By June Tsai
Rich ocean resources, stunning beaches, well-preserved traditional Chinese villages and a culture shaped by gusting winds are all unique to Penghu, an archipelago of 90 islets off the southwest of Taiwan proper.
For residents, these qualities are an important source of their long-standing pride and sense of independence. But over the last decade, the local community has been riven with divisions concerning plans to introduce casinos as a cure-all for the region's economic ills. "Penghu's greatest asset is its living environment. We want more people to experience this beauty," Hung Tung-lin, director of Penghu County Government's Tourism Department, said Jan. 22.
Hung explained that the gaming business combined with foreign investment lured by casino and resort development is likely to put Penghu, also known as the Pescadores, on the international tourism map. "For five months a year, the wind stops all tourism," he said. "This new strategy gives the area's economy a fighting chance." Official statistics showed that Penghu, with a population of 92,000, welcomed 500,000 visitors last year, mostly from Taiwan proper.
The introduction of casinos was first mooted in the early 1980s when legislators began reviewing a draft of the Isolated Islands Construction Act. The goal was to develop tourist casinos on offshore islands as a way of boosting local economies. A first draft included the stipulation permitting Taiwan's local governments to designate special zones for gambling tourism. Demonstrating remarkable foresight in 1993, Penghu's former New Party Legislator Chen Kwei-miew proposed that revenue be channeled into a construction fund earmarked for future developments.
Over the past 10 years, various casino proposals have been floated but were all shot down following heated debate and allegations of vested interests. This did not deter Penghu's lawmakers and county commissioners from pursuing the idea though. Their mantra of "casinos will help put tourism first," as coined by Penghu County Commissioner Wang Chien-fa, was aimed at dispelling concerns over the rise of casino-associated problems, such as organized crime, drugs and vice, which would impact Penghu's peaceful living environment.
Since 1996, Chen's successor, Kuomintang Legislator Lin Pin-kuan, has been an outspoken proponent of developing Penghu's gaming business. So committed was he to this belief that in 1998, incensed by the opposition of then Premier Vincent Siew and the KMT leadership's stance against decriminalizing gambling, he resigned from the party.
But after the KMT took office in May 2008, the party underwent a dramatic turnaround on the issue. In August that year, Premier Liu Chao-shiuan instructed the Council for Economic Planning and Development to push for a bill amending the Isolated Islands Construction Act. This would allow gambling in designated places, and was seen as key component of President Ma Ying-jeou's campaign promise to develop the country's offshore islands.
When the amendment finally passed its third reading in the Legislature Jan. 12, Lin--now a Non-Partisan Solidarity Union lawmaker--beamed with joy that his 13-year odyssey was at an end. The amendment lifts a ban on gambling and allows casinos to be built within integrated resorts on Taiwan's outlying islands. The only catch is that local residents must first approve the development via referenda.
Surprisingly, the country's Referendum Act, which requires more than half of all eligible voters to support a proposal before it can be adopted, does not apply to these polls. If a casino proposal passes the 50-percent threshold of votes cast, this is now enough to greenlight the project.
In addition, the amendment does not specify related measures as to the license fee, taxation and distribution of revenues, which were in Lin's original proposal, and the CEPD has not submitted a plan to draw them up. By the end of this month, the Cabinet will designate an agency responsible for drafting rules concerning casino licenses, such as the application procedure and approval criteria.
Following the bill's third reading, Wang revealed that the Penghu County Government had set aside 120 hectares of land in Baisha and Huxi districts for potential development, hoping to attract NT$33.75 billion (US$1 billion) of investment and create 10,000 new jobs. The county commissioner believes that after tourist casinos open their doors, the island will attract around 5 million visitors a year, generating NT$3.75 billion in revenue. He estimates that 60 percent of this revenue, supplemented by average visitor spending of NT$5,000, will see Penghu rake in NT$2.25 billion per annum.
Several investors are already looking like safe bets to share in the casino's revenue, most notably, the Isle of Man-based property development company Amazing Holdings PLC. The company began acquiring land for its 500-room five-star Penghu resort in May 1999, and by September 2003, had effectively secured its 26-hectare site after signing a revised purchase agreement with landowners. In August 2007, the final parcel of land was transacted and the purchase process completed.
With AMZ Holdings set to build Taiwan's first casino, there are concerns among Penghu residents that the developer is more interested in short-term profits than the region's long-term development. It is no secret that AMZ Holdings has long hungered to get a slice of the US$100 million that Taiwan's baccarat players reportedly wager in Las Vegas each year. And by building a Singaporean-modeled integrated resort, the developer believes it can attract Taiwan's gamblers all year round.
With the company's target market appearing to differ enormously from what the central and local administrations have in mind, the onus will be on the government to minimize a potential over-reliance on local punters. CEPD Minister Chen Tain-jy previously suggested there would be a limit on the number of Taiwanese allowed to enter the casino. "We are not creating a casino industry, but tourist casinos in certain areas," he said.
But not every one in Penghu believes the rosy picture painted by the central and local governments about casinos and their economic benefits. Lin Chang-hsin, a Penghu resident, asked: "Is Penghu ready to cope with the government's 'estimated' 5-million visitors a year?" With the figure 10 times in excess of the region's current level, many are concerned that existing water, electricity, waste management and transportation systems will collapse under this additional load.
Officials believe that casino-based development will bring about infrastructure improvements to the island group, which is located at the geographic center of East Asia's major cities. Wang said proceeds from casinos would help Penghu stand on its own two feet economically, rather than relying on central government funds.
Lin had repeatedly argued, as in the Jan. 12 legislative session: "Those opposed to casinos do not understand the plights and needs of people living on the outlying islands." He explained that while the new amendment permits casinos to be only a small part of an integrated resort, they still represent a huge opportunity for Taiwan's neglected outlying islands.
Some citizens suspect, however, that politicians have been exploiting the relatively slow economic development of regions such as Penghu. By cashing in on residents' feelings of being marginalized by the central government, they have been able to justify their drive for the quick buck gaming industry, as opposed to pursuing sustainable development plans.
Lin Chang-hsin argues that the local government has wasted the past 10 years, which could have been used to develop the region's existing environment and cultural assets for the benefit of the local and national tourism industries. He also claims that the Isolated Islands Construction Fund--established in 2001 with NT$30 billion to help meet the outlying islands' infrastructure needs over 10 years--was not put to effective use on Penghu.
"First they built harbors, then came wave-damping blocks, and then they used money to maintain harbors and cement works," Lin said. "It's a case of literally throwing money into the sea, while destroying Penghu's natural surroundings and ecosystems."
Lin organizes bird-watching tours to the region's less-visited islets during summers and is working with academics to push for designating Penghu as a Taiwanese geopark, featuring its famous basalt columns that experts believe are on par with Northern Ireland's top tourist attraction, the Giant's Causeway.
While tourism officials argue that a casino will help supplement Penghu's tourism industry, Lin believes this assertion is out of sync with the region. "We are exceptionally blessed with various resources, not to mention generous funding from the central government," he said. "Penghu does not need a casino, nor can it afford having one. It's time for residents to think very clearly about the future of our county."
