A light history story

Wednesday, November 19, 2025

The Bronze Age Just Got 500 Years Older?

Did the 10th-Century BCE Bronze Age Theory Really Collapse?

How Namgang, Gangneung and Sokcho Are Rewriting Korea’s Prehistory

“The Bronze Age on the Korean Peninsula begins around the 10th century BCE.”

You’ll still find that line in plenty of textbooks and introductory histories.
It’s basically the opening sentence of “official” Korean history.

But since the 2000s, radiocarbon (C-14) dates from sites in the Namgang Dam reservoir, along the Gangwon East Coast, and around Honam/Yeongnam have started to shake that orthodoxy.

Some settlements now date back to the 15th century BCE.
Dolmens containing bronze axes and bipa-shaped bronze daggers are consistently falling in the 10th century BCE—or even earlier.

So what do we do with a timeline like that?

This article is not a “who wins, North vs South academia” match report.
Instead, it’s a humanities-style field note on three questions:

How did the “10th century BCE” Bronze Age orthodox view emerge in the first place?
What exactly are these new C-14 dates telling us?
Where is a reasonable middle ground in current scholarship?

1. How Did the Textbook “10th-Century BCE Bronze Age” Come to Be?

Let’s start with the orthodox position.

The Encyclopedia of Korean Culture (published by the Academy of Korean Studies) defines the Bronze Age in South Korea roughly like this:

“A period centered on the early 1st millennium BCE, during which plain pottery (Mumun pottery) was in full use, bronze artifacts were produced and used, and dolmens were constructed in large numbers.”

In other words, three key markers:

Full-scale use of Mumun (plain) pottery,
Bronze tools and weapons such as axes, daggers and spearheads,
Dolmens and other large burial monuments.

The moment these three elements appear together in a stable, systematic way across much of the peninsula
was rounded off as “around the 10th century BCE.”

Why that date?

Up until the 1960s–80s, there was very little in the way of absolute dating.
Archaeologists mostly relied on:
- Pottery and weapon typology,
- Stratigraphy (which layer lies above which),
- And relative comparison with northeast China and Liaodong.

With so much uncertainty, the general mood was:

“Let’s err on the conservative side, not drag things too far back.”

That’s how the start of the Bronze Age in the central and southern peninsula ended up as the nice round number:

“roughly the 10th century BCE.”

2. The Surprise Numbers from Namgang, Gangneung and Sokcho

2-1. Namgang Dam reservoir: house floors pointing to the 16th–14th centuries BCE

In the 2000s, large-scale excavations around the Namgang Dam in Jinju, Gyeongsangnam-do began to shift the mood.

At sites like Okbang and Daepyeong, archaeologists uncovered very large dwelling sites—some with sides over 15 meters long.
Charcoal from the house floors was sent for radiocarbon dating.

The results?

ca. 1590–1310 BCE
ca. 1620–1400 BCE

Originally, the excavation team had thought these houses were maybe 5th–4th century BCE.
The radiocarbon dates pulled them back by almost a thousand years.

Other sites in the same reservoir area repeatedly yielded dates in the 14th–11th centuries BCE.

Taken together, these results strongly suggest that in the Namgang basin,
a Mumun pottery + early bronze + dolmen(-like) cultural package was already present
by around the 14th–12th centuries BCE.

2-2. Gangwon & Honam: older lights along the East Coast

Similar signals show up on the Gangwon East Coast and in Honam.

Bronze Age settlement sites at Gyodong and Bangnae-ri in Gangneung:

return radiocarbon dates in the 19th–15th centuries BCE,
and even under cautious interpretation, most scholars now place them around the 15th century BCE.

In Juknae-ri, Suncheon (Jeollanam-do), a Bronze Age dwelling has yielded C-14 dates in the 16th–15th centuries BCE in overseas lab analyses.

Put simply, along a belt running:

Gangwon East Coast → Namgang region in Gyeongnam → eastern Jeonnam,

there is now a high probability that:

Mumun pottery,
simple early bronzes,
and the earliest dolmen-style mortuary practices

were already present by the 15th century BCE.

2-3. A bronze axe from Sokcho: evidence of “already mastered” technology

The Joyang-dong site in Sokcho is one of the rare South Korean sites where a bronze axe has been found in a clear context.

Radiocarbon dating at the site places the relevant layer before the 9th century BCE,
i.e. roughly 3,000 years ago.

The important point here is the quality of the artifact.

The Joyang-dong axe is not a crude, experimental piece.
It shows refined casting technique—it’s closer to a “mature type” of bronze artifact.

If a bronze like that already exists by the 10th–9th centuries BCE,
then more primitive early bronzes almost certainly existed earlier—
very likely before the 10th century BCE.

In the same vein:

Bipa-shaped bronze daggers and bronze axes from Birae-dong in Daejeon,
found in dolmen contexts,
are now being dated to roughly the 10th–9th centuries BCE.

Putting this all together:

Settlement layers at Namgang, Gangneung, Suncheon → 15th century BCE,
Dolmens and bronze weaponry at Joyang-dong, Birae-dong → around the 10th–9th centuries BCE,

we get a picture where:

“A fairly advanced Bronze Age culture already existed considerably earlier than once thought.”

3. So Do We Now Just Declare a “15th-Century BCE Bronze Age”?

Here comes the key question:

“So should we simply rewrite the textbooks to:
‘The Korean Bronze Age begins in the 15th century BCE’?”

Most specialists would currently answer:

“Not yet.”

Roughly for three reasons.

3-1. Radiocarbon dates are ranges, not pinpoint years

C-14 dating produces results like:

“1620–1400 BCE (95% confidence interval)”

It’s not saying:

“This house was built exactly in 1620 BCE,”

but rather:

“There is a 95% probability that it dates somewhere within this band.”

So you can’t take a handful of early dates and immediately proclaim:

“The entire Korean Peninsula’s Bronze Age starts in the 16th century BCE.”

The data simply aren’t that neat.

3-2. Different regions, different speeds

Resources like Our History Net (우리역사넷) summarize the Bronze Age of Liaodong, Liaoxi and Manchuria as:

largely emerging around the 13th century BCE,
and, after calibration, potentially traceable back to the 15th century BCE in some areas.

For the Korean Peninsula, it’s becoming likely that:

Northern regions / parts of the East Coast were early adopters,
while central inland and southwestern coastal areas picked it up somewhat later.

In other words, we may be looking at a “step-wise spread”:

15th–13th centuries BCE: early Bronze + Mumun cultures in leading regions,
12th–10th centuries BCE: diffusion to the south, consolidation into a “classic” Bronze Age society.

So rather than rewriting one line from:

“Bronze Age starts ca. 10th century BCE”

to:

“Bronze Age starts ca. 15th century BCE,”

it’s more accurate to say:

“Bronze Age cultures developed regionally between the 15th and 10th centuries BCE.”

3-3. The very definition of “Bronze Age” is changing

In the past, the rule of thumb was simple:

“If you find bronze, you’re in the Bronze Age.”

Today, that’s no longer enough.

Researchers now look at whole social packages:

Level of agriculture,
Signs of social stratification,
Dolmens / stone mounds and other monumental tombs,
Size of settlements and presence of defensive works,

and then ask:

“When do all these elements come together in a robust way?”

That’s when many would mark the “practical” beginning of the Bronze Age.

From that angle:

The 10th century BCE in older literature is still a “safe lower bound,”
While the Namgang–Gangneung–Suncheon C-14 dates are candidates for a plausible upper bound.

4. North vs South: Less About “Who Was Right” and More About “Who Can Adjust”

Online discussions often boil this debate down to something like:

“The North has said ‘20th century BCE’ since ages ago.
The South insisted on ‘10th century BCE’ and got wrecked by C-14.”

Reality is, as usual, more complicated.

North Korean archaeology has indeed argued since the 1960s
that the Korean Bronze Age began as early as the 20th century BCE
(this predates even the famous “Dangun tomb” claims).
South Korean archaeology, hampered by lack of data and lab tools,
settled on the 10th century BCE as a cautious baseline.

If you only look at the direction of the new data, you could say:

The North’s “much earlier than you think” instinct was closer to the eventual trend,
While the South’s “10th century BCE and not much earlier” is clearly in need of adjustment.

