Imagine for a second being told that you are
the supreme ruler of an empire. Right, the absolute
top of the chain. Exactly. You are the emperor,
your word is absolute law, your status is divine,
and you are about to step into your magnificent
new royal palace. Which you'd expect to be pretty
incredible. Right, but then you pull up to the
address and you're... Grand Imperial Palace is
actually just the cramped, repurposed offices
of a local salt tax collection agency. Yeah,
and sitting right next to the noisy railway tracks,
too. It's wild. It really is a staggering historical
image. Honestly, it's the ultimate architectural
bait and switch. Welcome to the Deep Dive. Today,
we are exploring the Museum of the Imperial Palace
of Manchukuo, which is located in Shanchun, China.
Yes. And our mission for this deep dive is to
look really closely at our source material and
explore the incredibly bizarre intersection of
architecture, illusion, and power. Because it's
quite a story. It is. We're going to examine
exactly how a physical space can tell the tragic
sort of twisted story of a puppet regime and
a captive emperor. So OK, let's unpack this.
Let's do it. Because to put it in modern terms,
Puyi's situation is basically like being hired
as the CEO of a massive multinational corporation,
but your only actual authority is deciding what
kind of chairs go in the break room. And even
then, I mean, someone is probably double -checking
your chair orders. Right, exactly. What this
source material offers is a uniquely tangible
lens into the mechanics of imperial control.
We get to see, basically, block. by concrete
block how Imperial Japanese forces used architecture
and spatial geography to legitimize a completely
illegitimate state. Yeah. And we'll also see
how that same physical space has been reclaimed
today to ensure the truth of that history isn't
lost. Which is super important. So to really
understand just how bizarre this salt palace
was, we have to start by understanding the empty
throne that sat inside it. Right. The year is
1931. Japanese forces take control of Northeast
China. So the area making up the modern -day
provinces of Liaoning, Jilin, and Heilongjiang,
which is historically known as Manchuria. But
simply conquering a territory and actually holding
it are two very different things, geopolitically
speaking. Oh, absolutely. The Japanese military
had the land, but they desperately needed a facade
of local legitimacy to avoid total international
condemnation. So they created an officially independent
state called Manchukuo. Officially, right. Right,
officially. But in reality, it was a puppet state
entirely controlled by Japan. To sell this illusion
to the world, they needed a recognizable figurehead.
Enter Pui, the deposed last emperor of the Qing
dynasty. They dust him off and install him as
the emperor of Manchukuo. Right. But his role
was entirely symbolic, wasn't it? He had absolutely
zero state power. In fact, according to the sources,
the only piece of actual state business he was
allowed to control was the construction of his
new palace. Yeah, it was a tightly managed concession.
And it actually sparked a massive debate behind
the scenes because the Japanese factions had
competing architectural visions for this new
capital. They couldn't agree on the aesthetic.
Exactly. On one side, you had the Man Tetsu.
And this wasn't just a train company. The South
Manchuria Railway Company was essentially a colonial
mega -corporation driving Japan's economic expansion.
So they had a lot of pull. Huge pull. They wanted
a highly modern palace design, something seamlessly
integrated into the new modern city of Xinjing,
which is modern -day Chengcheng. So they wanted
to project progress and industry. Right. But
then you have the Construction Corps Bureau,
who pushed for a completely different direction.
They wanted a south -facing palace modeled directly
after the Forbidden City in Beijing. Which is
the one Pui chose, obviously, since he used to
live in the actual Forbidden City. Right. He
went with what he knew, and they even picked
a sprawling site in the western section of the
city for this grand new palace. Yeah, they designated
a central area for a temporary palace in the
meantime, just to act as his residence while
the grand vision was being built. But, and here's
the tragic absurdity of it all, that grand western
palace. It was never finished. World War II ramps
up. Materials and resources get diverted to the
military. And by 1943, construction completely
halts. Leaving Pui permanently stuck in that
temporary location. The former offices of the
Salt Gabel. And just to clarify for everyone,
the Gabel was a state tax monopoly on salt. Right.
