人與天地亦一物
Yanqing Lou
The Experimental High School Attached to Beijing Normal University
“Human beings and the natural world are of one substance; we share life and death with all living things.”
—Mei Yaochen (Tang dynasty)
“Stay away from our trees!”
A pebble struck my back. It hurt, even through my shirt.
A boy from the village had thrown it. An elderly man scolded him, then walked over, nodded at Zhou, a specialist on Hainan's Tanjiaotan Hydraulic Hub. I was his RA.
“These two ancient trees are our village gate. They've protected us from war and plague.”The old man continued: Future reservoir would cover 400 square kilometres; the whole village would lie underwater. “We've been told to relocate, but some families refuse—especially Granny Wang's. She's been ill for years; the doctors say she hasn't long.”
This was part of my summer work on the ancient-tree relocation project. The Tanjiaotan hub was designed to secure water for Chengmai and Haikou. Yet the project required not only engineering, but the migration of people—and of venerable trees.
Zhou's team included ecologists, heavy-lifting engineers, and government logistics officers. Our task was to transplant centuries-old trees from the soon-to-be-submerged area. Chinese tradition says, “People flourish when moved; trees die when moved.”In many ways, relocating ancient trees is a challenge to natural law. Technology improves survival rates; we measured root systems of rubber trees, kapok and banyans to avoid cutting major roots; we calculated soil-ball weights to design steel frames strong enough for lifting; the government funded cranes and transport trucks. To me, the work symbolized balancing urban development with biodiversity.
But the pebble brought me back to earth. Our belief that technology could “defy natural law” carried a hidden arrogance. The old saying is not superstition—it reflects an intuitive understanding that life and environment cannot be severed.
The old man explained that Granny Wang's given name was “Mumian”, which literally means “kapok”, symbolizing the beauty of kapok's blossoms. When we visited her, she was frail in bed, whispered that she had seen stars dancing on the two trees—spirits that lived within them. Her life had merged with the land and the trees; she would not move.
I asked, “What if the dam floods the village?”
She said softly, “Then I shall remain. I was born here; I want to die here. I am the same as everything around me.”
Only then did I understand: for her, human life, growth of trees and breath of the soil, were one. Modern development, in demanding relocation for “water supply” or “economic progress”, wasn't simply right or wrong—it represented a collision between two ways of being: one rooted, one expansive.
The story ends with the ancient trees successfully relocated, but Granny Wang passing away, remaining forever in the village where she was born. Her choice to fade with her homeland taught me that some roots can never be carried.
Since then, I have asked myself: Should technological capability override the laws of nature? Must infrastructure and ecological integrity always compete? Perhaps, like admiring falling cherry blossoms while forgetting guilt or consequence, we must find a path between depletion and drowning.
Nature's laws do not change, and there is beauty in that constancy. I believe sustainability will offer the answers I seek. I joined UN Sustainable Development Leadership Programme in Tokyo in February 2025 as its only high-school participant, leading my team to the Best Impact Award. I then continued my sustainability research, studying waterside ecosystems in Tokyo and vegetation-based stormwater management, using cost-benefit modelling.
Everything began with that pebble—and the awakening it delivered.
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