But:

There is still nowhere near enough data to simply rubber-stamp “20th century BCE”.
Even if we gather all the radiocarbon results so far, the safest statement is something like:

“In certain leading regions, early Bronze-age cultures appear around the 15th–13th centuries BCE.”

So the real test isn’t:

“Who predicted an older date first?”

but:

“When new evidence appears, can we revise our narratives regardless of ideology?”

C-14 dating, cross-lab checks, and sending samples overseas are all part of that maturing process.

5. Three Big Questions Raised by a Moving Timeline

The exact number of centuries is interesting, but maybe not the most interesting part.
The deeper questions lie underneath.

5-1. If the Korean Bronze Age started “earlier than we thought,” what kind of society was it?

If Mumun villages, early bronze artifacts and dolmens are in place by the 15th century BCE,
then the Korean Peninsula–Manchuria zone was not just a scatter of tiny hamlets.

It implies a society that:

Had significantly adapted to agriculture,
Could mobilize large labor groups to build massive stone tombs,
And took part in metalworking networks that spanned multiple regions.

Regardless of what we think about “Dangun Joseon” as a historical state,
we are getting more and more grounds to imagine:

“Some form of complex early polities or confederations” in this area.

5-2. Where does the peninsula sit on the Bronze Age map of Northeast Asia?

If we line this up with:

Liaodong–Liaoxi–Liaoning Bronze Ages starting in the 13th century BCE,
(again, potentially back to the 15th after calibration),

then a picture starts to emerge of:

A very early Bronze Age corridor running
Manchuria → Korean East Coast → South Sea coast.

In that scenario, the Korean Peninsula wasn’t just a passive endpoint receiving “civilization” from China.

It was more like one active node in a larger Northeast Asian network of:

bronze technology,
pottery styles,
and megalithic funerary culture.

5-3. How might textbooks change?

Instead of one neat, definitive line like:

“The Bronze Age on the Korean Peninsula began around the 10th century BCE.”

we’ll likely see more nuanced phrasing such as:

“Bronze Age cultures developed between the 15th and 10th centuries BCE,
with regional variation in timing.”

For students and readers, that’s a small but meaningful shift:

from “history as a set of fixed dates to memorize”
to “history as a timeline constantly revised by new data.”

6. Summary: Where the Debate Stands Right Now

To wrap up, here’s the current situation in one view.

Old orthodoxy

South Korean textbooks:
Start of the Bronze Age (especially in the central–southern peninsula) =
around the 10th century BCE.

New C-14 data

Multiple settlement sites in Namgang reservoir, Gangneung, Suncheon, etc.
dating to the 16th–14th centuries BCE.
Dolmens and bronzes (axes, bipa-shaped daggers) from Joyang-dong (Sokcho) and Birae-dong (Daejeon)
falling around the 10th–9th centuries BCE.

Direction of interpretation

We cannot yet safely declare:

“The Korean Bronze Age starts in the 15th century BCE, full stop.”
But it is increasingly persuasive that:
- In some leading regions,
- early Bronze-Age cultures were already present by the 15th–13th centuries BCE.

What it means

Social complexity on the peninsula and in Manchuria emerged earlier than once assumed.
We gain more grounds to see Korea not as a “passive fringe,”
but as an active axis in the Bronze Age landscape of Northeast Asia.

So the headline “The 10th-century BCE Bronze Age theory has collapsed!”
is a bit overdramatic.

A more precise summary would be:

“The 10th century BCE remains a solid lower bound,
but the upper bound has now been pushed back to around the 15th century BCE.”

History, in the end, is not a finished answer key.
It’s the ongoing work of quietly erasing and rewriting numbers
every time a new charred beam, a stray seed, or a cracked bronze blade
comes out of the ground and into the lab.

The Korean Bronze Age dating debate is simply one vivid example
that we’re standing right in the middle of that process.

Tuesday, November 18, 2025

A Northern Song Emperor’s Tomb in Hoeryeong?

Chasing the Mystery of Undusan Fortress and “Wuguo Fortress”

“Somewhere in the hills along the Tumen River, there lies the tomb of a Northern Song emperor.”

At first glance it sounds less like a documentary and more like the title of a light novel.
But this line actually comes from a late Joseon scholar’s own written account.
And behind that one line lies a long shadow of Northeast Asian border history:
the fall of the Northern Song, the rise of Jin, and the tangled frontier of Goguryeo–Jurchen–Joseon–Qing.

In this piece, instead of jumping straight to

“This is DEFINITELY the Northern Song imperial mausoleum!”

we’ll take a slower route:

What do the actual historical sources say?
How does modern scholarship interpret them?
And why is the Hoeryeong theory such an intriguing little mystery?

1. The “Tomb of the Song Emperor” Puzzle in Taengniji

The late Joseon geographer Yi Jung-hwan, author of the famous geography book Taengniji (택리지), passed through Hoeryeong in Hamgyeong Province and left a curious note. Summarized:

If you follow the Tumen River upstream to Undusan Fortress near Hoeryeong,
you’ll find several large burial mounds on a hill outside the fortress.
Local people call these mounds “Hwangjerung” – the Emperor’s tombs.”
In 1712, when the Qing envoy Mukedeng (穆克登) visited to set up the border stele for the Tumen and Yalu,
his party saw these tombs and tried to open one.
In the process, they found a small, short stele. On it were carved four characters:
“宋帝之墓” – “Tomb of the Emperor of Song.”
Mukedeng then ordered the grave to be repaired and the mound rebuilt on a grander scale before leaving.

Because of this, the rumor that

“This might be the tomb of a Northern Song emperor”

spread widely around Hoeryeong. Yi Jung-hwan himself notes that he doesn’t know exactly which emperor it might be, but the idea stuck with him.

If we then add later Joseon and early modern gazetteers, travelogues, and even Japanese colonial-era photographs, we get at least this much:

Inside Undusan Fortress at Hoeryeong, there was an old cluster of tomb mounds
traditionally called “Hwangjerung” or “Tomb of the Song Emperor.”
Japanese investigators even photographed it, labeling the images
“皇帝塚 (Emperor’s Mound)” or “宋皇帝塚 (Tomb of the Song Emperor)” in the captions.

So far, so good. The place existed, and the name existed.

Which naturally raises the next question:

Then which “Song emperor” is this supposed to be?

Of course, it could simply be a tomb of some local elite from the Song region.
But popular imagination jumped straight to the two tragic last emperors of the Northern Song.

2. The Fall of the Northern Song and the Two Emperors’ Bitter End

The Northern Song collapsed in 1127 when the Jurchen Jin dynasty stormed the capital in what is known as the Jingkang Incident (靖康之變).

Emperor Huizong (徽宗, Zhao Ji) and his son
Emperor Qinzong (欽宗, Zhao Huan)

were both captured and taken north by the Jin.

The Jin first kept them near the capital area, then transferred them:

To Shangjing (上京),
Then to Hanzhou (韓州, roughly in modern Jilin Province),
And finally to a fortress called “Wuguo Fortress” (五國城).

According to the standard Chinese histories (Song History, Jin History and related texts):

Huizong died in Wuguo Fortress in 1135.
Qinzong lived longer, dying sometime in the 1160s, also within Jin territory.

Later, in the south, the newly established Southern Song under Emperor Gaozong (Zhao Gou) negotiated with Jin to reclaim Huizong’s coffin.

Huizong’s remains were then ceremonially reburied in Song territory,
at Yongyou Mausoleum (永祐陵) near modern Shaoxing in Zhejiang.

Put together, the standard storyline is:

Both emperors spent their final years near Wuguo Fortress, under Jin control;
At least Huizong’s coffin was later moved south and reinterred in a newly built imperial tomb in Zhejiang.

On paper, this sounds neat and tidy:

The “final resting place” is in Zhejiang – end of story.

But the trouble starts when we ask:

“Okay, then where exactly was Wuguo Fortress?”

3. Where Was Wuguo Fortress? – Majority vs Minority Views

3-1. Majority view: Near Yilan in Heilongjiang

Most Chinese and Korean scholars today identify Wuguo Fortress with a site near Yilan (依蘭) in Heilongjiang Province.

