The Ruins of the Old Summer Palace

The Old Summer Palace in China is known by many names, most famously as “Yuanmingyuan,” meaning “Garden of Perfect Brightness.” Located in northwest Beijing, about five miles from the political center, it was a beautiful, quiet place for emperors of the 17th and 18th centuries to enjoy nature, raise their children, and pursue their hobbies.

Today, the palace grounds are open to the public. This summer, while studying at Peking University, I was conveniently located about a ten-minute walk away from the garden gates. I took evening walks every day, exploring every corner of the approximately 860-acre garden.

One can only imagine what it might have been like to be the emperor returning to the comforts of his estate after a busy day, a prince riding horseback in the garden, or a concubine strolling among lotus blossoms.

Most of the Old Summer Palace’s structures have been razed to the ground, with only a fraction of the original stones remaining in the buildings’ footprints. The original bridges have been replaced with rudimentary but functional wooden decks, and one can only catch glimpses of the palace’s former splendor. Reeds and water lilies dominate the banks of the garden’s numerous ponds; ducks and swans have become the primary residents of the palace. There were corners of the garden so deserted and overgrown that being there was the most alone I have ever felt—shocking when considering I was in the middle of one of the world’s most populous cities.

In 1860, during the Second Opium War, French and British troops captured the palace, burning and looting the residence. Though most of the destruction occurred during the conflict, early 20th-century photographs show some structures still standing, albeit badly damaged. The lesser-known degradation occurred in the tumultuous Republic Era of China, when the gardens were used as military training grounds and looted by ordinary Chinese citizens.

To some, the ruins of the palace symbolize shame—the once-infallible Middle Kingdom’s destruction at the hands of Western powers. Others look past its tragic end, seeing instead China’s enormous wealth and power during the Qing Dynasty through the palace’s magnificent mansions built in the exotic style of European castles.

Contemporary criticisms of ancient China highlight its wealth inequality: while the emperor lounges in his multiple estates, rural peasants experience famines. The modern image of China in the U.S. is still one of autocracy and extensive government power—whether that image truly reflects the lives of Chinese people is up for debate, but McCarthyism lingers on in Western distrust of the ever-terrifying Chinese Communist Party.

As I stare into the tranquil waters of Fuhai Lake, these thoughts run through my mind. Why doesn’t visiting the Liberty Bell in Philadelphia resonate in the same way? Though the crack in the Liberty Bell is not nearly as significant or traumatizing as the Second Opium War, it still seems strange that the irony of the damage doesn’t hold the same gravitas for me.

My thoughts are interrupted by an unseemly sight. Another tourist—a Chinese woman, likely visiting from a different city—is dressed like a Qing Dynasty princess with a photographer kneeling by her feet. The costume is indeed just a costume. The colors are light and dainty, unlike the vibrant dyes actually used during the era. She wears Crocs beneath her robes.

At first, I was tempted to laugh at the obvious tourist trap. No one in Boston who dressed like the original colonists would be taken seriously. In China, many popular television shows are set in fictional versions of ancient Chinese dynasties. The closest thing we have is “Bridgerton,” but period pieces rarely become fan favorites.

It occurs to me that the difference is how much we romanticize our history.

Growing up steeped in the American way of life, I found history the least relatable thing between me and another American. In a country where almost everyone is technically an immigrant, no one has exactly the same background. We have no shared history to look back on.

Though we are schooled on our country’s history, it doesn’t seem solemn or serious; it even feels a little farcical at times. We remember George Washington for his wooden teeth, Teddy Roosevelt for the stuffed bear named after him, and Abe Lincoln for his hat—despite being the first president to be assassinated.

In ancient China, though, a shared history tracing back to one’s ancestors was one of the few forces holding an empire together as power shifted between dynasties every few hundred years. Sima Qian, one of China’s most important figures, wrote a history book in 85 CE detailing 2,000 years of events, going back to the nation’s formation.

Meanwhile, what has arguably held America together through wars, tough times, and more has been an unwavering trust in the American Dream—that is, belief in profit.

The paradigm that East Asian countries are collectivist and centered on family values, while the West is individualistic, starts to unravel here. It is not about which hemisphere of the world’s societies cares more or less about their communities, but the underlying societal forces that shape a civilization.

I do not mean to suggest that emphasis on history yields a better, more empathetic, more united, or more productive society. Evidently, the tourist traps selling bad costumes suggest the opposite.

In American schools, students are often taught the phrase “history doesn’t repeat itself, but it often rhymes,” a quote from Mark Twain that is commonly interpreted to promote studying history as a preventative measure. However, this places the emphasis on the future rather than taking the past at face value. Studying the history of the world we live in helps us connect with our own lives and understand why the world is the way it is.

History is deeply emotional and human. While exploring the Old Summer Palace, I came across a weathered stone lion statue crouched among shoots of grass. A crack in the marble split its body in half. Failure and triumph are things that we have all experienced, whether your country has over five thousand years of history or only a few hundred.

Ellie Guo ’29 (eguo@college.harvard.edu) has always loved studying history.