This portfolio explores the contrast and conversation between China’s historical legacy and its rapidly transforming present, as experienced through the sites, stories, structures, and cultural expressions we encountered during our study abroad trip. I chose the specific content in this collection, from imperial palaces and revolutionary monuments to skyscrapers, shopping malls, traditional arts, because together they reveal how China negotiates the tension between continuity and change.
What struck me most throughout the journey was how often I felt suspended between eras, values, and visions. Standing in Tiananmen Square, I could feel the weight of collective memory and political history. Minutes later, walking through the Forbidden City, I was immersed in architectural expressions of dynastic power and cosmic order. But it was in places like the Shanghai Tower, Suzhou Center Mall, and on the Huangpu River cruise where the contrast truly became vivid. Here, the past wasn’t erased, it was reframed, repurposed, or juxtaposed with global symbols of progress and ambition.
This portfolio is intended for readers who are curious about China’s evolving identity including Western audiences, fellow students, and anyone interested in how culture is expressed not only in texts or traditions, but in the spaces people inhabit. I also wrote with Chinese audiences in mind particularly younger generations who are actively navigating what it means to live in a country where ancestral values, political legacies, and global modernity coexist and sometimes collide.
Throughout these reflections, I ask: How do historical changes manifest in contemporary Chinese life? How do sites like the Oriental Pearl Tower reinterpret traditional symbols, or how does something like Peking Duck carry both imperial ritual and modern consumer desire? How do different audiences experience these layers the elderly who may remember political upheaval, versus the young who livestream their visit to the Summer Palace? As a foreigner and student, I experienced these places with a mix of awe, confusion, admiration, and critical questioning always aware that I was encountering not just architecture or performance, but living narratives of identity.
China, as I saw it, is not a country frozen in its past, nor one blindly racing toward the future. It is a country in motion reflecting, rising, repurposing and always telling stories about who it was, who it is, and who it wants to become.
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Tiananmen Square stands at the heart of Beijing both geographically and symbolically. Its vast open space, flanked by monuments of national pride like the Monument to the People’s Heroes and the Great Hall of the People, speaks to China’s revolutionary history and its identity as a unified nation. For many, especially domestic tourists, it evokes powerful feelings of pride, continuity, and reverence for the sacrifices made during the founding of the People’s Republic.
From this perspective, Tiananmen is a national stage a space that honors collective effort, the Communist Party's role in unifying China, and the country's rise as a global power. During my visit, I observed school groups gathered around flags, older citizens solemnly posing near Mao’s mausoleum, and the flag raising ceremony performed with precise military choreography. These scenes all reinforce the square's function as a living civic ritual, much like Washington, D.C.'s National Mall a space where national mythology is publicly enacted.
Yet this celebratory framing is not the only one. Many outside China and some within cannot think of Tiananmen Square without remembering the 1989 pro-democracy movement and the tragic crackdown that followed. While officially downplayed or censored within China, this event lingers internationally as a symbol of the tension between state power and civil liberties. For critics, the square is not just a public monument, but a site of silenced memory a paradox where openness (the vast plaza) conceals absence (the omission of protest from official narratives). As a foreign visitor, it was impossible to stand in the square without being aware of this duality.
Objection Anticipated: Some may argue that my interpretation of Tiananmen Square as a place of both pride and pain imposes a Western liberal bias on a uniquely Chinese site. They might claim that emphasizing the 1989 protests distorts the intended symbolism of the space and undermines the historical and cultural significance it holds for the majority of Chinese people who may not frame the square around political dissent but instead around national pride and historical endurance. Others may suggest that bringing up censored histories during a study abroad experience risks alienating rather than understanding our hosts.
Answer to Objection: This objection holds some truth. It would be misguided and even arrogant to assume that one view especially one shaped by foreign media fully captures the meaning of such a complex site. Many Chinese citizens do find genuine pride in the square’s symbolism and have their own deep personal and familial connections to the revolutionary era it commemorates. And indeed, as a guest in China, I had a responsibility to observe with humility and cultural sensitivity.
Yet acknowledging these views does not invalidate the presence of other meanings. Spaces like Tiananmen Square are not static monuments; they are layered palimpsests where memory, power, pride, and trauma coexist. If anything, recognizing the multiplicity of meanings even those in tension strengthens our understanding rather than weakening it. The attempt to erase or downplay uncomfortable history only amplifies its haunting power.
Yes and No: Yes, Tiananmen Square remains a site of national significance and is widely respected by many Chinese as a sacred civic space. But no, that respect does not require erasing its more contested history. Instead, this tension between pride and protest — between memory and silence — is precisely what makes Tiananmen so symbolically powerful. The square invites reflection on how national identities are shaped not just by what is remembered, but by what is forgotten.
By placing myself in dialogue with both patriotic and critical interpretations, I learned not only about China, but also about the complexity of historical memory a lesson that transcends national borders.
Standing imposingly on the western edge of Tiananmen Square, the Great Hall of the People is both a physical and symbolic representation of the Chinese state. Built in 1959 during the Ten Great Buildings campaign, it was meant to project the power and unity of the newly established People’s Republic. The building houses the National People’s Congress, official ceremonies, and foreign diplomatic receptions all staged within a structure designed to awe.
During my visit, I was struck not just by the scale of the Hall, but by its calculated grandeur: the sweeping marble staircases, vast auditoriums, and monumental columns seemed crafted to emphasize the legitimacy and authority of the government it houses. It is a textbook example of political architecture where form serves ideology. Every angle, space, and scale communicates centralization, collectivism, and permanence.
To many Chinese citizens, especially older generations, the Great Hall remains a symbol of national pride and progress. It represents the hard won unity of a nation once fractured by colonial aggression and civil war. The very name “Great Hall of the People” signifies that the power of the government originates from, and belongs to, the masses. For those who lived through the Cultural Revolution or the early reform years, the building carries powerful emotional and historical weight. It is a place where the people at least symbolically govern themselves.