This article is published in Taiwan Journal Feb. 13, 2009.
Sep 30, 2009
Wang-an offers life by the sea
By June Tsai
On the map of Taiwan, Wang-an Island is a barely visible spot off the nation's western coast. Although tiny geographically, the islet punches far above its weight in terms of tourism appeal, offering golden stretches of beach, a fascinating history of settlement, and a refuge from city life, where peace and tranquility prevails.
Wang-an is part of an archipelago of around 90 islets that make up the Penghu Islands between Taiwan and China in the Taiwan Strait. The 7.2-square-kilometer island is the fourth-largest among the island group and one of 18 which are inhabited. For most people living in today's largely urbanized Taiwan, the islet is a mysterious place representing an idyllic lifestyle long out of reach to city dwellers. This mystique is further enhanced by the name itself: Wang-an literally means "making one feel peaceful by just looking at it."
About 18 nautical miles away, or an hour by air-conditioned ferry, from Penghu Island's southern port, Wang-an is a tourist mecca in the high season between March and October, with four to six busloads of tourists stepping ashore every day.
Syu Siou-mei--who along with her mother runs an eatery and bike-rental business located in front of the island's major harbor Tanmen Port--is one of the first points of contact for disembarking tourists. Two years ago, Syu's husband walked away from his life as a fisherman and now helps look after the steady stream of visitors. This change of priorities for the family epitomizes the past and present of Wang-an's people.
According to studies made of archeological excavations provided by Penghu Reclamation Hall--a historic house-turned museum in central Magong City, Penghu's capital--the island chain has long been a convenient destination for visitors, beginning more than 1,000 years ago when Chinese migrants used the region as temporary base for fishing.
Fleeing from famine, war or poverty on the mainland, Han Chinese settlers started to move into the area in large numbers from the early 17th century. Up until the mid-19th century, when the area was under the administration of the Ching dynasty, Wang-an, together with the nearby Jiangjyun Island, were the only two islets to the south of Penghu that were legally allowed to be inhabited and served as a check point for ships sailing between China and Taiwan or Southeast Asia, writes Lin Hui-cheng, a professor of architecture and historic preservation with Taipei National University of the Arts, in a 2003 document published by the Council for Cultural Affairs.
Settlers from this period of time became the ancestors of Penghu's residents, now numbering around 80,000. This figure includes the Wang-an people, who today are estimated at 1,000. Many emigrated further afield to arrive in Taiwan, a practice that continues 400 years on from the time of original settlement.
Leaving for Taiwan with its warmer economic climate has always seemed to be a permanent move for Wang-an islanders. As often is the case, depopulation and remoteness in relation to more developed areas has helped preserve the natural beauty, as well as the original faces of many settlements on the islet. This, in turn, has slowly brought people in and even helped keep some at home.
Jhongshe Village, on Wang-an's east side, is the most touted destination for tourists. For first-time visitors to the island, the village appears to be inhabited by no one but stone houses, many of them dilapidated. Some of them have wooden bars bolted across their doors, signaling that they are owned but no one lives inside. The only sound one might hear walking along a near-deserted street, if not the conspicuous silence, might just be the mewing of a cat or waves breaking on the seashore at the end of each alley.
The history of the village dates back 300 years ago when its old name "Huajhai" was first mentioned in a 1695 record by the Ching administration. Huajhai, meaning "houses of flowers," was renamed Jhongshe, or central settlement, by Chiang Kai-shek's son Chiang Ching-kuo, who visited the village in 1946.
The population drain began in the 1930s and 1940s, with residents moving to Kaohsiung or Tainan on Taiwan proper. Of all the six settlements on Wang-an, Jhongshe was the earliest to have experienced this phenomenon, Lin wrote. Ironically, what seemed like a death knell for the settlement actually helped maintain the original appearance of the community's traditional houses.
For those conversant with the history of the village, like Chen Chih-ming, each one of Jhongshe's structures tells a different story about life in the hamlet. Chen is a Kaohsiung-born professional guide who became a specialist in the Penghu Island region.
According to Chen, the houses range between 100 and 200 years in age, with their styles offering a fascinating historical snapshot of the architectural history of today's southern Chinese provinces. Traditional structures are replete with courtyards; the shape of a dwelling's window, the number of its lattices, the facade of a wall and the obliquity of a roof all embody traditional Chinese social values, views of life or the social status of the owners.
While the design of the homes may be Chinese in origin, the building materials were definitely not. The realities of living on an island with scarce resources dictated that the main structures had to be built using whatever was readily available. And on Wang-an, this was pieces of coral harvested from local reefs combined with basalt stones.
"To build a house, local people dove to collect whole pieces of coral reefs," Chen said July 26. "This would take place at least three years before they started to build their house."
The construction technique called for coral to first be piled up and formed into four low walls encircling a vegetable plot. "Winds in Penghu can be as strong as a medium typhoon during the winter," Chen said. The coral walls served as protection of crops. These became "vegetable houses" that can still be seen intact all over Wang-an.
This weathering process not only prepared the coral for use in building houses, but also cleansed it of its ocean smell. Houses made of embedded coral, which contains calcium carbonate like firewall, could both resist the heat in summer and retain warmth in winter, Chen explained.
Erected in different periods, the dwellings are good indicators of the progress of time, as well as that of construction skills. With the collection of coral now forbidden on Wang-an, the village's 151 houses are now a museum of traditional architecture. Jhongshe was included on the list of 100 most endangered sites by the New York-based World Monuments Fund in 2004.
If Jhongshe appeals to those inspired by architecture and the history that lies behind the formation of the settlement, then nature lovers will find Wang-an's panoramic views no less inspiring. Without a high-rise building in sight, the only visual distractions are bushes, cactus and orange flowers of Gaillardia pluchella Foug, Penghu's emblem.
Sunset on Tiantai Mountain, the highest point on the islet just north of Jhongshe, is another of nature's gifts bestowed upon Wang-an. Despite being only 53 meters above sea level, the view is surprisingly spectacular due to the large expanses of rolling green pasture fringed by the sea on three sides.
Wang-an's beaches are yet another natural feature not to be missed. Made of fine quartz sand and debris from shells and coral reefs, the stretches of shoreline on the volcanic islet are a golden color, adjoined by crystal-clear waters.
These beaches are not only idyllic places for visitors to swim and soak up the sun, but have served as protected areas for green sea turtles since 1995. Wang-an and Orchid Island are the only two locations in Taiwan where these large marine reptiles, known for returning to the places where they were hatched, come ashore to build their nests. Development and human activities have contributed to the sharp decline in numbers of green sea turtles, with the creatures becoming an endangered species protected by law.
While these beaches are accessible in the daytime, they become protected areas when the sun goes down. People are not allowed to enter without permission from 8 p.m. until 5 a.m. The arrangement is to satisfy both turtles and humans, who for hundreds of years have shared the same beaches.
Though invariably treated as a transit point throughout history for men and women in search of a better life, today, Wang-an Island offers tourists an oasis of natural beauty to escape from the hustle and bustle of city life, while enjoying a glimpse of days gone by.
This article is published in Taiwan Journal Sept. 21, 2007.
