Yanwen’s blog

7/2/2026

Yesterday I discussed the Peloponnesian War and Thucydides' famous observation that "War is a violent teacher," comparing some of his insights with what happened during China's Cultural Revolution. Before continuing, here are a few basic facts about the war.

• Location: The eastern Mediterranean

• Period: 431–404 BC (27 years)

• Main issue: Fight for hegemony over the Greek world

• Outcome: Athens lost its maritime empire and dominance in the Aegean, bringing its Golden Age to an end. Sparta emerged as the leading Greek power.

• Major alliances:

  • Athens led the Delian League, which consisted of roughly 150–200 member states.

  • Sparta led the Peloponnesian League, with about 30–40 allies, including Corinth, Thebes, and Megara.

Now let me continue with yesterday's discussion.

3. Fear reshapes human behavior

Thucydides repeatedly emphasizes the role of fear—fear of enemies, fear of being suspected, and fear of appearing insufficiently loyal. Under such pressures, people often found themselves doing things they would never have imagined in ordinary times.

The Cultural Revolution also created an atmosphere of pervasive fear. Remaining silent could be dangerous, yet speaking against the prevailing political climate could be more dangerous. Many people's choices were constrained by fear that they perceived.

4. Social trust erodes

Healthy societies depend on trust—trust in our families, colleagues, neighbors, institutions, and communities. Periods of prolonged conflict and social chaos gradually destroy that trust.

People begin asking themselves, "Who might report me?" or "Whom can I safely trust?" Once those questions become part of everyday life, social relationships are fundamentally altered. Rebuilding trust afterward can take years, even generations.

5. Circumstances shape behavior—but do not determine it

Perhaps Thucydides' deepest insight is that extreme circumstances exert tremendous pressure on human behavior.

That does not mean everyone responds in the same way.

Even during the Cultural Revolution, some actively participated in persecution, some quietly protected those under attack, some kept their heads down in order to survive, and some accepted great personal risks to act according to their principles.

Circumstances shape behavior, but they do not determine it completely.

That is why Thucydides remains remarkably relevant today. More than simply writing about ancient Greece, he was identifying enduring patterns of human behavior that can emerge whenever societies experience prolonged fear, violence, or institutional collapse.

This reminds me of Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn's famous observation:

"The line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being."

The two thinkers complement each other. Thucydides emphasizes the immense power of external circumstances; Solzhenitsyn reminds us that individuals retain moral agency even under extraordinary pressure.

Ultimately, the larger question is not simply what war does to people. It is this:

What happens to human beings when the structures that sustain civilization—law, trust, stable institutions, and ordinary routines—begin to collapse?

War is one way that can happen. Revolution, civil conflict, state failure, famine, and other forms of prolonged upheaval can produce similar conditions. When those foundations weaken, fear replaces trust, survival instinct begins to outweigh moral and principle, and civilization itself proves more fragile than we often imagine.

That is why Thucydides still speaks to us nearly 2,500 years later.

More on this book later.

7/1/2026

When we moved from Kansas to the New York area, I had to part with many of my books. One of them was The History of the Peloponnesian War by Thucydides. I had intended to read it for years, partly because of the now-popular phrase "the Thucydides Trap," but never got around to it.

Recently I borrowed Donald Kagan's The Peloponnesian War from our local library. As I read it, something other than the geopolitical lessons captured my attention. I came across one of Thucydides' most famous observations:

"War is a violent teacher; it brings most people's characters down to the level of their circumstances."

The more I read, the more I understood what he meant.

According to Kagan, the Peloponnesian War devastated Greek society. It destroyed lives and property, intensified political and class divisions, fractured alliances among the Greek city-states, and ultimately weakened their ability to resist conquest from outside.

Even more striking was the brutality the war unleashed. As the conflict dragged on, anger, fear, and the desire for revenge steadily eroded the restraints of civilization. Prisoners were maimed or killed. Some were thrown into pits to die of thirst and starvation. Others were cast into the sea to drown. Innocent children were murdered. Entire cities were annihilated—the men executed, the women and children sold into slavery. During periods of civil war, fellow citizens slaughtered one another for days on end.

Violence also transformed the moral fabric of society. As Thucydides observed, words themselves changed their meaning. Reckless audacity came to be praised as courage, while moderation was dismissed as weakness. Religion lost much of its restraining influence. Truth and honor disappeared. Trust collapsed as communities became divided into hostile factions.

That is the deeper meaning of Thucydides' famous observation.

He is not arguing that human beings are inherently evil. Rather, he is suggesting that extreme circumstances profoundly change human behavior. In times of peace, people can afford to be generous, patient, civil, and principled. But during war, famine, or social upheaval, fear, deprivation, and uncertainty push many people toward actions they would previously have considered unthinkable. As he put it, war becomes "a violent teacher," bringing people's character down to the level of their circumstances.