It was a highly lucrative government office,
but at the end of the day, it's still just an
administrative tax office. It's the so -called
Salt Palace. Yeah. Wait, so he was basically
playing gaze of SimCity, but his controller was
completely unplugged. Pretty much. I mean, he's
a former emperor reduced to arguing over blueprints
for a palace he'd never get while an actual global
world war rages right outside his window. What's
fascinating here is how deliberate that dynamic
actually was. Really? Oh, yeah. Giving Pui control
over the architectural blueprints wasn't a courtesy.
It was a calculated psychological distraction.
Wow. By letting him obsess over the layout of
courtyards, the pitch of the roofs, and the placement
of gardens, the Japanese provided him with just
enough of a mirage of autonomy to keep him compliant.
So he was busy playing architect. Exactly. Which
kept him out of the way while they ran the actual
empire. Because Pui couldn't exert power over
the real world, his entire universe shrank to
the walls of this compound. Yeah. Since he couldn't
rule a real empire, he poured all of his energy
into ruling a miniature one. Let's look at the
physical layout of this temporary palace that
eventually took shape. That's quite the layout.
Over the years, from 1932 to 1945, this complex
grew to cover 43 ,000 square meters. Massive.
And he really tried to mimic the Forbidden City
by dividing it into an inner court so the royal
residence, and an outer court for administrative
purposes. It was a very deliberate spatial separation
of his private life and his public ceremonial
deities. Right. But unlike the grand expansive
plazas of Beijing, which were designed to make
visitors feel small in the face of limitless
imperial power, this space was defined by containment.
Yeah, it was surrounded by high concrete walls.
And heavy security. The sources note there were
nine two -story block houses scattered around
the courtyards strictly for the Manchico Imperial
Guard. It sounds less like a palace and more
like a maximum security prison with nice landscaping.
It was absolutely a gilded cage. And the architecture
within those walls was a jarring, almost chaotic
mix of styles. Like a real mishmash. Yeah. You
had traditional Chinese structures sitting right
next to Japanese and European style buildings.
The amenities scattered across the grounds are
what really stood out to me. Yeah. You have traditional
Chinese rockeries and serene fishponds sitting
alongside a swimming pool, a tennis court, a
small golf course, a horse track. just to snap
you back to the grim reality of the 1940s, an
air raid shelter. Yeah, quite the combination.
Hold on, he's trying to recreate the ancient,
sacred aura of the Forbidden City, but he installs
a small golf course and a tennis court. How does
that cultural mashup make any sense? It seems
contradictory, but it actually perfectly reflects
the deep contradictions of Manchukuo itself.
How so? Well, this wasn't just a historical replica
Pui was building. It was an attempt to project
a modern international status. The Japanese desperately
wanted Manchukuo to be recognized by the League
of Nations and Western foreign powers. So the
architecture had to perform a dual function.
It had to cling to ancient imperial legitimacy
to appease the local population and Pui himself,
while simultaneously trying to present itself
as a modern, progressive, western -facing state
on the world stage. So tennis court and the golf
course. Those were props in a diplomatic theater.
That paints a really vivid picture. The entire
exterior was designed for a hypothetical Western
audience that was never going to validate them
anyway. Exactly. But when you move from the grand,
confusing exterior of the grounds into the inner
court where Pooby actually lived, the theater
stops. The vibe totally changes. It does. The
architecture inside the inner core tells a story
not of luxury, but of intense claustrophobic
paranoia. The Jixi building is a prime example
of this environment. This was a Russian style
building that housed the private living quarters.
It contained Pui's bedroom, his reading room,
a Buddhist chapel, and the separate quarters
for his empress, Wan Rong, and his concubine,
Tanya Ling. And again, to highlight the absurdity
of this setup. the Jixi building wasn't built
for royalty. No, not at all. It was originally
built in the early 20th century as the office
building for the Jilin Heilongjiang Exclusive
Transportation Bureau. Imagine trying to maintain
divine imperial dignity while your bedroom used
to belong to a regional transit manager. It's
so weird, but the real centerpiece of the inner
court, and arguably the whole complex, is the
Tongde Hall. The Tom D. Hall was the largest,
most impressive, and most luxuriously decorated
building on the grounds. By far. This was a structure
that Japanese engineers extensively remodeled
between 1936 and 1938. And just to bring it full
circle, this building was originally the Jilin
Salt Tax Collection Office. So this is where
the Salt Palace nickname was really cemented.