On the map of Taiwan, Wang-an Island is a barely visible spot off the nation's western coast. Although tiny geographically, the islet punches far above its weight in terms of tourism appeal, offering golden stretches of beach, a fascinating history of settlement, and a refuge from city life, where peace and tranquility prevails.
Wang-an is part of an archipelago of around 90 islets that make up the Penghu Islands between Taiwan and China in the Taiwan Strait. The 7.2-square-kilometer island is the fourth-largest among the island group and one of 18 which are inhabited. For most people living in today's largely urbanized Taiwan, the islet is a mysterious place representing an idyllic lifestyle long out of reach to city dwellers. This mystique is further enhanced by the name itself: Wang-an literally means "making one feel peaceful by just looking at it."
About 18 nautical miles away, or an hour by air-conditioned ferry, from Penghu Island's southern port, Wang-an is a tourist mecca in the high season between March and October, with four to six busloads of tourists stepping ashore every day.
Syu Siou-mei--who along with her mother runs an eatery and bike-rental business located in front of the island's major harbor Tanmen Port--is one of the first points of contact for disembarking tourists. Two years ago, Syu's husband walked away from his life as a fisherman and now helps look after the steady stream of visitors. This change of priorities for the family epitomizes the past and present of Wang-an's people.
According to studies made of archeological excavations provided by Penghu Reclamation Hall--a historic house-turned museum in central Magong City, Penghu's capital--the island chain has long been a convenient destination for visitors, beginning more than 1,000 years ago when Chinese migrants used the region as temporary base for fishing.
Fleeing from famine, war or poverty on the mainland, Han Chinese settlers started to move into the area in large numbers from the early 17th century. Up until the mid-19th century, when the area was under the administration of the Ching dynasty, Wang-an, together with the nearby Jiangjyun Island, were the only two islets to the south of Penghu that were legally allowed to be inhabited and served as a check point for ships sailing between China and Taiwan or Southeast Asia, writes Lin Hui-cheng, a professor of architecture and historic preservation with Taipei National University of the Arts, in a 2003 document published by the Council for Cultural Affairs.
Settlers from this period of time became the ancestors of Penghu's residents, now numbering around 80,000. This figure includes the Wang-an people, who today are estimated at 1,000. Many emigrated further afield to arrive in Taiwan, a practice that continues 400 years on from the time of original settlement.
Leaving for Taiwan with its warmer economic climate has always seemed to be a permanent move for Wang-an islanders. As often is the case, depopulation and remoteness in relation to more developed areas has helped preserve the natural beauty, as well as the original faces of many settlements on the islet. This, in turn, has slowly brought people in and even helped keep some at home.
Jhongshe Village, on Wang-an's east side, is the most touted destination for tourists. For first-time visitors to the island, the village appears to be inhabited by no one but stone houses, many of them dilapidated. Some of them have wooden bars bolted across their doors, signaling that they are owned but no one lives inside. The only sound one might hear walking along a near-deserted street, if not the conspicuous silence, might just be the mewing of a cat or waves breaking on the seashore at the end of each alley.
The history of the village dates back 300 years ago when its old name "Huajhai" was first mentioned in a 1695 record by the Ching administration. Huajhai, meaning "houses of flowers," was renamed Jhongshe, or central settlement, by Chiang Kai-shek's son Chiang Ching-kuo, who visited the village in 1946.
The population drain began in the 1930s and 1940s, with residents moving to Kaohsiung or Tainan on Taiwan proper. Of all the six settlements on Wang-an, Jhongshe was the earliest to have experienced this phenomenon, Lin wrote. Ironically, what seemed like a death knell for the settlement actually helped maintain the original appearance of the community's traditional houses.
For those conversant with the history of the village, like Chen Chih-ming, each one of Jhongshe's structures tells a different story about life in the hamlet. Chen is a Kaohsiung-born professional guide who became a specialist in the Penghu Island region.
According to Chen, the houses range between 100 and 200 years in age, with their styles offering a fascinating historical snapshot of the architectural history of today's southern Chinese provinces. Traditional structures are replete with courtyards; the shape of a dwelling's window, the number of its lattices, the facade of a wall and the obliquity of a roof all embody traditional Chinese social values, views of life or the social status of the owners.
While the design of the homes may be Chinese in origin, the building materials were definitely not. The realities of living on an island with scarce resources dictated that the main structures had to be built using whatever was readily available. And on Wang-an, this was pieces of coral harvested from local reefs combined with basalt stones.
"To build a house, local people dove to collect whole pieces of coral reefs," Chen said July 26. "This would take place at least three years before they started to build their house."
The construction technique called for coral to first be piled up and formed into four low walls encircling a vegetable plot. "Winds in Penghu can be as strong as a medium typhoon during the winter," Chen said. The coral walls served as protection of crops. These became "vegetable houses" that can still be seen intact all over Wang-an.
This weathering process not only prepared the coral for use in building houses, but also cleansed it of its ocean smell. Houses made of embedded coral, which contains calcium carbonate like firewall, could both resist the heat in summer and retain warmth in winter, Chen explained.
Erected in different periods, the dwellings are good indicators of the progress of time, as well as that of construction skills. With the collection of coral now forbidden on Wang-an, the village's 151 houses are now a museum of traditional architecture. Jhongshe was included on the list of 100 most endangered sites by the New York-based World Monuments Fund in 2004.
If Jhongshe appeals to those inspired by architecture and the history that lies behind the formation of the settlement, then nature lovers will find Wang-an's panoramic views no less inspiring. Without a high-rise building in sight, the only visual distractions are bushes, cactus and orange flowers of Gaillardia pluchella Foug, Penghu's emblem.
Sunset on Tiantai Mountain, the highest point on the islet just north of Jhongshe, is another of nature's gifts bestowed upon Wang-an. Despite being only 53 meters above sea level, the view is surprisingly spectacular due to the large expanses of rolling green pasture fringed by the sea on three sides.
Wang-an's beaches are yet another natural feature not to be missed. Made of fine quartz sand and debris from shells and coral reefs, the stretches of shoreline on the volcanic islet are a golden color, adjoined by crystal-clear waters.
These beaches are not only idyllic places for visitors to swim and soak up the sun, but have served as protected areas for green sea turtles since 1995. Wang-an and Orchid Island are the only two locations in Taiwan where these large marine reptiles, known for returning to the places where they were hatched, come ashore to build their nests. Development and human activities have contributed to the sharp decline in numbers of green sea turtles, with the creatures becoming an endangered species protected by law.
While these beaches are accessible in the daytime, they become protected areas when the sun goes down. People are not allowed to enter without permission from 8 p.m. until 5 a.m. The arrangement is to satisfy both turtles and humans, who for hundreds of years have shared the same beaches.
Though invariably treated as a transit point throughout history for men and women in search of a better life, today, Wang-an Island offers tourists an oasis of natural beauty to escape from the hustle and bustle of city life, while enjoying a glimpse of days gone by.
This article is published in Taiwan Journal Sept. 21, 2007.
