I propose for review one of the chapters of my great work on ontology. Please share your thoughts on this matter

The Language of Philosophy
Philosophy is complex because its object of study is intangible. It doesn't uncover a thing; it uncovers the content of a word. Philosophy deals not with an object, but with its concept. And since philosophy speaks about the world relying solely on language, this creates difficulties for both the researcher and the reader. Moreover, philosophers readily introduce their own terms—monads, simulacra, a posteriori. Thus, what is described is often, in a sense, created.

Therefore, if we want to understand the assertion "Being is," we must return not only to the thought, but also to the language of those who first uttered it—the Ancient Greeks.

Here, grammar is crucial: in Ancient Greek, statements are constructed according to the schema "A is B." For example: "Parmenides is a philosopher" (ὁ Παρμενίδης ἐστὶν φιλόσοφος). The copula "is" (or "estin") is obligatory. It passed into Latin (Marcus est philosophus), English (Socrates is a philosopher), French (Socrate est philosophe), and German (Sokrates ist ein Philosoph). For native speakers of these languages, "is" is not just a word, but a mode of thought. It's woven into consciousness like a thread into fabric. To say "Socrates philosopher" without "is" is impossible—the sentence falls apart.

"Is" lends stability to being: Socrates is not merely a philosopher; he is a philosopher, as if fixed in reality. This structure made the question "What is being?" natural for philosophy, and answers sought a substance—be it God, an idea, or matter.

The Russian language disrupts this logic. In the present tense, the copula "есть" (is) is not obligatory: "Сократ философ" (Socrates philosopher), "Он доктор" (He doctor), "Я студент" (I student). Being does not demand confirmation; it simply is present. This feature can create a disconnect between Russian thought and Western ontology, vividly illustrated in a classroom where a fifth-grader learns English. The teacher writes: "He is a doctor." The boy translates: "Он есть доктор" (He is a doctor). The teacher corrects: "In Russian, 'есть' isn't needed, just 'Он доктор' (He doctor)." The child freezes, his eyes widen. How can the verb "to be" exist, yet not be there? His world, where everything is simply "He doctor," clashes with English, where the doctor seems frozen in "is." This isn't just a translation error—it's a rupture in thinking.

The verb "to be" in Russian behaves differently than in Western European languages. In the future tense, we say: "Он будет лечить" (He will treat) or "Он будет доктором" (He will be a doctor)—the emphasis is on change, becoming. In the past: "Он лечил" (He treated, where "to be" is replaced by a suffix) or "Он был доктором" (He was a doctor, indicating something no longer current). Similar features are noticeable in Ukrainian and Belarusian. However, in West Slavic languages like Polish (Jan jest lekarzem) or Bulgarian (Той е лекар), the obligatory copula "jest" or "e" returns, approaching the Western European model. Why this occurs is a question for separate research, but it hints at cultural and linguistic differences that generally influence one's worldview. The verb "to be" in Russian is not a frozen snapshot of a state, but a process, movement, becoming.

This observation becomes even more striking as we "move eastward." Turkic languages go further still. For example, in Kazakh, there is no copula "is" in the present tense: "Мен ғалым" (Men ǵalym) — "I scientist," "Тау бар" (Taý bar) — "Mountain exists." "Бар" (bar) is not "is" in the sense of being; "бар" is "that which exists"—a fact proven by presence. "Тау бар" means "The mountain is present."

In Kazakh, the verb "болу" (bolu) — "to be" — is also used, but here it emphasizes process. "Үй болды" (Úi boldy) — not just "The house is," but "The house became": someone built the walls, put on the roof, lit the hearth. "Ол ғалым болды" (Ol ǵalym boldy) — "He became a scientist"—this is a story: sleepless nights, books, exams, the moment the diploma is in hand. "Ол ата болды" (Ol ata boldy) — "He became a father"—the moment the child first cries. The future reinforces movement: "Болады" (Bolady) — "Will be, will happen, will become," like an open road. In Kazakh, to be is not a point, but a path, a becoming. A mountain does not simply "exist"; it formed over centuries. A person does not "exist"; they become—a scientist, a father, themselves.

