The following commentary appeared in the journal Issues in Science and Technology (Vol. XLI, No. 3, Spring 2025). It is part of a multi-author discussion of the article Reconsidering Research Security, by John C. Gannon, Richard A. Meserve, and Maria T. Zuber, published by the journal in its Winter 2025 issue.

Congress mandated the creation of the National Academies Roundtable on Science, Technology, and Security to address concern that untoward and illicit actions by China and other countries posed serious risks to American security and economic preeminence. John C. Gannon, Richard A. Meserve, and Maria T. Zuber, who cochaired the roundtable, correctly conclude that zealous measures to defend against foreign exploitation of university-based research would be inadequate to preserve US preeminence in science and technology (S&T) without much greater effort to strengthen US capabilities.

I was privileged to serve as a member of the roundtable and am both heartened and deeply disturbed by what we learned. As their article’s summary of key observations makes clear, the magnitude and efficacy of untoward foreign government actions to exploit American university-based research are less than feared, awareness and understanding of the problem in academic institutions and federal funding agencies have improved greatly, and steps underway to ameliorate the problem without seriously damaging the efficacy of open research appear promising. But as the authors also make clear, illicit foreign actions to exploit American S&T are neither the only nor most serious threats to sustained US preeminence and the security and competitive advantages it provides. We have a “Pogo problem.”

The comic strip character Pogo once famously said, “We have met the enemy and he is us.” The roundtable pulled together findings from multiple studies that revealed serious and worsening internal threats to US S&T capacity and preeminence. They also demonstrated that some of the adopted and proposed measures to prevent foreign exploitation will make the internal weaknesses greater and accelerate the relative and absolute decline of US capacity.

For example, as the authors correctly emphasized, the nation needs to give immediate and serious attention to factors that limit the ability of secondary schools to interest and educate young people in science, technology, engineering, and mathematics. We do not now graduate enough seniors interested in STEM fields to fill university classes or existing corporate demand for scientists and technicians. Our broken immigration system compounds the problem in ways that reduce domestic capacity and shift commercial application of discoveries to other countries with better-prepared workforces. The already serious problems are further compounded by research security demands that effectively drive smaller research universities out of the game by making it too costly to utilize available talent or compete for federal grants.

As a member of the roundtable, I fully endorse the conclusions of our cochairs and their call for approaches that emphasize maintaining and improving US STEM capacity more than limited utility efforts to build perfect defenses against exaggerated foreign threats. We must revitalize and adapt the policies that made the United States preeminent if we are to regain and retain that status.

We often think of language as a democratic field, but it is not quite the common property of its speakers, argues Jeffrey Weng, APARC’s 2020-21 postdoctoral fellow on contemporary Asia. Rather, language is a skill that must be learned, says Weng, and it creates social divisions as much as it bridges divides. 

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What has shaped your interest and research into the study of language and linguistic dissemination?

As a first-grade student in the early 1990s attending Chinese school in central New Jersey on Saturday mornings, I learned how to write my first complete sentence in the language: “I am an overseas Chinese.” Now, this was a curious sentence to teach to a class full of American-born children of Taiwanese parents, and it’s a reminder that language is never a neutral conveyor of meaning. Language cannot but be freighted with social, cultural, and political import, a lesson reinforced in my high-school Spanish classes, in which I made my first forays into literature in a foreign language: stories by the great writers of Spain and Latin America not only spoke a wholly different language, but they told wholly different stories from those of their British and American counterparts.

Linguistic difference also is a signal of individual and social difference: my childhood visits with family in Taiwan opened my ears to a cacophonous Babel in the media and on the streets—though we spoke Mandarin at home, whenever we went out, people speaking Taiwanese were everywhere to be seen and heard. This was further amplified when I visited mainland China for the first time in my early 20s. Beijing, the supposed wellspring of the nation’s language, was bewildering—I could not understand much of the unselfconscious speech of the locals. And traveling several hundred miles in any direction would only deepen my incomprehension. And yet, on the radio and on TV, during formal events and on university campuses, there was always Mandarin to clear the way. I wanted to learn more about how this language situation came to be. For me, studying the social, cultural, and political nature of language is a way to a deeper understanding of how people are united and divided in vastly different contexts across the globe.