Sep 17, 2009
Disaster politics revealed in earthquake chronicles
By June Tsai
Watching the documentary “Formosa Dream, Disrupted,” viewers immediately associated the roaring mudslides in the film with those occurring in southern Taiwan mountain villages during Typhoon Morakot last month. But they were mistaken.
The mudslides captured in the documentary were in fact triggered by the 7.3-magnitude earthquake which rocked the island Sept. 21, 1999, 10 years before Morakot.
The 2007 film by Huang Shu-mei traces the arduous process residents from Qingshui Village in Nantou County had to go through to rebuild their homes on a new site. The film’s depiction of the story is a telling demonstration of what could happen in post-Morakot reconstruction.
For the earthquake-displaced villagers, the struggle to build new homes turned into a seven-year odyssey. It started with forming a committee to negotiate with various agencies to appropriate land, got bogged down in protracted dealings with a lethargic bureaucracy for permits and funding, and dragged on through attempts to balance their wishes to preserve the environment with social conventions in terms of design and engineering. The villagers watched support for their efforts crumble as local election campaigns set in, and battled against a construction company which pursued the public project only when convenient.
“Formosa Dream, Disrupted” chronicles the villagers’ despair and anger, and the interaction both within the grassroots community and between it and the architects, experts and journalists helping with the project. The institutional factors that delayed the day they could finally move into their new houses are also documented.
This film, along with six others, was screened in a special exhibition at the Tainan-based National Museum of Taiwan Literature to mark the 10th anniversary of the earthquake. The exhibit also features literary works, photography and news archives on the 1999 temblor.
The opening of the exhibition, which participants had looked forward to as an opportunity to share the fruits of post-earthquake reconstruction, was postponed from Aug. 7 to Aug. 15, due to Typhoon Morakot, the worst typhoon to hit the island in 50 years.
“People seemed to have forgotten about the apocalyptic earthquake after all these years, until we had Typhoon Morakot,” said NMTL Director Cheng Pang-chen.
“This exhibition has become both a retrospective of the road we have trod so far and, sadly, a prediction,” Cheng said. “It reminds us that if we don’t remember, through reflection on a spiritual level, we will never learn the appropriate lessons, and more tragedies will happen in the future.”
The earthquake documentaries come mostly from Full Shot Foundation. Shortly after the earthquake, FSF founder Wu Yi-feng organized a 12-member team to document the lives and struggles of people stricken by the major earthquake in the counties of Taichung and Nantou. The result is the series of films in the exhibition, including Wu’s “Life,” Chen Liang-feng’s “Three Fork Village” and Kuo Shiao-yun’s “Taste of Plum.”
Their works are the fruit of long-term engagement. “Formosa Dream, Disrupted,” for example, took Huang eight years to complete. The 145-minute documentary was edited from 150 hours of footage. At one point, the filmmaker, perturbed by unresponsive officials and lack of progress on the neighborhood reconstruction project, sent an edited excerpt from the unfinished film to higher-ranking officials, appealing on behalf of the Qingshui villagers for more effective government assistance. It worked, and the episode was included in the film.
“People who lost the roofs over their heads were eager to rebuild their homes and lives, yet it was never easy,” Huang said. As the issue of village relocation has been raised again in the aftermath of Morakot, the words of Qingshui villagers in response to all the difficulties they have met in the long years of rebuilding mirror the problems to be confronted again today, the director said.
“The political factors involved in the reconstruction process need thorough examination before the same types of problems obstruct any future post-disaster rehabilitation efforts,” Huang said.
“Road,” a poem by Du Ye, collected in the exhibition’s program booklet, hints at the dark side of reconstruction:
Next to building after building collapsed face-up,
Lies scattered one abandoned shoe after another.
North, south, east or west—
There is no way home.
The road sign at the crossroads,
Knocked crooked by the ox beneath the earth,
Points to heaven.
Halfway there some roads
Bite their tongues and commit suicide.
Construction firms and politicians look on and smile,
With their tongues and lies paving the way for their own
Future.
Former Nantou County Magistrate Peng Pai-hsien appreciates the examination of “disaster politics” in the films and literary works included in the exhibition. Recounting his experience of rebuilding Nantou after the earthquake, Peng said Aug. 15 that the natural disaster “shook loose” all kinds of inherent problems—political, economic and historical—in the society.
Election campaigns, for example, had a negative effect on the continuation of reconstruction policies. “The golden years for post-quake reconstruction were wasted in political struggles,” Peng recalled.
The former county chief said that he, like the writers and filmmakers featured in the exhibition, kept detailed records concerning rescue, resettlement and reconstruction efforts and policymaking following the earthquake.
Peng said these documents could help mitigate the impact of natural disasters if they are put to good use. From basic recording to interpretation in films and literature, he stressed, these case histories can help build up a culture that reflects upon history, remembers and learns from it.
“We will also learn to rebuild for the greatest public good and from the perspective of the victims and nature, rather than according to the political interests of a few people,” he said.
This article is published by Taiwan Today Sept. 11, 2009.
Watching the documentary “Formosa Dream, Disrupted,” viewers immediately associated the roaring mudslides in the film with those occurring in southern Taiwan mountain villages during Typhoon Morakot last month. But they were mistaken.
The mudslides captured in the documentary were in fact triggered by the 7.3-magnitude earthquake which rocked the island Sept. 21, 1999, 10 years before Morakot.
The 2007 film by Huang Shu-mei traces the arduous process residents from Qingshui Village in Nantou County had to go through to rebuild their homes on a new site. The film’s depiction of the story is a telling demonstration of what could happen in post-Morakot reconstruction.
For the earthquake-displaced villagers, the struggle to build new homes turned into a seven-year odyssey. It started with forming a committee to negotiate with various agencies to appropriate land, got bogged down in protracted dealings with a lethargic bureaucracy for permits and funding, and dragged on through attempts to balance their wishes to preserve the environment with social conventions in terms of design and engineering. The villagers watched support for their efforts crumble as local election campaigns set in, and battled against a construction company which pursued the public project only when convenient.
“Formosa Dream, Disrupted” chronicles the villagers’ despair and anger, and the interaction both within the grassroots community and between it and the architects, experts and journalists helping with the project. The institutional factors that delayed the day they could finally move into their new houses are also documented.
This film, along with six others, was screened in a special exhibition at the Tainan-based National Museum of Taiwan Literature to mark the 10th anniversary of the earthquake. The exhibit also features literary works, photography and news archives on the 1999 temblor.
The opening of the exhibition, which participants had looked forward to as an opportunity to share the fruits of post-earthquake reconstruction, was postponed from Aug. 7 to Aug. 15, due to Typhoon Morakot, the worst typhoon to hit the island in 50 years.
“People seemed to have forgotten about the apocalyptic earthquake after all these years, until we had Typhoon Morakot,” said NMTL Director Cheng Pang-chen.
“This exhibition has become both a retrospective of the road we have trod so far and, sadly, a prediction,” Cheng said. “It reminds us that if we don’t remember, through reflection on a spiritual level, we will never learn the appropriate lessons, and more tragedies will happen in the future.”