Near the confluence of the Heilong (Amur) and Songhua Rivers,
there is a Jin-period fortress site with visible walls and moats.
This site is officially listed and marked as “Wuguo Fortress Ruins (五国城遗址)”,
protected by the local authorities.

When you combine:

The geographical hints in Song History, Jin History, and other old gazetteers, and
Modern mapping of the Songhua–Mudan River region,

the Yilan area matches quite well. That’s why, at present, the Yilan identification carries the most academic weight.

3-2. Why the confusion? Conflicting coordinates in old texts

Even so, it’s hard to slam the gavel and declare,

“Case closed. Wuguo Fortress = Yilan and nowhere else.”

Why?

Because over the Jin–Yuan–Ming centuries, different gazetteers gave slightly different descriptions of Wuguo Fortress:

Some texts place it “a few hundred li toward Liaodong,”
Others say “near the border with Joseon,”

and so on. The distances and directions don’t always line up cleanly,
which left plenty of room for later scholars to get confused.

Out of that fog of ambiguous coordinates came the question:

“Is it possible there was another fortress called Wuguo closer to the Joseon border—say, right across the Tumen River?”

3-3. Minority view: Undusan Fortress at Hoeryeong = Wuguo Fortress?

That’s where the “Hoeryeong Undusan Fortress = Wuguo Fortress” hypothesis steps in.

Undusan Fortress (sometimes also called Oguk Fortress / O-guk-seong (五國山城) in some older materials) is:

A massive stone fortress clinging to cliffs along the Tumen River,
With a perimeter of about 6 km.
Its gates, command posts, and water gates are clearly laid out,
marking it as a key node in the northeastern defense line, likely of Goguryeo origin.

On the hill near this fortress is a group of large tomb mounds that:

Were already known in late Joseon times as “Hwangjerung” (Emperor’s tomb),
And, according to Taengniji, bore the stele inscription “Tomb of the Emperor of Song (宋帝之墓).”

Some Korean researchers take this a step further and argue:

If we re-read the fuzzy coordinates in the old texts,
it’s possible to interpret Wuguo Fortress as not only the Songhua–Heilongjiang region,
but also the Tumen–Hoeryeong region.
Therefore, the fortress where Huizong and Qinzong spent their final years could be Undusan Fortress,
and the “Tomb of the Song Emperor” stele might refer to one of these two captured emperors.

This is very much a minority hypothesis, not a mainstream conclusion.

Still, it’s a fascinating thought experiment at the crossroads of:

Border fortresses,
Old tombs and local legends,
Joseon scholars’ field notes, and
The fall of the Northern Song.

4. So What Is Actually in Hoeryeong?

Time for the practical question:

“Okay, but what is that ‘Emperor’s tomb’ on the hill at Undusan Fortress?”

4-1. Could it really be a “true” Northern Song imperial tomb?

Based on what we know so far,
the chances that this is the final, primary tomb of a Northern Song emperor are extremely low.

We already have records that Huizong’s coffin was brought south in the Southern Song era
and reburied at Yongyou Mausoleum near modern Shaoxing.
That tomb complex, although looted and damaged many times over the centuries,
has remained known and locatable in historical memory.

If the Hoeryeong mound were actually the real burial site of the emperor’s remains,
we’d have to assume that the Southern Song court:

Faked the location of the imperial tomb, or
Entirely fabricated a major part of their own ritual record.

That would require a huge historical conspiracy—and we currently have no solid evidence to support anything that dramatic.

4-2. More plausible: a cenotaph, symbolic tomb, or later memorial

Still, the stele inscription “Tomb of the Emperor of Song” is not something we can shrug off.
If we force ourselves to map out a few plausible scenarios:

1. Memorial or cenotaph

At some point in the Jin–Yuan–Ming–Qing continuum, someone—
perhaps officials or migrants with a cultural memory of the Song—
might have erected a symbolic tomb or memorial without actual imperial remains.
Both in China and Korea, building “empty tombs” (가묘) or symbolic shrines
for fallen dynasties and exiled rulers was not unheard of.

2. Tomb of a local elite claiming Song heritage

It’s also possible that some local power-holder or community in the north,
of Song origin or loyalist sentiment,
used the title “Emperor of Song” for themselves or for a revered ancestor.
But we have no corroborating texts or inscriptions supporting this scenario yet.

3. Misreading, exaggeration, or later reinterpretation

The original stele is now lost; we only have Yi Jung-hwan’s transcription from Taengniji.
It’s entirely possible that “宋帝之墓” was:
- Misread in the field,
- Mis-copied later, or
- Interpreted in a way the original stone never intended.
In late Joseon popular speech, titles like “emperor,” “princess,” “general” were often used loosely.
The label “Hwangjerung (Emperor’s tomb)” may itself be a product of such loose, legendary naming.

4-3. The core problem: we lack decisive archaeological data

The biggest issue is this:

There has never been a fully published, modern archaeological excavation
of the Undusan fortress tomb cluster that answers the key questions.

From:

Late Joseon texts,
Japanese colonial-era photos,
and some North Korean heritage designations,

we know only that:

There are large mounds,
They were locally known as the Emperor’s Tomb / Song Emperor’s Tomb, and
The Taengniji records a stele reading “Tomb of the Emperor of Song.”

But we still don’t have:

A detailed excavation report,
Clear plans of the internal structure,
Artifact lists,
Radiocarbon dates,
Or stratigraphic analysis.

So, as of today, the most academically honest conclusion is something like this:

“The ‘Emperor’s tomb’ on the hill at Undusan Fortress in Hoeryeong
is undoubtedly a historically interesting site with a rich local tradition.
However, there is currently no hard evidence that it is the actual primary tomb
of a Northern Song emperor.
Even if it does have some connection to the Northern Song,
it is safer to treat it as a possible cenotaph or later memorial
rather than a confirmed imperial mausoleum.”

And that, for now, is where the mystery quietly sits—
half in the documents, half in the earth, and very much still open to future digging,
both literal and scholarly.

Goguryeo Army vs Roman Army – Who Would Win?

An Imaginary Matchup to Read East–West Military Civilizations

If you hang around online history forums long enough, you’ll see this question pop up over and over:

“If the Goguryeo army fought the Roman army, who would win?”

Goguryeo was the military powerhouse of Northeast Asia that held out against Sui and Tang.
Rome was the giant empire wrapped around the entire Mediterranean.

It’s the kind of matchup where fandom divides instantly:

“Goguryeo had more cavalry, so they’d steamroll Rome,” vs
“Roman legionaries would just cut them to pieces.”

And the debate usually degenerates into pure emotion.

In this piece, instead of crowning a winner outright, we’ll ask:

Under what conditions and which time periods is it even fair to compare them?
How far can we reconstruct army size, troop types, tactics, and command systems from the sources?
And what does this comparison tell us about the actual level of ancient Eastern and Western civilizations?

Let’s walk through it calmly.

1. First, Sync the Timelines

Goguryeo and Rome aren’t really “exact contemporaries” in the strict sense.

Goguryeo’s heyday

Roughly 4th–6th century CE, around the reigns of Gwanggaeto, Jangsu, and Yeongyang.

Militarily, Goguryeo is most famous for its wars against Sui and Tang in the 6th–7th centuries. (Wikipedia)

Rome’s heyday

Late Republic to early Empire (roughly 2nd century BCE to 2nd century CE).

Especially under Trajan–Severus, the empire fielded about 28–33 legions,
and with auxiliaries, some 400–450,000 standing troops. (Wikipedia)

By the time Goguryeo was fighting Sui and Tang in the 7th century,
“Rome” in the West was already in its Eastern Roman / Byzantine phase.

So most historians don’t compare “Goguryeo vs Rome” directly, but rather:

Goguryeo ↔ Sui–Tang, and
Rome ↔ Han / Later Han,

matching them with their primary regional rivals. (scholarsarchive.byu.edu)

Here, we’ll allow ourselves one controlled fantasy:

Compare the respective peak capabilities of each side.

2. Population and Mobilization – The Reality of Numbers

Goguryeo’s mobilization capacity

If you combine the Samguk Sagi, Chinese histories, and modern scholarship,
Goguryeo at full mobilization is usually estimated at up to ~300,000 troops. (Wikipedia)

Recent research puts Goguryeo’s population roughly in the 2–3 million range. (De Gruyter / Brill)

So a realistic upper bound might be:

“A military state with around three million people
that could, in a crisis, drag close to 300,000 into the field.”

