Tag: Context

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Culture Current Events History

wēijī

wēijī (wēi·jī {dangerous | endangering} · {incipient moment; crucial point | occasion} | {(for) danger} · occasion; opportunity → [crisis] 危机 危機) ← Tap/click to show/hide the “flashcard”

As of this writing, jw.org is featuring the article “Ukraine War Fuels Global Food Crisis”. The Mandarin version of this article uses “quánqiú (quán·qiú entire · globe → [global] 全球) liángshi (liáng·shi {grain → [food]} · {eating (matter) → [food]} → [food] 粮食 糧食) wēijī (wēi·jī {dangerous | endangering} · {incipient moment; crucial point | occasion} | {(for) danger} · occasion; opportunity → [crisis] 危机 危機)” to correspond with “global food crisis”.

The previous use on jw.org of “nànmín (nàn·mín calamity · {persons of a certain occupation} → [refugees] 难民 難民) cháo (tide → [(social) upsurge] 潮)” to correspond with “refugee crisis” (as discussed in a past MEotW post) makes for an interesting contrast—the use here of “cháo (tide → [(social) upsurge] 潮)”, literally meaning “tide”, is relatively specific, whereas “wēijī (wēi·jī {dangerous | endangering} · {incipient moment; crucial point | occasion} | {(for) danger} · occasion; opportunity → [crisis] 危机 危機)” is more generally used to correspond with “crisis”.

The “Danger + Opportunity” Trope

“Wēijī (Wēi·jī {dangerous | endangering} · {incipient moment; crucial point | occasion} | {(for) danger} · occasion; opportunity → [crisis] 危机 危機)” has unfortunately been used—or misused—by Westerners so much to refer to positive opportunity in the midst of danger that there is a whole Wikipedia article on that.

Other articles have been written on this subject as well, such as the following:

Are All Opportunities Good?

It seems that the crux of the issue is the morpheme “jī ({machine; mechanism [→ [airplane; aircraft | being organic]]} | {incipient moment; crucial point} | chance; opportunity; occasion 机 機/机)” in “wēijī (wēi·jī {dangerous | endangering} · {incipient moment; crucial point | occasion} | {(for) danger} · occasion; opportunity → [crisis] 危机 危機)”, and how it does or doesn’t relate to the English word “opportunity”.

The English word “opportunity” is often defined as a situation that is favourable or allowing for progress. Naturally, people love progress and things that are favourable, so many naturally want to believe that “opportunity” being a possible meaning of the “jī ({machine; mechanism [→ [airplane; aircraft | being organic]]} | {incipient moment; crucial point} | chance; opportunity; occasion 机 機/机)” in “wēijī (wēi·jī {dangerous | endangering} · {incipient moment; crucial point | occasion} | {(for) danger} · occasion; opportunity → [crisis] 危机 危機)” means that they can find some favourable things for themselves in any crisis, because “the Chinese say so”.

It should be noted, though, that technically, an opportunity is not necessarily always a positive thing. One dictionary in fact defines an “opportunity” as “a time or set of circumstances that makes it possible to do something”, and not all possibilities are positive—it depends on who or what a possibility is for.

Possibilities

Speaking of possibilities, both “wēi (danger | dangerous | endanger 危)” and “jī ({machine; mechanism [→ [airplane; aircraft | being organic]]} | {incipient moment; crucial point} | chance; opportunity; occasion 机 機/机)” (but especially “jī ({machine; mechanism [→ [airplane; aircraft | being organic]]} | {incipient moment; crucial point} | chance; opportunity; occasion 机 機/机)”) are polysemous, that is, having many possible related meanings—they are sort of like linguistic Schrödinger’s cats that could be in several possible states until sufficient context collapses the possibilities into one (or perhaps, still, a few).

How do the possibilities collapse when “wēi (danger | dangerous | endanger 危)” and “jī ({machine; mechanism [→ [airplane; aircraft | being organic]]} | {incipient moment; crucial point} | chance; opportunity; occasion 机 機/机)” are put together as “wēijī (wēi·jī {dangerous | endangering} · {incipient moment; crucial point | occasion} | {(for) danger} · occasion; opportunity → [crisis] 危机 危機)” and then used in typical contexts? Since “wēijī (wēi·jī {dangerous | endangering} · {incipient moment; crucial point | occasion} | {(for) danger} · occasion; opportunity → [crisis] 危机 危機)” is a Mandarin word, the most important context to consider is that of the Mandarin language itself.

