Yanwen’s blog

10/12/2026

10/11/2026

A few days ago, I came across an article about the relationship between fathers and sons. As I read it, I thought of a relative of mine whose relationship with his father has remained strained, even as he approaches forth.

The article tells the story of a man who recalled an experience with his father, who was then nearly seventy years old.

One day, they were looking through old photographs together when they came across a picture of the man at age three. In the photo, his father was holding him high above his head, and the little boy had a bright, proud smile on his face.

The son put the photograph in his wallet. Later, for the first time, his father opened up about his own childhood and his relationship with his father.

“My father never held me. I never even got to sit on his lap,” he said, tears streaming down the old man's face.

The son was deeply moved. Even at age seventy, his father still carried the pain of never having been held by his own father as a little boy.

The contrast is striking. The father had grown up longing for a simple expression of affection that he never received. His son, on the other hand, treasured a moment of tenderness from his own childhood so much that he carried the photograph in his wallet decades later.

A small gesture of love can leave a lasting impression. A hug, a playful lift into the air, or a child sitting on his father's lap reading or eating may seem like a small act to an adult. To a child, however, such moments can become precious memories and help build a sense of security and belonging.

The article goes on to discuss the role fathers play at different stages of a boy's development. It offers three general suggestions.

1. During the toddler years: Offer affection and encourage independence.

Fathers can spend time playing with their young sons, showing affection, and helping them explore the world beyond their immediate attachment to their mothers. A father's involvement gives a child another source of comfort and support while encouraging curiosity and growing independence.

2. During childhood: Set boundaries while encouraging exploration.

Boys may enjoy physical play, adventure, and testing limits. Fathers can use everyday activities, including playful wrestling when appropriate, to teach children about rules, self-control, and respect for others. The goal is not to suppress a child's energy but to help him learn how to manage it.

3. During adolescence: Offer guidance and model responsibility.

Teenagers need both room to make their own decisions and adults who provide steady guidance. Fathers can help by setting reasonable boundaries, treating others with respect, and demonstrating responsibility. They also need to work with the child's mother to provide consistent expectations.

I find some of this advice useful, but I am not convinced that every boy must follow the same developmental path or that fathers alone must fulfill these roles. A close bond with one's mother does not necessarily prevent a boy from becoming independent. Nor does a father's presence automatically guarantee good behavior. Children differ, and mothers, fathers, grandparents, and other caring adults can all contribute to their development.

Still, one point stands out to me: a father's involvement matters, not only through discipline and guidance, but also through everyday expressions of affection.

10/10/2026

I was growing up in a large military compound in China. Around 1969, many of my peers in the compound joined the army. We called the recruitment of young people “招小兵,” although I don't know whether that was the official term. I remember how excited I was when my friends returned wearing their military uniforms. They looked grown-up, proud, and important. I envied them tremendously and wanted to join the army, too.

But my father, who was himself in the military, refused to let me go.

He told me an old Chinese sayings: “好男不当兵，好铁不打钉” (Hǎo nán bù dāng bīng, hǎo tiě bù dǎ dīng)—literally, “A good man doesn't become a soldier, just as good iron isn't made into nails.” These sayings reflected a traditional view of military service, though my father's reasoning went beyond the sayings themselves.

At the time, China was in the midst of the Cultural Revolution. Education had lost much of its standing. “读书无用” (Dú shū wú yòng, there is no use in studying) was a popular sentiment, and intellectuals were derisively labeled “臭老九.” In that environment, telling a child to concentrate on school might not have seemed particularly wise or practical.

But my father insisted that my main task was to study and acquire a skill. He explained that no matter who was in power, history showed that society would always need people with expertise and practical knowledge.

The following year, in 1970, my father sent me to Tianjin Foreign Languages School. He also sent another girl to that school. We knew each other from nursery years. Later she was chosen to study in Finland. At the time, I could not fully appreciate the long-term value of the path my father had chosen for me.

Years later, when China restored the national college entrance examination in 1977, the education I had received gave me a chance to enter college. On the other hand, many of my childhood friends from the military compound who joined the army did not have the same opportunity. Their lives took different paths, and I cannot know how things would have turned out if any of us had made different choices. But I came to understand what my father had been trying to teach me.

He was not simply telling me to study hard. He was teaching me to look beyond the excitement and pressures of the present and prepare for a future I could not yet imagine.

Looking back, I realize that my father made a decision on my behalf at a time when I was too young to understand its consequences. He could not have predicted exactly how my life would unfold, but he believed that education and practical skills would give me options, even when the world around me changed.

That belief stayed with me. Political movements come and go. The values a society attaches to different kinds of work can change dramatically. But knowledge and the ability to do something useful retain their value.

I am grateful that my father understood this when I did not. I hope my children will remember this: Don't make important decisions solely on the basis of what is popular at the moment. Build knowledge and skills that will give you choices when the future takes an unexpected turn.

10/9/2026

To my children and grandchildren, I want to tell you this piece of experience that you may find difficult to imagine.

I grew up in Tianjin, China, and I lived through the years of the Cultural Revolution. You grew up in America, in a very different time and place. I don’t expect you to fully understand what it was like to be a child growing up in China during those years. But I would like you to know a little about what I experienced personally.

When I was in middle school, “为人民服务” (Wèi rén mín fú wù), or “Serve the People,” was a very common and important slogan. It's very much like today's politically correct slogans. We heard it everyday, and it was part of the environment in which we grew up. People were supposed to accept it without question.

At the time, I had a simple question: Why should I serve the people?

I remember asking about it during one of the so-called heart-to-heart talks with a class leader, 班干部. The leader explained to me that farmers grew the grain that we ate and workers made the clothes and other things we used. Without them, we would have nothing.