Rome’s mobilization capacity

At its peak, the Roman Empire’s population is estimated at 50 million+. (Wikipedia)

End of Augustus’ reign: c. 250,000 standing troops (legionaries + auxiliaries). (Wikipedia)
Under Septimius Severus (c. 211 CE):
33 legions + over 400 auxiliary units = around 450,000 standing troops. (Wikipedia)

In sheer population and permanent military manpower,
Rome absolutely dwarfs Goguryeo.

So those DC-style claims like “Goguryeo 400k vs Rome 350k, similar numbers”
don’t line up with current scholarship.

That said, it is true that Goguryeo showed an unusually high mobilization rate
for its population size—classic behavior for a small frontier state
forced to face giant empires head-on.

3. Troop Types and Equipment – What Did They Actually Fight With?

3-1. Goguryeo’s forces

Direct written descriptions of Goguryeo’s army are scarce,
but murals, archaeological remains, and Chinese accounts allow us to reconstruct roughly:

(Wikipedia; art-and-archaeology.com)

Heavy cavalry (armored horsemen)

Horse and rider covered in lamellar armor—essentially cataphract style.
Armed with long lances, ring-pommel swords, and shields.
Elite shock troops designed to punch holes in enemy lines.

Horse archers

Mounted archers firing from the saddle.
Goguryeo / Maek composite bows were famous for high draw weight and penetration.

Infantry (heavy and light)

Lamellar or scale armor, armed with spears, shields, axes, etc.
Used for fort defense, choke points, siege work (assault and defense), and as support in field battles.

Specialized siege and defense units

Troops trained to carry ladders, scale walls, handle siege engines, and so on. (Wikipedia)

Strengths:

High proportion of heavy cavalry and horse archers.
Excellent use of mountain fortresses and terrain,
especially in defensive battles and attritional warfare. (Wikipedia)

3-2. The Roman army

The Roman army changes structure over time,
but a typical early imperial (Principate) setup looks like this: (Wikipedia)

Legionaries

Heavy infantry. Armed with scutum (large rectangular shield), gladius (short sword), and pila (heavy javelins).
Each legion: roughly 4,800–5,500 men, forming the core combat block.

Auxilia (auxiliaries)

Non-citizen troops from the provinces.
Provided more than half of the empire’s total manpower.
Included most of the cavalry, archers, and special units. (Wikipedia)

Cavalry (ala, cohors equitata)

Many recruited from traditional horse cultures: Gauls, Germans, Numidians, etc.
Mixed heavy and light cavalry using lances, javelins, swords, and sometimes bows. (Wikipedia)

Archers (sagittarii)

Often from Eastern regions such as Crete, Syria, and Palmyra.
Deployed throughout Roman forces as dedicated archer units. (Roman Army Museum)

Strengths:

A thick, disciplined heavy infantry line of legionaries,
Combined with cavalry, archers, and slingers arranged around them in a fairly standardized combined-arms system.

So the online cliché, “Romans had no cavalry and couldn’t use bows,”
is based on overextending a few early Republican examples.
By the imperial period, Rome was actively using allied cavalry and archers through the auxilia. (Wikipedia)

4. Tactics and Command – How Systematic Were They?

4-1. Goguryeo command and tactics

We lack detailed organizational charts for Goguryeo,
but Chinese sources and modern research point to a few key traits. (Wikipedia)

Five-division (五部) structure + regional forces

About 12,500 elite cavalry as the capital guard.
Multiple regional forces of 20–30,000 stationed in key areas.

Large-scale royal hunts doubled as military exercises,
training soldiers’ riding and archery skills.

Strategically, Goguryeo excelled at:

Using fortresses, rivers, and mountain passes for delay and chokepoint defense,
Employing cavalry and archers for feigned retreats, ambushes, and counter-encirclement.

Famous examples include the Battle of Salsu and
multiple campaigns where Goguryeo wore down massive Sui/Tang armies
and then smashed them. (Wikipedia)

Some scholars, however, argue that because units were organized more by weapon type or troop kind,
it may have been harder for a single formation to execute fully integrated combined-arms tactics. (Wikipedia)

4-2. Roman command and tactics

Rome is famous for its small-unit command structure and standardized training. (Wikipedia)

Centuries and cohorts

The basic building block was the century (about 80–160 men),
led by a seasoned centurion.
Six centuries formed a cohort,
and ten cohorts formed a legion.

Because each century trained together with its own officers over long periods,
Roman units could repeatedly execute quite complex battlefield maneuvers.

Under capable commanders (Caesar, Trajan, etc.), Roman armies could pull off:

Double-envelopment maneuvers like Cannae,
Feigned retreats, night attacks,
Sophisticated siege warfare and river crossings. (scholarsarchive.byu.edu)

We don’t have enough detail to run a fine-grained “century vs Goguryeo unit” matchup,
but purely in terms of documented layered command structure and standardization,
the Roman side is more fully reconstructed—and that almost certainly reflects a highly organized training system.

5. “If They Actually Fought?” – A Thought Experiment

From a historian’s standpoint, forcing two states that never met onto the same battlefield
is asking for trouble. But as a thought experiment, it’s fun.

Let’s assume a neutral plain, and equal numbers—say 50,000 on each side.

Conditions favoring Goguryeo

A wide plain with gentle rolling hills,

where heavy cavalry and horse archers can swing around the flanks and rear,
probing and harassing the Roman line.

Rome might be caught off guard at first by:

Eastern-style mobile warfare,
Constant harassment, feints, and “Parthian shot”–style backward archery.

As in the wars against Sui and Tang,
Goguryeo hitting supply lines, luring the enemy toward mountain fortresses,
and then counterattacking could be extremely dangerous for Rome. (Wikipedia)

Conditions favoring Rome

A narrower, more constrained plain

where large flanking moves are difficult,
and Roman heavy infantry and siege equipment can do their work.

If Rome has time to:

Adapt its allied cavalry and archers to Goguryeo-style warfare,
Build up defenses with fieldworks, stakes, shield walls, and layered formations,

then the shock power of Goguryeo heavy cavalry is greatly reduced. (Wikipedia)

If the fight turns into a prolonged siege campaign where Roman engineering shines,
defending Goguryeo fortresses frontally could become nightmarishly hard. (Wikipedia)

In the end, who wins depends entirely on:

Terrain,
Logistics,
Intelligence,
And above all, the quality of commanders.

No serious scholar today claims, “Side A is definitely superior to Side B in all respects.”

6. What This Comparison Actually Tells Us About East–West Civilizations

The biggest trap in “Goguryeo vs Rome” threads is how fast they slide into:

Inferiority complex, or
Blind nationalism.

“Eastern strategy is sophisticated; Western warfare was just thuggish brawling.”

“Rome was on a totally different level; East Asia lagged across the board.”

Both are heavy overstatements given current research.

In modern comparative history, scholars usually focus on “Han vs Rome” and conclude roughly this: (scholarsarchive.byu.edu)

Military and administration

Rome: decentralized provincial governance, flexible legion system,
strong bond between citizenship and military service.
Han / Goguryeo sphere: bureaucratic document culture, counties-commanderies + army integrated,
excellent at large-scale mobilization and frontier defense.

Technology and economy

Rome: roads, aqueducts, concrete, glass, iron smelting—
exceptional civil engineering and urban infrastructure. (Reddit)
East Asia: iron agricultural tools, irrigation and flood control, paper, advanced fortification methods—
high agricultural productivity and a state built around administration.

War culture

East Asia: treatises like The Art of War, a massive military-text tradition,
and a view of war as an extension of political technique. (Taylor & Francis Online)
Rome: practical experience converted into training manuals, engineering,
and a legal/organizational culture around the legions.

So rather than one side being “universally superior,”
we’re looking at two highly developed civilizations that optimized in different directions.

Goguryeo, within this East Asian military world, was:

Not “a random small border kingdom of China,”
But a state with its own fairly sophisticated military and administrative system,
And a tough frontier power that held out for a long time
against the Sui and Tang “superpowers” to its south. (Wikipedia)

7. How to Enjoy the “Goguryeo vs Rome” Debate Productively

To sum up:

On raw numbers

In population and standing armies, Rome is much larger.
Goguryeo is a high-mobilization military state relative to its population size.