How does “wēijī (wēi·jī {dangerous | endangering} · {incipient moment; crucial point | occasion} | {(for) danger} · occasion; opportunity → [crisis] 危机 危機)” work as a word in the Mandarin language? For what it’s worth, my sense, influenced by decades of translating Mandarin words into English, is that “wēijī (wēi·jī {dangerous | endangering} · {incipient moment; crucial point | occasion} | {(for) danger} · occasion; opportunity → [crisis] 危机 危機)”, as used in Mandarin, should be understood to primarily mean an incipient moment, or even opportunity, for danger itself, not for a Western or other opportunist who tries to make the situation about himself/herself. That is to say, with a Mandarin wēijī (wēi·jī {dangerous | endangering} · {incipient moment; crucial point | occasion} | {(for) danger} · occasion; opportunity → [crisis] 危机 危機), the focus is primarily on how in the situation referred to, dangerous things could happen. As Prof. Mair says in his essay mentioned above:

If one wishes to wax philosophical about the jī of wēijī, one might elaborate upon it as the dynamic of a situation’s unfolding, when many elements are at play. In this sense, jī is neutral. This jī can either turn out for better or for worse, but — when coupled with wēi — the possibility of a highly undesirable outcome (whether in life, disease, finance, or war) is uppermost in the mind of the person who invokes this potent term.

Even the seemingly unrelated meaning for “jī ({machine; mechanism [→ [airplane; aircraft | being organic]]} | {incipient moment; crucial point} | chance; opportunity; occasion 机 機/机)” of “machine” or “mechanism” may be (somewhat, at least) connected to the concept of “opportunity”, since, as the tech lovers among us know, machines and mechanisms make possible things that were not possible before, opening up opportunities for good or bad things to happen, depending on who or what uses them, and how. Also, in an abstract way, a situation can be likened to a machine or mechanism with which certain inputs can cause certain things to happen. With “wēijī (wēi·jī {dangerous | endangering} · {incipient moment; crucial point | occasion} | {(for) danger} · occasion; opportunity → [crisis] 危机 危機)”, the input of concern is danger.

Responding Well to Crises

It is true, though, that how we respond to the potential dangers of an actual wēijī (wēi·jī {dangerous | endangering} · {incipient moment; crucial point | occasion} | {(for) danger} · occasion; opportunity → [crisis] 危机 危機), an actual crisis, can determine whether we end up better off or worse off. For example, the recent daily text for June 3, 2022 discussed 2 Corinthians 12:10, in which the apostle Paul said he ‘took pleasure’ in various crises as opportunities to exercise reliance on “the power of the Christ” rather than on his own relative insignificant power. (2 Corinthians 12:9) Thus, he would become truly powerful. As shown by a cross reference in the New World Translation Study Bible, related to this is what Paul wrote in Philippians 4:13:

“For all things I have the strength through the one who gives me power.”

So, while the Mandarin expression “quánqiú (quán·qiú entire · globe → [global] 全球) liángshi (liáng·shi {grain → [food]} · {eating (matter) → [food]} → [food] 粮食 糧食) wēijī (wēi·jī {dangerous | endangering} · {incipient moment; crucial point | occasion} | {(for) danger} · occasion; opportunity → [crisis] 危机 危機)” directly refers to potential dangers relating to global food availability, a quánqiú (quán·qiú entire · globe → [global] 全球) liángshi (liáng·shi {grain → [food]} · {eating (matter) → [food]} → [food] 粮食 糧食) wēijī (wēi·jī {dangerous | endangering} · {incipient moment; crucial point | occasion} | {(for) danger} · occasion; opportunity → [crisis] 危机 危機) also provides opportunity for us to exercise reliance on Jehovah and his King, Jesus, as the apostle Paul did. Additionally, it may give us opportunities to share the good news of God’s Kingdom with people who are receptive to it, as it becomes more and more evident that only God’s Kingdom can truly bring an end to such crises.

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Culture Current Events Language Learning

nànmín

nànmín (nàn·mín calamity; disaster; adversity; distress · {person of a certain occupation} → [refugee] 难民 難民) ← Tap/click to show/hide the “flashcard”

On February 24, 2022, Russia sent significant military forces into Ukraine, resulting in the largest scale open warfare in Europe since World War II. Knowing certain Mandarin expressions will help us in the Mandarin field as we hear about and talk about Ukraine in the time ahead.

As of this writing, the article “Refugee Crisis​—Millions Flee Ukraine” is being featured on jw.org. In the Mandarin version of that article, the English word “refugee” is translated as “nànmín (nàn·mín calamity; disaster; adversity; distress · {person of a certain occupation} → [refugee] 难民 難民)”, this week’s MEotW.

While it may seem odd to say in the Pīnyīn (Pīn·yīn {Piecing Together} · Sounds → [Pinyin] 拼音) Plus information that a refugee has an “occupation”, note that an occupation can be defined, not just as a job or profession, but also as “any activity that occupies a person’s attention”. Unfortunately, being a refugee certainly “occupies a person’s attention”.

