Nan Man: The Wild South

Preface: The illustration above is an example of Japanese Namban art. Although the term “南蛮” (Nánmán) originates from Chinese, in Japanese it carries an entirely different meaning. This essay was written in collaboration with ChatGPT.

2-0: Zuo Zhuan

The term Nanman (“southern barbarians”) first appeared in ancient Chinese texts as a general label used by Central Plains dynasties to refer to non-Huaxia peoples from the south. Nan refers to the geographic direction—regions south of the Yangtze River—while man was one of several derogatory terms for non-Sinitic groups, alongside yi, rong, and di. Together, these were known as the “Four Barbarians” (siyi).

Zuo Zhuan, written during the Warring States period, is a historical commentary meant to explain the cryptically brief entries of Spring and Autumn Annals, which recorded events in the state of Lu. Though the work is credited to Zuo Qiuming of Lu, as with filmmaking, it’s often the people who do the work whose names are forgotten. In the orthodox Confucian historiographical system, Confucius compiled the Annals, while Zuo Qiuming wrote the commentary. The two were meant to be read together—jing (the classic) and zhuan (the commentary) in tandem.

The Spring and Autumn Annals is just 16,000 characters long—shorter than a few of my blog posts—and its language is extremely terse, often recording an entire year’s major events in a single line. It covers Lu’s affairs between 722 BCE and 481 BCE, including politics, diplomacy, wars, and disasters. Zuo Zhuan, in contrast, is almost paranoid that you might misunderstand. It’s full of citations, vivid storytelling, and strong emotional tones. In addition to detailing diplomatic maneuvers and military alliances between feudal states, it also frequently mentions the “Four Barbarians.”

While Zuo Zhuan focuses on the Central Plains nobility, it uses “ritual and music civilization” (li yue wenming) as a standard of judgment, often portraying the “barbarians” with explicit cultural bias. For instance, in Zhao Gong Year 20, it states: “Nanman jué shé, bù yǔ Zhōngguó zhī yán—The southern barbarians have birds’ tongues and cannot speak the language of China.” Jué, a type of shrike, suggests that their speech sounded like bird cries. This is one of the most famous descriptions of the siyi in Zuo Zhuan, underscoring the cultural and linguistic othering. To be unintelligible was to be uncivilized—though honestly, Lu’s own dialect wasn’t much to brag about either.

In Xi Gong Year 4, the text discusses the western Rong tribes: “Xu Rong yi ye, bùkě yǔ tú wáng”—“The Xu Rong are barbarians and not fit to plan the royal campaign.” The term rong originally referred to weapons; in oracle bone script, it was a pictograph of a person holding arms, symbolizing force. The Rong were tribes west of Lu, in areas like Gansu and Qinghai, including the Xu Rong, Quan Rong, and Qiang Rong. Equating the state of Xu with yi indicated that it had no place in the Huaxia-centered political order. This was identity politics in its earliest form—drawing sharp lines between the “inner” and the “outer.”

In Xi Gong Year 33, the text refers to the northern Di peoples: “Di rén qí qín shòu yě”—“The Di are like birds and beasts.” Meaning: they are beyond reason, beyond ritual, beyond civil discourse. Lu was obsessed with decorum, etiquette, and vertical hierarchies. The Di were nomadic tribes inhabiting what is now northern Shanxi, Hebei, and southern Inner Mongolia. Subgroups included the White Di, Red Di, and Long Di. They followed water and grass, raised livestock, and lacked walled cities. They were militaristic, mobile, and seen as dangerous. In Wen Gong Year 18, Zuo Zhuan states, “yòng Xià biàn Yí, bùnéng yòng Yí biàn Xià”—“It’s fine to transform barbarians with Xia (civilization), but never the other way around.” A one-way street of civilizing.

While the Rong and Di were often portrayed as threats in warfare—fierce, treacherous, unruly—there was always a tone of strategic ambiguity: they were to be guarded against, but could also be used.

Zuo Zhuan repeatedly emphasized the Confucian ideal of alignment between ritual (li), virtue (de), and language (yan). Any group that failed to observe rituals, spoke an incomprehensible tongue, and did not uphold virtue was placed into the siyi category. This wasn’t just about ethnicity—it was a deeply hierarchical cultural worldview.

