For much of modern Chinese political consciousness, history begins not with triumph but with trauma. It began with the Opium Wars of the 19th century, when European imperial powers forced China’s Qing dynasty into a series of humiliating defeats that shattered its sovereignty, redrew its borders, and dismantled its long-held belief that it was the world’s central civilization.
The First Opium War (1839–1842) and the Second Opium War (1856–1860) marked a turning point in China’s relationship with the outside world. Britain, and later France, used military force to compel China to open its markets—most notoriously to the opium trade—and to accept treaties that overwhelmingly favored foreign powers. These wars were not isolated conflicts but the opening chapters of what China would later describe as the “Century of Humiliation,” a period stretching roughly from 1839 to 1945, during which the country suffered repeated defeats, territorial losses, economic exploitation, and political subjugation.
During this era, China was reduced from a self-perceived “Middle Kingdom” to a semi-colonial state. It lost territory, including Hong Kong and Taiwan; paid enormous war indemnities; ceded control over tariffs and trade; and allowed foreign powers extraordinary legal and commercial privileges on Chinese soil. National pride eroded alongside sovereignty, leaving deep scars that continue to shape Beijing’s worldview today.
At the same time, China’s northern neighbor Russia exploited Qing weakness. As the Russian Empire resurged in the 19th century, it seized vast swathes of Chinese territory in the north, totaling more than one million square kilometers—an area comparable to modern Egypt and Turkey combined. These losses, formalized through treaties imposed under duress, remain embedded in Chinese historical memory as symbols of exploitation and injustice.
The First Sino-Japanese War of 1894–1895 compounded China’s decline. Japan’s victory resulted in the loss of Taiwan and China’s traditional influence over the Korean Peninsula, underscoring the Qing dynasty’s inability to defend itself even against a regional power it had once viewed as a tributary state.
For Chinese elites, these defeats were not merely military setbacks but evidence of a systemic national crisis. Reformers and revolutionaries increasingly concluded that incremental change was insufficient. The Qing dynasty collapsed in 1911, ending more than two millennia of imperial rule. Yet the new republic that followed proved fragile, plagued by warlordism, civil war, and renewed foreign aggression—most devastatingly from Japan.
The “Century of Humiliation” effectively ended only with China’s victory over Japan in the Second World War and the establishment of the People’s Republic of China in 1949 under Mao Zedong. The founding of the PRC was framed domestically not just as a political revolution but as the restoration of national dignity and sovereignty after a century of abasement.
Nearly eight decades later, China’s leadership presents its rise as a historical correction. Beijing argues that it is not seeking to overturn the international order but to reclaim a position unfairly stripped away by imperialism. In official discourse, economic development, military modernization, and diplomatic assertiveness are all justified as safeguards against a return to national weakness.
Yet history, as Karl Marx famously observed while writing about China during the Opium War era, has a tendency to repeat itself—“the first time as tragedy, the second as farce.” From Beijing’s perspective, there is a striking irony in today’s global landscape. Issues that once symbolized China’s vulnerability now highlight its growing leverage.
Taiwan, for example, was ceded to Japan after the First Sino-Japanese War and returned to Chinese control only after Japan’s defeat in 1945. Today, it has once again become a central geopolitical fault line—this time not between a weak China and an ascendant Japan, but between a powerful, assertive Beijing and a U.S.-backed regional order. China now approaches the Taiwan question not as a victim of imperial aggression but as a rising power determined to enforce its claims.
Perhaps more striking is the reversal in China’s economic relationships with Europe. In the 19th century, Britain and France used the language of free trade, diplomacy, and missionary protection to justify military intervention and extract concessions from China. The opium trade itself was framed as a commercial right, enforced at gunpoint.
Today, European leaders are again traveling to Beijing to negotiate trade—only now, the balance of power is inverted.
