Yanwen’s blog

When my father was still with us, he expressed a deep wish that all his children would build their careers in China. He passed away while I was in the U.S. in 1987, and since then, so much has changed—things he could never have imagined. He once fought in North Korea in the early 1950s, yet now, here I am teaching students from South Korea, something that would likely astonish him.

Even back then, he understood that life held injustices we couldn’t control. He felt the sting of unfairness alongside me and understood my anger when I was denied an opportunity to go abroad for further career training, despite ranking first in the qualifying exam. He knew that my path would have been much smoother if I’d been treated justly.

My father was deeply saddened by the struggles my younger sister faced after a mistake in her early twenties led to her confinement. Despite graduating from nursing school, she was rejected by every hospital due to her past. She was still young, with so much potential ahead of her. My father believed that young people deserve second chances, and he felt strongly that one misstep shouldn’t determine her future. These grievances weighed heavily on his heart until his final moments.

Thanks to China’s economic reforms, my sister eventually found work outside the traditional system and went on to become the boss of her own company—a success my father, sadly, didn’t live to see.

A Chinese saying, 一棒子打死 (yī bàngzi dǎ sǐ), literally means "to beat someone to death with one stick." Metaphorically, it describes the harshness of condemning someone too severely for a single mistake, leaving no room for growth or redemption. This approach is especially punitive for someone still young and with a life ahead.

My father’s hope was that his children would contribute to our homeland. Yet, despite my career unfolding in the U.S., I believe he would have understood my choice if he were here today. So much has changed since he left, and though life has taken me far from what he once envisioned, his values and strength remain with me, guiding my path forward.

There has been much discussion about Han Kang, the 2024 Nobel Prize in Literature laureate, and her works. Known for addressing historical trauma and social norms, Han’s writing explores the fragility of human life, the connection between body and soul, and the boundary between the living and the dead. Her experimental style has made her an innovator in contemporary prose.

Two terms are crucial to understanding Han Kang’s The Vegetarian: Korean culture and women’s status. The protagonist, Yeong-hye, embodies the silent violence endured by women within South Korean society. Her transformation begins when she decides to become a vegetarian after a disturbing dream, seriously challenging her family and societal expectations.

The first part of the novel depicts the unraveling of Yeong-hye’s marriage. Her husband, initially dismissive of her choice, becomes furious when she refuses to eat meat at a corporate banquet, a critical event for his career. Humiliated, he calls her family, which leads to a violent confrontation with her father who slaps her in the face. Her father’s attempt to force-feed her meat triggers a dramatic outburst — Yeong-hye cuts her wrist in an act of defiance, shaking her family’s core.

The second part shifts focus to Yeong-hye’s brother-in-law, an artist struggling with creative block. After learning about her birthmark, he becomes obsessed with Yeong-hye, seeing her as his artistic muse. He convinces her to participate in a body-painting project, which revitalizes her spirit. However, this act crosses ethical and moral boundaries, and when Yeong-hye’s sister discovers them, their family begins to disintegrate.

In the final part, Flaming Trees, the narrative centers on Yeong-hye’s sister. After the scandal, her husband disappears, and Yeong-hye is institutionalized. The sister, resilient under the weight of family shame, juggles the responsibilities of raising her child and running a business while financially supporting Yeong-hye’s care. She reflects on the roles imposed on women—daughter, sister, wife, and mother.

Through the lens of three men—Yeong-hye’s husband, father, and brother-in-law—Han Kang explores how male authority in Yeong-hye’s life manifests in violence and control, ultimately driving her into rebellion, isolation and institution.

A Chinese saying captures Yeong-hye’s spirit, “压迫越深，反抗越烈” (yā pò yuè shēn, fǎn kàng yuè liè), meaning “the deeper the oppression, the fiercer the resistance,” also captures the essence of The Vegetarian. This saying emphasizes how intense repression or control can ignite an equally intense pushback, which is reflected in Yeong-hye’s journey. Her quiet rebellion grows more defiant as she faces increasing pressure from her family and society.

In The Vegetarian, Han Kang masterfully explores the intersection of culture, tradition, societal expectations, violence, and individuality through Yeong-hye’s quiet rebellion. The novel's layered narrative reveals how deeply entrenched cultural norms affect women's autonomy. Yeong-hye’s journey as a vegetarian ultimately underscores the heavy toll of non-conformity in a society suffocated by rigid social expectations.

On October 17, I wrote about how, in 1973, Chinese staff at the China Liaison Office in the U.S. transformed the Windsor Park Hotel into a fully functional office—without hiring outside help. Everyone contributed to the manual labor, from diplomats to staff.

At that time, China was one of the poorest countries in the world. Now, over four decades later, it’s on the path to becoming a 小康社会(xiǎokāng shèhuì) "moderately prosperous society."

China's transformation—from extreme poverty to becoming a serious global competitor in less than half a century—is nothing short of a miracle, especially considering such progress typically takes a century.

I recall a 2020 Wall Street Journal article by James Areddy, where he discussed China’s claim of eradicating extreme poverty, part of their goal to build a moderately prosperous society. While he raised questions about the definitions and thresholds used, it’s undeniable that if China were still as poor as it was in 1973, it wouldn’t be regarded as a major global player by the U.S.