(By the way, in the Mandarin version of the above-mentioned article, “refugee crisis” is translated as “nànmín (nàn·mín calamity · {persons of a certain occupation} → [refugees] 难民 難民) cháo (tide → [(social) upsurge] 潮)”. “Cháo (tide [→ [(social) upsurge; current; trend]] 潮)” literally means “tide”, which is an easily understood metaphor, similar to how in English we may speak of a “wave” of refugees.)

A Shifty Character

One may notice that the first Chinese character used to write “nànmín (nàn·mín calamity; disaster; adversity; distress · {person of a certain occupation} → [refugee] 难民 難民)”, “难/難”, is also the Chinese character used to write “nán ({[is] difficult}; {[is] hard} | difficultly | {make difficult/difficulties} 难 難)”, a common word that basically means “difficult”. One then can hardly fail to notice that whereas with “nànmín (nàn·mín calamity; disaster; adversity; distress · {person of a certain occupation} → [refugee] 难民 難民)”, “难/難” is pronounced with a fourth tone, with “nán ({[is] difficult}; {[is] hard} | difficultly | {make difficult/difficulties} 难 難)” it is pronounced with a second tone. But, aren’t characters supposed to be the grand clarifiers of meaning in a Mandarin language awash in homophones (words that sound the same, but that have different meanings)?

Yes, it has become customary to rely (too much) on characters that are seen to disambiguate or clarify pronunciations that are heard, but the truth is that characters themselves can also be ambiguous on their own, since, as our example above shows, characters can have multiple pronunciations and meanings.

What is the real ultimate clarifier of meaning in Mandarin, even when it has been allowed to develop as many homophones as it has? The ultimate clarifier is context, not characters! For example, when we see that “难/難” is followed by “民”, that context tells us that here, “难/難” is pronounced as “nàn”, with its associated meaning, not as “nán”, with its different associated meaning. On its own, without context, the character “难/難” is ambiguous.

For more information on why it’s problematic to rely on characters to disambiguate homophones in Mandarin, see the subheading “But There Are So Many Words That Sound the Same!” in the article “Pīnyīn (Pīn·yīn {Piecing Together} · Sounds → [Pinyin] 拼音) Was Plan A”.

“Context is God”

Regarding context, the MEotW post on “yǔjìng (yǔ·jìng language · {(set of) boundaries → [(bounded) place; area] → [condition; situation; circumstances]} → [context] 语境 語境)” had this to say:

Context and Mandarin Writing Systems

Research into the importance of context turned up a couple of interesting sayings from the business world:

Content is king.
—Bill Gates

Content is king, but context is God.
—Gary Vaynerchuk

Mandarin field language-learners may hear the assertion from Chinese culture traditionalists that it is necessary to use Chinese characters to clarify the ambiguity that results from Mandarin having so many homophones, words that sound the same but that have different meanings. The insinuation, or even the outright accusation, is that the upstart Pīnyīn (Pīn·yīn {Piecing Together} · Sounds → [Pinyin] 拼音) system is thus unusable as a writing system for Mandarin, that the Chinese characters writing system is still the rightful king. Besides, there is so much existing content written in Chinese characters, and content is king!

However, a little consideration of the yǔjìng (yǔ·jìng language · {(set of) boundaries → [(bounded) place] → [situation]} → [context] 语境 語境), the language situation or context, shows up the fallacy of this assertion. The Chinese characters writing system exists along with Mandarin speech, and if Chinese characters are truly required to clearly communicate meaning in Mandarin, then that would mean that Mandarin speech on its own, without the help of visible characters, is unusable as a means of communication. That, however, is obviously not true—people who are proficient in spoken Mandarin communicate clearly with each other all the time, undoubtedly pretty much as clearly as proficient English speakers communicate with each other.

The key reason why proficient Mandarin speakers can communicate clearly with each other despite all of the homophones in Mandarin is not that they are constantly referring to Chinese characters, although people do occasionally do that in the current characters-saturated cultural climate. No, the key reason why Mandarin-speakers routinely communicate clearly with each other is because they use sufficient context to clarify any potentially ambiguous homophones. And, since Pīnyīn (Pīn·yīn {Piecing Together} · Sounds → [Pinyin] 拼音) is a simple and direct representation of Mandarin speech, anything that is understandable when spoken in Mandarin is understandable when written in Pīnyīn (Pīn·yīn {Piecing Together} · Sounds → [Pinyin] 拼音).—1 Corinthians 14:8–11.

So, while Chinese characters-based content may be so predominant in the Chinese world that it’s king there, context is God, relatively and metaphorically speaking, and Mandarin speech and Pīnyīn (Pīn·yīn {Piecing Together} · Sounds → [Pinyin] 拼音) rightly rely on context, not on Chinese characters, just like we rightly rely on God, not on merely human kings.

