This is a record of an interview with Emperor Shunzhi of the Qing Dynasty, who sought deliverance at the Hsiang Kuang Buddhist Centre in Australia. He now resides in the Western Pure Land of Ultimate Bliss. This account reflects upon his life in the 17th century. Recorded by the chief writer, Fa Ning, on April 19, 2026.
Emperor Shunzhi speaks:
". I am the first emperor of the Qing Dynasty to enter the Central Plains—Emperor Shunzhi. Today, I am known as Miaoyin. Of all the titles I have held, 'Emperor Shunzhi' is the one I have always disliked the most. From my earliest childhood, the very prospect of being an emperor filled me with a profound and chilling fear. I was only six years old when my father passed away, leaving behind a court filled with ambitious brothers and relatives, all of whom had their eyes fixed hungrily upon the throne. I was merely a child, a boy of six with no grand ambitions. I simply wanted to live a quiet, ordinary life, yet I was heartlessly thrust onto the massive stage that marked the beginning of the Qing Dynasty. The terror and unease that gripped my heart had no outlet; there was no one to whom I could pour out my soul.
A Childhood Stolen by the Throne
At that time, the one who held the reins of power was my uncle, Dorgon, my father's brother. He was a man consumed by ambition. As he became the primary ruler of the court, I was reduced to nothing more than a pawn in his hands, manipulated at his every whim. While I was still a child struggling to learn my lessons, the Qing forces were marching into the Central Plains, establishing Manchu rule and setting the stage for the Qing Dynasty. To my young, sheltered mind, these events felt like a distant story—until I realised, with a sinking heart, that I was the protagonist of this tragedy. I understood, even then, that I carried the heavy responsibility of the nation and its people on my small shoulders. But at that age, what could I do? I had no voice, no agency. I could only watch as Dorgon used my name to justify his actions, committing both great deeds and terrible atrocities in my stead.
What terrified me most was his brutal enforcement of the policy requiring all Han Chinese to adopt the Manchu hairstyle. This mandate, issued by his decree, sparked a fierce backlash among the Han people. I knew, even then, that such a policy should have been implemented with patience and care, not forced through with such violence. For a people who had just suffered the agony of losing their country, this was a profound humiliation and a source of immense pain. But given Dorgon’s iron-willed and ruthless nature, he would never have listened to me. The massive karmic debt he incurred through the slaughter that followed—the massacres he ordered to suppress the resistance—is something that still haunts me. There was a saying among the people: 'Keep your hair and lose your head, or keep your head and lose your hair.' To survive, one had to adopt the Manchu style; those who refused were executed without mercy. He unleashed this terror across many southern cities, leading to horrors like the 'Ten Days of Yangzhou,' where countless innocent civilians were butchered.
The Weight of a Forced Legacy
I sat in the deep recesses of the palace, bearing the title of Emperor, while my heart was torn apart by the suffering I witnessed. I was barely ten years old, yet I was forced to watch as he used my name to carry out this systematic cleansing of the Han people. It was truly an unbearable sight! My nature was always one of —perhaps due to a deep, long-standing affinity with the Buddha’s teachings—and I could never reconcile myself to the act of taking human life.
Therefore, when I finally took full control of the throne at the age of fourteen, I began to vigorously promote the integration of Manchu and Han cultures, a policy that was later widely praised. I pushed the imperial examination system to its limits, requiring both Han and Manchu scholars to participate to earn their positions. This was a shock to the Han people at the time. While the directive had been initiated by Dorgon before I took the throne, it was only under my rule that it truly flourished. I studied with intense diligence. From childhood, I had been indoctrinated with the importance of Manchu culture and the skills of the horse-riding warrior, but once I became the Emperor, I realised the vital importance of understanding Han culture. Our people had conquered the world with iron fists, but if we could not understand the culture of the Han people and stand as equals with them, the empire my ancestors had built would be built on shifting sands.