2-1: The People of Chu

The term “Chu people” originally referred to the citizens of the state of Chu during the Spring and Autumn and Warring States periods. Chu originated in what is now western Hubei and later expanded to encompass much of the southern regions, including present-day Hunan, Jiangxi, Anhui, southern Henan, Guizhou, and eastern Sichuan. As a feudal state bearing the surname Mi and nominally enfeoffed by the Zhou court, Chu quickly rose to become a powerful regional hegemon, eventually ranking among the “Four Powers” of the Warring States alongside Qin, Qi, and Jin. Due to its southern origin and distinctive culture, it was often dismissed by the Central Plains states as “uncivilized” and mocked as “barbarians.”

In Zuo Zhuan, Duke Xi, Year 3 (657 BCE), a Chu envoy said to a Jin envoy: “I will not deceive you if you do not scheme against me.” At the time, Jin had formed an alliance with Zheng, upsetting Chu, which then sent an envoy to compete for Zheng’s allegiance. A diplomatic confrontation occurred in Zheng, and the Chu envoy uttered this now-famous line.

According to ChatGPT, this line is unlike any typical speech from the Central Plains. It is colloquial, emotionally direct, and unadorned, exuding a kind of rough, frontier logic: “You don’t mess with me, and I won’t mess with you.” By contrast, envoys from Central Plains states often spoke in high formality, citing the Book of Songs, Book of Documents, and Rites of Zhou, full of rhetorical embellishments about “ritual,” “virtue,” and ancestral teachings. The Chu envoy’s plain, candid style came across as rebellious—and to be honest, I find it quite resonant with how I view myself.

From the Central Plains perspective, Chu people were often seen as unruly, untrustworthy, war-prone, and obsessed with spirits and omens. In the worldview of the Central Plains, li (ritual) formed the basis of Confucian order—representing hierarchy, decorum, and strict codes governing relations between ruler and subject, father and son, superior and inferior. Everything was governed by rigid protocol. Chu, in contrast, did not fully adopt the Zhou ritual system. Its court dress, religious ceremonies, and state rituals retained strong local and shamanistic elements. In southern societies like Chu and the Baiyue tribes, shamans—often women and from non-elite backgrounds—played central roles in worship and spirit communication, outside of Confucian control. Their rituals involved dance, song, fragrant herbs, and sexual symbols, a practice deemed dangerous and unclassifiable by the Central Plains elite.

In diplomatic alliances, Chu envoys often broke protocol by refusing to honor the Zhou king first or observe the hierarchical order of feudal lords. In Zuo Zhuan, Chu envoys often skipped over ceremonial pleasantries and quotations from classical texts, going straight to the point, with a highly oral and political tone. As ChatGPT observed, Central Plains diplomatic speech had a “three-piece suit” formula: first cite the classics to establish legitimacy, then observe self-deprecating titles and hierarchical address, and finally appeal to “ritual” and “the Way.” The Chu, by contrast, spoke in sharp, concise, confrontational, and highly individualistic tones—disrupting the entire Central Plains diplomatic style.

In Zuo Zhuan, Duke Xi, Year 33 (601 BCE), King Zhuang of Chu told the Central Plains lords: “I am a barbarian, yet I have added to it the teachings of the Central States—how dangerous that must be for you!” A short sentence packed with implication. It summarized Chu’s identity, cultural stance, strategic ambition, and rhetorical defiance. At the time, King Zhuang had sent envoys to convene a summit with other states, preparing to challenge the Zhou king’s authority and “seize the cauldrons” of symbolic power. The Central Plains still denied Chu’s legitimacy, branding them as upstarts and savages. King Zhuang’s remark was pointed: “I was already a barbarian. Now that I’ve mastered your political tricks, aren’t you the ones in trouble?”

