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In China’s cities today, a sense of uniformity pervades almost every urban landscape. Ancient towns and historic districts are gradually being homogenized, transformed into distribution hubs for Yiwu-style small commodities. Commercial complexes like Wanda Plaza and New World Mall replicate identical layouts nationwide — men’s wear, women’s fashion, maternity stores, food courts, and cinemas arranged in predictable sequences, so standardized that one could navigate them blindfolded. Architectural designs increasingly prioritize grandiosity and conformity: residential towers resemble stacked matchboxes, street-level shop signs are regimented into uniformity, while "skyline engineering" ruthlessly eliminates any architectural individuality. Amid this urban sameness, we cannot help but wonder: Has urbanization always been this way? What did cities look like in the past? What transformations occurred during modernization? In my hometown Chengdu, what has vanished and what has been altered? This compels us to confront urban planning’s fundamental question: “How can a city preserve its unique identity?”
The Chinese characters for "city" (城市) reveal profound historical insights into urban origins. As noted in *Ancient City Notes*, the ancient seal script character for "城" (city wall) combines three elements: earth (土), symbolizing territorial foundation; a cauldron (鼎), representing political power; and a weapon (戈), denoting military defense. Its counterpart "市" (market) vividly depicts shop banners and hanging signs, embodying commercial vitality. Thus, early cities emerged as fortified centers of governance and commerce. As urban civilizations flourished, these spaces became living organisms where communities thrived, weaving intricate social fabrics. Yet modern high-rises have replaced traditional courtyard homes, inserting concrete barriers between neighbors. Gone are the days when moral codes, communal reputation, and neighborhood oversight naturally regulated social conduct — organic constraints now supplanted by anonymous urban existence.
The disappearance of historic urban fabric also signifies the erosion of public space accessibility for ordinary citizens. While square-dancing retirees dominate modern Chinese plazas, this phenomenon isn’t new. Traditional Chinese streets functioned as multifunctional spaces — thoroughfares transformed into impromptu markets by day and communal gathering spots by twilight. In old Chengdu, streets belonged to the people: peddlers, storytellers, and tea drinkers coexisted in an unofficial yet vibrant public realm where livelihoods were forged through informal economies. Today’s sanitized, regulation-heavy urban environments have largely erased such grassroots spatial autonomy.
Most tragically, we witness the erasure of architectural heritage. During modernization, countless historic structures and cultural landscapes have been sacrificed — "homesickness" literally bulldozed, severing people’s connection to ancestral roots. Each return to Chengdu leaves me awed by its transformation yet alienated by its unfamiliarity. The recent proliferation of pseudo-historic architecture nationwide has backfired: these soulless replicas, lacking historical authenticity or emotional resonance, often end up abandoned or demolished again. Meanwhile, the irreversible destruction of genuine heritage — whether culturally significant guildhalls or vernacular dwellings — represents profound losses for both cultural memory and tourism potential.
Why does the vanishing old city matter so deeply to me? As a middle school student, I witnessed the wholesale demolition of my school’s surrounding neighborhoods to make way for a five-star global conference hotel. This first encounter with "destructive reconstruction" left an indelible mark. Contemporary urban aesthetics glorify uniformity and monumentality — even neighborhood administration buildings adopt intimidating Soviet-inspired grandeur with vast plazas and sterile symmetry. When every city prioritizes such homogenized "socialist aesthetics," urban life becomes sterile and alienating.
If architecture is frozen music, then contextless structures are lifeless noise. A city without cultural roots cannot meaningfully engage with the future. China’s heritage preservation efforts have evolved through phases — from protecting "Historically and Culturally Famous Cities" (a system launched in 1982, now encompassing 134 cities including Chengdu) to safeguarding historic districts and individual buildings. Yet designation alone doesn’t guarantee protection. My heart breaks with each demolished traditional neighborhood. True preservation isn’t about mummifying heritage into museum exhibits nor choosing between total demolition and dangerous ruins. It requires adaptive reuse that respects historical essence while meeting modern needs — revitalizing the old with sensitivity, ensuring continuity through thoughtful renewal.