W39:D1 - Lesson Plans for Ancient China - The Foundation of Ancient China and First Dynasty -The ABP

My Land, My Boundaries: A Settler's View of Ancient China – Told by a Settler

My name is Li Wei, a humble farmer and potter of the North China Plain. I wake with the sun each day to tend to the fields along the Yellow River, but I often find myself staring out beyond the horizon, wondering what lies past the vast lands that cradle us. You see, I may not be a scholar or a noble, but even I understand that our land—what we call Zhōngguó, the Middle Kingdom—is shaped and guarded by the towering giants of the earth and the endless seas. These barriers have kept us safe, shaped our stories, and defined who we are.

 

To the West: The Mountains That Touch Heaven
If you travel far beyond the fertile plains and trek endlessly westward, you will come to the roof of the world—the Tibetan Plateau. It is a high, cold, and harsh land where few can live, where even breathing is a struggle. It rises like the back of a sleeping dragon, and further beyond it lies the Himalayas. These mountains are so tall, they scrape the sky and block the clouds. They are said to be the home of ancient spirits. For those who have attempted to cross them, few ever return. The mountains stand as guardians, keeping us apart from the peoples to the southwest—those from the Indus Valley, I’ve heard, though I’ve never met them. The journey would be impossible. The mountains have kept us apart, and so we have grown in different ways.

 

To the North and West: Deserts of Silence
To the north of our villages and rice fields lie the dry, empty lands. The Gobi Desert stretches far and wide. It is not just sand—no, it is rock and wind and lifeless heat. Beyond that lies the Taklamakan Desert, which some call “the place of no return.” Traders sometimes tell stories of brave souls who try to cross it, but most speak of bones buried beneath the dunes. These deserts, like the mountains, isolate us. They make it difficult for strangers to arrive and harder for our people to leave. Even if they tried, the deserts offer no water, no food, and no shelter. They are not just wastelands—they are nature’s walls.

 

To the East: The Endless Ocean
To the east, past our rivers and forests, lies a boundary unlike the others—the vast Pacific Ocean. I’ve seen it once, when I was a boy and traveled with my uncle to the coastal village of Langya. The water seemed to go on forever. Fishermen there say it never ends, that it wraps around the world. No one can build a road through the sea. Boats can cross it, yes, but in my time, few dared to sail too far. The sea is both a mystery and a moat, cutting us off from lands that may exist beyond it.

 

The Shape of Our World and the Shape of Our Lives
So you see, our homeland is held in the palm of nature’s hand. The rivers give us life, but the mountains, deserts, and seas keep us apart from the rest of the world. Our villages grow strong because they must depend on each other. Our rulers and ancestors have built their ways without the influence of foreigners. Our writing, our customs, our gods—they are ours alone, born from the land and shaped by the boundaries that cradle us. We are not like the peoples of Mesopotamia, nor the dark-skinned traders I once heard about from the lands of the south. We are something different, something whole unto ourselves.

 

Gratitude and Guardedness
I am grateful for our rivers that flood and feed us. I am grateful for the mountains and deserts that keep out the raiders and strange tongues. But I also wonder, sometimes, what lies beyond. Could others live as we do? Could they have gods, plows, or songs? Perhaps I’ll never know. But I do know this—our geography is no mere backdrop. It is the sculptor of our civilization, the reason our ancestors thrived here, and the reason I plant seeds each spring knowing the land will embrace them. The Middle Kingdom is not just a name—it is the truth of our place in the world, surrounded by the natural walls that define and protect us.

 

 

The River That Gives and Takes: The Yellow River – Told by an Early Settler

My name is Tian Bao, and I live in a village nestled along the banks of the great Yellow River, which we call the Huang He. From the time I could walk, I have known its murky waters and shifting moods. Some say the river is like a dragon—powerful, majestic, and not to be provoked. But to us, it is more than a river. It is the heart of our land, the giver of life and the taker of it too. The elders call it the “Cradle of Chinese Civilization,” and rightly so, for it is here that our people first learned to tame the earth and grow roots that would reach across generations.

 

A River That Feeds the Land
Each season, we rely on the river’s bounty. It flows down from the western mountains and cuts across the northern plains like a golden thread. We divert its waters through ditches and channels to feed our crops—mostly millet, though in good years, we trade for rice brought up from the south. Our fathers and grandfathers dug irrigation canals by hand, guiding the river like a harnessed ox, coaxing it to serve us rather than destroy us. Without the Huang He, there would be no harvest, no bread, and no future.

 

The Soil That Floats on the Wind
One of the miracles of our river is something you cannot see unless you hold it in your hand—loess soil. It is like powdered gold, carried on the wind from the deserts of the west and dropped upon our plains like a blessing. Loess is soft, light, and rich with life. It makes the North China Plain one of the most fertile lands under heaven. When the floods come—and they always do—they leave behind thick layers of this soil, nourishing the earth and renewing our fields. My grandfather says it is the breath of the mountains turned into food for our people.

 

The River's Curse
But the Huang He is not always kind. We call it “China’s Sorrow” for good reason. I remember one flood when I was just a boy. The rains fell for days without end, and the river rose until it spilled over its banks like an angry god. The water rushed into our village, sweeping away homes, livestock, and even a few neighbors who could not escape in time. My mother clutched my sister and me as we huddled on the roof of our house, watching the brown torrent twist through our streets. When it finally receded, the land was thick with mud, and the dead were many. We buried them with broken hearts, cursing the river even as we prayed for its favor again.

 

Fighting the Floods
Since that day, we have worked even harder to control the river. We build levees—long walls of earth packed tight—to keep the water from breaking free. We dig channels to carry away excess flow and pile stones against the banks. Some villages have even created large storage basins to catch the floodwaters before they can do harm. We do not always succeed, but we learn with each season. The river may be wild, but we are not without wisdom. Our survival depends on our ability to listen to it, to read its movements, and to act before disaster strikes.

 

The Lifeblood of Our Civilization
Travelers from the east say that no other land is quite like ours, and I believe them. It is the river that makes it so. Boats glide down the Huang He carrying millet, pottery, and silk. News travels with the current, and soldiers too. The river ties our people together, from the highlands to the coast. It is not just water—it is the lifeblood of our ancestors and the path upon which our future flows.

 

A Legacy Carved in Water
As I grow older, I begin to understand why the river has so many names—names of love, fear, hope, and sorrow. It is the cradle from which our civilization was born, but also the trial by which we are tested. We owe everything to it—our food, our homes, our stories. But we can never forget that the same river that feeds us may one day rise and sweep us away. That is the price we pay to live here. And yet, we stay. We build. We plant. And each season, we give thanks to the river and pray that it gives more than it takes.