A Heart Torn Between Two Worlds
I understood in my heart that I needed to recruit the best talents in the land to serve the nation. As the people who had inhabited this land for thousands of years, they possessed a deeper understanding of the country than we ever could. Although I never wanted to be an emperor, once the responsibility was placed upon me, I had to do my utmost to implement policies and fulfil the duties of a sovereign. I demanded so much of myself, and though my heart was filled with bitterness, I buried it deep within. I knew that in the face of the nation and its people, my own suffering was insignificant. For years, I studied relentlessly, memorising the Four Books and Five Classics until I could recite them by heart, and I became well-versed in the great works of Han culture. While I cannot say it was born of passion, the deep understanding and respect I gained for Han culture eventually led to a genuine, heartfelt longing for their traditions.
My policies won the widespread and praise of the Han people, but they also deeply angered and unsettled the Manchu nobility—especially those who had fought alongside my father and grandfather to conquer the land. I began to assert my own authority, and for those who rebelled against me, I dealt with them strictly, showing no favouritism. I was an emperor who cherished talent; I believed that whether one was Manchu or Han, if they were capable, they should be used for the benefit of the Qing and its people. I was never without a heart for my country, but in my short life, I lived in a state of constant contradiction, often viewed as a foolish or incompetent ruler. I truly never wished to be that.
The Tragedy of Consort Dong E
Though I had no desire to be an emperor, my sense of responsibility and the insights I gained from studying Confucianism told me that, as a ruler, I had to carry the burden. Everything changed, however, the moment I met the love of my life—Consort Dong E. For her, I poured out my entire heart. The emotions I had suppressed for so long—the feeling of being trapped in the palace since childhood, the lack of freedom, the manipulation by Dorgon, and the suffocating pressure of being a fourteen-year-old boy caught between the demands of the nobility and the expectations of the Han people—all found an outlet when I met her.
Consort Dong E was the only person in this world who truly understood me. As a Manchu noblewoman, she was just as well-versed in Han culture as I was, and her talent even surpassed my own. I immersed myself in the tenderness of our life together, dedicating my entire heart and soul to her. While I did not neglect the affairs of state, my heart was inevitably distracted. When the heart is distracted, one cannot be fully focused, and cracks begin to appear. But our time together was short. Consort Dong E, like me, was caught in the immense pressure of the inner palace. We had a son, and I was overjoyed, hoping to name him the Crown Prince. However, before I could officially designate him as the heir, the child passed away. My heart was filled with grief and rage, and Consort Dong E’s health began to decline rapidly. Not long after, she departed from this world, leaving me alone once more to face the crushing trials of the palace.
The Final Path to the Western Pure Land
At that moment, I felt that all was lost. I believed that only the Buddha’s teachings could be my sole refuge in this life. At the age of twenty, I sought to renounce the world and enter the Chan school. I took a master and gave myself the name 'Monk Xingchi.' My heart was set on becoming a monk; I had no attachment left for anything in this world. I often told those around me that I was meant to be a monk, but that I had been cast into this sea of red-dust , and through the turning of the times, I had been forced to become an emperor. The things that others craved so desperately were, in my eyes, worthless. I even shaved my head, preparing to enter the Buddha’s gate.
My mother, the Empress Dowager Xiaozhuang, was vehemently opposed to this, and even my own master did not approve. He feared that if an emperor were to take such a step, the scholars and heroes of the world might develop a deeper misunderstanding of the Buddha’s teachings, believing that the Emperor had abandoned them for the sake of Buddhism—a concept the common people could not accept or comprehend. Thus, I suppressed my desire, knowing the causal conditions were not yet ripe. I continued to handle the affairs of the state, enduring the extreme pain and loneliness. But none of this was for me to plan or control, for my life was to be very short. Before I reached the age of twenty-four, I fell gravely ill with what people considered an incurable disease—smallpox.
After contracting this illness, the thought of renouncing the world returned to me. Perhaps entering the empty gate was the only way to heal my spirit and find a new life. My time with smallpox was short; before I could even plan my path to monkhood, I left the human world. Fortunately, before I passed, I was able to personally select the Crown Prince to succeed me. Having entrusted these matters to those around me, I left the world in peace. Though my body suffered immense pain before death, and my heart was filled with fear and unease, in terms of the Buddha’s teachings, I knew this was my fate—a fate I could not escape—so I did not struggle or cling to life. Soon, with that illness, I departed from the human world."
Namo Amituofo.
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