Above all grand geopolitical confrontations, it is ordinary people’s simple desire for affordable living and financial security that ultimately measures the true worth of any policy.

TSMC’s commercial investment in the United States resembles a vast and costly social experiment. Pictured: employees from TSMC’s Arizona plant attending the company’s annual sports day in Hsinchu, Taiwan, this past November. (Reuters)

The hottest buzzword in America today is “affordability.” From rent to utilities, from supermarket price tags to medical bills—everything keeps rising. This term helped Democrats win a string of local elections and has now become a thorn in former President Trump’s side. Last week, at a public rally in Pennsylvania, he angrily dismissed “affordability” as a Democratic fabrication, insisting that soaring prices simply don’t exist.

Just eight months ago, on “Liberation Day,” Trump waved tariff threats globally, vowing to bring back lost factories and national glory. It painted a rosy vision of “Made in America”: new plants rising, assembly lines humming, and blue-collar workers regaining dignity amid the roar of machinery.

Yet the first giant to truly take a bite of this crab—TSMC—has found a bitter taste in the desert north of Phoenix, Arizona. Beyond the dry heat, the massive factory complex—built from barren land and rivaling Central Park in scale—now faces a labyrinth of regulatory incompatibility. In Taiwan, a single key permit can launch a project; here, approvals must be wrangled across city, county, state, and federal levels. TSMC Chairman C.C. Wei lamented that to comply with U.S. regulations, the company had to create 18,000 internal rules from scratch, costing 35million(approximatelyS45 million).

This is more than a business investment—it’s a vast and expensive social experiment. The central question: what happens when a highly mature industrial culture attempts to transplant itself into an entirely different institutional and social soil?

America has long lost its “muscle memory” for building large-scale factories. To get its sophisticated chipmaking operations running, TSMC had to fly in experienced technicians from Taiwan. For these families, it meant a dramatic lifestyle shift; for local American communities, it triggered a challenging cultural adjustment. Values like diligence, constant readiness, and a sense of duty—familiar mantras for Asian workers—clash with American norms of clocking out on time, work-life balance, and uninterrupted family holidays. Even linguistic differences spark tension: Taiwanese managers’ habitual use of Mandarin has triggered discrimination complaints from American workers.

This recalls the 2019 Oscar-winning documentary American Factory. Chinese “glass tycoon” Cao Dewang bought a shuttered General Motors plant in Ohio with mixed emotions. The film captured not only the restart of machines but also the silent collision between two work ethics and life expectations. On one side: Chinese managers and workers accustomed to collective rhythm, efficiency, discipline, and viewing hardship as the necessary path to a better future. On the other: American blue-collar workers who once enjoyed golden-age benefits but now face disillusionment after industrial decline. Each side saw the other as “lazy” or “alienated”—a gap goodwill alone couldn’t bridge. The film’s closing shot—a robotic arm—quietly foreshadowed a harsher future beyond borders: automation, indifferent to nationality, threatening all assembly-line workers alike.

Six years on, technological advances haven’t softened this story. The chip factory conflict merely escalates the same dilemma to a far costlier level. Indeed, wariness toward Asia’s manufacturing prowess isn’t new. Twenty years ago, American journalist Sara Bongiorni wrote the bestseller A Year Without “Made in China,” chronicling her family’s year-long attempt to boycott all Chinese goods. The result was disastrous: from children’s toys to household tools, both convenience and budget collapsed—either no substitutes existed, prices were unaffordable, or quality was unacceptable. And that was during globalization’s heyday.

That experiment vividly proved that globalization is no longer a political choice but an invisible thread woven into daily life—delivering unmatched efficiency and affordable prices. Now, as geopolitical distrust and tribalism sever these threads one by one, ordinary people’s wallets feel the sting first.