Chu’s reputation for untrustworthiness stemmed from its repeated breaches of alliance and self-serving tactics. One of the core tenets of interstate politics in the Spring and Autumn period was trust—alliances were to be honored, wars fought with just cause. Zuo Zhuan constantly judged behavior by whether it upheld or violated “trust.” Chu, by contrast, was often portrayed as breaking alliances, stabbing allies in the back, or swearing loyalty one day and attacking the next. During its rivalry with Jin, Chu frequently declared itself a king (without Zhou’s permission), refused to send tribute or hostages, and pursued hegemony on its own terms—earning the condemnation of Central Plains states as a “faithless nation.”

In Duke Xi, Year 3, the Book of Songs records: “In spring and the first month of the king’s calendar, no rain fell. In the fourth month, still no rain. The people of Xu captured Shu. In the sixth month, it rained. In autumn, the lords of Qi, Song, Jiang, and Huang met at Yanggu. In winter, Prince You went to Qi to form an alliance. The people of Chu attacked Zheng.” The text is cryptic. There was no rain from winter to May, finally some in June. Xu took Shu. Then these states met, and suddenly Chu attacked Zheng. Was it a food crisis? What were Qi, Song, Jiang, and Huang plotting?

Further in Zuo Zhuan, the explanation appears: “From the tenth month until May, no rain fell. Yet it was not called a drought nor considered a disaster. In autumn, they gathered at Yanggu to plan a campaign against Chu.” Finally, clarity: Yanggu was where these lords plotted to seize grain from Chu. Due to drought, Qi and Song were weakened. Chu, in the south, had better rainfall and agriculture, becoming a target. The Yanggu conference was essentially a war of resource redistribution. Xu and Shu, lying at the northern-southern frontier, were caught in this power struggle—hence “the people of Xu took Shu.”

Chu’s defiance of Central Plains “order” extended to its refusal to conform to diplomatic rituals. King Zhuang of Chu proclaimed himself king, violating the Zhou-centered feudal order, where only the Son of Heaven could hold that title. War in the Central Plains was supposed to have moral justification—“honoring the king and expelling the barbarians,” “rescuing the house of Zhou,” and so on. Chu, however, raised armies, marched north, and fought wars on raw power, not ritual justification. Its military style was direct, pragmatic, and force-first—a “brutal hegemony,” as viewed by ritual-obsessed elites.

Finally, Chu’s “obsession with spirits and omens” was really a reflection of cultural difference. The Central Plains emphasized Heaven’s Mandate, ancestral rites, and Confucian ritual and music. Chu’s spiritual world, influenced by the Three Miao and Baiyue cultures, revered shamans, sacred mountains, serpent gods, and danced with totems. The Songs of Chu, their literary peak, are filled with spiritual dialogues, ghostly travels, and divine pleas. Poet Qu Yuan fused loyalty to his king with mystical invocations—creating one of ancient China’s most unique literary traditions.

2-3: Nanban

Daiga said, “In Japanese, anything with nanban usually involves food—especially poultry.” Come to think of it, he’s right. Whenever I eat soba, I often order nanban chicken—a steaming bowl of hand-cut buckwheat noodles, rich bonito broth, sous-vide duck breast on top, sprinkled with shichimi chili powder. A cold beer on the side. Just thinking about it makes me drool. Funny how nanban, a term once steeped in discrimination, now evokes such delicious comfort.

The term nanban entered Japanese in the Ming Dynasty. By the mid-16th century, Ming Chinese had begun calling the Portuguese and Spanish—arriving by sea from places like the Philippines, Malacca, and Java—nanban, or “Southern Barbarians.” These were men with crosses, boots, hats, and strange tongues. The Japanese adopted the Chinese label for these Westerners: nanbanjin. The term soon extended to include the objects, customs, and technologies they brought—nanban lacquerware, fashion, folding screens, etc. Over time, nanban came to symbolize the wave of Western culture introduced in the 16th–17th centuries, particularly Catholicism, firearms, and navigation, forming what is now known as Nanban Culture.

In Japan, nanban gradually evolved from an ethnic slur into a romanticized signifier of exoticism, foreign flair, and whimsical curiosity. It came to resemble a kind of retro-Western aesthetic or fantasy of the Other. You can see this “nanban taste” everywhere in ukiyo-e, tea ceremonies, and classical theater.