Defiance — The Quiet Rebellion of Individuality

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This is the sixth post on the “Self-discovery” series, where we explore the complexities of individuality and personal growth. There are one or two more articles on this theme. The journey will continue.

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The fall of a regime is rarely swift, though it may seem so to the common, the less discerning eye. It begins not with swords drawn, but with the gradual decay of integrity, the slow erosion of trust between the ruler and the ruled. During peace times, the truth may sleep beneath the shadowy surface of power, but chaos—ah, chaos—serves as the great revealer of hearts and minds. The court, once a place of wisdom and discourse, transforms into a battleground for influence and control, where loyalty is bought and sold like wares in a marketplace.

In those final days, as the throne trembled under the weight of its own corruption, the intellectuals and the visionaries were the first to feel the tightening and pervasive grip of fear. Their words, once esteemed as the conscience of the nation, now became dangerous whispers of crisis. They, who sought only to hold the realm together through reason, common sense, and a voice for the voiceless, found themselves caught in the web of political ambition and opportunist adventures. The subtle balance between thought and power shattered, and with it, the fragile peace that had kept the wolves at bay.

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In 239 AD, the emperor of the Cao Wei dynasty (220-265 AD) entrusted his eight-year-old son, Cao Fang (232-274 AD), to his two most trusted advisors, Sima Yi, and Cao Shuang, shortly before his death.

A decade later, in 249 AD, the Sima family staged a coup d'état that obliterated Cao Shuang — their political rival and cemented their power, forever altering the fate of the dynasty.

To consolidate their control, Sima Yi ordered a brutal massacre. The associates of Cao Shuang’s family, along with their paternal and maternal relatives and their in-laws, were exterminated. No distinction was made between male and female, young and old. There was a popular saying that stated, “In a single day’s carnage the number of famous men in the empire was cut in half.”¹

History remembers this day as the sacking of Luoyang, the capital city.

Only five years later, in 254 AD, the twenty-year-old emperor, Cao Fang, was deposed by Sima Yi’s son, Sima Shi. He installed a new emperor, the thirteen-year-old Cao Mao (241-260 AD).

When Cao Mao arrived at Luoyang, he disembarked from his carriage and bowed to the officials awaiting him. Shocked, they tried to dissuade him, reminding him that an emperor should not bow before his servants. However, the young Cao Mao humbly responded, "I am another's servant.”² (alluding to the fact the Sima family is in actual control.)

In 265 AD, the last emperor of the Cao Wei dynasty, Cao Huan (246-302), was forced to relinquish the throne, thus marking the end of the dynasty.

The following year, the usurpers established the Jin dynasty (266-420 AD).

The search for authentic individuality

In the silence of solitude, we search for the self we’ve buried beneath the weight of time, commitments, and obligation. History and fate may pull the strings of our lives, but it is in the quiet moments, away from the noise, that we carve out our own path, discovering the truths we dared not speak.

A period of political upheaval brings forth a central tension between individual identity and the force of historical events. Individuality, in such turbulent times, became more than a personal experience; it was a struggle for spiritual autonomy amidst shifting societal tides.

Individuality is ultimately shaped by how we perceive ourselves and how we relate to the world around us. To know oneself, however, is no easy task. Our perception of our identity can often differ from reality, and that identity—no matter how cohesive it appears—may still obscure deeper truths about life. Worse yet, it can be artificially imposed upon us, shaped by societal pressures without our awareness.

As discussed in previous essays on frameworks of thought and the role of values, true clarity doesn’t mean discarding everything we hold dear. Instead, it requires us to step back from our assumptions, examine the foundations of our values, and understand how they shape our worldview. These values, though essential to our individuality, can limit us if left unexamined. If we act purely in response to external cues, whether social norms or inherited customs, we risk living according to a script we did not write.

To truly discover our individuality, we need to awaken to conscious decisions. We need to see clearly how we interact with the world before attempting to preserve our inner autonomy. Without this introspection, we are only reacting passively to societal pressures, living in a way that might not truly align with who we are.

To embrace one’s individuality is to embark on a journey of self-honesty, acceptance, and resistance to the pressures of blindly submerging oneself into the crowd.

Individual discovery is not only a deeply personal process but also a critical period of inward searching, particularly within the context of societal and historical change.

Ruan Ji: a mirror to the self

In the corridors where wisdom was once exchanged as freely as power, a more subtle conflict took root—not of bloodshed, but of quiet compliance. A person walked these dangerous paths, bowing to the new order while holding onto an unbent heart. Through veiled verse, they carried the weight of defiance, a reminder that even in the shadow of tyranny and dark realities, the soul's quest for authenticity could not be silenced.

Ruan Ji 阮籍 (210-263 AD), a prominent poet and philosopher of the Wei-Jin period (220-589), serves as a mirror reflecting the tumultuous landscape of his time. His works resonate with the complexity of existence—one that navigates the muddled waters of political upheaval while yearning for personal autonomy and authenticity.

Born into a loyalist family, his father was a close associate of the founder of the Wei dynasty, the famous warlord Cao Cao 曹操 (155-220 AD). Ruan Ji himself had served the dynasty since 239, when he took his first official post.³ Yet, Ruan Ji witnessed the ruthless machinations of the Sima family. He was aware of their political ambitions and the imminent downfall of the Wei dynasty.