U.S. labor costs, compliance burdens, and time expenses mean that even with tariffs raised by 30–40%, companies still prefer staying in Asia. The math is clear: raw steel costs at least 50% more in the U.S. than in Asia, and labor is nearly ten times pricier than in Southeast Asia. Thus, we witness an absurd contrast: on one hand, lofty slogans and ambitious factory-building; on the other, relentless price hikes across steel, textiles, electronics… Tariff barriers may change country-of-origin labels, but they can’t rewrite the cost equation.

Interestingly, exactly six years after COVID-19 first emerged in Wuhan, global prices have surged repeatedly. While voters worldwide prioritize groceries and utility bills, everyday living costs in China have barely budged. A friend returning last month from Xi’an remarked that a bowl of lamb paomo (shredded flatbread in lamb soup) costs the same today as it did eight years ago. While the world battles inflation, China worries about weak domestic demand, overcapacity, and deflationary pressures. Amid a harsh international trade winter and domestic fiscal spending growing far faster than revenue, two of China’s traditional growth engines—exports and investment—have stalled, and the anticipated consumer rebound remains elusive. Data shows that November’s retail sales rose just 1.3% year-on-year, down sharply from October’s 2.9% and the lowest since the pandemic ended three years ago.

Despite abundant, high-quality, low-cost domestic goods, Chinese households—haunted by bleak economic prospects, job insecurity, property market collapse, and shrinking personal wealth—remain wary and refuse to spend.

Thus, we see two worlds: on one side, the world’s largest consumer market—Americans, with low savings rates and a love for spending, groaning under ever-rising prices; on the other, the world’s largest manufacturing base—where Chinese policymakers desperately seek to boost domestic demand but fail to convince cautious citizens to open their wallets.

Globalization may indeed be on a new track; the old narrative of sweet mutual gains has vanished. Yet behind protectionist walls, competitiveness and prosperity do not automatically emerge. Above all grand confrontations, it is ordinary people’s simple hope for affordable living and financial security that remains the ultimate test of any policy’s true value. And that ideal solution—perhaps even the strongest unipolar power cannot achieve it alone.

Above all grand geopolitical confrontations, it is ordinary people’s simple desire for affordable living and financial security that ultimately measures the true worth of any policy.

TSMC’s commercial investment in the United States resembles a vast and costly social experiment. Pictured: employees from TSMC’s Arizona plant attending the company’s annual sports day in Hsinchu, Taiwan, this past November. (Reuters)

The hottest buzzword in America today is “affordability.” From rent to utilities, from supermarket price tags to medical bills—everything keeps rising. This term helped Democrats win a string of local elections and has now become a thorn in former President Trump’s side. Last week, at a public rally in Pennsylvania, he angrily dismissed “affordability” as a Democratic fabrication, insisting that soaring prices simply don’t exist.

Just eight months ago, on “Liberation Day,” Trump waved tariff threats globally, vowing to bring back lost factories and national glory. It painted a rosy vision of “Made in America”: new plants rising, assembly lines humming, and blue-collar workers regaining dignity amid the roar of machinery.

Yet the first giant to truly take a bite of this crab—TSMC—has found a bitter taste in the desert north of Phoenix, Arizona. Beyond the dry heat, the massive factory complex—built from barren land and rivaling Central Park in scale—now faces a labyrinth of regulatory incompatibility. In Taiwan, a single key permit can launch a project; here, approvals must be wrangled across city, county, state, and federal levels. TSMC Chairman C.C. Wei lamented that to comply with U.S. regulations, the company had to create 18,000 internal rules from scratch, costing 35million(approximatelyS45 million).

This is more than a business investment—it’s a vast and expensive social experiment. The central question: what happens when a highly mature industrial culture attempts to transplant itself into an entirely different institutional and social soil?

America has long lost its “muscle memory” for building large-scale factories. To get its sophisticated chipmaking operations running, TSMC had to fly in experienced technicians from Taiwan. For these families, it meant a dramatic lifestyle shift; for local American communities, it triggered a challenging cultural adjustment. Values like diligence, constant readiness, and a sense of duty—familiar mantras for Asian workers—clash with American norms of clocking out on time, work-life balance, and uninterrupted family holidays. Even linguistic differences spark tension: Taiwanese managers’ habitual use of Mandarin has triggered discrimination complaints from American workers.