In recent months, European capitals have intensified diplomatic engagement with China amid shifting global economic conditions. Following French President Emmanuel Macron’s visit to China late last year, UK Prime Minister Keir Starmer traveled to Beijing last week, seeking to negotiate trade deals, reduce tariffs, and liberalize visa regimes. These visits come as Europe grapples with sluggish growth, energy insecurity, and trade disruptions exacerbated by geopolitical tensions.
Amid renewed tariff wars launched by U.S. President Donald Trump, European powers appear increasingly willing to normalize and even deepen economic ties with China, despite Washington’s objections. For many European governments, access to the world’s second-largest economy is viewed as an economic necessity rather than a strategic choice.
Free trade—once imposed on China at cannon-point—is again at the center of negotiations. The difference is profound: it is now Beijing, not London or Paris, negotiating from a position of strength.
The irony is not lost on Chinese officials or historians. In the 18th century, China ran a substantial trade surplus with Europe, exporting silk, porcelain, textiles, and tea while importing silver in return. Europe had little that Chinese consumers wanted. This imbalance persisted into the early 19th century, prompting British traders to seek alternative means of settling accounts.
The British East India Company, by then the de facto ruler of large parts of India, found its solution in opium. By forcing farmers in Bengal to cultivate poppies, the company created a vast supply of narcotics that it smuggled into China to pay for British imports. Opium, long used medicinally, was increasingly smoked recreationally, leading to widespread addiction across Chinese society.
For the Qing court, the consequences were catastrophic. The trade balance swung in Britain’s favor, silver flowed out of China, and millions of productive citizens were debilitated by addiction. Imperial edicts banning opium were repeatedly ignored, as British traders used warehouses in Canton to continue smuggling.
When Chinese officials finally seized and destroyed British opium shipments in 1839, London responded with force. The First Opium War ended in decisive Qing defeat and the imposition of unequal treaties. China was compelled to legalize the opium trade, pay reparations, open treaty ports, grant favorable tariffs, and cede Hong Kong to Britain—a colony it would retain until 1997.
When the Qing court later attempted to reassert control, it triggered the Second Opium War. This time, France joined Britain, citing the killing of a missionary as justification. The combined Western navies easily overwhelmed Chinese forces. The resulting treaties deepened China’s subjugation: more ports were opened, foreign legations established in Beijing, missionaries granted sweeping rights, indemnities increased, and additional territory ceded. Russia, exploiting the chaos, extracted vast territorial concessions in the north.
These agreements hollowed out Qing authority and are still remembered in China as stark symbols of national humiliation.
Today, as European leaders seek market access and trade concessions from Beijing, Chinese commentators frequently draw explicit parallels to this history. The memory of unequal treaties fuels Beijing’s insistence on sovereignty, non-interference, and reciprocity. It also underpins China’s resistance to external pressure on issues ranging from human rights to technology policy.
Russia’s position further highlights the shifting global balance. Once an imperial power that seized Chinese land, Moscow is now economically dependent on Beijing. Crippled by Western sanctions over its war in Ukraine, Russia relies heavily on China as a buyer of its oil and gas and as a supplier of dual-use technologies, semiconductors, and electronics. The asymmetry in the relationship is unmistakable—and closely watched in Beijing.
For China, these reversals validate a long-held narrative: that national weakness invites exploitation, while strength commands respect. The leadership’s emphasis on self-reliance, industrial capacity, and military modernization is rooted not only in strategic calculation but in historical memory.
Yet this resurgence also raises questions about how China will wield its newfound power. Critics argue that Beijing risks replicating the coercive practices once used against it, particularly in its economic diplomacy and regional disputes. Supporters counter that China’s actions reflect normal behavior for a major power correcting historical injustices.
What is clear is that the shadow of the 19th century looms large over 21st-century geopolitics. Nearly 180 years after foreign gunboats forced open Chinese ports, Europe is again knocking at Beijing’s door—this time seeking access rather than imposing it. The same concept of free trade that once justified imperial war is now negotiated under vastly different circumstances.
