Looking back, my initial choice to study Cultural Studies stemmed from a strong passion for the world. However, the more beautiful my vision for it, the more vulnerable I am to pain and disillusionment. Whether witnessing the brutality of global conflicts, realizing the world remains under the thumb of a few powerful men, or even seeing a fascist demonstration in the peaceful streets of Leuven, the sense of powerlessness is overwhelming. I cannot forget the class on postcolonialism. When the discussion touched upon Taiwan’s history of being sequentially colonized by multiple nations, an indescribable bitterness choked my throat. I deeply love my country, but I am depressed by the unfair traces woven into our history, and the uncertainty it still faces in the global context today. I often wonder: we are all born into this world in the same way, so why are some destined to survive amidst social inequality and geopolitical turmoil?

Even behind contemporary politically correct rhetoric like ‘diversity’, ‘inclusion’, and ‘respect’, I feel this is, on some level, merely taught manners. I can still sense micro-Orientalism in daily life. In academic discussions, East Asia is frequently reduced to a mere reference point used to contrast with Western theories or European situations, stripping away our distinct cultural contexts and subjectivity. In everyday life, many people still intuitively assume we are Chinese based purely on physical features, homogenizing and flattening the immense diversity of East Asian nations into a single notion. This profound knowledge gap demands exhaustive explanation and intercultural communication. Yet, whenever I feel an urge to defend myself, advocate for my thoughts, and share my culture, I frequently confront a profound sense of ‘untranslatability’. Doing so requires explaining layers of cultural background, which clashes directly with my cultural instinct for unspoken subtlety, ensuring that some essence and beauty will always be lost in translation.

I discovered that European and Western discourse often favors a deductive, step-by-step logical progression. In class, I am envious of classmates who can confidently articulate and deconstruct concepts layer by layer, provide explicit examples, and fearlessly diverge from the majority. Conversely, profoundly influenced by a high-context and collectivist culture, I have long been accustomed to understanding the world conceptually and thinking metaphysically, where intuitive resonance outweighs explicit verbalization. Whenever I attempt to explain these concepts verbally, I fear destroying their essence, poetic integrity, and aesthetics. Therefore, I often prefer to keep things brief or even remain silent.

When I share the Buddhist concept of Emptiness (空), the English translation risks implying nihilism, nothingness, or pessimism, missing its true essence: a state of boundless potential and ultimate fullness. Similarly, translating the beautiful East Asian concept of Yuanfen (緣分) simply as “fate” or “destiny” erases the cosmic synchronicity and invisible karmic pull between people. Even saying “reunion” feels hollow compared to the Chinese idiom of “gathering broken glass” (破鏡重圓), which encapsulates the tragic beauty of mending what was shattered and how precious that restoration is. These nuances constitute the profound beauty of my culture. Yet, witnessing their essence evaporate the moment they enter a foreign vocabulary leaves me with a heartbreaking sense of loss.

Furthermore, I find it fundamentally difficult for the rest of the world to comprehend how collectivism and Confucianism — flowing through our blood and spanning generations — dictate our behaviours and words, particularly our inextricable ties to family and others. When I attempt to explain concepts like xiao (孝), translating it simply as “filial piety” feels incredibly hollow. It is not merely about obedience; it is a complex web of deep affection, lifelong duty, ethical order, and the heavy burden of social debt that forms the underlying logic of our entire society.

During a class discussion, I struggled desperately to explain the core of Confucian ethics: the Five Constants (benevolence (仁), righteousness (義), propriety (禮), wisdom (智), and trustworthiness (信)) as the moral foundation for interpersonal relationships, and the Five Virtues (gentleness (溫), goodness (良), respectfulness (恭), frugality (儉), and yielding (讓)) to define the ideal personal character. Yet, I found that even standard English academic terminology distorts their true essence. These are metaphysical, highly collectivist concepts that even those native to the culture find difficult to explicitly verbalize or even truly understand.

From my observation, even as the younger generation attempts to shed these so-called conservative constraints, this intense ethical framework of personal cultivation, duty, and intricate interpersonal bonds continues to subtly dictate our choices and actions through societal conditioning. Whenever I try to explain this to people, an overwhelming sense of loneliness washes over me. I discovered that in European contexts, it is hard to make others realize why East Asians endure such specific internal struggles and hesitations, or why we so fiercely guard certain values that might initially appear as constraints.

Perhaps this is my way of ‘Confucian Confusion’, yearning to shed the baggage of traditional propriety in a new environment, but only to realize that I myself was precisely molded by it. My excessive sensitivity to interpersonal connections, the scrupulous regard for harmony, and the paralyzing fear of failing to convey my exact meaning all force me to swallow thousands of words before I even try to construct a sentence. I want to confront the world’s misunderstanding and injustice head-on; I want to articulate the profound beauty within my mind. Yet, this desire eventually dissolves into aphasia, a silence choked in my throat.

People crossing the boundaries of language and nation must constantly confront this real-life Tower of Babel. All the most genuine emotions, unspeakable pains, or philosophical subtleties are inevitably distorted the moment they are verbalized, let alone translated. To attempt to translate oneself in a foreign land is to be doomed to an endless loneliness. My silence is not an absence of feeling. Rather, I feel so much that those complex emotions require a vast internal digestion and scaffolding before even a fraction of them can be uttered. Fortunately, I still have writing to entrust this silence to text, giving voice to the beauty and struggles within.

I wander amidst multiple languages and cultures, becoming a transnational nomad belonging nowhere. I indulge in the sense of having no borders or fixed identity. However, the tearing reality follows. When standing beneath suffocating skyscrapers in Taiwan, I feel nostalgia for the days of freely traversing Europe on trains. Now, in the peaceful life of Europe, however, certain hard-to-verbalize aspects of myself seem to have been left behind along with the receding scenery outside the train window. Perhaps no matter where I am, I am destined to be a stranger surviving on this type of hybrid nostalgia.

This piece was originally published in Issue 1 of the print edition of Ordinary Matters magazine.