This recalls the 2019 Oscar-winning documentary American Factory. Chinese “glass tycoon” Cao Dewang bought a shuttered General Motors plant in Ohio with mixed emotions. The film captured not only the restart of machines but also the silent collision between two work ethics and life expectations. On one side: Chinese managers and workers accustomed to collective rhythm, efficiency, discipline, and viewing hardship as the necessary path to a better future. On the other: American blue-collar workers who once enjoyed golden-age benefits but now face disillusionment after industrial decline. Each side saw the other as “lazy” or “alienated”—a gap goodwill alone couldn’t bridge. The film’s closing shot—a robotic arm—quietly foreshadowed a harsher future beyond borders: automation, indifferent to nationality, threatening all assembly-line workers alike.

Six years on, technological advances haven’t softened this story. The chip factory conflict merely escalates the same dilemma to a far costlier level. Indeed, wariness toward Asia’s manufacturing prowess isn’t new. Twenty years ago, American journalist Sara Bongiorni wrote the bestseller A Year Without “Made in China,” chronicling her family’s year-long attempt to boycott all Chinese goods. The result was disastrous: from children’s toys to household tools, both convenience and budget collapsed—either no substitutes existed, prices were unaffordable, or quality was unacceptable. And that was during globalization’s heyday.

That experiment vividly proved that globalization is no longer a political choice but an invisible thread woven into daily life—delivering unmatched efficiency and affordable prices. Now, as geopolitical distrust and tribalism sever these threads one by one, ordinary people’s wallets feel the sting first.

U.S. labor costs, compliance burdens, and time expenses mean that even with tariffs raised by 30–40%, companies still prefer staying in Asia. The math is clear: raw steel costs at least 50% more in the U.S. than in Asia, and labor is nearly ten times pricier than in Southeast Asia. Thus, we witness an absurd contrast: on one hand, lofty slogans and ambitious factory-building; on the other, relentless price hikes across steel, textiles, electronics… Tariff barriers may change country-of-origin labels, but they can’t rewrite the cost equation.

Interestingly, exactly six years after COVID-19 first emerged in Wuhan, global prices have surged repeatedly. While voters worldwide prioritize groceries and utility bills, everyday living costs in China have barely budged. A friend returning last month from Xi’an remarked that a bowl of lamb paomo (shredded flatbread in lamb soup) costs the same today as it did eight years ago. While the world battles inflation, China worries about weak domestic demand, overcapacity, and deflationary pressures. Amid a harsh international trade winter and domestic fiscal spending growing far faster than revenue, two of China’s traditional growth engines—exports and investment—have stalled, and the anticipated consumer rebound remains elusive. Data shows that November’s retail sales rose just 1.3% year-on-year, down sharply from October’s 2.9% and the lowest since the pandemic ended three years ago.

Despite abundant, high-quality, low-cost domestic goods, Chinese households—haunted by bleak economic prospects, job insecurity, property market collapse, and shrinking personal wealth—remain wary and refuse to spend.

Thus, we see two worlds: on one side, the world’s largest consumer market—Americans, with low savings rates and a love for spending, groaning under ever-rising prices; on the other, the world’s largest manufacturing base—where Chinese policymakers desperately seek to boost domestic demand but fail to convince cautious citizens to open their wallets.

Globalization may indeed be on a new track; the old narrative of sweet mutual gains has vanished. Yet behind protectionist walls, competitiveness and prosperity do not automatically emerge. Above all grand confrontations, it is ordinary people’s simple hope for affordable living and financial security that remains the ultimate test of any policy’s true value. And that ideal solution—perhaps even the strongest unipolar power cannot achieve it alone.