On troop types and weapons

Goguryeo: strong in heavy cavalry, horse archers, and fortress defense in rough terrain.
Rome: strong in heavy infantry and standardized combined arms with auxiliaries; excellent at siege/engineering.

On tactics and command

Goguryeo: fewer records, but clearly very capable at terrain use, mobile warfare, and fortress warfare.
Rome: multi-layered command and training so systematic that we still have the details.

On “civilization levels”

Current scholarship leans much more toward:

“They developed in different, equally sophisticated ways”

than toward:

“X was definitely above Y in every respect.”

So the best way to enjoy “Goguryeo vs Rome” isn’t to boost one side and trash the other.

It’s to ask:

“Where does Goguryeo really sit on the global ancient-civilization map?”

and try to see that position in 3D.

Viewed that way, Goguryeo was neither:

A trivial border state overshadowed by China, nor
A transcendent super-civilization that “outclassed Rome.”

It was:

A hyper-efficient military frontier state
that had to fight giant empires with a relatively small population,
and one of the key players in Northeast Asia’s ancient history.

Monday, November 17, 2025

The Most Henpecked Emperor in Chinese History?

The Strange Romance of Emperor Wen of Sui and Empress Dugu

When we hear the word “emperor,” we usually picture something like this:

Hundreds of maids and concubines,
court in the morning, banquets at night,
and a man who enjoys every possible privilege under the sun with his so-called “three thousand palace women.”

But in Chinese history, there is one imperial couple who openly broke this script.

The man is Emperor Wen of Sui (Yang Jian), the ruler who ended the chaos of the Northern and Southern Dynasties and reunited China.

At his side stood a woman who insisted on “one man, one woman”,
and who turned even an emperor into a textbook henpecked husband:
the formidable Empress Dugu (Dugu Qieluo / Kara Dugu / “Dugu Chela”).

Their story is more than a cute “love story.”

It’s a fascinating case study of:

An emperor’s private life and public power,
How marriage intersects with politics,
And how one woman’s personality and principles
could reshape an entire dynasty.

1) The Unifier Yang Jian – and the Young Girl Standing Next to Him

Yang Jian grew up as a scion of a northern aristocratic family,
moving through the courts of Western Wei and Northern Zhou.

As a youth, he was the son of the general Yang Zhong,
and he caught the eye of Dugu Xin, a major strongman of Northern Zhou.
At sixteen, Yang Jian married Dugu Xin’s daughter, Dugu Qieluo.

The Dugu clan was one of the famed “Eight Great Noble Families of the North.”

The eldest daughter became empress of Northern Zhou,
Another daughter married into the imperial family,
And Dugu Qieluo herself would later become empress of Sui.

In other words, it was literally a “one family, three empresses” situation.

Yang Jian and Dugu Qieluo, who had known each other since childhood,
are said to have been not just a political match,
but emotionally very close as husband and wife.

There’s a famous vow that Yang Jian is said to have made to her in his youth:

“I will not let any woman but you bear my children.”

This wasn’t just romantic drama someone made up centuries later;
versions of this vow appear repeatedly in more formal historical traditions as well.

And in practice, the couple stuck to it:

Dugu Qieluo personally gave birth to ten children—
five sons and five daughters, all of them Yang Jian’s.

In a world where emperors were expected to scatter offspring across dozens of concubines,
this level of de facto monogamy makes Emperor Wen almost unique in Chinese imperial history.

2) “These Two Rule the Empire Together” – The Couple Called the “Two Sages”

In 581, Yang Jian deposed the young emperor of Northern Zhou,
founded the Sui dynasty, and became Emperor Wen.

He then went on to end centuries of north–south division,
destroying the Chen dynasty in 589
and reunifying China.

Throughout this process, Empress Dugu was not content to be
the classic “virtuous wife quietly supporting from behind the curtain.”

She:

Read state documents together with the emperor,
Offered opinions on rewards, punishments, and appointments,
Accompanied him right up to the door of important meetings,
Had eunuchs report to her on what was happening inside,
And when the emperor made a bad decision, she corrected him with blunt remonstrance.

Because of this, courtiers sometimes referred to Emperor Wen and Empress Dugu as:

“The Two Sages in the Palace (二聖, er sheng).”

In that phrase you can hear two feelings mixed together:

On the one hand, recognition of a genuine political partnership,
On the other, a hint of unease—
that the empress’s power might be too great for everyone’s comfort.

3) “If You Mess Around With Another Woman, I’ll Kill Her”

Empress Dugu was not only a sharp political partner—
she was also an intensely jealous woman of iron principles.

The official histories preserve one particularly vivid scene that sums up her jealousy.

● The Emperor’s Slip – and Dugu’s Bloody Response

One day, in the palace, a woman named Lady Yuchi was working as a lowly maid.
She was the granddaughter of Yuwen Shu/Yuwen Rong’s clan—
a general whose family had risen in rebellion, lost,
and been reduced to slavery.

Emperor Wen noticed her beauty
and slept with her.

When Empress Dugu found out, she did not leave the matter alone.

She had Lady Yuchi hunted down and killed—
cutting off her husband’s “moment of weakness” in blood.

When the emperor learned of this after the fact,
he was furious. He mounted his horse and rode out of the palace, declaring in effect:

“I’d rather quit being emperor than live like this, under such interference.”

● The Emperor Storms Out – and the Ministers Step In

For a time, Emperor Wen did not return.
Senior officials like Gao Jiong and Yang Su went after him and tried to reason with him:

“Your Majesty, how can you abandon the empire over a single woman?”

By nightfall, the emperor finally returned to the palace.

According to the story, he found Empress Dugu waiting for him at the gate,
having stayed there all night,
tearfully apologizing and begging for reconciliation.

From this episode alone, you can see why people say:

“It wasn’t just the emperor—
even the ministers were constantly watching Empress Dugu’s mood.”

The Korean internet meme of Sui Wen as
“the ultimate henpecked emperor”
did not come out of thin air.

4) Was He Really Henpecked, or a Man Who “Feared and Respected” His Wife?

Here’s where it gets interesting:
Emperor Wen is not just a tragic husband who “lived in fear of his wife.”

① More Than Henpecked – An Emperor Who Respected His Political Partner

Emperor Wen didn’t only fear Empress Dugu;
he also deeply trusted her as a political ally.

When members of her own clan abused their influence,
Dugu was the one who demanded their punishment.
When the emperor handed down excessively harsh decisions,
she would go on hunger strike and submit petitions until lives were spared.

So she was:

A wife who kept her husband under tight control,
and at the same time
a cool-headed politician who wouldn’t bend to kinship or factional pressure.

From Emperor Wen’s perspective,

Politically, she was his most reliable advisor,
Privately, she was the one person he truly feared.

Those two roles overlapped in a single human being.

② The Fall of Gao Jiong – The Price of Saying “A Woman Is Just a Woman”

The story about Gao Jiong’s line
“Will you abandon the empire over a woman?”
actually has a fascinating sequel.

On the surface, his words helped bring the emperor back to the palace.

But Empress Dugu quietly remembered that phrase—
the way he had referred to her as “just a woman.”

Later, she began to dig into Gao Jiong’s private life:

After vowing not to remarry when his wife died,
he quickly took a concubine and had a son with her.

Empress Dugu repeatedly reported this to the emperor as hypocrisy:

“His words and deeds do not match.”

In the end, when the Sui campaign against Goguryeo faltered,
Gao Jiong was saddled with responsibility for the failure
and pushed out of high office.

In modern terms, you could sum it up like this:

“He butted into the boss’s marital drama,
dropped one poorly chosen line,
and his career trajectory went from ‘glory’ to ‘crash and burn.’”

5) After Dugu’s Death – Did the Emperor Really Become a “Freed Man”?

In 602, Empress Dugu died, around the age of fifty.

The official record says that Emperor Wen:

Was devastated by her death,
And sank into a deep period of grief and loss.

Soon after, though, another change appears in the sources:

“After that, the emperor took two palace women as consorts—
Lady Chen and Lady Cai—and began to lavish favor upon them.”