But is this symbolism still convincing? Anticipated Objection: Some critics argue that the Great Hall, far from being a democratic symbol, is a carefully staged illusion of public participation. They note that the National People’s Congress is often referred to as a “rubber stamp” legislature, where decisions are made by Party leadership before ever reaching the floor. From this view, the building functions less as a temple of the people’s will and more as a performance space, where the legitimacy of state power is ritually affirmed, not genuinely deliberated. They would contend that the building’s majesty hides a lack of political plurality that it's a monument not to democracy, but to centralized control.
Response to Objection: There is substance to this critique. While structurally and ceremonially the Great Hall mimics the aesthetic of democratic institutions echoing Western parliaments in its form the functioning of governance in China follows a different political logic. Deliberation happens, but within the structure of Party leadership rather than open multiparty competition.
However, this does not mean the Great Hall is meaningless or entirely deceptive. Its symbolic function is real, especially to its citizens. It projects continuity, order, and legitimacy in a rapidly transforming society. In a country with a long history of dynastic cycles, warlordism, and foreign domination, the stability represented by such a building holds significant value. Even if the political process inside is tightly managed, the Great Hall reflects China’s priorities: unity, development, and sovereign control over its political destiny.
Yes and No: Yes, the Great Hall may fall short of the deliberative ideals it visually invokes, and yes, it plays a performative role in legitimizing state decisions. But no, this does not render the building hollow or meaningless. It remains a vital space for the enactment of national unity, a theater not of deception, but of consensus as defined within China's political culture.
Conclusion: Visiting the Great Hall of the People forced me to reconsider my own assumptions about what legitimacy looks like. While I arrived expecting a critique of spectacle, I left recognizing the sincerity with which many view the building as a pillar of national pride. It revealed to me that architecture is never neutral it tells a story, but depending on your vantage point, the story can either be one of celebration or critique. The truth, I believe, lies in holding both interpretations at once.
Located in the center of Tiananmen Square, the Chairman Mao Zedong Memorial Hall commands attention not only through its architecture but through the reverence shown by its visitors. Inside, Mao’s embalmed body lies in a crystal coffin, illuminated beneath a red hammer and sickle flag, while visitors move through the hall in hushed procession, often in silent respect.
To many Chinese citizens, especially older generations, the Memorial Hall is a sacred space a place to honor the revolutionary leader who unified China after a century of humiliation, war, and fragmentation. Mao is revered for founding the People’s Republic in 1949, redistributing land, and asserting China’s independence on the global stage. For many, visiting the hall is not just tourism it is a pilgrimage.
Mao’s legacy outside of China and among many inside is far more controversial. His leadership was marked not only by victory, but by tragedy: the Great Leap Forward resulted in famine and millions of deaths; the Cultural Revolution disrupted families, destroyed cultural heritage, and persecuted intellectuals. Critics argue that memorializing Mao in this way elevates a figure whose policies caused immense suffering, and presents an uncritical, one sided narrative of his life and impact.
Anticipated Objection: Some defenders of the Memorial Hall might argue that judging Mao solely by Western standards of governance and human rights overlooks the context of his time. They may claim that without Mao’s leadership, China might have remained fractured or colonized, and that despite his mistakes, his achievements national unification, independence, and the foundation for modernization warrant deep respect. Furthermore, they may see foreign criticism of the memorial as intrusive or patronizing, lacking an understanding of China's historical trauma and collective memory.
Response to Objection: This objection deserves careful consideration. It is true that no historical figure can be fairly judged without context. Mao operated in a time of chaos, and his leadership did indeed bring China into a new era. His symbolic value as a unifier and anti-imperialist remains significant to many people, especially those who lived through the transition. The memorial is not merely about a man, but about a historical turning point. It serves as a physical expression of national memory, pride, and continuity.
However, commemoration and critique are not mutually exclusive. It is possible and perhaps necessary to respect Mao’s role in founding modern China while also recognizing the human cost of his policies. Elevating him to the level of near deification in a permanent, state-sponsored mausoleum risks suppressing debate and sanitizing history. In a society that increasingly looks toward the future, there is value in creating space for nuanced reflection rather than fixed reverence.
Yes and No: Yes, the Memorial Hall holds deep cultural and emotional meaning for many, especially those who benefited from or believe in the revolutionary ideals of Mao’s time. But no, that meaning should not be immune from critical inquiry. Acknowledging Mao’s failures is not an act of disrespect it is an act of historical honesty. Reckoning with the full complexity of his legacy strengthens, rather than undermines, China’s ability to understand itself.
Conclusion: Seeing Mao’s Memorial Hall forced me to see the power of national memory how it’s constructed, preserved, and ritualized. It is both a site of genuine reverence and selective remembrance. Rather than seeing the hall as either a shrine or a whitewash, I now understand it as something more revealing: a mirror reflecting how a nation negotiates its past not just to remember, but to decide what is worth remembering.
Walking through the Meridian Gate of the Forbidden City, I was overwhelmed by the sheer scale, symmetry, and symbolism of the palace complex. Once the imperial seat of power for 24 emperors across the Ming and Qing dynasties, this sprawling city within a city now functions as a museum open to the public, yet haunted by centuries of exclusivity. From the raised stone walkways to the color coded rooftops, every element of the Forbidden City was designed to reinforce hierarchy, ritual, and the divine authority of the emperor.
For many visitors both Chinese and foreign the Forbidden City serves as a majestic symbol of China’s cultural depth and continuity. It embodies architectural mastery, Confucian order, and dynastic tradition. Chinese citizens often see it as a national treasure a reminder of China’s long-standing civilization and cultural sovereignty, surviving centuries of internal strife and foreign invasion. Schoolchildren visit it on field trips; elders stroll its courtyards with quiet reverence. It is a place of identity both personal and collective.
However, this interpretation can overlook some critical tensions.
Anticipated Objection:Some critics argue that the Forbidden City glorifies an authoritarian past. It was, after all, a space of extreme social hierarchy, inaccessibility, and control. The vast courtyards and imposing gates were built not to welcome the people, but to keep them out reinforcing an elite political order where power was centralized and unquestioned. Today, by preserving the Forbidden City in pristine condition and presenting it as a source of pride, the state may risk romanticizing imperialism and dulling awareness of the suffering and inequality that characterized the very system it represents.