Reading this passage inevitably brought to mind China's Cultural Revolution.

Although the two events were very different in their historical origins and political contexts, the patterns of human behavior show striking similarities.

The first is the breakdown of the most basic moral restraints.

Thucydides observed that prolonged conflict changes not only people's behavior but also their moral standards. Actions once regarded as shameful come to be accepted—even celebrated—because the surrounding circumstances have changed.

The Cultural Revolution displayed a similar pattern. Children publicly denounced their parents. Students relentlessly attacked their teachers. Friends informed on friends. Neighbors turned against neighbors. Behaviors that would have seemed unimaginable only a few years earlier became normalized under intense political pressure.

The people themselves had not suddenly become different. Rather, the environment had changed—and with it, what society rewarded, tolerated, or demanded.

The second similarity lies in the transformation of language.

Thucydides wrote that "words had to change their ordinary meaning."

Political labels became weapons. Virtues and vices were redefined according to factional loyalty.

The same phenomenon can be seen during the Cultural Revolution. Terms such as "revolutionary," "counterrevolutionary," "bourgeois," "class enemy," and "capitalist roader" acquired enormous political power. Language no longer merely described reality; it defined loyalty, determined guilt, and justified violence and persecution.

Once language changes, people's perception of reality often changes with it.

Think of this timeless question: What happens to ordinary human beings when the structures that sustain civilization begin to collapse? That's the question Thucydides was asking 2,400 years ago, and it's why his work still feels remarkably modern.

I'll continue exploring these parallels tomorrow.

6/30/2026

Today marks the last day of the first half of the year—a good time to reflect on our New Year's resolutions.

Yesterday I wrote about why I hope my grandson will learn Chinese. As I worked on that piece, several stories came back to me.

A friend immigrated to the United States with her ten-year-old son. A decade later, she told me he could barely express himself in Chinese. Ten years of living entirely in English had almost erased the first ten years of his native language!

Another friend came to America with her twelve-year-old daughter. Today the daughter is forty-one with two children of her own. She still can speak Chinese, but not to her children who were never taught to. Their grandmother can no longer communicate with them in Chinese, and the grandchildren know almost nothing about the culture they inherited.

These stories remind me that language is much more than a tool for communication. It is also the bridge between generations and the key to a culture.

After reading my article, one reader asked me: How does learning another language teach intellectual humility?

I don't think the connection is automatic. Simply memorizing vocabulary or grammar does not make someone more humble. But learning another language—and the culture behind it—often does.

Psychologists define intellectual humility as recognizing the limits of our own knowledge and accepting that our beliefs may be incomplete or even mistaken.

When we grow up speaking only one language within one culture, we naturally assume that our way of describing the world is simply "normal." We rarely notice the assumptions built into our language because we have never experienced an alternative.

Learning another language changes that.

Suddenly we discover that another culture organizes ideas differently, values different things, and even expresses emotions in different ways. Many things we once assumed were universal turn out to be simply cultural choices.

That realization is the beginning of intellectual humility.

Comparison gives us a reference point. Without another language and culture, we have nothing to compare and to evaluate our own assumptions. We accept them not because we have examined them, but because we have never encountered another way of seeing the world. With second perspective, we begin asking better questions.

That is why the philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein wrote, "The limits of my language mean the limits of my world."

A second language expands those limits, gives us a second perspective, enabling comparison. Comparison produces intellectual humility.

6/29/2026

Today an old classmate in Tianjin shared a video story about the Chinese language. I looked it up and found that it was true.

For many years, the United Nations has observed that Chinese versions of its official documents are generally much shorter than their equivalents in many alphabetic languages, especially English and French. A report of about 5,000 words in English may require only about 3,000 to 3,500 Chinese characters. The reason is Chinese often expresses the same ideas more compactly.

That story reminded me of a conversation I had with my family in China earlier this year.

When I told them that I planned to teach our new grandson Chinese, they responded, "China is becoming stronger. Knowing Chinese will be useful in the future."

I understand that way of thinking, but I see language not just a tool for future jobs. In fact, I think this mindset partly explains why so many American-born Chinese cannot speak Chinese. Their parents often ask a practical question: Will my child actually need it? If the answer appears to be no, they don't speak Chinese to their children. And Chinese language disappears within a generation.

My own reason is much simpler. Chinese is the only language I can speak as a native speaker. It is the language in which I can express myself naturally. If I spoke Spanish or Russian as naturally as I speak Chinese, I would gladly teach those languages as well.

For me, teaching Chinese is not about preparing my grandson for job in China. It is about giving him another window through which to see the world.

Language is the key to a culture. Only by learning a language can we begin to understand the people who speak it—their history, literature, stories, values, and ways of thinking. Every language carries assumptions and perspectives that cannot always be translated.

Learning another language and culture also changes the way we understand ourselves.