As you’ve looked deeper into how language shapes society and society shapes language, what is something surprising you’ve come to realize about that relationship?

People often see language as the ultimate democratic field when it comes to cultural practice. No matter how much you might tell people not to split their infinitives or end their sentences with prepositions, popular practice will always win the day. Or so we English speakers think. Ever since Merriam-Webster came out with its infamously descriptivist Third New International Dictionary in 1961, Anglophone language nerds have fought over whether dictionaries should be “prescriptive”—that is, rule-setting—or “descriptive”—reflective of popular usage. But really, these are two sides of the same coin. We take it for granted that privately-owned publishers of dictionaries spell out the supposed norms of our language. Not only that, we even think this ought to be the case. French is the usual counterexample: when government language authorities in Quebec or Paris try to stem the Anglophone tide, we think it absurd that so-called authorities would ever try to rule over something so fundamentally unruly as language.

In my research, however, I learned how fundamentally invented Mandarin as a language is—from its highly artificial pronunciation to the way its orthography has been stabilized. There used to be a lot of variability in how characters were written and how they could be used, much like English spelling before the 18th century. Mandarin, both spoken and written, was standardized only in the 1920s to facilitate mass literacy and national cohesion. So linguistic change might often follow and reflect social change, but the process can also operate in reverse—a government can change language in hopes of facilitating social change.

In your latest journal publication, you argue that language nationalization in Japan, Korea, and Vietnam between 1870-1950 was a state-led, top-down process directed at remaking society rather than the more traditional view of diffusion through trade, economics, and cultural exchange. Why is this an important distinction to make?

Again, we often see language as a democratic field, the common property of its speakers, but it isn’t really. Sociolinguists are often quick to remind us that linguistic differences reflect class differences—“proper” language is that of “educated” speakers. But language is a skill, and skills must be learned. Some people can learn skills more easily than others, whether through natural ability or, more importantly, the life circumstances they were born into. Rich people can more easily get a good education. Educational disparities are now part and parcel of today’s broader debates about inequality. But the very fact that we think this is a problem is a product of developments in the late 19th and early 20th centuries.

Before then, broad swaths of humanity were totally illiterate and had no chance at being educated, and most people did not think this was a problem. In Europe, the language of the Church and academia, even to some extent in Protestant areas, was Latin until the 18th century. Local vernaculars had gradually developed as independent media of communication in government chancelleries and popular literature since the Middle Ages, but they did not really gain ascendancy until the age of print-capitalism and nationalism in the 18th and 19th centuries. Marxian-influenced scholars have therefore concluded that the rise of national languages coincided with the rise of the bourgeoisie, whose own languages became those of the nations they constructed.

In France, for example, while revolutionaries in the 1790s advocated the use of Parisian French to unify a country divided by hundreds of local forms of speech, into the mid-19th century, even journeying 50 miles outside Paris found travelers having trouble making themselves understood to the locals. It took more than a century for French to gain a foothold in most of the country. Asia, too, was a polyglot patchwork for millennia, unified at the top by an arcane language much like Latin—Classical Chinese. This situation became politically untenable in the 19th century as European imperialism encroached on traditional sovereignties in China, Japan, Korea, and Vietnam. In order to counter the foreign threat, governments sought to strengthen their societies by educating their populations, which required making it easier to learn how to read and write. While standard languages have been described by historians and sociolinguists as “artificial” for less-privileged learners, Asia’s standard languages were artificial even to their bourgeois inventors.

Our understanding of the present is invariably colored by our interpretation of the past: if we understand a national language to be a bourgeois imposition that diffused via economic development, then we more easily see its continued imposition as a perpetuation of class prejudices. If on the other hand, we see an invented national language as a tool for bridging regional divisions and expanding economic opportunity for our children, then we feel much more positively about the spread of such languages. Both interpretations can be true at the same time, but we must remember that one is inseparable from the other.

