Mandarin taught me about the Chinese philosophy of social life

"Language shapes our worldview." This is the hypothesis put forward by two of the most influential linguists of the 20th century, Edward Sapir and Benjamin Lee Whorf. But if we look more closely, what examples might actually demonstrate this hypothesis?

When I first arrived in China as a Malay language teacher, I took the initiative to learn Mandarin so that I could become accustomed to living among local people. I needed it for ordinary things: ordering food, reporting a problem with my room, calling a taxi, and simply making conversation with people around me. All of these everyday interactions required at least a basic command of Mandarin. So I bought HSK textbooks and began studying the language autodidactically.

What fascinated me was that, as I went deeper into Mandarin, I discovered that a language spoken by more than a billion people contains expressions that are difficult to translate not only into Malay, but even into English. I remember thinking: perhaps this is precisely what Sapir and Whorf meant when they argued that language shapes our worldview.

Take the word guanxi, for example. In English, it can be translated as "relationship, connection, network, contact or acquaintance". Yet none of these words, nor even a combination of them, fully captures the meaning of guanxi.

Guanxi is more than simply being friends or being connected. It begins with a personal relationship that can subsequently develop into a network of trust, mutual assistance, and even business partnership. In a world that increasingly emphasises individualism, one might ask: "What can this relationship do for me?" The philosophy underlying guanxi, however, encourages a different question: "How can this relationship strengthen our bond, and what responsibilities do I have in maintaining our mutual well-being?"

This helps explain why business relationships among Chinese communities around the world — including the Chinese community in Malaysia — have often been remarkably strong. People do not simply pursue prosperity individually; they build networks through which opportunities, assistance, and success can be shared. They struggle together, and they prosper together.

Another fascinating concept I encountered was lian, which is closely related to mianzi. In Malay society, we have the concept of air muka— literally "the face" — which refers to a person's dignity and reputation, something that may be guarded almost as carefully as one's own life.

I was delighted to discover the concepts of lian and mianzi, because they reminded me of a similar concern for courtesy and dignity in Malay society. This philosophy helps explain why openly criticizing someone can be considered undesirable in Chinese social interaction: doing so may cause the other person to "lose face".

I see this tendency in a positive light. Excessive bluntness can sometimes damage the harmony of a relationship — precisely the kind of relationship that guanxi seeks to cultivate. Criticism does not necessarily become less honest simply because it is delivered with consideration for another person's dignity. On the contrary, I believe criticism expressed in a way that preserves the other person's "face" can be more harmonious and, ultimately, more effective, because the effort to preserve the relationship is itself appreciated by the person receiving the criticism.

Then I encountered another beautiful concept: yuanfen. English has the words "fate" and "coincidence", but neither quite captures what yuanfen conveys. It describes a meaningful encounter between people — the feeling that two people were meant to cross paths. A meeting may appear accidental, yet it can subsequently be understood as something that carries a deeper significance.

This reminds me of how I met my partner. Sometimes, as the saying goes, when you know, you know.

My encounters with my students at Guangxi Minzu University feel much the same. I do not regard these meetings merely as accidents of geography or circumstance. They have meaning. We were meant to meet, to learn from one another, and, in some way, to grow together. A part of who I am is now shaped by Chinese culture, and perhaps that, too, is a form of yuanfen.

In the Confucian tradition, wisdom is often associated with balance: neither excess nor deficiency, neither one extreme nor the other, but the appropriate measure. Much of this can be captured by the concept zhongyong.

The principle extends beyond philosophical discussion into everyday life. We should not overindulge in eating and drinking; nor should we carry any tendency to excess into our relationships, emotions, or conduct. Zhongyong is closely related to another useful concept, fencun: knowing one's limits, knowing how far to go and understanding what is appropriate in a particular situation.

I find fencun especially valuable because it suggests that social wisdom is not always a matter of deciding between right and wrong. Sometimes the more difficult question is: how much is appropriate here?

When should I speak? When should I remain silent? How directly should I express myself? How much should I ask of another person? How close should I become? These questions require an ability to read the situation — a form of social intelligence that cannot always be reduced to a set of explicit rules.

As a final thought, I would like to end with one Chinese word that I believe could serve as a useful principle for people of all ages and backgrounds: dongshi. The word is commonly used when talking about children. Parents may praise a child for being dongshi when the child behaves appropriately, understands the situation, and does not need to be told what to do. But the concept carries a much broader philosophy than simply being a well-behaved child.

At its heart is the ability to read a situation and understand what others may need without everything having to be explicitly stated.

In a world increasingly influenced by individualistic values, this quality can sometimes appear to be fading. Knowing when to put others first, when to remain silent, when to speak, when to step forward and when to step back — these are not merely manners. They are social skills that must be learned and cultivated.

Perhaps there is something we can all learn from the Chinese philosophy contained in dongshi: understand the situation before insisting on yourself.

In this sense, learning Mandarin has convinced me that language does indeed offer its own distinctive way of seeing the world.

Learning a foreign language is not merely about knowing how to order food when traveling abroad. It can also teach us how another society understands relationships, dignity, obligation, emotion, and appropriate conduct.

This, for me, is the real intellectual pleasure of learning Mandarin. I came to China as a teacher of Malay, but in learning the language of the people around me, I have also begun to understand something about the way they see the world.

And I am still enjoying that discovery here in Nanning, Guangxi Zhuang autonomous region, in the far southern region of China.

The author is a Malay language lecturer at the Faculty of Southeast Asian Languages and Cultures, Guangxi Minzu University, Nanning, Guangxi.

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