In other words:

While Dugu was alive, he was almost a model husband
who kept his vow in practice.
Once she was gone, he seems to have tried—finally and belatedly—
to enjoy a bit of what imperial status traditionally allowed.

But by then Emperor Wen was already in his early sixties,
and he died just two years later, in 604.

Online jokes that he “overindulged in women after being freed and shortened his life”
are obviously colored by modern imagination.

Still, the basic pattern holds:

It was only after Dugu’s death that he seriously took concubines,
And he died not long after.

That much is broadly consistent with the historical record.

6) How Was He Different from Other “Henpecked Emperors”?

Chinese history has a few emperors often labeled as “henpecked”:

Tang Gaozong, overshadowed by Empress Wu Zetian,
The Xianfeng Emperor of Qing, overshadowed by Empress Dowager Cixi, and others.

But the relationship between Emperor Wen and Empress Dugu
is of a different kind.

Gaozong and Xianfeng were emperors who gradually lost power
due to political weakness, health, or circumstances.

By contrast, Emperor Wen and Empress Dugu were:

A relatively normal married couple
who simultaneously functioned as near co-rulers of the state.

That’s why some scholars suggest that, for Emperor Wen:

Instead of calling him a simple “henpecked husband,”
It’s more fitting to see him as a “respect-and-fear husband”—
a man who deeply respected and simultaneously feared his wife.

7) Looking at Emperor Wen’s “Henpecked Legend” from Today’s Perspective

Seen with modern eyes, this imperial couple can be read on several levels.

● On the level of personal love

An emperor who spends effectively his whole life with one woman,
and swears that no other woman will bear his children—
that alone is an extraordinary exception in the long history of East Asian monarchies.

● On the level of power and jealousy

From a today’s perspective, Empress Dugu’s jealousy and punishments
can look extreme and violent.

But behind that is a very clear understanding of palace politics:

“If a concubine bears a son,
she instantly becomes a political rival.”

Her brutality is inseparable from the brutal logic
of succession and faction struggle inside the court.

● On the level of political partnership

Empress Dugu was not a background supporter.
She was a genuine co-governor who shaped policy and personnel decisions.

Emperor Wen, for his part, acknowledged this
and shared power with her.

That joint rule is a big reason why
the early Sui dynasty achieved such stable and efficient government.

So the “henpecked emperor” legend of Sui Wen

is less about a “pitiful man crushed by his wife”
and more about a rare case where love, jealousy, power, and trust
were tightly braided together in one marriage at the very top of the state.

8) Conclusion – Why Talk About Emperor Wen and Empress Dugu Now?

At first glance, the story of Emperor Wen and Empress Dugu
looks like a small side episode in the vast sweep of Chinese history.

But it’s a case that makes us think simultaneously about:

Relationships between men and women,
Power and responsibility,
Monogamy and the harem system,
And where the line lies between family and state.

By contemporary standards,
Empress Dugu’s actions were clearly problematic and violent in many ways.

Yet at the same time, she was:

A woman who discussed state affairs on equal footing with her husband,
A figure whose influence was so great that even the emperor bent before it,
And someone who played a deep role in the rise and fall of a dynasty.

In that sense, she stands out as one of the most intense empresses in Chinese history.

And beside her,
moving constantly between love and fear,
respect and exhaustion,
stood Emperor Wen of Sui.

His life reminds us that:

“Even an emperor is, in the end, someone’s husband.”

In a long history full of emperors who collected concubines like stamps,
there was exactly one who swore:

“I will have children with one woman only.”

That man is the one Korean netizens love to call:

“The most legendary henpecked emperor in Chinese history – Emperor Wen of Sui.”

Was Malthus Wrong – Or Are We Just Too Relaxed? Optimists vs. Pessimists on Population, Resources, and Nature

Was Malthus Wrong – Or Are We Just Too Relaxed?
Optimists vs. Pessimists on Population, Resources, and Nature

1) “Population grows geometrically, food only arithmetically” – Malthus’ uneasy intuition

In 1798, the English cleric and economist Thomas Malthus published
An Essay on the Principle of Population, where he famously argued:

Population grows geometrically (1, 2, 4, 8, 16…)
Food supply grows only arithmetically (1, 2, 3, 4, 5…) (oll.libertyfund.org)

If nothing checks this trend, he thought, population will eventually outstrip food production,
and then mechanisms like war, disease, famine, and poverty will step in to “correct” the numbers. (Wikipedia)

In short, his message was:

“A rosy utopia? Not happening.
Humanity will always run up against limits and collisions.”

A cold, sharp warning against easy optimism.

2) Why Malthus was called “wrong” for 200 years

For about two centuries after his book, Malthus has often been treated as a failed pessimist.
There are two big reasons why.

① The productivity revolution

Since Malthus’ time in the late 18th and early 19th centuries, humanity has gone through:

Chemical fertilizers, better crop varieties, irrigation systems, farm machinery
And, in the mid-20th century, the Green Revolution

Together these drove agricultural productivity through the roof. (Wikipedia)

In the 20th century alone, world population more than quadrupled,
and yet average calories available per person actually increased. (Wikipedia)

If you plug that into Malthus’ simple model, we should have hit a food apocalypse long ago—
but reality refused to follow that script.

② Demographic transition – after industrialization, birth rates fall

The second piece is what we now call the demographic transition.

In the early stages of industrialization, death rates fall first, so population booms.
But once a country reaches a certain level of income, education, and social welfare,
birth rates start to drop sharply, and population growth slows. (ResearchGate)

In many countries—across Europe, and in places like Korea and Japan—
the big worry today is not “too many babies,” but low fertility and population decline.

That’s a situation Malthus never really imagined.

So many economists and techno-optimists say:

“Malthus was wrong because he didn’t anticipate technological progress and demographic transition.”

Which is partly true.

But is that really the end of the story?

3) Neo-Malthusianism – tug-of-war between resource depletion and substitution

Over time, Malthus’ core concern has morphed a bit.

The question now is less:

“Will we run out of food?”

and more:

“What happens if we hit limits on resources as a whole—
energy, minerals, water, soil?”

Oil depletion, rare metals, water shortages, shrinking arable land…
Bundle these together and you get what’s often called neo-Malthusianism. (ResearchGate)

On the other side, resource optimists respond like this:

When the stock of a resource shrinks, its price rises.
As prices rise, firms and researchers:
- Look for new deposits, and
- Develop substitute resources and new technologies. (ResearchGate)
Thus, simple doomsday stories like “If this resource runs out, humanity is finished”
rarely play out as advertised.

Oil is the classic case.

Since the 1970s and 80s, we’ve heard repeated “peak oil” narratives about imminent depletion.
Yet technological advances, new discoveries, and the shale revolution have so far kept the
“we literally run out of oil” scenario from becoming reality.

In textbook economics, this all gets wrapped up as:

“Scarcity is largely managed through prices and innovation.”

On that logic, it’s very tempting to side with the optimists.

But there’s a gaping hole in this picture.

4) Problem #1 – Nature is not a “background object,” it’s the rules of the game

In traditional economic models, nature usually shows up in two roles:

As resources: oil, minerals, land, forests, fisheries…
As sinks: the atmosphere that absorbs CO₂, rivers that carry away pollutants…

In other words, nature is treated as an input warehouse and a waste dump
for human activity.

Our choices are always framed in terms of human utility and profit,
and nature appears only as the object of those utility functions.

That’s why, even when economics talks about “environmental destruction,”
it tends to package it as an externality:

Firm A pollutes in order to raise its profits.
The damage is passed on to third parties and to ecosystems.
If this cost isn’t reflected in prices, the market leads to “overproduction.”

To fix this, economists came up with ideas like the Pigouvian tax. (Investopedia)

The idea is:

For activities like pollution or carbon emissions that impose costs on society as a whole,
You impose a tax equal to that social cost,
So that “private cost + social cost = the real price.”

But in the 21st century, we’re seeing warning signals that go way beyond “fix the externality with a tax.”

The IPBES (Intergovernmental Science-Policy Platform on Biodiversity and Ecosystem Services) estimates that current extinction rates are up to 1,000 times higher than natural background levels. (files.ipbes.net)
Research on planetary boundaries suggests that we’ve already overshot 6 out of 9 key Earth-system thresholds. (Science)

This implies that nature is no longer just a “background” that silently absorbs our externalities.
The rules of the game themselves are starting to warp.