Response to Objection: This critique is fair and necessary. The Forbidden City was indeed built on and for power — not democracy, but divine-right monarchy. It was a place of opulence and isolation while much of China lived in hardship. Yet to say that its preservation is an endorsement of feudal rule misses the deeper function of heritage. The Forbidden City does not survive because we approve of emperors, but because we recognize the value of remembering what shaped China — politically, culturally, and spiritually.
Moreover, the meaning of the Forbidden City has changed. What was once a space of exclusion has become one of inclusion. The public, once barred, now explores the throne rooms and gardens freely. That transformation alone is significant. The repurposing of such a symbol reflects China’s capacity to adapt its past to make memory serve modern identity. It is no longer about imperial power, but cultural preservation, tourism, education, and global soft power.
Yes and No: Yes, the Forbidden City was built to project domination and hierarchy, and yes, it’s important not to gloss over that reality. But no, its current role is not a simple glorification of oppression. Rather, it stands as a monument to China’s historical complexity its capacity for dynastic rule, artistic innovation, Confucian ritual, and architectural excellence. The challenge lies not in whether to preserve it, but in how to interpret it with honesty.
Conclusion: The Forbidden City invites more than admiration it demands interpretation. It reminds us that cultural heritage is never neutral. It can reinforce pride and identity, but also conceal uncomfortable truths. As a visitor, I had to ask myself: Am I walking through a museum of beauty or a palace of forgotten power? The answer is both and holding that contradiction may be the most meaningful way to experience it.
Among all the sites we visited in Beijing, the Temple of Heaven was perhaps the most spiritually resonant. Unlike the Forbidden City, a palace of earthly rule, this space was where emperors stepped out of their courtly grandeur and into a cosmic dialogue. Built in the early 15th century during the Ming Dynasty, the Temple of Heaven was where emperors prayed for bountiful harvests and performed rituals to maintain harmony between Heaven and Earth. Every architectural feature the circular altars, square courtyards, numerically significant staircases was designed to reflect the traditional Chinese cosmology of Heaven as round, Earth as square.
To many, this site represents the unity of nature, politics, and spiritual obligation. It illustrates a time when governance was seen not only as administrative duty but as a moral and spiritual performance. The emperor referred to as the "Son of Heaven" was not just a political figure but a bridge between the human world and the divine. The rituals performed here, often in solitude or secrecy, were meant to align the state with the cosmos itself.
As a visitor, I felt the tranquil energy of the space less crowded and militarized than Tiananmen, more open and reflective than the Forbidden City. The symmetry and silence were powerful. The Echo Wall and Circular Mound Altar were not just architectural wonders; they were invitations to meditate on the connection between sound, space, and spirit.
Yet this interpretation can be challenged.
Anticipated Objection: Some may argue that the Temple of Heaven was never truly about cosmic harmony that it was primarily a political performance meant to reinforce imperial authority and divine legitimacy. The rituals, they might say, were carefully orchestrated to create the appearance of piety, while in reality serving to intimidate and impress subjects. Moreover, critics might question whether preserving these imperial rituals in the present contributes to national spiritual awareness or simply perpetuates myths of benevolent autocracy.
Response to Objection: This critique is not without merit. The emperor’s role as intermediary between Heaven and Earth certainly reinforced his unchallengeable status. These rites could be interpreted as top-down religious theater, inaccessible to common people and used to solidify a rigid Confucian hierarchy. From this angle, the Temple of Heaven was less about Heaven’s will and more about power on Earth.
However, even if the rituals served political ends, their symbolism remains profound. Ancient Chinese thought did not separate governance from cosmology, and in that worldview, the emperor’s obligation to seek Heaven’s favor was not optional it was central to his legitimacy. The architectural beauty and cosmological design of the Temple invite modern viewers to reflect on a worldview where rulers were accountable not just to their people, but to the universe itself.
Even today, the Temple of Heaven functions as a spiritual and social space. Locals gather to sing, dance, and do tai chi in its open parks. In this new, secular context, the site has transitioned from exclusive ritual to communal life, allowing modern citizens to reclaim the space in peaceful, personal ways.
Yes and No: Yes, the Temple of Heaven’s original purpose was bound to political power and ritual performance. And yes, it can be critiqued as a structure that visually and spiritually reinforced imperial dominance. But no, this does not strip it of its contemporary or symbolic value. Today, it invites reflection on balance, tradition, and the human desire to connect with something greater whether we call it Heaven, cosmos, or community.
Conclusion: The Temple of Heaven is more than a relic of dynastic ritual it is a metaphor for harmony, whether between ruler and ruled, Earth and sky, or past and present. Visiting it reminded me that in Chinese tradition, power was meant to be cosmic, not just bureaucratic. Whether or not that ideal was fulfilled, the aspiration itself remains beautiful and worth remembering.
The Summer Palace, with its vast lake, winding bridges, ornate pavilions, and tree lined walkways, seems like a paradise designed for peace and reflection. Built in the 18th century and expanded under the Empress Dowager Cixi in the late Qing Dynasty, it served as a seasonal retreat for emperors seeking relief from Beijing’s heat. Its Chinese name, 颐和园 (Yiheyuan), translates to "Garden of Nurtured Harmony" a fitting title for a place where nature and architecture appear to coexist in tranquil balance.
During my visit, I was struck by the careful design: the Hall of Benevolence and Longevity, the Long Corridor painted with mythological scenes, and the stunning view from Longevity Hill over Kunming Lake. Unlike the rigid order of the Forbidden City, the Summer Palace felt freer, more contemplative as though it was not only an imperial residence but a philosophical statement about the relationship between ruler, nature, and cosmos. Rooted in Daoist and Confucian aesthetics, the palace expresses the idea that good governance requires inner balance and harmony with the natural world.
Anticipated Objection: Some critics might argue that the Summer Palace, far from representing harmony, actually reflects imperial decadence and corruption. Empress Dowager Cixi famously diverted naval funds to rebuild and expand the palace after the destruction caused by Anglo French troops in 1860. The so called “Marble Boat” a stone structure shaped like a paddle steamer has become a symbol of vanity and mismanagement, as China’s navy languished in weakness while the elite retreated to pleasure gardens. From this view, the Summer Palace is less a cultural treasure and more a cautionary tale of misplaced priorities in a declining dynasty.