The earthquake documentaries come mostly from Full Shot Foundation. Shortly after the earthquake, FSF founder Wu Yi-feng organized a 12-member team to document the lives and struggles of people stricken by the major earthquake in the counties of Taichung and Nantou. The result is the series of films in the exhibition, including Wu’s “Life,” Chen Liang-feng’s “Three Fork Village” and Kuo Shiao-yun’s “Taste of Plum.”
Their works are the fruit of long-term engagement. “Formosa Dream, Disrupted,” for example, took Huang eight years to complete. The 145-minute documentary was edited from 150 hours of footage. At one point, the filmmaker, perturbed by unresponsive officials and lack of progress on the neighborhood reconstruction project, sent an edited excerpt from the unfinished film to higher-ranking officials, appealing on behalf of the Qingshui villagers for more effective government assistance. It worked, and the episode was included in the film.
“People who lost the roofs over their heads were eager to rebuild their homes and lives, yet it was never easy,” Huang said. As the issue of village relocation has been raised again in the aftermath of Morakot, the words of Qingshui villagers in response to all the difficulties they have met in the long years of rebuilding mirror the problems to be confronted again today, the director said.
“The political factors involved in the reconstruction process need thorough examination before the same types of problems obstruct any future post-disaster rehabilitation efforts,” Huang said.
“Road,” a poem by Du Ye, collected in the exhibition’s program booklet, hints at the dark side of reconstruction:
Next to building after building collapsed face-up,
Lies scattered one abandoned shoe after another.
North, south, east or west—
There is no way home.
The road sign at the crossroads,
Knocked crooked by the ox beneath the earth,
Points to heaven.
Halfway there some roads
Bite their tongues and commit suicide.
Construction firms and politicians look on and smile,
With their tongues and lies paving the way for their own
Future.
Former Nantou County Magistrate Peng Pai-hsien appreciates the examination of “disaster politics” in the films and literary works included in the exhibition. Recounting his experience of rebuilding Nantou after the earthquake, Peng said Aug. 15 that the natural disaster “shook loose” all kinds of inherent problems—political, economic and historical—in the society.
Election campaigns, for example, had a negative effect on the continuation of reconstruction policies. “The golden years for post-quake reconstruction were wasted in political struggles,” Peng recalled.
The former county chief said that he, like the writers and filmmakers featured in the exhibition, kept detailed records concerning rescue, resettlement and reconstruction efforts and policymaking following the earthquake.
Peng said these documents could help mitigate the impact of natural disasters if they are put to good use. From basic recording to interpretation in films and literature, he stressed, these case histories can help build up a culture that reflects upon history, remembers and learns from it.
“We will also learn to rebuild for the greatest public good and from the perspective of the victims and nature, rather than according to the political interests of a few people,” he said.
This article is published by Taiwan Today Sept. 11, 2009.
Sep 13, 2009
Maetro makes music for Taiwan
Taiwan's musical poet tinkles the ivories during an April 2008 rehearsal break at the National Concert Hall in Taipei. (Courtesy of Ken Chuang)
By June Tsai
It is often said that the essence of creativity emerges during periods of challenging personal circumstances. For Taiwan-born pianist and composer Tyzen Hsiao, this proved especially true when in 1978, while living in the United States with his wife and children, he penned "The Vagabond"--a heartwarming composition that tugs at the heartstrings of any Taiwan expatriate far from home.
Thirty years later, the 71-year-old Hsiao--who has been compared to Russian composer, pianist and conductor Sergei Rachmaninoff--was awarded the 2008 National Cultural Award in Taipei. "I cannot believe I'm standing here today," Hsiao said Jan. 6. This recognition represents a career-defining achievement, and justifies the decades he spent pining for home while traveling the rocky road to creative success.
According to Hsiao, he can trace his decision to pursue a musical career back to the small stateside gift shop he was running to support his family. One day while playing piano, three female customers stopped by and one of them said: "Young man, you are so talented. What are you doing here?" From that point on, whenever Hsiao would question the path he was taking, he would recall the stranger's words. "It was a very uncertain period in my life," he said. "I almost forgot the mission God give me."
In 1980, Hsiao composed an orchestral work titled "March of Democracy."
Recognizing the strength of the piece, Taiwan's opposition groups adopted the music as their theme song in the struggle against Kuomintang authoritarian rule--a decision that led to the artist being blacklisted by the KMT and banned from returning to Taiwan. The painful exile lasted for 15 years but helped Hsiao transform his memories of Taiwan and joyful homecoming into a rich repertoire of songs, instrument solos, chamber and orchestral works.
At the artist's award ceremony, Hsiao was praised for having integrated the essence of Taiwanese music with aspects of Western music's tradition of classicism, romanticism and modernism. His large-scale pieces, "Symphony Formosa" (1987), "Violin Concerto in D major" (1988), "Cello Concerto in C major" (1990) and "Piano Concerto in C minor" (1992) were lauded as being "innovative in harmony and technique," blending East and West while crossing cultural barriers by imparting a sense of sentimental longing for one's home.
Hsiao explained that the recognition he is experiencing today is not necessarily made sweeter by the pain of yesterday's denial. "When one is seeking their own career direction, it is hard to say whether they make the right choice or not," he said. "Some might find my music agreeable, while others might not. If there's no recognition now, perhaps this might come later. An artist who counts on recognition will only fail," he advised.
Born in Taiwan's southern city of Kaohsiung in 1938, Hsiao made his debut as a pianist at the age of seven, having received piano instruction from his mother--a Japan-educated musician--for two years. Later, he studied music at a top Taipei college, which today is National Taiwan Normal University. After graduating, Hsiao taught locally for several years before moving to Japan in the mid-1960s to study composition at the Musashino Academy of Music.
Hsiao said he first realized how difficult music composition could be while trying to compose the score "Jesus Christ." Brought up in a Christian family, Hsiao attempted to fulfill his father's wish that he should contribute to the realm of religious music. The labor of love took him 10 years to finish.
Upon returning from Japan, Hsiao worked for several years as a composer and associate professor at various colleges in southern Taiwan until moving to the United States in 1977. His first year stateside was marked by a lacuna of creativity, yet he quickly bounced back. Seeking to improve his composition skills, Hsiao decided at the age of 49, to pursue further study and enrolled as a student in 1986 at California State University, Los Angeles, where he later earned a Masters degree in composition.
In 1993, Hsiao trained his creative sights on the bloodiest part of Taiwan's history--the February 28 Incident. During the process of composing his "1947 Overture," he suffered a ruptured aneurysm and almost lost his life. "On my sickbed, I prayed that God would allow me to live and finish what I had started," he said. "I joked if he insisted on summoning me to his side at that moment, then he could finish the composition for me."
Hsiao recovered and completed "1947 Overture" in 1994. The dramatic piece opens with a solemn and powerful phase that rivals any comparable Western classic. A piano solo and orchestral accompaniment flesh out the main theme, with the mood full of sorrow and lament. Taiwanese folk tunes help bring the music to a boil, surging with a vehement energy. A soprano sings "Love and Hope," a memorial song, with lyrics written by Taiwanese poet Lee Min-yung. This succinctly represents the meaning of the work: "Plant a tree in our land. It is for love not for hate; it is of hope not of death." The piece culminates in a choir performance that fosters a mood of spirituality.
