High up in the Himalayas, at an elevation of 5,500 metres, the air is thin enough to leave even seasoned trekkers gasping. The land here is not just rock and ice — it is a living, breathing ecosystem: alpine meadows where grasses cling to soil that took centuries to form, streams that feed the “Asian Water Tower” (the source of rivers like the Yangtze and Yellow, sustaining billions downstream), and silence so profound it feels like a sacred trust. So when news broke that an outdoor brand and an artist had staged a fireworks performance titled Ascending Dragon in this fragile zone — Jiangzi County’s Relong Township, part of the Tibetan Plateau — public outrage was less a reaction to art, and more a cry for respect: for the land, for the law, and for the idea that some places are too precious to treat as a backdrop.
Let us be clear: This was not, as some social media chatter initially framed it, “blasting mountains.” It was fireworks — but in a place where even a stray spark can alter a landscape forever. The Tibetan Plateau is not a regular venue. Its ecosystems are uniquely vulnerable: temperatures hover near freezing year-round, so vegetation grows at a glacial pace (a single clump of grass might take a decade to mature); the soil is thin and easily eroded, with no quick way to regenerate; and every human disturbance ripples outward, from disrupting local wildlife to threatening the stability of the region’s water systems. To light up the sky here with fireworks — with their chemical residues, their heat, their potential to spark fires — was not just a misstep. It was a breach of trust with the land, and with the laws designed to protect it.
The legal case is straightforward, but its implications run deep. China’s Regulations on the Safety Management of Fireworks and Firecrackers explicitly bans setting off fireworks in “key fire prevention areas such as forests and grasslands.” Relong Township, with its vast stretches of alpine grassland, fits that definition perfectly. More importantly, the Qinghai-Tibet Plateau Ecological Protection Law — a landmark piece of legislation enacted to shield this critical ecosystem — states that any activity in the region must “comply with ecological protection plans and strictly adhere to ecological red lines.” There is no exception for “art” or “branding.” When the artist’s studio and the brand issued apologies days later, admitting they had “failed to fully consider plateau ecological protection,” it felt less like accountability and more like a belated recognition of a basic truth: on the Tibetan Plateau, ecological protection is not an afterthought. It is the foundation of every decision.
But this incident is not just about one ill-conceived fireworks show. It is about a larger question we face globally: How do we balance human ambition — whether for art, commerce, or progress — with the limits of the natural world? The Tibetan Plateau is a test case for that balance. For years, China has invested heavily in protecting it: establishing nature reserves, cracking down on illegal mining and grazing, and drafting laws that prioritise ecological health over short-term gain. The Qinghai-Tibet Plateau Ecological Protection Law is not just a set of rules; it is a statement of values: that this land’s worth is not measured by how it can be used, but by how it can be preserved.
The public outcry that followed Ascending Dragon speaks to a growing consciousness in China — and around the world — of our responsibility to nature. People did not just object to the fireworks; they objected to the idea that a beautiful, fragile place could be treated as a stage without first asking: What will this cost the land? That question is not just for artists or brands. It is for governments, too. How did this event get approved? Were environmental impact assessments conducted thoroughly? The fact that the city government quickly formed an investigation team is a good sign — it shows that authorities recognise the gravity of the issue. But the real test will be in the follow-up: Will those responsible be held accountable? Will the land be restored if damage is found? And most importantly, will this incident lead to stricter safeguards to prevent similar missteps in the future?
There is a lesson here, one as old as humanity’s relationship with nature: reverence is not weakness. It is wisdom. The Tibetan Plateau does not need our fireworks to be magnificent. It is magnificent on its own — in the way the sun hits the snow-capped peaks at dawn, in the way the wind carries the sound of distant streams, in the quiet resilience of its ecosystems. Our role is not to add to that beauty with grand gestures, but to protect it with careful, humble action.
For the artist, the brand, and the officials involved, this should be a wake-up call. For the rest of us, it is a reminder that every choice we make — whether as individuals, corporations, or governments — leaves a mark. On the Tibetan Plateau, that mark lasts longer than any firework’s glow. It lasts for generations.
As the investigation continues, we wait not just for a verdict, but for a commitment: that the next time someone wants to bring light to the Himalayas, they will first ask the land if it is willing. And if it is not, they will step back — because some places are too sacred to disturb.
Jin Ming is a Beijing-based commentator.
Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in the “Opinion” column are those of the authors and do not reflect the views or positions of this magazine.