Response to Objection: This objection highlights real historical contradictions. The late Qing period was marked by internal strife, foreign pressure, and elite isolation and the Summer Palace did serve as a physical retreat from mounting crises. The Marble Boat especially deserves critique, not just for its cost, but for what it represents: the illusion of stability amidst collapse.
However, that does not negate the Summer Palace’s cultural and artistic value. To reduce it solely to an example of corruption ignores the profound tradition of scholarly gardens, where rulers and intellectuals sought harmony between civilization and nature. Its design reflects a centuries old aesthetic philosophy, not just political power. Furthermore, today, the Summer Palace is not a royal playground it is a public park, a space reclaimed by the people.
Thousands of locals and tourists now walk its paths, take boats on Kunming Lake, and rest beneath its willow trees. It has become a site of collective memory and shared beauty, not just elite privilege.
Yes and No: Yes, the Summer Palace was built and rebuilt in part through misused state funds and imperial excess. And yes, it can be interpreted as an emblem of the Qing Dynasty’s decline. But no, that is not all it is. It also remains a masterpiece of landscape architecture, a representation of ideals that go beyond politics ideals of balance, contemplation, and the emotional nourishment that comes from being close to nature.
Conclusion: The Summer Palace left me with a complex impression. It is beautiful, yes but also burdened by history. It invites admiration and critique in equal measure. But perhaps this is its greatest value: it reflects the paradox of power the desire to build timeless beauty even as time and politics unravel. In that sense, it is not only a historical monument but a mirror of China’s own enduring struggle between legacy and change.
The Great Wall of China stretches across mountains, deserts, and plains a colossal feat of engineering that has captured the world’s imagination for centuries. Visiting the Badaling section, I was immediately struck by its sheer scale and imposing presence. The steep, winding paths designed to slow down invaders were exhausting even to climb as a tourist. But standing on the wall, with the wind brushing past ancient watchtowers, I could feel the echo of centuries of vigilance, labor, and conflict.
To many Chinese citizens, the Great Wall is a source of immense national pride a symbol of perseverance, cultural unity, and defense against chaos. Built over multiple dynasties, especially during the Qin and Ming periods, it represents the ambition to protect a civilization that considered itself the “Middle Kingdom.” The Wall is often described in modern China as a metaphor for resilience: “不到长城非好汉” — He who has not climbed the Great Wall is not a true hero.
But this symbolism deserves deeper scrutiny.
Anticipated Objection: Some historians and critics argue that the Great Wall should not be romanticized. It was not only a defense structure it was also a tool of fear, control, and forced labor. Hundreds of thousands of conscripts, including peasants and prisoners, suffered and died building it. Its function was not just to keep enemies out, but also to mark the limits of state control and monitor border populations. Rather than a triumphant symbol of unity, it could be seen as a desperate attempt to seal off a fragile empire from the outside world.
Response to Objection: This objection is historically accurate and ethically important. The Wall was not built out of pure confidence, but from anxiety about raids, rebellions, and cultural dilution. It often failed in its military function and was, at times, abandoned or circumvented. The glorified narrative omits the suffering of those who built it and the political paranoia that underpinned its construction.
But while we must resist one-dimensional glorification, we should also avoid dismissing its cultural meaning. Over centuries, the Great Wall has evolved from a military barrier into a cultural symbol, reinterpreted by each generation. In literature, art, and film, it stands not only for isolation, but for endurance a tangible link to a past that has survived dynasties, wars, and revolutions. Its presence in the modern Chinese imagination is less about exclusion and more about identity a reminder of what it means to persist, to endure, and to define one's place in the world.
Yes and No: Yes, the Great Wall was built through suffering and often driven by fear. And yes, it has been used to promote a nationalistic narrative that sometimes glosses over its darker history. But no, that does not strip it of all value. The Wall is meaningful not just because of what it once did, but because of what it now represents a living monument to a complex civilization, as admired by hikers as by historians.
Conclusion: Climbing the Great Wall challenged both my body and my assumptions. It made me think not only of ancient soldiers and emperors, but of peasants, architects, enemies, and tourists all of whom have shaped its meaning across time. It is not simply a wall. It is a boundary, a stage, a story one that reveals as much about how China sees itself today as it does about the past. In embracing both pride and pain, the Wall teaches us that history is always built from contradictions, brick by brick.
When our group finally sat down to try Peking Duck, it felt like more than just a meal it was a ceremony. The chef brought out the roasted bird on a rolling cart, its lacquered skin glistening under the lights. With skillful precision, he carved the duck table side: first the crispy skin, then slices of meat with just enough fat. We each wrapped it in a thin pancake with scallions, cucumber, and sweet bean sauce. One bite and it was clear this dish wasn’t just about flavor. It was about legacy.
Peking Duck has been a symbol of Chinese culinary refinement for centuries. It originated in the imperial kitchens of the Yuan and Ming dynasties, where it was reserved for elite banquets and emperors’ tables. As we learned in our readings, food in imperial China was never just sustenance it was a reflection of power, balance, and cosmology. The duck itself was seen as an auspicious animal, and the slow roasting over fruitwood fire was both technique and ritual.
Historical and Cultural Linkages Peking Duck links directly to other historical experiences from our trip, especially the Forbidden City. The dish that once fed emperors is now served to tourists, business people, and locals alike yet its presentation, etiquette, and aesthetic remain deeply tied to the idea of imperial taste. Like the Forbidden City, Peking Duck has moved from exclusivity to mass access yet it retains its aura of formality, precision, and sophistication.
There’s also a link to philosophical values: the duck’s preparation process requires patience, precision, and balance, echoing the Confucian and Daoist ideals we encountered in our studies. The contrast between crispy skin and tender meat rich and restrained, indulgent but controlled mirrors the yin-yang dualities that shape so much of traditional Chinese thought.