For decades, China’s top priority has been to lift itself out of poverty—a goal shared by many countries in Asia, Africa, and Latin America. The difference is that China succeeded in doing so to the extent that it now competes economically with many world tops. From an economic standpoint, China has achieved this goal with remarkable success.

While many attribute China's rapid development to policies, foreign investment, and opening up, I believe there's a valuable lesson: China’s unwavering focus on eliminating poverty through economic development. As individuals, if we could adopt this same focus, there’s little we couldn’t achieve.

China’s journey from extreme poverty to global economic power is a testament to the power of focused determination and resources. Among other factors, China’s single-minded dedication to eradicating poverty through economic development is a lesson we can all learn from. With the right focus and commitment, even the most ambitious goals can be achieved—whether for a nation or an individual.

Yesterday, I wrote about Philip G. Zimbardo's Stanford Prison Experiment (SPE). He later expanded on this research in his well-known book, The Lucifer Effect: Understanding How Good People Turn Evil (2007). 

In the book, Zimbardo delves into the psychological mechanisms that can lead otherwise "good" individuals to commit harmful acts, particularly when placed in environments marked by power imbalances, stress, or pressure.

The title itself, The Lucifer Effect, is symbolic—it refers to the transformation of Lucifer, once a bringer of light, into Satan, illustrating the shift from good to evil. This metaphor serves as a powerful reminder of how situational forces can profoundly influence human behavior.

Beyond the experiment, Zimbardo's contributions to psychology highlight two key lessons:

First, never underestimate the influence of the environment—it can sometimes determine who you are. Situational forces such as external circumstances, peer pressure, and cultural contexts can shape our thoughts, actions, and identity. The SPE itself revealed how individuals quickly adapted to the assigned roles and expectations imposed by their environment.

Second, never underestimate your own influence over yourself—don't let others decide or define who you are. This lesson emphasizes individual autonomy and the belief that, despite external pressures, we have the power to define our own identity and actions. It speaks to the importance of willpower, inner strength, and resilience, encouraging people to actively shape their destinies rather than passively accepting societal labels.

If we were entirely subject to external forces without free will, the outlook would be overly pessimistic. That’s why the second principle serves as a counterbalance to the first—while our surroundings can shape us, we also have the ability to resist, interpret, and choose how we respond to these influences.

Zimbardo's message is clear and powerful: do not allow others to de-individualize you. Don’t let anyone categorize or box you in, reducing you to an object or a stereotype. Hold on to your individuality and politely assert your identity—let people know who you are, loudly and clearly, so that your uniqueness remains intact.

Zimbardo’s work reminds us that while our environment is powerful, we hold the ultimate power to define who we are. By maintaining our individuality and refusing to be boxed in by others, we can rise above external pressures and chart our own path. The choice is ours.

On October 14, 2024, the world saw the passing of Philip G. Zimbardo, an American psychologist and professor at Stanford University, best known for his work on the Stanford Prison Experiment (SPE). This controversial experiment remains one of the most debated episodes in modern psychology, offering disturbing insights into how stress and situational factors affect human behavior.

In 1971, Zimbardo conducted the SPE at Stanford University, aiming to explore how individuals adapt to roles of authority and submission within a simulated prison environment. Twenty-four male college students were randomly assigned the roles of either "guards" or "prisoners." Though initially planned to last two weeks, the experiment was abruptly halted after just six days due to the extreme and unethical behaviors that emerged.

Almost immediately after the roles were assigned, the "guards" began to exhibit authoritarian and abusive behaviors, while the "prisoners" displayed signs of extreme stress, helplessness, and emotional breakdowns. The rapid descent into psychological abuse and torment highlighted how ordinary people, when placed in environments with unequal power dynamics, can engage in destructive and harmful actions.

The SPE has since become infamous as a prime example of how situational factors, rather than individual personality traits, can drive people to unethical behavior. The blurred boundaries between researcher and participant—researcher himself played the role of prison superintendent—also raised significant ethical concerns. This lack of objectivity and the psychological distress experienced by participants have led to much stronger ethical guidelines in psychological research today.

Despite its ethical concerns, the SPE is frequently cited today as evidence of the "power of the situation" in shaping behavior. It revealed how quickly and mindlessly individuals conform to the assigned roles and expectations, particularly in environments where power is unchecked. This research has even been used to help understand behavior in historical atrocities, such as under the Nazi regime, the happening in Gaza today, and in some authoritarian political movements.

A Chinese saying 权力使人腐败 (quán lì shǐ rén fǔ bài) means "Power corrupts people." It captures the essence of how power and authority can lead to unethical behavior, echoing the experiment's findings that ordinary individuals can commit harmful acts when placed in positions of unchecked power.

The legacy of the Stanford Prison Experiment serves as a reminder of the profound impact that situational forces can have on human behavior. It also challenges us to reflect on our moral responsibilities and the potential for both good and evil within each of us. 

Finally, as we navigate systems of power and authority in our own lives, whether in parenting, education, or governance, it is crucial to remain vigilant and aware of how these dynamics can shape our actions and decisions. Ultimately, understanding the fragility of human ethics in the face of authority can help us foster environments that promote empathy, integrity, and accountability, steering us away from the darker impulses revealed by this landmark study.