"In writing the composition, I selected a musical vocabulary that I knew could express what many Taiwan-born people would say about the February 28 Incident," Hsiao said. "This represents the great part of Taiwan that was sacrificed," while emphasizing that he did not seek to rewrite history. "Others might share the same thinking as I, but they do not necessarily have the tools to express this. I did my best and hope it is right," he stated.
Hsiao continued to produce large-scale pieces, including 1999's "The Angel of Formosa," "Ode to Yushan," and "The Prodigal Son"--a cantata--in 2000. Two years later, Hsiao suffered a stroke while composing "Love River Symphony," an orchestral work dedicated to his home city. The work remains unfinished, awaiting an improvement in his health.
The composer stated that what he now seeks to do is re-work previous pieces and arrange them for release. "There is still so much to do," he said, the steely determination in his voice plainly evident.
Though Hsiao's music has been brought to the international stage on many occasions, his recordings remain few in number, with even fewer released locally. Musicians fortunate enough to have worked with Hsiao believe there is a pressing need to correct this situation.
Renowned Taipei-based pianist Lina Yeh, for example, has spent the last two years working on recording Hsiao's piano solos after performing his works during various outings. "Hsiao is essentially a pianist and that is why he wants so much to have his piano works published," Yeh said, adding she was asked to do the job 10 years ago but was deterred by a lack of time and sponsors. "After all these years, I just decided to go ahead and record them, otherwise it would be too late for Hsiao to critique the result."
The result, much to Hsiao's delight, is "Memories of Home: Tyzen Hsiao Piano Solo Works." Released Jan. 1, the recording coincides with his 71st birthday and covers pieces composed over Hsiao's 22-year career. "Hsiao's music reminds me a bit of Chopin Nocturnes and Rachmaninoff Preludes," Yeh said. "Yet the most beautiful melodies are always present in his pieces."
Hsiao expressed a wish to have more of his and other Taiwan-born musicians works reinterpreted so classic music indigenous to Taiwan could live on. "A classic-music tradition unique to Taiwan is not impossible to work out and systemize; it is just that not enough people are working on this," Hsiao said. "It requires the efforts of more people to establish such a tradition, and should not be left to just a few people and their limited range of ideas."
Lamenting his poor health and advanced age, Hsiao is disappointed that he will not be able to realize this goal and explained that he has only completed a small part of his musical journey. "What I have accomplished so far took a great deal of attention and diligence," he said. "But it could not have taken place without many people's assistance."
In regards to the award that Hsiao risked his health to return to Taiwan to receive, the maestro with his homeland never far from mind said, "I have simply expressed my ideas in music for the audience to understand. This award is an encouragement, and I'd also like to urge everyone in this country to make a contribution to Taiwan and its music."
This article is published in Taiwan Journal Jan. 23, 2009.
Sep 7, 2009
'Formosa Betrayed' boosts book sales, interest in past
By June Tsai
On the weekend of Aug. 18 and 19, Cheng Hung-yi, the host of a political talk show, introduced a book that would attract widespread public attention. The program was broadcast by Sanlih E-Television, which is widely viewed as a pro-localization network. The book that is attracting so much press coverage is the Chinese-language version of "Formosa Betrayed," written by George Kerr.
Within one month of the book's publication, six printings had been made of the Chinese version, with 2,000 to 3,000 copies in each printing, according to Lim Bun-kim, director of Avanguard Publishing House. The copies sold exceeded the number of all the books it had sold over the past 15 years, Lim said Oct. 2. The Chinese version of "Formosa Betrayed" hit local bookshelves as early as 1991, and 1,000 to 2,000 copies were sold each year afterward, he noted. Avanguard Publishing is known to local readers as an authoritative source for publications on Taiwanese literature and nonfiction books about Taiwan.
Most people that flocked to his shop for this book were over the age of 50, Goo Seng-sam, founder of Taiouan Shop in Taipei, said Oct. 1. Many purchased it for their own reading, but also bought five, 10 or 20 copies to give out to people they knew, he added. "Taiouan" means Taiwan in Holo Taiwanese, and as the name indicates, the shop sells all kinds of products related to Taiwan, such as books, maps, CDs and aboriginal handicrafts.
Kerr's work is regarded as one of the most influential books on Formosa--a name generally used in his time--during its transition from Japanese colonial rule to the Kuomintang administration.
Having served before 1940 as an English teacher in Taipei, Kerr came to Taiwan again after World War II as an American Foreign Service staff officer. He was vice consul in Taipei when he witnessed the KMT's takeover of the island and the resulting aftermath, according to data provided by the Taipei-based 228 Peace Memorial Museum.
The most notorious event during this period was the February 28 Incident in 1947. Chiang Kai-shek appointed Chen Yi to be the governor of Taiwan and handle the takeover. Corruption and mismanagement led to a popular uprising, which was forcibly put down by the military. Kerr wrote reports that were sent to the U.S. embassy in Nanjing, China, and then to Washington, D.C.
The reports contained his firsthand account of the events leading up to the incident and the consequences, as well as his criticism of the Chiang administration. No longer welcomed by the Nationalist government, Kerr left the island on March 17, 1947.
The essential part of "Formosa Betrayed" lies in Kerr's reports. The book argues in favor of a self-ruled Formosa, which was "potentially too important to be treated merely as an ordinary Chinese province" by the U.S. government and whose "wealth and technological development placed it too far ahead of the mainland Chinese provinces to permit an easy return to Chinese control," as the book states.
Kerr's book failed to attract interest from publishers in his home country, but was eventually published in 1966 by Eyre & Spottiswoode Ltd., a London-based company. Taiwan's status was a dilemma for the U.S. government at the time and should have been interesting to readers, yet "Taiwan is too small a place, and topics on it did not have a market," Lim said. It was not until 1992 that the second edition was published by the California-based Taiwan Publishing Co.
The Chinese-language version fared no better. Although the translation was completed by a Taiwanese-American activist, Rong Chen, and was published in Tokyo and New York in 1974, it was banned in Taiwan under the KMT administration, according to Lim. Copies of the pages were smuggled in from abroad. By the 1980s, an abridged Chinese-language version of "Formosa Betrayed" could be found underground in Taiwan. Tens of thousands of copies of it were sold at anti-KMT political rallies, Lim recounted.
The book inspired Taiwanese students studying in the United States during the 1960s and the 1970s and spurred them to think about Taiwan's history and the identity of its people. Goo was a part of this generation.
Studying mathematics and computer science at Columbia University, Goo's eyes were opened by the abundant books, magazines and materials available in the university's Asian Library. The newspapers and magazines there offered a much different view of China, which was depicted as a land of enchanting beauty by textbooks and propaganda back home. This led him to discover the true face of Taiwan.
Seeing the free discussion about politics on the U.S. campus, the students' participation in issues concerning human rights and the atmosphere of an open society was a culture shock for Goo. It was a total contrast to the close-minded and authoritarian environment on the island, and the disparity made Goo wonder what had brought Taiwan to where it was.