Anticipated Objection: Some might argue that Peking Duck today has become commercialized and inauthentic. In Beijing, it’s often served in glossy chain restaurants, and versions outside China simplify or modify the recipe entirely. Critics might say that modern Peking Duck no longer honors its historical roots that it’s now more about tourist spectacle than cultural tradition.
Response to Objection: That concern is understandable but the evolution of a dish doesn’t erase its significance. In fact, the survival of Peking Duck across centuries of political change, dynastic collapse, colonization, revolution, and modernization is remarkable. Its adaptability is part of its authenticity.
Yes, restaurants may modernize the dish or simplify its ritual. But this flexibility allows it to remain relevant in different contexts. Just as Tiananmen Square reinterprets imperial space as a people’s plaza, and Zhouzhuang Water Town presents heritage in curated form, Peking Duck functions as a living symbol of continuity not because it stays the same, but because it continues to carry cultural meaning even as it changes.
Yes and No: Yes, Peking Duck has become more accessible and sometimes commercialized. And yes, its original ceremonial context has evolved. But no, that doesn’t diminish its value. It still reflects a deep culinary philosophy and a national memory. In every slice, there’s a hint of the imperial court but also of Beijing alleyways, family dinners, and cultural pride.
Conclusion: Eating Peking Duck in Beijing helped me understand that food can be a form of historical storytelling a performance of tradition that is both edible and symbolic. It reminded me that history doesn’t only live in books or buildings it can live in flavor, texture, and ritual. Like so much of what we saw in China, it’s not just about preservation it’s about transformation with care. And in that sense, Peking Duck is still very much a dish fit for an empire but now, one shared with the world.
In a quiet theater tucked behind modern shops, I watched shadow puppets flicker to life on a backlit screen flat, colorful figures dancing to the twang of string instruments and the crisp voices of unseen performers. For a moment, I forgot I was watching sheets of leather. The puppets fought, laughed, wept, and told ancient stories that felt strangely immediate. I had seen images of Chinese shadow plays before in textbooks or short clips but watching them live made me realize their true power. It wasn’t just about movement. It was about storytelling in silhouette, where light and shadow carried culture forward across time.
Shadow puppetry, or 皮影戏 (pí yǐng xì), dates back over a thousand years and flourished during the Tang and Song dynasties. As we learned in class, these performances weren’t just entertainment they were vehicles for preserving history, transmitting values, and shaping collective identity. Whether telling tales of generals and emperors or folk stories about ordinary people, the puppets served as both mirror and myth. Their performances merged Confucian ethics, Daoist mysticism, and Buddhist themes into moving, visual parables.
Historical and Cultural Linkages Shadow puppetry links naturally to other forms of cultural and spatial storytelling we explored especially the Forbidden City, Temple of Heaven, and Zhouzhuang Water Town. Just as those sites use physical space to express order, harmony, and identity, shadow theater uses flatness, movement, and light to animate values.
But unlike a palace or a monument, shadow puppetry is portable, flexible, and ephemeral. It can be performed in a village square, a family courtyard, or a modern cultural center. Its accessibility made it the people's medium, not the emperor’s a folk form of education and entertainment that adapted across dynasties, regions, and audiences.
And yet, shadow puppetry too must perform survival in the modern world.
Anticipated Objection: One might argue that shadow puppetry today is mostly a tourist performance preserved more out of cultural obligation than genuine relevance. With smartphones, animation, and high-budget entertainment dominating Chinese and global youth culture, the traditional puppet show might seem like a quaint relic one that’s charming but no longer essential.
Response to Objection: Yes, it’s true that shadow puppetry has declined in everyday popularity. In many places, it is maintained by government grants or revived for cultural festivals. But dismissing it as “just for tourists” overlooks its deeper role in China’s intangible heritage.
Shadow puppetry is not just about nostalgia it is about adaptation. In recent decades, some troupes have incorporated modern narratives, social commentary, and even digital light sources into their shows. Young performers are being trained not just to replicate old stories but to reinterpret them. Just as the Forbidden City has become a public museum, and Zhouzhuang has become a performance of place, shadow puppetry survives by reframing its function: from communal ritual to cultural dialogue.
Yes and No: Yes, shadow puppetry’s traditional form may feel distant to modern sensibilities. And yes, it is often curated as part of “heritage tourism.” But no, that does not render it meaningless. It remains a storytelling tradition of profound depth, shaped by centuries of philosophy, history, and craft. Its shadows may be thin, but the stories they cast are layered and lasting.
Conclusion: Watching a shadow play in China reminded me that cultural memory does not always live in palaces or monuments sometimes, it flickers on fabric, moves with a stick, and speaks in dialect. Shadow puppetry bridges past and present not by staying the same, but by evolving with each generation of hands behind the screen. In an age of HD screens and digital drama, these shadows still speak, asking us to listen not just with our eyes, but with our shared imagination.
Among the many sounds I encountered in China street vendors, opera shows, tourist chatter one of the quietest was also the most powerful: the sound of the guqin (古琴). This seven-string zither, long revered in Chinese tradition, is not simply an instrument but a vessel of philosophy. Its sound is subtle, often barely audible in noisy environments. Yet that is part of its message: in an age of noise, the guqin teaches us to listen differently with attention, patience, and humility.
The guqin dates back over 3,000 years and was played by scholars, monks, and literati, including Confucius himself. In our readings, it appeared not as an instrument for entertainment but as a tool of moral cultivation and self-reflection. The guqin was one of the four arts of the Chinese gentleman (琴棋书画 — qin, chess, calligraphy, painting), representing the Confucian ideal of internal harmony and Daoist principles of effortless action.
Seeing and hearing it in person, I began to understand why it has such symbolic weight. Unlike louder, more dramatic instruments, the guqin is played softly and slowly. Its tones fade into silence, emphasizing what is not played as much as what is. In a way, the guqin embodies the Dao itself elusive, indirect, profound. Each note is a whisper between this world and something beyond it.
Historical and Cultural Linkages The guqin connects deeply to the kind of historical consciousness we saw in sites like the Temple of Heaven and the Summer Palace places designed not just for action, but for contemplation. In the same way those sites reflect China's cosmic and ethical worldviews through architecture, the guqin reflects them through sound.
