Imagined Nations and the Real Us:Why We Must Question Nationalism and Truly See One Another

Luna Tian

How do you determine if someone is “one of us”?

Is it someone who speaks the same language? Shares a similar skin tone? Has the same faith, political stance, or values?

What seems like a simple question actually reveals how we categorize people. Many would say, “Those who stand on the same side as me.” But what defines that “side”? In the dominant narrative of nationalism, this “side” often has little to do with a person’s lived experience or moral stance—it hinges on whether one conforms to an imagined identity of a “patriot.”

You might have heard of the petitioning man whose story went viral. While he was away on a work trip, his mother and wife were dragged away after officers broke into their home at night and used electric shock. The home was reduced to rubble while they slept. By the time he rushed back, nothing remained but debris and a protest banner.

He didn’t attack anyone. He simply asked for a reason. He was detained for three days. The court and prosecutor refused to hear his case. Eventually, in tears, he posted on Weibo, naming the local demolition office and government as responsible.

But the comment section was flooded with responses like:

“Trying to smear the country again? There are two sides to every story—maybe he just wanted more money and negotiations failed.”
“People these days will do anything for money. Just because you’re weak doesn’t make you right.”
“Could this be the work of foreign forces? Sounds suspiciously like it.”

We’ve heard this language everywhere, In the face of disasters, violence, corruption, and oppression, these voices always emerge—not to understand, not to support, but to preserve the integrity of an imaginary concept: “The nation must not be questioned.” “The people must not doubt their country.”

Which brings us to a critical question: Why does a fictional concept matter more than a real person, a real life, a real cry for help?

I. Nation and State: From Fiction to the Illusion of Reality

Have you ever wondered who we mean when we say “Chinese,” “Korean,” or “American”? Have we really met these people we claim to know? Can we be sure they live as we do or think like us? Why do we feel kinship with someone we’ve never met, yet hostility toward another stranger—just because of their nationality, language, or ancestry?

Political scientist Benedict Anderson argued in Imagined Communities that the nation is an imagined political community—people who will never meet, yet imagine they share identity and destiny.This sentence reveals a truth many resist: our sense of kinship with “compatriots” and our hatred of “enemies” often doesn’t come from actual experiences, but from stories we’ve been fed—textbooks, media, slogans, holidays, national anthems.
These “communities” are selectively constructed fantasies, reinforced from childhood.We raise flags, sing national anthems, memorize history books. We’re told who the heroes are, who the enemies are. Even if we’ve never seen war or left our country, we naturally develop feelings of “us” versus “them.”

But these feelings are not built to foster understanding or connection.They are built to mobilize and exclude.

Historically, nationalism has been a powerful tool for war and violence. During World War I, millions of Europeans died in trenches, believing they fought for their homeland’s glory.

Nazi Germany invoked the “purity of the Aryan race” to justify war and the murder of millions of Jews and minorities. In the Rwandan Genocide, the government incited citizens to kill their neighbors, colleagues, and friends—declaring Tutsis as not part of their nation. Even today, some regimes label dissenters as “foreign agents,” spies, or traitors—simply for questioning the system or defending their rights.

This nationalist narrative has two core functions:
Selective memory: telling you which histories to remember, and which to forget.

Enemy-making: branding all criticism, difference, or resistance as “undermining national unity” or “smearing the country’s image.”

The petitioning man we mentioned earlier didn’t suffer because he opposed his nation. He suffered because, within this imagined community, he was no longer seen as “one of us.” Standing on the rubble, asking for help, he was met not with compassion but with suspicion: “You’re bargaining.” “Don’t tarnish the nation.” “Does weakness make you right?” His wounds weren’t treated—they were erased under the label of “political incorrectness.”

This brand of nationalism is no longer about cultural belonging—it’s a machine of dehumanization, drawing strict lines between “us” and “them.” It convinces people that empathy must be earned by loyalty, and that dissent disqualifies you from being part of the group.

But the truth is, you can feel no resonance with a compatriot who shares your language, and instantly connect with a foreigner whose words you don’t even understand. You may share the same anxieties—high rent, insecurity, systemic neglect—with a Filipino caregiver, a Swedish refugee, or a rural Chinese worker.

Yet you don’t see them as “one of us,” simply because they don’t fit the ethnic label.
Which brings us to another question: If the “nation” is imagined, can we not imagine a different kind of community? One not based on blood or language, but on shared values, shared struggles, and shared understanding? A community that doesn’t unite by creating enemies, but by respecting every person?

And this leads to the final, pressing inquiry: How do we define “our own people”? Has this definition already limited our capacity to care for others?

III. How Do We Define “Our Own People”?

If you fall on the street right now, who will stop to help you? Is it someone who speaks your language? Or simply someone who happens to be nearby? Is it someone who shares your ancestry? Or someone willing to extend a hand?

We often talk about “our own people,” but rarely do we reflect deeply on how we draw the lines between “us” and “them.” Why do we group people by birthplace rather than by shared experience? Why do we define closeness by the color of a passport instead of shared values? Why do we ask, “Where are you from?” before asking, “Do you believe in dignity and freedom?”

Imagine two individuals: One is your fellow citizen whom you’ve never met, but who advocates violence and spreads hate speech. The other is from a so-called “enemy country” you were warned about since childhood, but is gentle, respectful, and committed to social justice. Tell me—who is truly closer to you?

In today’s increasingly fluid and interconnected world, the idea of “our own people” is quietly transforming. Those who do similar work, who share common beliefs, who struggle for similar causes—these are the people who more often become our true companions.

I once had a deep conversation with a friend who works for an NGO in Europe. He said the moment he most felt surrounded by “his people” was during a rescue training session with colleagues from Syria, the Philippines, and Colombia. They spoke different languages, followed different religions, but they were all working to protect civilians, prevent violence, and build peace. In that moment, he felt more belonging than when he was with certain apathetic fellow citizens back home.

A teacher might find reverence for knowledge in peers from Uganda and Argentina. A journalist might recognize a shared commitment to truth in colleagues from Ukraine and Hong Kong. A laborer or farmer might encounter deep empathy for hardship in strangers from another land.

These new forms of connection are built on more solid and enduring foundations: shared labor, responsibility, dignity, and values.
And all of this stems from one idea—universal values.

Nationalist narratives often smear universal values as a “Western brainwashing tool.” But in truth, respecting life, seeking freedom, defending dignity, and resisting oppression were never the monopoly of any one civilization. You don’t need to speak English to believe honesty matters more than lies. You don’t need to hold a charter to know cruelty is wrong.

Look at Hong Kong: When a group of young people took to the streets, holding banners that read “Freedom is not a crime,” facing tear gas, batons, and prison to defend their way of life—people around the world responded. Ordinary citizens who had never been to Hong Kong, with no personal stake in its fate, rallied, organized, and held vigils—not because they knew the protesters, but because they knew oppression is wrong, and freedom is worth protecting.

Or take Ukraine: When Russian forces marched into Kyiv and civilians were killed by missiles, volunteers, journalists, hackers, medical workers, and even refugees from around the world stepped up. Some offered shelter, others brought food. Some raised money for frontline civilians; others fought censorship to get the truth out. They did this not because they were Ukrainians, but because they were human. They understood: when freedom and dignity are trampled, silence is complicity.
Universal values matter because they transcend language and borders. They are not dogmas handed down from above but consensuses formed through lived experience. They allow a civil servant in Amsterdam to donate a portion of their salary to children in war zones, and a student in Taipei to send books and letters to arrested Hong Kong protesters out of solidarity.

In such a community, being “our own” is no longer an identity you inherit at birth, but a choice you make. If you choose to respect others, then all who respect others are your kin. If you choose to stand against injustice, then all who refuse to bow before injustice are your “us.”
This kind of “us” doesn’t require borders, bloodlines, or enemies. It is built on understanding, trust, and collective struggle.

IV. Human Worth Rises Above Identity Labels

On our ID cards, there’s a field for nationality.When filling out forms, we’re asked to select our ethnicity. Online platforms tag our location, language, and time zone beside our profiles. But behind all this information—where is the real person?

None of us chose where we were born, our bloodline, skin color, language, surname, or citizenship. These are preset conditions assigned by society. And yet, far too often, these default labels are used as the sole metric for judging a person’s worth.

But a human being cannot—must not—be reduced to a set of tags.

An honest laborer, a compassionate nurse, a resilient mother, a brave dissenter—their value should not depend on their nationality, ethnicity, or political stance,but on the way they choose to live— who they choose to stand with,how they respond to pain and injustice, what kind of person they strive to be.

Our times are filled with painful examples of labels overpowering human dignity:

A young Iranian girl who supported women’s rights was killed by her father in a so-called “honor killing.”

A middle-aged man in Hong Kong, who offered an umbrella to strangers during a protest, was branded a “sympathizer of rioters.”

A Russian artist opposing war posted a blank sheet of paper on social media—and was arrested.

Countless people who stood up to protect their homes, their loved ones, and the truth were cast as traitors, isolated and attacked—simply because they didn’t fit the mainstream narrative.

All of them, through their actions, affirmed one essential truth: A person’s worth does not stem from the group they belong to—but from whether they still hold on to their humanity.

When we say “We will not be part of the silent majority,” or “We will not side with evil,” we’re not just taking a political position—we’re reminding each other that in a world obsessed with categorization, coding, and classification, we still have the freedom to choose kindness and courage.

The people who should be called “ours” are those who reject apathy, stand against violence, and hold on to compassion and conscience. Even if they come from a place you’ve never heard of, speak a language you don’t understand—if they are willing to care, to watch over you, they are your people.
This is not some utopian ideal—it’s already happening around the world.