"The first book on Taiwan I came across in the Asian Library was 'Formosa Betrayed,' and it touched me," Goo recalled. He said reading the book changed his life forever. He took part in street demonstrations during the 1980s after he returned home. Goo later quit his position as a research fellow at the Industrial Technology Research Institute of Taiwan and established the Taiwan-themed shop in 1993.
At its peak, around 1,000 copies of "Formosa Betrayed" were sold within one week recently in his shop, where one could also buy the English version. Goo said the sales could represent "a desire for historical truth," as the book provided a firsthand account. Though some people of his generation heard stories about the February 28 Incident from their parents, and now everyone is free to talk about it, most could not really share what had happened, according to Goo. This book filled in the gap, a missing chapter of history for most people.
The book's zeal for detail and accuracy, its sympathy and humanitarian intent were and are appealing to Taiwanese readers, Lim noted. The book was a hit when it first appeared in 1991, four years after the lifting of martial law in Taiwan. Now sales peaked again 16 years later. Its sales are phenomenal, Lim noted, given that nowadays around 3,000 titles are published in Taiwan each month while, in contrast, 90 percent of them sold fewer than 500 copies.
Lim felt the media's promotion of the book deserved most of the credit. It is difficult, however, for this book to penetrate the group of people who opted to watch other news channels or talk-show programs for political opinions, as the news media in Taiwan are also divided along political lines.
"The average person only chooses to absorb what he wants to," Hsu Hsueh-chi, director of the Academia Sinica's Institute of Taiwan History, said Oct. 3, adding that "those who don't believe continue to do so."
Hsu noted that some Taiwanese scholars have recently condemned Kerr's book as an unexamined account with observations made by an intelligence agent rather than a diplomat or a scholar. Yet she stressed that Kerr's book offers a different perspective from that of any government authorities. "Regarding political incidents or cases, what people had been told were one-sided statements from the ruling administration," Hsu said.
As a veteran publisher who has been dedicated to publishing "opposition" books since 1982, Lim has something else to worry about. He lamented that fewer people would sit down to read. The situation worsened in recent years, "as there seems to be no need for knowledge of Taiwan's history since the Taiwanese identity is getting clearer in this country."
Lim stressed that the attainment of knowledge, especially historical knowledge, required reading, not surfing the Internet. He recalled that Cheng suggested reviving the habit of reading for knowledge on Taiwan's history through introducing classics such as "Formosa Betrayed."
Its effectiveness is yet to be seen. Yet for Goo, there are still reasons for optimism. Considering Taiwan's history is still marginalized in local educational institutions, he said that he expected parents reading this book to pass it on to their children and encourage them to challenge existing historical knowledge and what they were taught in school.
This article is published in Taiwan Journal Oct. 12, 2007
On the weekend of Aug. 18 and 19, Cheng Hung-yi, the host of a political talk show, introduced a book that would attract widespread public attention. The program was broadcast by Sanlih E-Television, which is widely viewed as a pro-localization network. The book that is attracting so much press coverage is the Chinese-language version of "Formosa Betrayed," written by George Kerr.
Within one month of the book's publication, six printings had been made of the Chinese version, with 2,000 to 3,000 copies in each printing, according to Lim Bun-kim, director of Avanguard Publishing House. The copies sold exceeded the number of all the books it had sold over the past 15 years, Lim said Oct. 2. The Chinese version of "Formosa Betrayed" hit local bookshelves as early as 1991, and 1,000 to 2,000 copies were sold each year afterward, he noted. Avanguard Publishing is known to local readers as an authoritative source for publications on Taiwanese literature and nonfiction books about Taiwan.
Most people that flocked to his shop for this book were over the age of 50, Goo Seng-sam, founder of Taiouan Shop in Taipei, said Oct. 1. Many purchased it for their own reading, but also bought five, 10 or 20 copies to give out to people they knew, he added. "Taiouan" means Taiwan in Holo Taiwanese, and as the name indicates, the shop sells all kinds of products related to Taiwan, such as books, maps, CDs and aboriginal handicrafts.
Kerr's work is regarded as one of the most influential books on Formosa--a name generally used in his time--during its transition from Japanese colonial rule to the Kuomintang administration.
Having served before 1940 as an English teacher in Taipei, Kerr came to Taiwan again after World War II as an American Foreign Service staff officer. He was vice consul in Taipei when he witnessed the KMT's takeover of the island and the resulting aftermath, according to data provided by the Taipei-based 228 Peace Memorial Museum.
The most notorious event during this period was the February 28 Incident in 1947. Chiang Kai-shek appointed Chen Yi to be the governor of Taiwan and handle the takeover. Corruption and mismanagement led to a popular uprising, which was forcibly put down by the military. Kerr wrote reports that were sent to the U.S. embassy in Nanjing, China, and then to Washington, D.C.
The reports contained his firsthand account of the events leading up to the incident and the consequences, as well as his criticism of the Chiang administration. No longer welcomed by the Nationalist government, Kerr left the island on March 17, 1947.
The essential part of "Formosa Betrayed" lies in Kerr's reports. The book argues in favor of a self-ruled Formosa, which was "potentially too important to be treated merely as an ordinary Chinese province" by the U.S. government and whose "wealth and technological development placed it too far ahead of the mainland Chinese provinces to permit an easy return to Chinese control," as the book states.
Kerr's book failed to attract interest from publishers in his home country, but was eventually published in 1966 by Eyre & Spottiswoode Ltd., a London-based company. Taiwan's status was a dilemma for the U.S. government at the time and should have been interesting to readers, yet "Taiwan is too small a place, and topics on it did not have a market," Lim said. It was not until 1992 that the second edition was published by the California-based Taiwan Publishing Co.
The Chinese-language version fared no better. Although the translation was completed by a Taiwanese-American activist, Rong Chen, and was published in Tokyo and New York in 1974, it was banned in Taiwan under the KMT administration, according to Lim. Copies of the pages were smuggled in from abroad. By the 1980s, an abridged Chinese-language version of "Formosa Betrayed" could be found underground in Taiwan. Tens of thousands of copies of it were sold at anti-KMT political rallies, Lim recounted.
The book inspired Taiwanese students studying in the United States during the 1960s and the 1970s and spurred them to think about Taiwan's history and the identity of its people. Goo was a part of this generation.
Studying mathematics and computer science at Columbia University, Goo's eyes were opened by the abundant books, magazines and materials available in the university's Asian Library. The newspapers and magazines there offered a much different view of China, which was depicted as a land of enchanting beauty by textbooks and propaganda back home. This led him to discover the true face of Taiwan.
Seeing the free discussion about politics on the U.S. campus, the students' participation in issues concerning human rights and the atmosphere of an open society was a culture shock for Goo. It was a total contrast to the close-minded and authoritarian environment on the island, and the disparity made Goo wonder what had brought Taiwan to where it was.
"The first book on Taiwan I came across in the Asian Library was 'Formosa Betrayed,' and it touched me," Goo recalled. He said reading the book changed his life forever. He took part in street demonstrations during the 1980s after he returned home. Goo later quit his position as a research fellow at the Industrial Technology Research Institute of Taiwan and established the Taiwan-themed shop in 1993.
