyberbullying, grooming and luring also occur among children and teenagers. The best way to help them is therefore not to focus only on their vulnerabilities but also on their potential.

Risks and dangers to children on the Internet are generally identified in time, but warnings and disapproval alone are not sufficient for prevention. Children should be empowered with the knowledge to assume their responsibilities to themselves, their families, friends, and other children around them, online and offline. When they face cyber threats, they should be seen not as mere targets that need protection in the environment, as this often makes them feel deprived of their free interests by being put in a passive position; but more importantly, they should also be considered as contributing members to the environment and as a part of that environment itself. Families and societies need to warn children about dangers online as well as encourage them to protect themselves and other children around them. It is important for children to realize the importance of their judgment and behaviours from little things, and that they are not passive, but active; may be vulnerable, but also defensive, online and in real life.

It is with one of these lessons of growing up that we all learn to behave responsibly. Children also assume their responsibilities better when they realize their influence and importance as contributing members of the environment in which they live; it is an essential part of education, which forms their confidence and maturity, and when they have that, they also know better how to protect themselves as well as those around them, online and in real life. Our protection will only be successful when the protected are fully empowered.