Do you see any parallels between how language nationalization has occurred in the past to how language and society are shaping one another in the present?

The number of “standard” Mandarin speakers in the early 1930s could be counted on one hand. Today, it’s the world’s largest language by a number of “native” speakers. Though it began as an elite nationalizing project that was largely ignored by the masses of people in China, Mandarin is now more often seen as a hegemonic threat to local languages and cultures. Language can thus bridge divides, but also create new divisions. People in China are often ambivalent about the pace of change these days. When I visited cousins in rural Fujian during the Lunar New Year a few years ago, I noticed that all my nieces and nephews spoke Mandarin in almost all situations, to their parents, and especially to one another. Only my grandparents’ generation used the local Fuqing dialect as a matter of course. My parents’ generation spoke dialect to their parents, but a mix of Mandarin and dialect to their children—the cousins of my generation, who were able to speak the dialect, but were more comfortable speaking Mandarin among themselves and to their children. One of my young nieces who’d grown up in Beijing, where her parents had moved for work, even had a perfect Beijing accent. In a span of three generations, migration due to expanded opportunity had wrought enormous change in language habits. Much had been gained, but also much had been lost.

How has your time at APARC as one of our Shorenstein Postdoctoral Fellows aided your research project?

It’s certainly been a strange year to be a postdoc, given how we’ve all been operating remotely. Nevertheless, life and work have continued, and we’ve all been able to find new ways of building community and getting things done. I’ve personally benefited from the access to the vast academic resources of Stanford—library access, even online alone, is a lifeline to any researcher. Moreover, I’ve had the opportunity to chat on Zoom with Stanford faculty about research and connect with my fellow postdocs to support one another as we figure out how to move forward in our careers in these challenging times.

With your recent appointment as an assistant professor at National Taiwan University in Taipei, how do you anticipate your research interests growing and developing given the tension between Taiwan and China?

I am gratified to begin my academic career in a place of such diversity and openness as Taiwan. Language and identity are constant sites of contention in Taiwan's politics, and I look forward to expanding my on-the-ground understanding of these issues as I begin teaching in the sociology department at National Taiwan University. It is nothing short of miraculous that democracy has flourished at such an intersection of empires, colonialism, repressions, and struggles. And it is unsettling to see that flourishing takes place in such a precarious geopolitical location. NTU's sociology department is at the forefront of understanding all of these vital issues as we barrel forward into an ever more uncertain future.

On October 28th, the APARC China Program hosted a panel of experts for the panel "Caught in the Crossfire: Strategic Competition, U.S.-China Science Collaboration, and U.S. Universities." Reports of Chinese espionage, IP theft and military-civil fusion strategy have all fueled concerns regarding U.S. universities’ open research ecosystem, especially in STEM. Many of the concerns focus not only on research integrity but also on potential adverse consequences to U.S. military and economic security. The October 28th panel discussed open access to U.S. universities, security risks involved, as well as the potential adverse consequences of limiting international access in science and technology (S&T) research.  

The discussion began with Professor Susan Shirk, Chair of the 21st Century China Center at UC San Diego, who gave the audience an overview of current China science and technology policy and its relationship with US-China competition and universities. Shirk was followed by Arthur Bienenstock, co-chair of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences’ Committee on International Scientific Partnerships and Professor of Photon Science, Emeritus at Stanford. Bienenstock provided important perspective from the STEM side of this debate, arguing that collaboration with China--and other foreign countries--is vital and should be encouraged. Elsa B. Kania, Adjunct Senior Fellow at the Center for a New American Security's Technology and National Security Program, gave a different perspective, explaining China's "civil-military fusion" and why many in the United States consider it a threat. Finally, Tim Stearns, the Frank Lee and Carol Hall Professor in the Department of Biology, brought things back home to Stanford. As the Senior Associate Vice Provost of Research, Stearns was able to give a unique insight into university administration and how Stanford is approaching these challenges. The panel concluded with a discussion between the panelists of audience questions. Watch: