Rashid Alimov, former SCO Secretary-General, writes of symbols and symbolism in contemporary diplomacy: from Turkmen carpets to Japanese cherry blossoms, tokens bearing unique cultural significance may speak louder than words ever could, showcasing bonds of mutual trust and understanding. Whether showcased through grand ceremonial displays of cultural capital or simple gifts endowed with special meaning, the author highlights the importance of symbols in shaping the modern international diplomatic landscape.
In today’s world—saturated with fleeting emotions and political scandal—ever greater importance is attached to what builds durable and lasting bridges between people. Contemporary politics most often reflect tactical disagreements between states, which do not always have a deep civilisational or ideological basis. Political cycles change more rapidly than public trust can be formed.
For this reason, alongside traditional diplomatic activity, its symbolic dimension acquires particular significance. Symbols operate according to a different temporal logic. They address not today’s news headline, but historical memory, the cultural code, and the emotional experience of societies. In a context of fragmentation of the international environment, erosion of previous mechanisms of global governance, and a growing deficit of mutual trust, symbolic diplomacy becomes not a decorative feature of politics, but arguably its very strategic depth. It does not, of course, replace negotiations and agreements, but it creates the atmosphere in which they become possible. In this sense, symbols are not the periphery of international relations, but their subtle, yet resilient fabric.
Recently, two giant pandas returned to China after a long stay in Japan. In pouring rain, thousands of Japanese people stood in queues to bid farewell to the beloved animals. They did not conceal their tears. They held umbrellas, down which streams of rain ran in unison with their emotions. It seemed as though the sky itself could not remain indifferent.
And this was not merely a farewell. It was a living signal—a sign of the value of these animals and, more broadly, of the value of relations with China. The first pandas arrived in Japan in 1972—at a time when the two countries were seeking paths towards rapprochement. Since then, despite difficult chapters in bilateral relations, shifts in political cycles, and periods of normalisation and cooling, the pandas remained in Tokyo. They endured across decades, serving as a quiet yet stable symbol of connection. And now—their return.
The panda is not simply a rare animal. For China, it is a national symbol, embodying sincerity and friendliness, tolerance and kindness. This is why its presence abroad is never neutral in nature. The panda does not represent China in a formal sense; rather, it embodies, to a certain extent, its image, its tone, its soft power.
Within the rich fabric of Japanese culture, there exists the concept of mono no aware—a gentle sadness arising from the awareness of the transience of all things. The people weeping in the rain were bidding farewell not only to the pandas. They were parting with a moment of personal closeness, with a familiar warmth, with a sense of quiet trust. This reflected the depth of what was taking place. Millions of people in Japan and around the world saw these images on television news. They did not read analytical reports or delve into diplomatic formulae: they experienced the scene. And experience is always more powerful than explanation.
As this episode demonstrates, symbols can speak louder than declarations. They touch the hearts of people and shape an intuitive understanding of the importance of good-neighbourly relations even before the language of official politics comes into play. In a world full of unpredictability, crises of international law, and the self-unravelling of the so-called “rules-based order”, it is precisely living, culturally embedded symbols that help preserve and develop international ties. They restore the human dimension to diplomacy, reminding us that its true strength lies not only in institutions, but also in perception, trust, and memory. Symbolic diplomacy has another important quality: it operates ahead of confrontation. Where official channels may be constrained by circumstances, symbols continue to speak. They create a space of soft mutual recognition, in which the other is perceived not as an abstract opponent, but as a bearer of culture and human experience. In the long term, this layer of trust can even serve as a kind of safety buffer within international relations, mitigating sharp political fluctuations.
Panda diplomacy is one of the most vivid examples of such practice. Yet it is far from the only one. The water diplomacy initiated by the President of Tajikistan, Emomali Rahmon, has for a quarter of a century been shaping a culture of cooperation around the shared use of water resources. Here, water is not merely an object of negotiation, but also a universal symbol of life, interdependence, and responsibility. It unites because it knows no borders and constitutes the foundation of civilisation across a vast expanse of central Eurasia.
Twenty years ago, an apricot orchard of 125 Tajik trees was planted on the outskirts of Beijing. At the time, it appeared as a gesture of goodwill, almost unnoticed against the backdrop of major political developments. Today, however, the Tajik–Chinese Apricot Garden of Friendship lives a full and vibrant life of its own. In spring, the trees blossom, delighting hundreds of thousands of visitors to the Beijing Botanical Garden. They are studied by students, they become the subject of dissertations, and families stroll beneath their canopies. In summer and autumn, they bear golden fruit—a visible and tangible result of a diplomatic choice once made. These trees have taken root not only in Chinese soil, but also in the everyday lives of people.
In diplomatic practice, there has long existed a fine tradition—the planting of trees of friendship. It is a sincere and worthy gesture. Yet a symbol, like a living tree, requires care. It happens that after the ceremonial planting, attentive stewardship does not always follow, and the sapling remains only a commemorative photograph. There are, however, other examples. In 2006, in Shanghai, the leaders of the Shanghai Cooperation Organisation planted a tree of peace and friendship. At the time, it was one of the symbolic acts within the protocol programme. Years passed, and the tree grew, strengthened, and spread its wide canopy. Over the same period, the organisation itself expanded from six to twenty-seven states, bringing together a space inhabited by nearly four billion people. Of course, the matter is not in the tree itself, but in the fact that the symbol was followed by consistent and painstaking work to strengthen cooperation, expand dialogue, and seek agreed solutions. The symbol was imbued with substance—and thus retained its living force.
In our complex and unpredictable world, it is precisely such bridges that are more valuable than ever. They remind us that diplomacy is not only about rules and institutions, but also about emotion, memory, trust, and humanity. Symbols do not eliminate contradictions or abolish differences of interest. Yet they create a space in which differences do not necessarily turn into rupture. In an era of global turbulence, the diplomacy of symbols can—and does—help sustain the horizon of cooperation even when the current political conjuncture does not favour it. As the sages of the East might say: one who has managed to touch the heart has already shortened the path by half. Perhaps it is precisely through such symbolic bridges that it is still possible today to build stable, long-term, and genuine relations between states—relations capable of outlasting the change of epochs.