Climate, biodiversity, water cycles, soils, oceans…
These aren’t issues you can fix by tweaking one variable at a time.
They’re signals that the Earth system as a whole is being pushed toward its limits.

At this point, Malthus’ old question comes back in a new form:

“Are our beloved ideas of ‘substitution’ and ‘market adjustment’
actually operating inside the safe zone of the Earth system—
or are we quietly betting beyond that boundary?”

5) Problem #2 – What money hides from view

The second uncomfortable question is this:

“If the world produces more than enough food overall,
why are people still starving in Africa and other regions?”

According to the UN Food and Agriculture Organization (FAO),
about one-third of all food produced globally is lost or wasted every year—
through post-harvest losses, retail waste, and household food waste. (FAOHome)

And yet on the same planet:

More than 600 million people suffer from chronic hunger and malnutrition, (FAO Open Knowledge)
And in parts of Sub-Saharan Africa, food crises keep recurring
due to climate shocks, civil conflict, and political instability.

Economics textbooks explain it like this:

Grain markets are driven by international prices.
A small number of highly productive countries dominate exports.
Firms and farmers, aiming at profit maximization, choose among:
- exporting,
- holding stocks,
- dumping surpluses,
- or switching uses (feed, biofuel, etc.).

In this process, people who are “too poor to pay market prices”
are simply pushed outside the demand curve.

Poor countries may have a clear need,
but from the market’s perspective, that doesn’t count as “effective demand”—
demand backed by money.

So the real picture looks like this:

On a global scale, we produce enough calories to feed humanity.
Huge quantities of food are discarded along the supply chain and at the consumer level.
Yet the poorest people still die of hunger.

Malthus worried about the physical limit of production.
Our 21st-century reality looks much more like a limit of distribution, prices, and power structures.

6) Between optimism and pessimism – what we must not overlook

Let’s recap the story so far:

Malthus’ population theory is often said to be “historically wrong”
- because he failed to anticipate technological progress and demographic transition. (Wikipedia)
Neo-Malthusian resource arguments are criticized as
- partial-equilibrium models that ignore prices, substitutes, and innovation. (ResearchGate)
Optimists argue that:
- “Technology, markets, and innovation have solved most problems so far,
  and they’ll keep doing so.”

But as this discussion keeps prodding us to notice,
this optimism rests on two hidden assumptions:

① The central actor is always humanity; nature is just an instrument.
② Ultimately, all values can be translated into money.

The problem is that both assumptions are now cracking.

Treating nature purely as a tool has boomeranged back at us in the form of
climate crisis, mass extinction, and overshooting planetary boundaries. (Science)
A system that pushes hundreds of millions of lives outside the market
simply because they lack money is becoming morally, and in terms of long-term stability,
increasingly hard to defend.

So a natural question follows:

“Can our current economic and social system—unchanged—
really deliver what we call ‘sustainable development’?”

7) What we need is not “new pessimism,” but a paradigm shift

The point here is not to resurrect Malthus wholesale,
and it’s also not to relax into “technology will fix everything” complacency.

What we actually need looks more like this:

1. Treat nature not as an externality, but as a condition

Take the planetary boundaries of the Earth system
and embed them as hard rules in policy, investment, and corporate strategy. (Science)

2. Build an economy with metrics beyond money

Use tools like carbon pricing and Pigouvian taxes to internalize externalities. (Investopedia)
At the same time, expand indicators beyond GDP to track
welfare, environmental health, and inequality together.

3. Global solidarity that starts from the most vulnerable

The damage from climate and food crises tends to fall hardest on countries
that historically emitted less and benefited less. (Financial Times)
Climate finance, technology transfer, and debt relief are not just “charity”;
they’re closer to insurance for stabilizing the system as a whole.

4. A philosophical rethinking of “development”

Seeing nature not as something to conquer, but as a “condition we must live with.”
Shifting the goal from simply “more” to
“longer, more widely shared, and more livable.”

Original-flavor Malthusian pessimism was too simple.
Twentieth-century optimism was too human-centered.

Now we need a new frame that looks at:

humans and nature, growth and limits, technology and ethics
all at the same time.

8) In closing – Why read Malthus again?

Malthus’ math was clearly off in that
he underestimated technological change and demographic transition.

But in trying to think simultaneously about:

Human desires and numbers that want to expand without limit,
A planet with real, physical boundaries,
And inequality and ecological crisis that markets alone can’t fix,

his uncomfortable questions are still very much alive. (Wikipedia)

We don’t revisit Malthus today because it’s fun to say “Humanity is doomed.”
We do it to quietly ask:

“On what assumptions are we basing our optimism?
And are those assumptions really valid for the Earth and for all of humanity?”

At this point, the key issue is not
“pessimists vs. optimists,” shouting at each other from opposite corners.

The real question is:

“If we want a sustainable optimism,
what values, institutions, and ways of thinking
do we need to redesign from the ground up?”

On that question, Malthus, the resource optimists,
and even the anonymous posters on DC Gallery can each still offer
at least one meaningful line in the conversation.

Sunday, November 16, 2025

Were the “Dongyi (東夷)” Really “Barbarians”?

The Old Stories of Eastern Peoples Hidden Inside the Character 夷

When we learned Korean history in school, most of us had to memorize a phrase like this at least once:

“Eastern barbarians, Dongyi (東夷).”

And next to the character 夷, there was always a small annotation saying
“yi (夷), meaning barbarian.”

That’s where the problem starts.

On the one hand, we hear people proudly say “We are descendants of the Dongyi,”
while on the other hand, the same Dongyi are introduced as “barbarians.”
It’s a strange combination.

So in ancient texts, did Dongyi (東夷) really refer to the kind of “primitive savages” we casually imagine today?
And originally, what kind of “face” did the Chinese character 夷 have?

In this piece, we’ll take a look at classical sources and modern research side by side,
and try to turn over the simplistic formula of:

“Dongyi = barbarians.”

1. The Gap Between the “Barbarian Yi (夷)” We Learned and the Classical Tradition

First, in modern Korean, the word “orangkae” (오랑캐) carries the nuance of

“Those outside the civilized center; backward, uncivilized outsiders.”

In ancient China, there was a system of the so-called “Four Barbarians (사이, 四夷)”:

Dongyi (東夷) – the East
Xirong (西戎) – the West
Nanman (南蠻) – the South
Beidi (北狄) – the North

These groups were often lumped together as the periphery/frontier of the “Huaxia (華夏) central civilization.” (OhmyNews)

This framework later hardened into a dichotomy of

“China = civilization / surrounding peoples = barbarians.”

Within that, the Dongyi were simplified into “eastern barbarians.”

However, the image of Dongyi (東夷) in classical texts is not so easy to summarize that way.
Once we dig only a little deeper, we find surprisingly positive depictions mixed in as well.

2. What Shuowen Jiezi Says About 夷 – “Eastern People, a Character from 大 and 弓”

In the classic dictionary of Chinese characters, Shuowen Jiezi (說文解字), 夷 is explained as follows:

“夷, 東方之人也從大從弓”
“Yi (夷) refers to the people of the East. The character is formed from 大 (great person) and 弓 (bow).” (Encyclopedia of Korean Culture)

In other words, Xu Shen (許慎) interpreted 夷 as:

People of the East (Easterners)
Structurally composed of a great person (大) + a bow (弓)

Of course, in modern paleography, scholars point out that the oldest forms of 夷 in oracle bone and bronze inscriptions have a different shape (a bent human figure, etc.), and argue that

“The ‘大 + 弓’ analysis may be a later reinterpretation.” (독단론)

Even so, the exegetical tradition that links Easterners (夷) with “a great person + bow” has persisted for a long time. (Encyclopedia of Korean Culture)

On top of that, figures considered to be of Dongyi origin:

Yi (羿), the famous archer of the Xia period,
The king Xu Yan in the Huai River region,
Jumong, the founding king of Goguryeo,

are all portrayed as heroes of archery, which further strengthens the image of

“Dongyi = Easterners who are skilled with the bow.” (Encyclopedia of Korean Culture)

3. The Hou Hanshu “Treatise on the Dongyi” – “Kind and Life-Loving, Land of Gentlemen and Immortals”

Even more interesting is the preface to the “Dongyi Lie Zhuan (東夷列傳, Biographies of the Eastern Barbarians)” in the Hou Hanshu (History of the Later Han).
There, the Dongyi are described as follows:

“‘The Wangzhi (王制)’ says, ‘The East is called Yi (夷).’
Yi (夷) means root (根本). The Yi love benevolence (仁) and cherish life,
so it is like all things taking root in the earth and growing.
Therefore their natural disposition is gentle and they are easy to govern by the Way (道),
and so there exist among them the Land of Gentlemen (君子國) and the Land of Immortals (不死國).” (History & Economy Blog)

Three keywords stand out in this passage:

Root (根本) – the Dongyi are likened to “the root.” (Encyves DH Center)
Love of benevolence and life – “they are kind and love life.” (History & Economy Blog)
Land of Gentlemen / Land of Immortals – a land where gentlemen live, and a land where people do not die. (CRS News)

This is quite far from the image of “eastern barbarians” we were given in school.