Even the physical design of the guqin is symbolic: its length represents the year’s cycle, its surface the heavens, its base the earth. Tuning the guqin was once seen as aligning oneself with the harmony of the universe, not just making music. Its strings resonate with the same intellectual traditions that shaped imperial rites, poetic landscapes, and the scholar's life.
Anticipated Objection: Some might argue that the guqin no longer speaks to modern audiences. It's too quiet, too slow, too subtle. In a digital age driven by spectacle and instant gratification, the guqin risks becoming a museum piece admired but disconnected, preserved but no longer living.
Response to Objection: A fair concern. The guqin is not popular in the way that modern instruments are, and it’s rarely heard outside academic or elite circles. But that may be its strength. The guqin resists mass consumption. It invites a different kind of attention not passive listening, but active engagement with silence, slowness, and subtlety. Its survival today, despite trends, proves its resonance beyond trend. In fact, the very qualities that make it “unfashionable” are what make it urgent in our distracted world.
More young people in China today are rediscovering the guqin as a way to connect with heritage, mindfulness, and intellectual identity. Like the Forbidden City or Zhouzhuang Water Town, the guqin is not static it is being reinterpreted, performed, and shared in modern contexts, including film, contemporary composition, and cross-cultural collaborations.
Yes and No: Yes, the guqin is quiet, traditional, and unfamiliar to many modern ears. And yes, it may never be “popular” in the Western sense. But no, that doesn’t mean it’s irrelevant. It offers something few other instruments do: a space for reflection, not reaction. It brings history to life not by repeating it, but by slowing us down enough to hear ourselves within it.
Conclusion: The guqin is not just an instrument it is a philosophy in sound. It echoes the values I saw across Chinese sites: harmony with nature, reverence for the past, and the pursuit of inner balance. Whether played in a scholar’s studio or heard faintly in a modern concert hall, the guqin reminds us that the most enduring wisdom often arrives not with volume, but with depth. And like China itself layered, ancient, evolving the guqin continues to ask us: Are you really listening?
The Terracotta Army, unearthed in Xi’an and built to accompany China’s first emperor Qin Shi Huang into the afterlife, is widely celebrated as a marvel of ancient craftsmanship and political symbolism. It is often interpreted as a powerful testament to imperial authority, showcasing the Emperor's far-reaching control, wealth, and belief in an afterlife that mirrored his earthly empire. However, some critics argue that glorifying the Terracotta Soldiers risks overlooking the immense human cost of their creation. These life-sized figures estimated to number over 8,000 were crafted by thousands of laborers, many of whom were likely conscripted or enslaved, working under brutal conditions. From this perspective, the Terracotta Army is not merely a symbol of grandeur but also of tyranny and human exploitation. Such objections compel us to reexamine the legacy of Qin Shi Huang: Was he a visionary unifier of China or a ruthless despot obsessed with immortality?
To a degree, this criticism holds weight. Acknowledging the labor and suffering behind the sculptures complicates the common narrative of awe and admiration. Yes, the creation of the Terracotta Army likely involved systemic oppression, and such truths must not be sanitized. But rather than negating the Army’s historical significance, this perspective enriches it. It reveals the dual nature of ancient imperial ambition capable of producing astonishing artistic achievements, yet inseparable from the suffering that made them possible. In this way, the Terracotta Army becomes a site of moral reflection as much as archaeological wonder, reminding us that monuments are not only celebrations of power but also artifacts of human cost.
By engaging these opposing views seriously and respectfully, we enter into a broader conversation about how we remember empire, labor, and legacy. We are not just admiring clay warriors; we are interrogating the forces that shaped them. Recognizing these tensions does not diminish the Terracotta Army’s cultural importance it deepens our understanding of it and of the imperial world it represents.
As I walked the stone paths of Zhouzhuang Water Town, with its still green canals, hanging red lanterns, and the soft scent of flowers drifting from overhanging balconies, it felt like I had stepped out of modern time and into a living painting. Small bridges arched over narrow waterways, while boatmen in wide brimmed hats pushed their vessels quietly along the current. The scene was so serene almost too perfect, like a memory carefully preserved in glass.
Zhouzhuang is often called the “Venice of the East”, but this comparison doesn't fully capture its character. Unlike the marble grandeur of Venice, Zhouzhuang’s beauty lies in its simplicity and weathered texture: whitewashed walls, black-tiled roofs, stone bridges smoothed by centuries of footsteps. First settled nearly a thousand years ago, this town represents a rare and intimate glimpse into China’s Jiangnan water town culture a culture shaped by its proximity to rivers, trade, and local craftsmanship.
At first, I was enchanted. The preservation of Ming and Qing architecture, the soft rustle of willow trees by the canal, the vendors selling sesame pastries and handmade crafts it felt like tradition had survived untouched.
But then I began to wonder: Was this authenticity or a curated experience?
Anticipated Objection: Some critics argue that water towns like Zhouzhuang are no longer “authentic” that they have become museumized villages, redesigned to satisfy tourists’ nostalgia for “old China.” Local life, they argue, is displaced by shops selling souvenirs. Quiet temples become backdrops for Instagram photos. In short, the town might be preserved not for the sake of tradition, but for performance its ancient identity commodified into aesthetic packaging.
Response to Objection: This concern is not baseless. In fact, Zhouzhuang has undergone intense development since the 1980s, when it was promoted by the Chinese government as a cultural tourism destination. Many buildings have been renovated or reconstructed, and entry fees, guided tours, and souvenir shops are part of the town's modern economy. The commodification of heritage is real.
But does that invalidate its cultural value? Not necessarily. Zhouzhuang remains an important site of living memory and cultural education. While tourism may shape how it looks today, it still tells a genuine story about how people once lived by the water, built community around narrow alleys and bridges, and shaped an architectural style that emphasized balance, harmony, and human scale. Even if some aspects are staged, the emotional and aesthetic impact of the town is real. And importantly, locals still live and work here. It is not just a theme park it is a place of overlapping layers: history, economy, daily life, and nostalgia.