Once we see another culture from the inside, we naturally begin comparing it with our own. We notice differences we had never questioned before. We become more aware and critical of our own assumptions instead of accepting them simply because we grew up with them.

That is one of the greatest gifts of learning another language: it teaches intellectual humility. It reminds us that our own way is not the only way.

People who understand more than one language are often better equipped to see and appreciate differences, communicate across cultures, and remain open-minded when encountering different ideas and cultures.

If my grandson grows up speaking Chinese, I hope it will certainly be useful someday. But even if it never helps him get a job or make more money, I will still consider it one of the greatest gifts I could have given him.

Because I am not simply teaching him another language. I am giving him a tool to understand the world.

Recently, I wrote about Liu Kaixin, Li Xiaohua, and now language, hoping to leave something meaningful for my children and grandson.

A recent news story introduced me to Li Xiaohua (李晓华), one of the legendary entrepreneurs of China’s Reform and Opening-up era. Li hosted a celebration for the Chinese Football Little Generals after their victory in the SIGISMONDI Cup. Even more symbolic, he drove his famous red Ferrari—the first Ferrari officially owned in mainland China—to pick up their coach, Dong Lu.

More than thirty years after he first bought it, his Ferrari still makes headlines. Curious about the man behind the car, I began reading about Li Xiaohua’s life. What I discovered was far more than the story of a wealthy businessman. It was the story of a man who came to embody the spirit of an extraordinary era in modern China—a story I feel compelled to share with my children.

Entrepreneurship

Li Xiaohua was born in Beijing in 1951 into an ordinary working-class family. He was sent to the countryside during the Cultural Revolution, spending several years working in the rural areas of Heilongjiang in northeast China. After returning to Beijing, he worked as a boiler operator and held a series of temporary jobs. He had neither wealth nor connections.

When China began its economic reforms in the early 1980s, Li recognized the emerging opportunities. He started with small businesses—selling beverages and running a video arcade—before traveling to Japan to pursue business opportunities. There, he secured overseas distribution rights for the Chinese hair-restoration product “101 Hair Regrowth Formula,” which brought him his first substantial fortune.

He later founded Huada International Investment Group in Hong Kong. When Hong Kong’s property market slumped in the late 1980s, most investors were selling in fear. Li did the opposite: he bought aggressively. When the market recovered, those investments made him one of China’s earliest billionaires.

What distinguished Li Xiaohua was his entrepreneurial instinct: the ability to make bold decisions when others hesitated.

First Ferrari

In 1992, Ferrari company brought a Ferrari 348 to Beijing for exhibition. At the time, the company did not expect anyone in mainland China to be able to afford one. The car was intended primarily as a showcase before being shipped back to Europe.

To Ferrari’s surprise, Li Xiaohua purchased the car on the spot for approximately US$139,000, becoming the first person in mainland China to officially own a Ferrari.

The red Ferrari was later registered with the famous license plate “Jing A00001.” Photographs of Li standing beside the car were widely published both in China and abroad, becoming one of the defining images of China’s early Reform and Opening-up era.

The Ferrari symbolized a generation of Chinese entrepreneurs who were beginning to look outward, embrace the world, and pursue ambitions that had once seemed unimaginable just a decade earlier.

That is why, more than thirty years later, when Li Xiaohua drove that same legendary Ferrari to pick up football coach Dong Lu after the Chinese Football Little Generals won the SIGISMONDI Cup, many people saw more than a luxury car. They saw a symbolic meeting of generations: a pioneer of China’s economic reform honoring young athletes striving to shape the future of Chinese football against the backdrop of the broader challenges facing the sport in China.

Enduring Respect

Among many wealthy businessmen in China, Li Xiaohua continues to enjoy widespread respect—not simply because of his wealth.

First, he built his fortune from nothing. Coming from an ordinary family without political connections or inherited wealth, he achieved everything through his own vision, courage, and effort. To many who lived through the reform era, he represents the pioneering spirit of that generation.

Second, he was willing to take risks when others were afraid. His investments in Hong Kong real estate during a downturn demonstrated a rare ability to see opportunity in uncertainty.

Third, he has given back to society. Over the years, Li Xiaohua has donated to charitable causes and served as an honorary leader of the China Charity Federation. In recognition of his philanthropic contributions, asteroid 3556 was named “Li Xiaohua” by the International Astronomical Union’s Minor Planet Center.

Finally, he continues to invest emotionally in the next generation. After the Chinese Football Little Generals’ victory, Li not only hosted a celebration but personally drove his historic Ferrari to pick up Dong Lu, encouraging the younger generation to pursue their own dreams.

To me, the most admirable thing about Li Xiaohua is not his wealth or his Ferrari. It is that he represents the spirit of an entire generation—people who embraced opportunity, built something from nothing, gave back after succeeding, and never lost faith in the next generation.

That is the memory of an era—and the enduring spirit that helped shape modern China.

6/28/2026