Yeah, this was the building. It was meant to
be the ultimate royal residence. the Japanese
spared no expense outfitting it. But Pui completely
refused to use it. Never slept there. Right.
He wouldn't live there because he was absolutely
convinced the Japanese had bugged the entire
building. Yeah. Here's where it gets really interesting.
Think about it like this. OK. It's like being
gifted a multimillion dollar luxury smart home
by a highly controlling boss. But you refuse
to step foot inside because you're absolutely
certain the smart speakers are recording everything
you say and reporting it back. That's a great
way to put it. And given the reality of his situation,
his paranoia was almost certainly justified.
Oh, for sure. The Japanese forces were monitoring
his every move. But what makes the Tongde Hall
so compelling is the sheer irony of its design.
For instance, if you visit the museum today,
you can see the Manchukuo throne in this hall.
High behind that throne is the national coat
of arms. The big star. Right, it features a five
-pointed star with each point in a different
color representing the five nationalities of
Manchukuo. Red for Manchu, yellow for Chinese,
blue for Mongol, white for Japanese, and black
for Koreans. So it's projecting this harmonious
unity of five peoples under one benevolent ruler.
Exactly, it's projecting harmony, unity, and
strength. But the emperor meant to sit on that
throne was too terrified of his own white -starred
allies to even sleep in the same building. It
perfectly encapsulates the hollow propaganda
of the Manchukuo state. The symbol on the wall
promises unity. The reality on the ground was
sheer terror, surveillance, and subjugation.
The aesthetics of that room are so visually striking
too. In fact, Bernardo Bertolucci used the main
hall of the Tungde building for a famous lavish
dance party scene in his 1987 film, The Last
Emperor. Yeah, an incredible scene. Even though
historically the room was never actually used
for that purpose. It was just a beautiful empty
stage set. Which is incredibly fitting, really.
The entire palace was a stage set, a place meant
to be seen rather than lived in. So if the inner
court was defined by what Pui was hiding from,
the outer court was defined by what he was pretending
to be. Well said. Let's move out of his private
paranoid bubble and into the administrative front.
How did the day -to -day illusion actually function?
The outer court was where the daily charade of
government took place. The primary structure
here was the Kinmen building. Right. This was
Puyi's official office. It had a large room in
the southeast corner where he would perform his
highly scripted duties, receiving foreign ambassadors,
issuing certificates of appointment, and conferring
medals onto his government officials. Basically
doing the paperwork of a ghost nation. He's handing
out medals for a country that barely exists outside
those walls. Pretty much. And then you have the
Wai 'un Building, built in 1934, which housed
the Imperial Household Agency and the Imperial
Secretariat. The Wai 'un Building also held the
Fengxian Chapel, where Pui worshipped his ancestral
portraits. So tying it to his past. Exactly.
It was a way to physically anchor his new fake
empire to his very real ancient lineage. But
to truly understand the tension of the outer
court, we have to look at the peripheral buildings.
Like the support structures. Right, because architecture
isn't just about the grand halls, it's about
the utility spaces. Take Zixiu House, for example.
Right, this is fascinating detail. Zixiu House
was technically an informal dining hall. Yep.
But according to the sources, Pui actually kept
safes full of cash and jewels hidden in a back
apartment there. Why store your treasure in an
informal dining hall instead of a secure vault?
Because he was a man perpetually preparing to
run for his life. Wow. He didn't trust the Japanese,
he didn't trust his own guards, and he needed
liquid assets readily available in a place he
could easily access without drawing suspicion.
That makes total sense. Keeping cash in the dining
hall wasn't an administrative choice, it was
a survival mechanism. It was a physical manifestation
of his underlying terror. The building was later
turned into a school for the children of palace
employees, which is quite a pivot. It really
is. And then you have its mirror image, Changchun
House, which was briefly used by Puyi's father,
Prince Chun, when he visited in 1937, and later
by his concubine, Tan Yuling. But the building
in the outer court that really caught my eye
in the source material is the Cixuan. Oh, the
Cixuan is the key to understanding the entire
complex. Right. Dating back to the early 20th
century, it was originally a transportation head's
mansion. But during the palace years, it housed
the offices of the executive department. Yes.