If Turkic languages understand "being" as becoming, then Chinese thought has generally abandoned the category of "being" altogether. The Chinese language shapes a worldview distinct from the Western one, avoiding the category of "being." It has no analogue to the Indo-European verb "to be," which fixes existence. Instead, it uses:

有 (yǒu) — "to have," "to be present/exist"

无 (wú) — "to be absent," "to not have"

For example: "桌子有" (zhuōzi yǒu) — "Table exists," not "Table is"; "这里没有人" (zhèlǐ méiyǒu rén) — "Here no people exist" (literally). The Chinese language does not express abstract "being," but rather fixes concrete presence or absence in a specific context. This feature directs thought towards dynamics, rather than a static essence.

The absence of the copula "is" makes the question "What is being?" alien. Instead of seeking substance, the Chinese language emphasizes relationships and processes. For instance, the word 道 (dào) — "path" — indicates not a fixed state, but movement, the order of the world. 阴阳 (yīn-yáng) describes not opposites, but the change of phases in a cycle. 无 (wú) denotes not "non-being," but potential, a space for emergence. In the Tao Te Ching, Laozi writes: "Thirty spokes share the hub of a wheel, but it is the emptiness in the center that makes it useful." 无 is not emptiness in the Western sense, but the possibility for 有 — temporary manifestation.

The Chinese language reflects the fluidity of the world in other aspects. 有 (yǒu) indicates transient presence, while 变 (biàn) — change, movement. Being is not fixed as a "thing," but perceived through:

有 (yǒu) — that which is present now,

变 (biàn) — that which transforms,

道 (dào) — inclusion in the flow of the world.

For example, a river in Chinese is not the "essence of a river," but its presence (有), its flow (变), and its place in the Dao (道). If Western languages prompt us to ask what a table is, Chinese emphasizes its use (用, yòng)—its role in a specific situation. This linguistic structure influences perception: good is harmony with the flow (和, hé), evil is its disruption (乱, luàn). Even in Chinese medicine, health is the movement of qi energy (气), not a static state.

Such linguistic features shape philosophical conceptions where there is no cult of eternal essences. In Daoism, Confucianism, or Chinese Buddhism, the world is not a collection of "beings," but a field of interactions where everything arises, changes, and disappears.

The Western philosopher Parmenides asserted: "Being is, non-being is not," thereby establishing an immobile, eternal reality. However, the Western tradition is not limited to stasis: Hegel saw being as becoming through dialectics, and Heidegger emphasized its processuality through care. Deleuze or Whitehead even developed process ontology. Nevertheless, the linguistic structure with the obligatory copula "is" often directed thought towards the search for substance. Directly translating Parmenides into Kazakh, we get: "Болу бар, болмау жоқ" (Bolý bar, bolmaý joq) — "Becoming is, non-becoming is not," which points to the world as a flow where everything is born and transforms. In Chinese, his words would sound like: "道有，非道无" (dào yǒu, fēi dào wú) — "The Way exists, non-Way does not," where "being" dissolves into movement and relationships.

Western philosophy, from Parmenides to Heidegger, sought the essence of being—eternity, phenomenon, givenness—relying on the formula "Being — is," rooted in a language where "is" fixes being. Even the understanding of God—from Kant's highest being to Heidegger's mystery of being—followed this logic. But languages where the copula "is" is not obligatory or is absent—Russian, Kazakh, Chinese—offer a different perspective. In Russian, being is present without fixation; in Kazakh, it becomes through a process ("болу"); and in Chinese, it manifests as a temporary presence (有) or the potential of emptiness (无), integrated into the flow of Dao. These languages avoid the "forgetfulness of being," of which Heidegger spoke, presenting the world not as a collection of substances, but as a field of changes.

Language shapes philosophy. The Western tradition, relying on the copula "is," built an ontology of presence, in which the question of being became a question of its essence. Russian, Kazakh, and Chinese languages, which do not require the obligatory expression of being in the present tense, suggest something different: being is not an immobile "thing," but a moment in becoming, arising through relationships and differences. Moreover, the very linguistic distinction between the words "exist" and "to be" (in the sense of "бытийствовать"), "existence" and "being" points to a deeper conceptual cleavage. These words are not synonymous: language captures a distinction that remains, for now, unobvious. In further sections, we will endeavor to philosophically clarify whether this distinction is truly rooted in ontology or if it is merely a grammatical intuition.

We will strive to move beyond focusing on "presence" and instead consider reality as a network of processes. Being, in our view, becomes through the establishment of boundaries, through the interaction of presence and change. The question "Being — is. How?" is replaced by another: "Being — becomes. How does it become?"