I argued that my parents bought our food and clothes from stores. They bought what we needed. I didn’t see farmers personally giving us food for free or factory workers personally making our clothes for us.

Today, this may sound like a very ordinary question. But at that time, questioning the slogan was not taken lightly. I was criticized for it.

I don’t remember exactly what people said to me. What I remember is the feeling that my words didn't sit well with her.

Around that time, many of my classmates were becoming 红卫兵, the Red Guards, indicating one was politically progressive. I also applied to join. I wanted to be accepted like the other students. But I was never admitted.

To this day, I don’t know exactly why. I only know that I was excluded while many others were accepted. I remember this because it gave me a hard time then, especially because I felt strong pressure from my parents to become a Red Guard.

I probably didn’t fully understand the larger political events around me. I was still a minor, trying to fit in with my classmates, and trying to make my parents proud.

Looking back now, I don’t think I said anything wrong.

But that is how I remember those years: there were things we were expected to believe, and sometimes asking too many questions could bring criticism or make you stand apart from others.

I am telling you this because it is part of my life that you cannot learn from a history book alone.

10/8/2026

Yesterday, the world watched the announcement of the 2026 Nobel Prize in Chemistry. Japanese chemist Kensō Soai shared the prize with French chemist Henri B. Kagan for their pioneering work on asymmetric synthesis and the chemistry of mirror-image molecules.

The announcement made me think about a question that goes beyond this year's prize.

Japan has produced an unusually large number of Nobel laureates in the natural sciences, especially relative to its population and to other Asian countries. According to the Japan Society for the Promotion of Science (JSPS), by the end of 2025, 21 Japan-born researchers had received Nobel Prizes in the sciences during the 21st century, putting Japan close to the United Kingdom in second place behind the United States.

China has a population more than ten times that of Japan and now has an enormous scientific research system. Yet the number of Nobel laureates in the natural sciences remains much smaller. Why?

Why has Japan been able to produce so many internationally important scientists, particularly in basic science, despite having a population much smaller than China or the United States? I am sure many Chinese people have asked themselves the same question.

I don't know the exact answer. Perhaps there isn't one. The JSPS itself says that no single, definitive explanation exists. But there are several factors that seem worth considering.

First, Japan built a strong scientific foundation over several generations.

Japan deliberately invested in science and engineering after World War II and developed strong universities and research institutions. A scientific tradition takes time to develop. Rome was not built in a day, and neither is a world-class scientific system.

Japan's Nobel tradition also goes much further back than China's. In 1949, just as the newly established People's Republic of China was beginning from a position of “一穷二白”—poor and lacking a modern industrial and scientific base—Japan celebrated its first Nobel laureate. Physicist Hideki Yukawa received the Nobel Prize that year.

Since then, Japanese researchers have repeatedly won Nobel Prizes in physics, chemistry, and physiology or medicine. Japan's first Nobel Prize was therefore not an isolated achievement; it became the beginning of a scientific tradition that has continued for generations.

Second, Japan has been able to keep some of its top scientists doing world-class research at home.

This is an important difference.

Unlike Yang Chen-Ning and Tsung-Dao Lee, who were Chinese-born scientists whose Nobel-winning work was done in the United States, many Japanese Nobel laureates were made in Japan!

A study of Japanese Nobel laureates found that 11 of the 15 Japanese natural-science laureates it examined had conducted their Nobel-winning research in Japan.

This suggests that Japan was able to create research environments in which talented scientists could do world-class work without having to leave the country.

Third, Japan has provided scientists with relatively stable conditions for long-term research.

The JSPS itself points to this as one possible explanation for Japan's Nobel success. Since the end of World War II, Japan has developed a relatively stable research environment that has allowed scientists to pursue work they are genuinely interested in.

This is especially important for basic science.

A Nobel Prize often comes decades after the original discovery. Scientific breakthroughs cannot always be planned according to a three-year timetable or judged by immediate economic results. A scientist may spend years or decades studying a question simply because he or she finds it fascinating.

That kind of research requires patience and long-term commitment.

Japan has also developed broad systems for supporting researchers rather than relying entirely on a handful of superstar scientists. For example, its KAKENHI grants have supported long-running lines of basic research, including work that later contributed to Nobel Prizes.

Fourth, the university laboratory system may have played an important role.

Japan traditionally developed research groups organized around professors, with students and younger researchers working closely with senior scientists. This structure can create continuity from one generation to the next.

A study of Japanese Nobel laureates found that many had been educated at prestigious national universities and later conducted research in relatively free academic environments. The same study emphasized the importance of a research atmosphere in which scientists could pursue their own intellectual interests.

The laboratory is therefore not simply a place where an individual scientist works. It can become a small community in which knowledge, methods, habits, and scientific curiosity are passed from one generation to another.

Fifth, Japan seems to combine intense educational competition with considerable freedom later in a scientist's career.

Japanese children can experience intense competition for entrance to prestigious schools and universities. Many Japanese Nobel laureates studied at top national universities such as the University of Tokyo and Kyoto University.

But once these scientists entered research, some found relatively free environments in which they could pursue questions that interested them.

That combination is intriguing: discipline in education, followed by freedom in research.

So perhaps the real lesson is not that Japan has more talented people than China. Clearly, population size alone cannot explain scientific achievement.

A country needs talented people, but talent is not enough. It also needs universities, mentors, laboratories, funding, the atmosphere of intellectual freedom, and—perhaps most importantly—enough time for good ideas to mature.

Japan's Nobel record may therefore offer an interesting lesson for China and for any country hoping to produce world-class science: it is not enough to have many talented people. You have to create an environment in which they can stay, think, experiment, fail, and keep pursuing an idea for decades.