More specifically, it housed the Japanese vice
minister and related officials. Isn't it incredibly
telling that the Japanese vice minister set up
his office right there on the inner palace grounds?
Yeah, it's very bold. It sounds less like he
was advising the emperor and more like an intense
24 -7 babysitting operation. Oh, babysitting
is putting it mildly. If we connect this to the
bigger picture, the spatial layout of the Sihuan
reveals the true hierarchy of power in Manchukuo.
How so? In a genuine empire, foreign advisors
or ministers are kept at an arm's length, usually
in a separate diplomatic quarter. You don't place
your handler in an adjacent compound. You place
them right inside the gates. Right. Every decree
Pui issued from the Kinmen building was overseen,
approved, and likely drafted by the true authority
residing in this Iwan. Architecture here isn't
just shelter. It's a physical manifestation of
the chain of command. So Pui was in the center.
But he was completely surrounded. Entirely. And
the legacy of these buildings today is incredibly
powerful because that facade has been entirely
stripped away. Completely. Today, the Kinnon
building, that same space where Pooey handed
out those fake medals to fake officials, houses
wax figures of the former emperor. But much more
importantly, it houses exhibitions highlighting
the devastating atrocities of World War II, specifically
incidents related to the infamous Unit 731. That
is a profound thematic shift for physical space.
It really is. Unit 731 was a covert biological
and chemical warfare research and development
unit of the Imperial Japanese Army that engaged
in lethal human experimentation. Awful stuff.
By placing an exhibition about those very real,
horrific war crimes inside the Kinman building,
the museum makes a powerful statement. The building
that was constructed to be a stage for a manufactured,
sanitized reality is now serving as a grim rep...
for the brutal truths of the war. It's a stark
contrast. It forces the visitor to confront the...
The Japanese military apparatus crumbled, and
with it, the handlers who had controlled Puyi's
every move abandoned the charade. Japan surrendered
unconditionally, Manchukuo ceased to exist as
a political entity, and Puyi was forced to flee
the palace he had spent years designing. He tried
to reach Japan by plane, but was captured by
the Soviet forces. Meanwhile, the grand illusion
he left behind—the palace, the meticulously planned
courtyards, the Russian -style transit offices
turned royal bedrooms—was looted and left to
history. It's a stark reminder that concrete
and brick can project power, but they cannot
generate it. That's a great point. When the military
force backing the illusion vanished, the palace
immediately reverted to what it truly was, a
collection of repurposed administrative buildings.
Today, the preserved structures of this complex
are designated as a truly scenic area in China.
For context, 5A is the highest official rating
given to the most important and well maintained
tourist attractions in the country. It's a huge
deal. It is. It's a massive destination and a
first -grade national museum, which brings us
back to you, the listener. Exploring the history
of this salt palace makes you consider how the
physical spaces you inhabit daily reflect your
own true agency. Yeah. Are you the master of
your domain or are you just picking out the break
room chairs while someone else holds the real
power? It raises a vital question about how we
remember and interact with history. I'd like
to leave you with a final thought to ponder.
OK. Consider how the state officially names this
site today. In English, we often politely refer
to it as the Museum of the Imperial Palace of
Manchukuo. But in China, the structures are officially
and deliberately referred to as the Puppet Emperor's
Palace and Exhibition Hall or the illegitimate
Manchukuo Imperial Palace Museum. Wow, they don't
mince words. Not at all. By literally baking
the words puppet and illegitimate into the official
name on the front door, the museum ensures that
the building is forever forced to wear its historical
shame. I love that. It guarantees that no visitor
walking through those gates marveling at the
architecture can ever fall for the grand illusion
that Pui and the Japanese military tried so desperately
to build. The truth is carved right into the
entrance. A grand illusion that, in the end,
was nothing more than a cramped salt tax office
with a really nice coat of paint. Thanks for
joining us on this deep dive. See you next time.