In short, in the perspective of Fan Ye (范曄), the Later Han literatus who compiled the Hou Hanshu,
the Dongyi are not merely “savages,” but in some sense appear as “simple, gentle, and easily governed ideal peripheral peoples.”

Of course, this description still carries the subtle viewpoint of “the center looking at the periphery,”
but it is clear that the image was by no means one of pure primitive savagery.

4. Confucius and “Yujugu’i (欲居九夷)” – Why Did Confucius Mention the Land of the Nine Yi?

In the Analects, in the “Zihan (子罕)” chapter, there is a famous passage where Confucius mentions the Nine Yi (九夷):

子欲居九夷
“Confucius wished to go live among the Nine Yi.”

When someone asked, “How could you live in such a crude place?”
Confucius replied:

“君子居之, 何陋之有?”
“If a gentleman lives there, how could it be crude?” (건빵이랑 놀자)

The Hou Hanshu’s “Dongyi Lie Zhuan” cites this passage and connects the Nine Yi to the traditional view that

“There are nine types of Yi (夷) in the East.” (History & Economy Blog)

Two points matter here:

Confucius clearly sees the Nine Yi as “lands outside China,” a kind of frontier,
but even so, he imagines them as places where he would actually like to live.
When someone calls it “crude” (陋),
Confucius responds that “a gentleman living there will bring transformation,” thus elevating its potential.

This passage is one facet of the Sinocentric idea of “civilizing the barbarians,”
but at the same time, it shows a stance that does not see all peripheries as inherently filthy or inferior. (문과 字의 집)

In other words, in the classics, the world of the Dongyi was not just a space of hatred and contempt, nor a pure utopia, but a complex realm where imagination and politics intertwined.

5. Then Who Were the Dongyi? – Does “Dongyi = Korean People” Hold?

By this point, a natural question arises:

“So does Dongyi = us (the Korean people)?”

Modern historians generally整理 this as follows:

Dongyi (東夷) is not the fixed name of a single ethnic group, but a “historical concept” whose referent shifts over time. (OhmyNews)
In the Shang and Zhou periods, various groups in eastern China—Shandong, Jiangsu, Anhui, etc.—were called Dongyi. (OhmyNews)
As Chinese territory expanded, various peoples of Manchuria, the Korean Peninsula, and the Japanese archipelago—Buyeo, Goguryeo, Yemaek, the Samhan, Wa, and so on—also came to be included under the Dongyi category. (Encyclopedia of Korean Culture)

Thus, it is roughly accurate to say:

“Ancient Chinese referred to a variety of Eastern peoples and tribes collectively as Dongyi (東夷).”

But the sweeping formula:

“All Dongyi = the Korean people;
the ancestors of the Chinese = Dongyi = us,”

is quite far from the mainstream position of current scholarship. (OhmyNews)

Yet one thing is clear:

In the Hou Hanshu “Dongyi Lie Zhuan,”
Buyeo, Goguryeo, Ye, and Han (the Samhan) all appear under the heading of “Dongyi.” (History & Economy Blog)

So it is reasonable to say that:

“Among the various groups that later formed the Korean people,
at least some were categorized as ‘Dongyi’ in classical texts.”

What matters here is not insisting that “they were all us” or “all of them were others,”
but adopting a perspective that sees ancient East Asian history as deeply intertwined.

6. “Easterners Who Shoot Well with the Bow” and Ourselves Today

One of the traditional images associated with the Dongyi is skill in archery.

Beyond Shuowen Jiezi’s explanation of 夷 as “formed from 大 and 弓, people of the East (東方之人),”
many leaders categorized as Dongyi have heroic stories centered on bow and arrow. (Encyclopedia of Korean Culture)

The Xia-period lord Yi (羿) is famous as a master archer,
And Jumong, the founding king of Goguryeo, is also portrayed as “a hero who excels in archery.”

The Encyclopedia of Korean Culture puts it this way in its entry on Dongyi:

“There are many tales of bow and arrow (弓矢說話) concerning leaders of Dongyi lineage,
giving the impression that the Dongyi were a people who excelled at archery.” (Encyclopedia of Korean Culture)

When we consider South Korea’s overwhelming record in modern Olympic archery,
it is hard not to see this traditional image overlapping in our imagination.

Of course, explanations like “an archery gene embedded in the DNA” have no scientific basis.
Even so, linking together:

The ancient image of Eastern frontier peoples skilled in cavalry and archery,
The archery and horsemanship scenes in Goguryeo tomb murals,
And the modern cultures of Olympic archery and traditional Korean archery (gukgung),

can be a very appealing narrative thread—especially from the perspective of a content or revenue-oriented blog.

7. Instead of “Barbarian Yi,” What Should We Remember?

To sum up, three layers overlap in the notions of Dongyi (東夷) and the character 夷:

A geographic concept
- The broad meaning of “people of the East”
- The concrete referent and scope change continuously over time (OhmyNews)
An ideological / symbolic concept
- In Five Phases and directional theories, the East is associated with wood (木) and benevolence (仁).
- In the Hou Hanshu, the Dongyi carry positive images of root, kindness, and the Land of Gentlemen / Land of Immortals. (History & Economy Blog)
A political / ideological concept
- The “Four Barbarians” scheme of civilization (Huaxia) vs. barbarian periphery
- Over time, the nuance “frontier = barbarians” becomes more fixed.

So it is difficult to see 夷 purely as a derogatory slur,
but it also cannot be placed on a pedestal as a purely sacred name.

In that case, how should people living today handle this ancient character?

Self-deprecating version
- “We were just eastern barbarians…”
Overly nationalist version
- “The ancestors of Chinese civilization were all Dongyi,
  the Dongyi were us Koreans!”

Both are exhausting narratives.

Instead, we might整理 it like this:

“Dongyi (東夷) was an old name for ‘the peoples of the East’
who, from beyond the Huaxia center,
sometimes interacted and sometimes competed,
together shaping ancient East Asian history.”

Within that category we find:

Buyeo, Goguryeo, Samhan, and Ye, which are among the root groups of the Korean people, (History & Economy Blog)
As well as various groups in Shandong, Jiangsu, and the Huai River region,
Plus groups that connect to the Japanese archipelago.

Our task is not:

To remember only the history of contempt contained in this name and use it to belittle ourselves,
Nor to pull it in as a straight, glorious ancestral line,

but rather:

To use the concept of “Dongyi” as a lens
for imagining more broadly the exchanges, conflicts, and coexistence of ancient East Asia.

Conclusion – Why Bring Up “Dongyi” Again Now?

It can be dangerous to grab onto a few characters from texts thousands of years old
and project our current identity straight into them.

However:

Once we realize that behind the casual textbook gloss of “barbarian yi (오랑캐 이)”,
There also lies another face—
“eastern peoples, great figures holding bows, lands that love benevolence and life, lands of gentlemen and immortals”—

our perspective on East Asian history and the place of the Korean people within it becomes much more three-dimensional.

So the next time you encounter the term “Dongyi people (東夷族)” in a textbook or online,
try letting this thought cross your mind:

“This is not just ‘eastern barbarians,’
but a single line in a very long story about the peoples of the East.”

From that point on,
a more mature humanistic conversation can begin—
about how we name ourselves and our neighbors.