Yes and No: Yes, Zhouzhuang has been commercialized in ways that can make its authenticity feel questionable. And yes, it’s important to be critical of how heritage is packaged and sold. But no, that doesn’t mean it lacks meaning. It remains a rare and valuable example of traditional water-town culture, one that gives both domestic and foreign visitors an opportunity to experience however partially the spatial poetry of China's historical south.
Conclusion: Zhouzhuang Water Town challenged me to think beyond surface beauty. It reminded me that cultural preservation is never simple: it involves trade-offs between memory and modernization, tourism and truth. Yet in a world where so much is erased by development, the very effort to preserve spaces like Zhouzhuang is powerful. It teaches us that tradition is not static it can be curated, adapted, even commercialized, yet still carry echoes of meaning, identity, and continuity.
Historical and Cultural Linkages -We read about China’s transitions from agrarian life to urban industrialization and how these changes disrupted both cultural memory and physical space. Zhouzhuang, in that context, has been preserved or some might say curated to resist that erasure. Its preservation appears to protect “traditional” China from being swallowed by modernity.But Zhouzhuang isn’t frozen in time. It's carefully managed and presented. The souvenir shops, themed boat rides, staged folk performances these aren’t ancient rituals, they’re modern interpretations. In this way, Zhouzhuang raises the same cultural question Tiananmen Square and the Forbidden City do: Who controls the story of China’s past? And for what purpose? Just as the Forbidden City retells imperial order through symmetrical architecture, and Tiananmen Square reimagines socialist unity through monumental space, Zhouzhuang retells village life as nostalgia a picturesque antidote to urban chaos. But all three are performances of history, shaped by what the present wants to remember.
Walking into Suzhou Center Mall felt like entering another world one filled with flashing LED screens, luxury storefronts, indoor waterfalls, and mirrored ceilings. The mall was immense, sleek, and futuristic, yet it stood just minutes from classical gardens and stone-paved streets. Inside, I saw young people sipping boba tea, influencers posing in front of high-end fashion displays, and families enjoying elaborate food courts. It was loud, bright, and bustling a temple of modern consumerism.
This was a sharp contrast to the Zhouzhuang Water Town we visited earlier. There, tradition was carefully preserved, and the pace was slow and nostalgic. But Suzhou Center Mall represented a different side of China: ambitious, hyper modern, globally connected. Here, tradition wasn’t on display speed, spectacle, and spending were.
Historical and Cultural Linkages Despite the contrast, Suzhou Center Mall is not separate from the cultural themes we studied it is a continuation of them in a new form. In traditional Chinese philosophy, especially in Confucian and Daoist texts, the idea of balance is central between heaven and earth, old and new, stillness and motion. Suzhou itself is a city famous for this tension: its classical gardens are World Heritage Sites, while its skyline now rivals any global metropolis.
The mall can be read as a mirror image of the Forbidden City. Both are sprawling complexes that organize space around ritual, hierarchy, and flow. In the Forbidden City, movement was structured to reflect political order; in Suzhou Center Mall, movement is structured to maximize attention and consumption. Both are performances of ideology one imperial, one capitalist. Like Tiananmen Square, Suzhou Center Mall stages a narrative of national progress not through revolutionary symbolism, but through brand names, architecture, and affluence. It suggests a China that is not just rising, but shining.
Moreover, many Chinese malls now include art galleries, libraries, fitness studios, and public gardens transforming them into hybrid civic spaces. They're not just commercial centers they are new cultural arenas where youth culture, digital media, and lifestyle aesthetics all converge.
Conclusion: Visiting Suzhou Center Mall reminded me that cultural storytelling doesn’t just happen in museums or historical sites it happens in malls, advertisements, and consumer rituals. In its glass walls and neon lights, I saw a vision of China that is ambitious, future facing, and unapologetically modern. But I also saw echoes of the past in the structure, the flow, the desire to impress, and the pursuit of harmony through spectacle. Like a digital Forbidden City, Suzhou Center Mall tells us where China is going and what it wants the world to see when it gets there.
The Oriental Pearl Tower is deeply tied to universal cultural themes, especially the relationship between architecture and identity. In our readings, we discussed how cities use architecture to perform narratives about who they are. Just like the Forbidden City once conveyed divine authority and ritual control, the Oriental Pearl Tower projects progress, innovation, and cultural pride.
Its presence in movies, commercials, video games, and social media posts reveals its role as a pop culture symbol one that bridges generations. For many young Chinese citizens, the tower is as much a selfie spot as a civic icon. It has become a stage for spectacle with glass skywalks, LED light shows, and panoramic elevators and in doing so, it reflects the global trend of turning architecture into experience based entertainment.
But even within this spectacle lies deeper meaning. Its design spheres connected by columns is said to resemble pearls falling onto a jade plate, a poetic image drawn from a Tang dynasty verse. This is more than decoration it’s a form of cultural memory embedded in modern form. The tower doesn’t erase China’s poetic past; it reinterprets it through steel and glass.
Philosophical and Sociocultural Analysis Viewed through a sociological lens, the Oriental Pearl Tower embodies China’s post 1990s transformation. As Pudong changed from farmland into a gleaming financial district, the tower became both symbol and agent of this change. It was built not just for television signals but as a signpost for global investors, tourists, and citizens.
From a philosophical perspective, it reflects a kind of techno optimism a belief in verticality, connectivity, and progress. Yet the tower’s interior with its retro futurist design and rotating restaurant also reveals a tension: a vision of the future that still looks a lot like the 1990s. This raises a subtle question: Is the future we're climbing toward truly new, or are we still dreaming old dreams in new forms?
The Oriental Pearl Tower is bold, flashy, and promotional. And yes, it might lack the meditative elegance of a garden in Suzhou or the weight of imperial stone. But no, that does not mean it’s culturally shallow. It’s a landmark of transition, built at a moment when China was shifting gears socially, economically, visually. In its form, we see both the echo of classical poetry and the ambition of a digital future.