Although he remained in government service under the shadow of the Sima family, he strategically feigned compliance while working as little as possible, all in an effort to protect his family and friends. One story illustrates his subtle resistance: Sima Zhao (211-265), the powerful regent, proposed a marriage alliance between their families, suggesting that his son marry Ruan Ji’s daughter. Rather than directly rejecting the offer—an action that could have had grave consequences—Ruan Ji avoided the discussion entirely by drinking continuously for about 60 days. How could he possibly align himself with the usurpers?

He passed away three years before the official collapse of the Wei dynasty, remaining a silent witness to the era’s political upheavals.

Ruan Ji’s poetry, his famous “Yonghuai shi” 詠懷詩 (Poems of My Heart), reveals his innermost feelings and philosophical struggles⁴. In essence, we see in his poetry the representation of poetic individuality and philosophical transcendence. In a world where direct criticism of political authority was dangerous, his poems became a vehicle for personal expression and reflection. His works lead us to see and feel the inner turmoil faced by those who sought to remain true to themselves in a time rife with disloyalty, paradox, and confusion.

The following poem is an example of expressing his inner thoughts:⁵

A morning and then an evening,

an evening, then a dawn again.	

My complexion changes from what it was,

my spirit melts away into ruin.

In my breast I hold boiling water and fire,

transformations constantly instigate one anotehr.

The thousands of things that happen are endless,

our knowledge and plans are woefully inadequate.

I fear only that in an instant

my soul will be whirled away in the wind.

To the end of my days I tread on thin ice,

who know how my heart is scorched?

These lines encapsulate the existential dilemma faced by those who must choose between conforming to social expectations or preserving their inner integrity.

In another poem, Ruan Ji also captures the melancholic essence of his era:⁶

I yoke up my carriage and leave the city of Wei,

Turn towards the south and gaze at the Woodwind Terrace.

The sound of flutes and pipes remain there still,

But where, oh where is the king of Liang?

He fed his knights on husks and bran

And housed his sages amidst the weeds;

But before his songs and dances ended

The soldiers of Chin had come, and come again.

‘The Narrow Forest is no longer mine;

My scarlet palaces are covered with dust and grime,

My armies defeated below Hua-yang,

My body become ashes and earth.

This painful reflection captures the essence of loss, the fragility of worldly things, and the unstoppable passage of time. The city of Wei and the king of Liang symbolize the fading glory of a once-great state, overtaken by the relentless march of history.

According to historical records, the ancient state of Wei fell to the Qin during the Warring States Period (476-221 BC), marking a turning point in the quest for unification in ancient China. Ruan Ji’s lament not only mourns the demise of political power but also reminds us of the fleeting nature of human endeavors.

The imagery in Ruan Ji’s verses evokes the sense of desolation that accompanies regime change, which makes one feel again the traumatic experience of watching the Red Wedding in Game of Thrones. Just as the unexpected betrayal in that story shattered the lives and hopes of many, Ruan Ji’s observations illustrate the abrupt and often brutal shifts in power that define his historical moment.

The poet’s heart-wrenching inquiry—"But where, oh where is the king of Liang?"—reflects a deeper existential questioning. One cannot help but ponder the impermanence of authority and the futility of earthly pursuits.

In this context, Ruan Ji's work transcends mere political satire. It becomes a meditation on identity, purpose, and the search for authenticity amid chaos. As the dust settles over the fallen palaces and defeated armies, the poet beckons us to confront the silent truths within ourselves, urging introspection in a world filled with instability and uncertainty.

Ruan Ji’s example shows us the resilience of the human spirit. Even in times of despair, the quest for self-discovery remains an enduring journey.

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History remembers these times not for the ambitions of kings and political opportunists, but for the silent courage of those who stood against them—those who, armed with nothing but ideas, common sense, empathy, and conscience, faced persecution in the name of truth.

For in the chaos of usurpation, when the sword is raised, it is the person who dares to uphold truth and principles who becomes the most dangerous. Their exile, their silence, their death—all of these serve as testaments to the fragility of power when confronted with the permanence of ideas.

And in their defiance, they leave behind a question for each of us: when the time comes, will we stand quietly in their shadow, or will we rise to protect what is true?

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1. Donald Holzman, Poetry and Politics: The Life and Works of Juan Chi (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1976), 16-17.

2. Ibid., 21.

3. Ibid., 18.

4. According to the Chinese-American historian Yü Ying-shih, Ruan Ji’s eighty-two poems represent Chinese lyric in its full maturity, containing his innermost thoughts and sentiments. See Yu Yingshih, “Individualism and the Neo-Daoist Movement in Wei-Jin China,” in Yü Ying-shih, Chinese History and Culture: Sixth Century BCE to Seventeenth Century, (New York, Columbia University Press, 2016.), 141.

5. Stephen Owen and Wendy Swartz, The Poetry of Ruan Ji and Xi Kang, (Boston: De Gruyter Mouton, 2017). 111.

6. Holzman, Poetry and Politics, 9-10.