Categories
Culture Theocratic

zìzhì

zìzhì (zì·zhì self-·{controlling → [control]} 自制) ← Tap/click to show/hide the “flashcard”

The ninth and final part of the fruitage of the spirit listed is self-control.— Jiālātàishū (Jiālātài·shū Galatia · Book → [Galatians] 加拉太书 加拉太書) 5:22, 23.

Galatians 5:22, 23 (WOL nwtsty-CHS+Pinyin)

The English word “self-control” is translated into Mandarin in the above scripture as “zìzhì (zì·zhì self-·{controlling → [control]} 自制)”, this week’s MEotW.

Literally a Verb, Effectively a Noun

Note that in “zìzhì (zì·zhì self-·{controlling → [control]} 自制)”, “zhì ({work out}; formulate; stipulate | restrict; control; govern | system; institution; -ism 制)” is effectively used to mean the noun “control”, even though in this context its literal meaning is actually the verb “controlling”. This seems to be a case of “zhì ({work out}; formulate; stipulate | restrict; control; govern | system; institution; -ism 制)” acting as a verbal noun, or gerundial noun. Verbal/gerundial nouns were discussed in the MEotW post on “jiàodǎo (jiào·dǎo teaching · {guiding [→ [instructing]]} 教导 教導)”:

One interesting thing to note about “jiàodǎo (jiào·dǎo teaching · {guiding [→ [instructing]]} 教导 教導)” (and about “jiàoxun (teaching → [reprimanding | knowledge gained from an error] 教训 教訓)”, for that matter) is that their component morphemes seem to basically be verbs. In certain contexts, however, they are used as nouns. An example of this being done in English is that “teach” and “teaching” are verbs (e.g. “Jesus was teaching the crowd.”), but in certain contexts, “teaching” is used as a noun (e.g. “The crowd was amazed at the teaching Jesus shared with them.”). When a word is used this way, it’s called a verbal noun, or a gerundial noun. Verbal nouns are quite common in Mandarin.

Over-Simplified But Still Extaordinarily Complex?

The character “制”, used to write the “zhì ({work out}; formulate; stipulate | restrict; control; govern | system; institution; -ism 制)” in “zìzhì (zì·zhì self-·{controlling → [control]} 自制)” in both simplfied and traditional characters, is an interesting example of the different compromises involved in those two different writing systems.

If one looks up the simplified character “制” in a dictionary, one may see possible meanings as varied as “restrict; control; govern”, and “make; manufacture”. It turns out that this is because the simplified character “制” can correspond to the traditional character “制”, which can mean “restrict; control; govern”, and it can also correspond to the traditional character “製”, which means “make; manufacture”.

While using the single simplified character “制” to correspond to both “制” and “製” results in not requiring people to learn and remember the relatively complex traditional character “製”, it also results in the simplified character “制” getting “overloaded” (a term that’s used in computer programming) with multiple meanings, which in turn can result in greater ambiguity. At the same time, the simplified character “制” is still a character—it’s still significantly more complex and hard to learn and remember than an alphabetic represention would be. In comparison, the traditional characters “制” and “製” offer reduced ambiguity and can perhaps be said to work better as characters, but at the obvious cost of even greater complexity.

Too Many Words That Sound the Same?

Those invested in characters may point out that even simplified characters are often less ambiguous than Pīnyīn (Pīn·yīn {Piecing Together} · Sounds → [Pinyin] 拼音), which renders “制”, “製”, and also every other character pronounced “zhì” as just “zhì”. The great advantage of Pīnyīn (Pīn·yīn {Piecing Together} · Sounds → [Pinyin] 拼音), though, is its elegant simplicity and significantly greater ease of learning and remembering compared to any character writing system.

It is indeed unfortunate that Pīnyīn (Pīn·yīn {Piecing Together} · Sounds → [Pinyin] 拼音) has inherited a spoken Mandarin language that has come to have many homophones in it, probably from centuries of inappropriate cultural reliance on characters that are seen to disambiguate speech that is heard, instead of just making sure that the speech itself is not riddled with homophones. Even so, the truth is that today homophones are no more a problem in Pīnyīn (Pīn·yīn {Piecing Together} · Sounds → [Pinyin] 拼音) than they are in spoken Mandarin, which people speak to each other all the time without having problems with homophones. How do Mandarin speech and the Pīnyīn (Pīn·yīn {Piecing Together} · Sounds → [Pinyin] 拼音) that simply and directly represents it accomplish this? “Content is king, but context is God.”

(For a more in-depth discussion about homophones in Mandarin and whether they really make Pīnyīn (Pīn·yīn {Piecing Together} · Sounds → [Pinyin] 拼音) unworkable as a writing system for Mandarin, see the subheading “But There Are So Many Words That Sound the Same!” in the article “Pīnyīn (Pīn·yīn {Piecing Together} · Sounds → [Pinyin] 拼音) Was Plan A”.)