Conclusion: Visiting the Oriental Pearl Tower made me realize that modern monuments carry new meanings meanings shaped by spectacle, media, and aspiration. It reminded me that the future is not always subtle. Sometimes, it flashes in neon. Sometimes, it floats in spheres. And sometimes, it looks exactly like what it is: a nation reaching upward, with one foot in memory and the other in possibility.
As our boat glided down the Huangpu River, the city seemed to split in two on one side, the futuristic skyline of Pudong, shimmering with LED lit towers and glass ambition; on the other, the historic Bund, lined with early 20th-century colonial architecture, neoclassical banks, and art deco hotels. It was like watching two different eras in conversation and I was floating between them.
The Huangpu River Cruise was more than just a scenic ride; it was a moving metaphor for Shanghai’s identity crisis or perhaps, its genius. Nowhere else on our trip did the contrast between past and future, East and West, restraint and exuberance feel so stark, and yet, so cohesive. It was as if Shanghai had accepted contradiction as its defining trait and the river was its silent witness.
Universal Concepts: Urban Identity, Time, and the Spectacle of the City Cities around the world grow alongside rivers. London has the Thames, Paris has the Seine, Cairo the Nile. But few urban waterways feel as politically and symbolically loaded as the Huangpu. It has been a site of trade, colonization, revolution, and reinvention. Our cruise moved not just through geography, but through historical layers a visual archive of ideologies in steel and stone.
What struck me most was how the city performs itself through architecture. This performance isn’t limited to tourists; it’s part of everyday life. The Bund, once dominated by foreign banks and consulates, now glows as a reclaimed promenade a monument to Shanghai’s cosmopolitan legacy and its resistance to erasure. Across the river, Pudong’s skyscrapers, including the Oriental Pearl Tower and Shanghai Tower, don’t just reach skyward they project the future outward. Together, they create a kind of urban theater, where the city’s past and its imagined tomorrow are always on display.
Sociological and Philosophical Reflections From a sociological standpoint, the river divides more than architecture it marks contrasts in class, ideology, and aspiration. The Bund represents the older elite and international influences, while Pudong, developed aggressively in the 1990s, stands for the emerging Chinese middle class, government planning, and global competition.
From a philosophical lens, particularly Daoist thought, the river itself is a symbol of change, balance, and harmony through motion. The Huangpu doesn’t resist the city’s chaos it flows with it, carrying history and ambition side by side. There’s a lesson here about how a nation or culture can embrace contradiction without collapsing by allowing old and new to coexist without dissolving into one another.
Moreover, behind the polished image lies real transformation. Shanghai’s skyline has exploded in just three decades. The river isn’t just for show it’s a working artery, vital for trade and transit. So even while you’re watching the lights, you’re also witnessing the infrastructure of China’s rise.
Conclusion: The Huangpu River Cruise offered more than postcard views it provided a lens into how China sees itself, and how it wants to be seen. It reminded me that identity, like a river, is never fixed. It flows. It carries time. And it reflects both the sky above and the depths below. On that night, gliding between two skylines, I didn’t just see Shanghai. I saw a nation in motion navigating memory, ambition, and the space in between.
As I stepped into the Shanghai Tower, I didn’t just enter the world’s third tallest building I stepped into a vision of the future. Its twisting, spiraling form pulled my gaze upward, but also inward into a reflection on what human architecture now aspires to represent. This was more than a skyscraper; it was a philosophy made visible, built of glass, steel, wind, and imagination.
Reaching 632 meters into the sky, the Shanghai Tower is a monument to engineering achievement, eco conscious design, and national ambition. From the high-speed double-deck elevator ride to the panoramic views of the Huangpu River and the neighboring Oriental Pearl Tower, every detail of this building felt intentional. Not just to impress but to communicate an identity: China is not only rising it is rethinking how the world should rise.
Universal Concepts: Ambition, Verticality, and Sustainable Urbanism Throughout human history, vertical structures have reflected collective aspiration. The ziggurats of Mesopotamia, the cathedrals of Europe, the pagodas of Asia all point skyward, not just to reach the gods, but to mirror the values of their age. The Shanghai Tower stands firmly in that tradition, but it reinterprets the vertical not as dominance, but as integration.
Its design, a 120° twisting spiral minimizes wind resistance, reduces structural strain, and channels airflow. The building includes wind turbines, rainwater recycling, and double skin façades that regulate temperature. It is a physical manifestation of a new ethic: that height doesn’t have to come at the cost of harmony.
In this way, the Shanghai Tower reflects a growing global movement toward sustainable urbanism, aligning with values we’ve seen expressed in both Confucian balance and Daoist flow design principles that emphasize working with natural forces rather than against them. The building doesn’t conquer the sky; it flows into it.
Comparative Reflection: Towers as Global Language What makes the Shanghai Tower especially significant is how it joins a global conversation through architecture. Just as the Eiffel Tower became a symbol of France’s industrial modernity, or the Burj Khalifa became a symbol of Dubai’s economic surge, the Shanghai Tower is a statement: China is not just participating in the global era it is reshaping it.
But unlike many towers that project luxury or extravagance, the Shanghai Tower projects fluidity, adaptability, and sustainability. Its soft spiral contrasts sharply with the sharp, rigid outlines of many Western towers. It doesn’t scream for attention it draws it through elegance and intention.
In this way, it reflects a broader cultural shift in China: from imitation to innovation. Where once China was seen as copying the West, now it is setting the pace not only in economics and technology but in design philosophy. The tower becomes more than a landmark it becomes a symbol of cultural confidence.
Conclusion: The Shanghai Tower taught me that architecture isn’t just about what a society can build it’s about what it chooses to build, and why. It reflects a nation’s priorities, personality, and possibility. In the tower’s elegant spiral, I saw the intertwining of tradition and futurism, of nature and technology, of China and the world. It’s not just a vertical marvel it’s a vertical mindset, reminding us that the future, like the sky, is only out of reach if we stop reaching.
This picture here I took while I was riding ima rental bike across the river bank. I did about 3 miles and the whole bike ride it was absolutely gorgeous. I loved Shanghai a lot it was my favorite city. I loved all of China and its history. There’s still so much more to China to discover and I definitely will come back here in the near future. A personal thanks to our professors for organizing this trips. Until next time!