When a Chinese citizen signs a petition supporting Ukraine;

When a German nurse tends to the wounded on Hong Kong’s protest front lines;

When people from a dozen countries launch solidarity campaigns for silenced voices;

We see it clearly: Human beings are much more than their identity labels.

And when people matter more than their labels—there is still hope for this world.

VI. Diversity Is Strength, Not a Threat

Whenever societies face disagreement or change, there are always voices that declare: “This is destroying our culture.” “We can’t accept so many foreign elements.” “Our nation is being diluted.”
Their version of “we” refers to a single language, a specific skin color, one value system, a shared collective memory. But let’s pause and ask: Did such a homogenous “we” ever truly exist?

What they describe is an imagined community— a fiction that doesn’t require us to know, understand, or live alongside each other. As long as you repeat certain symbols (a flag, a language, a bloodline, a ritual), you’re “one of us.” But if you don’t match those symbols—no matter how much you suffer or fight alongside us—you are the “other.”

But real communities aren’t built this way. They emerge from everyday encounters, sincere exchanges, and concrete cooperation.

I’ve witnessed such real communities:

A mutual aid network of undocumented migrants, grassroots activists, and young lawyers working together to secure shelter and legal help for the deported.

An online platform co-created by dissidents from Hong Kong, Myanmar, Iran, and Belarus, where they teach each other how to bypass censorship, preserve evidence, and protect digital safety.

A European elementary school where children from over ten countries draw, play, and learn each other’s languages—none of them outsiders.

These aren’t idealistic fantasies. They are real communities that may not share a single historical narrative, but share present realities and future hopes. They’re not bound by ancestry—but by choice. The choice to stand with one another.

Diversity is not coercion. It’s not chaos. And it’s not about forced assimilation. Diversity is a deeper kind of freedom: You can be whoever you are and be respected. Others can be different from you, and yet we can still collaborate, coexist, and build together.

This kind of diversity isn’t an abstract idea—it’s a tangible source of power:

In knowledge communities, it enables disciplines to converse and sparks innovation.

In cities, it brings together cultures that enrich daily life.

In social movements, it unites diverse groups in solidarity, forming broader coalitions for change.
But above all, diversity challenges us to rethink what “we” means.

We don’t have to be the same kind of people. But we can fight for the same kind of future.

The real “we” is not a prison of bloodlines— but a fellowship of choice.

Imagined communities weave loyalty through fantasy. Real communities build connection through understanding.

The former drives you to hate strangers in the name of an abstraction. The latter empowers you to stand with strangers in the name of reality.

This world is already hard enough. If we continue to exclude one another based on language, skin tone, or borders, then we’ve truly lost.

Diversity is not a crack in the wall. It is the root of a real, living, and just community.

VII. Conclusion: Fiction Commands Obedience—Truth Allows Us to See

We spend our entire lives learning how to label ourselves: as citizens of a country, descendants of a people, inheritors of a culture. These words wrap around our names, faces, and voices like layers of clothing. They help us quickly find our place—and help us forget who we truly are.

The illusion of nationalism lies in this: it replaces the most complex truths with the simplest stories. It convinces you that as long as you belong to a group, you are righteous, you have value—and you owe nothing to those outside it. It teaches you to look at someone’s suffering and boldly say: “They deserved it.” “They’re not one of us.” “They’re tarnishing our country’s image.”
But the truth is—no one is born deserving of oppression.

No one is born to remain silent.

A man whose home was demolished is not a threat to the state— he’s simply trying to give his mother a roof to sleep under. A detained dissenter is not a “foreign agent”— he just hasn’t yet learned how to be quiet. A person shouting “freedom” in the street is not a traitor— they’ve simply refused to become one more silent face in the crowd.

Nationalism demands loyalty to a name, a flag, a version of history.But true loyalty should be to real people: Loyalty to those who suffer. Loyalty to those who speak out. Loyalty to truth and conscience.

We cannot choose where we’re born or what passport we carry.But we can choose whom we stand with in the face of injustice. We can choose to turn away from imagined communities that ask us to reject, fear, or hate— and instead embrace the real human being in front of us.

This kind of love is harder than patriotism. This kind of connection is more honest than allegiance. It asks us to let go of the seductive illusion of identity and admit that we are small, fragile, and far more alike than we pretend to be. It calls us to recognize that the people who can truly make this world better—are not those who most resemble us, but those who still believe others are worth loving.

Perhaps one day, when we say “we,” we won’t mean skin color, language, or ancestry— but the shared belief that no one should be discarded, and that human dignity must never be abandoned.
And when that day comes, we will finally belong to a true community— a real one, built not on fiction, but on freedom and empathy.

And only then will we truly be able to say: We are in this together.