At its peak, around 1,000 copies of "Formosa Betrayed" were sold within one week recently in his shop, where one could also buy the English version. Goo said the sales could represent "a desire for historical truth," as the book provided a firsthand account. Though some people of his generation heard stories about the February 28 Incident from their parents, and now everyone is free to talk about it, most could not really share what had happened, according to Goo. This book filled in the gap, a missing chapter of history for most people.
The book's zeal for detail and accuracy, its sympathy and humanitarian intent were and are appealing to Taiwanese readers, Lim noted. The book was a hit when it first appeared in 1991, four years after the lifting of martial law in Taiwan. Now sales peaked again 16 years later. Its sales are phenomenal, Lim noted, given that nowadays around 3,000 titles are published in Taiwan each month while, in contrast, 90 percent of them sold fewer than 500 copies.
Lim felt the media's promotion of the book deserved most of the credit. It is difficult, however, for this book to penetrate the group of people who opted to watch other news channels or talk-show programs for political opinions, as the news media in Taiwan are also divided along political lines.
"The average person only chooses to absorb what he wants to," Hsu Hsueh-chi, director of the Academia Sinica's Institute of Taiwan History, said Oct. 3, adding that "those who don't believe continue to do so."
Hsu noted that some Taiwanese scholars have recently condemned Kerr's book as an unexamined account with observations made by an intelligence agent rather than a diplomat or a scholar. Yet she stressed that Kerr's book offers a different perspective from that of any government authorities. "Regarding political incidents or cases, what people had been told were one-sided statements from the ruling administration," Hsu said.
As a veteran publisher who has been dedicated to publishing "opposition" books since 1982, Lim has something else to worry about. He lamented that fewer people would sit down to read. The situation worsened in recent years, "as there seems to be no need for knowledge of Taiwan's history since the Taiwanese identity is getting clearer in this country."
Lim stressed that the attainment of knowledge, especially historical knowledge, required reading, not surfing the Internet. He recalled that Cheng suggested reviving the habit of reading for knowledge on Taiwan's history through introducing classics such as "Formosa Betrayed."
Its effectiveness is yet to be seen. Yet for Goo, there are still reasons for optimism. Considering Taiwan's history is still marginalized in local educational institutions, he said that he expected parents reading this book to pass it on to their children and encourage them to challenge existing historical knowledge and what they were taught in school.
This article is published in Taiwan Journal Oct. 12, 2007
Banned Tibetan writer publishes in Taiwan
By June Tsai
It has been 40 years since the beginning of the euphemistically named Cultural Revolution in China. Hundreds of books have been published about that time of chaos and upheaval, yet comparatively few have been penned about the sad fate of Tibet, whose exiles recently marked the 47th year since the Tibetan uprising, which attempted to free the country from Chinese occupation, or about the cultural genocide that followed. Of those accounts that have been written on the subject, almost none have been from the perspective of Tibetans themselves.
Taiwan's Locus Publishing Co. recently released three books in the Chinese language by the same author, offering a rare glimpse of life in Tibet during the Chinese Cultural Revolution. Tibetan author Woeser, born 1966 in Lhasa, spent six years conducting research and writing about Tibet, an effort that has resulted in her three volumes, "Forbidden Memory: Tibet During the Cultural Revolution," "Remembering Tibet" and "Notes on Tibet." The first two are brand new, while the third was banned in China in 2003 and is now in print in Taiwan under the title "A Poem Named Tibet." "Forbidden Memory" contains hundreds of photographs taken between 1966 and 1970 by Woeser's father, Tsering Dorje. In addition to being an ardent amateur photographer, he was also a member of the People's Liberation Army, despite being ethnically Tibetan. Her father was stationed outside of Tibet after 1970 owing to partisan conflicts within the military. He died in 1991 in Tibet, leaving behind a collection of photos. In the preface to her book, Woeser wrote that it was not until 1999 that she decided to rediscover the stories and memories hidden behind those pictures, which she sent to Wang Lixiong, a Chinese expert on Tibet, to get his impression of their importance. Wang returned the photos to her, insisting that they bear witnesses to an age that has been wiped out by force and needs to be rediscovered.
Although Woeser had not met Wang at the time she asked for his advice on the photos, the two got to know each other quite well and later married. Wang wrote in an introduction to the book that Tibet is a lacuna in any study, either official or private, of the Cultural Revolution. There are only three documents about the Tibet of those years available in the official Archive in the "Tibet autonomous region." These documents exist, but they are classified and strictly guarded by the Chinese military. It is as if, he wrote, there were no Tibet between 1966 and 1976. Wang urged his Tibetan wife to shoulder the responsibility of recovering the memories from that time period by hearing and retelling the stories of her people.
Thus in 1999, Woeser, with photos in hand, began visiting and interviewing people who had lived through that period. Most of her interview subjects--more than 70 people in all--were Tibetan, though some were Chinese or Muslim. The result is "Remembering Tibet," a collection of oral histories.
If photos congeal the truth of historic moments, then names tell an even harder truth. The Chinese title for "Forbidden Memory" sounds like the Tibetan word for revolution. According to Woeser, when the Chinese army marched into Tibet in the 1950s, there existed no such word for revolution in the Tibetan language. In Chinese, the Tibetan word that was coined sounds, appropriately enough, like the word for "holocaust." Woeser's attention to a period of history that is embarrassing to the authorities in Beijing no doubt came as a disappointment to them. For all intents and purposes, she was expected to become a model Tibetan that the communist government could show to the world to demonstrate its success in civilizing Tibet. She attended the Chinese Department of South-West Nationalities Institute in Chengdu where she studied Chinese literature, and was employed as an editor at Tibetan Literature, a Chinese-language journal based in Lhasa. With her talent, background and education, she was to have been one of the leading luminaries of China's "New Tibet." These plans changed in 2003, however, after Woeser published a compilation of 38 short travel stories called "Notes on Tibet," which deviated from the official line. Nine months after the book was published, it was banned, and Woeser was fired by her work unit and driven out of Tibet. The government confiscated her home and deprived her of health and retirement benefits.
The strict state censorship on literature that takes place today, she now believes, is an example of the same government-imposed controls over thought that were employed during the Cultural Revolution. She therefore decided to publish the book of photos under her real name on the 40th anniversary of the Cultural Revolution, but pragmatically chose to do so through a Taiwanese publisher. She and Wang now live in Beijing.
Wang, an author himself, was in Taipei last month to promote his new book. While there, he also took the opportunity to boost Woeser's three books, since she herself was not able to travel to the country.
Meanwhile, Tibetans living in Taiwan took to the streets of Taipei March 10 to commemorate the Tibetan uprising against China's occupation in 1959, the year when their spiritual leader His Holiness the Dalai Lama was driven into exile. Taiwanese human rights groups as well as several politicians took part in the march to show their support for a free Tibet. Human rights groups asked the ROC government to designate March 10 Tibet Day, and to dissolve the Cabinet-level Mongolian and Tibetan Affairs Commission, which represents the ROC's claim of sovereignty over Tibet and Mongolia. Instead, the ROC government should respect the will of the people of Tibet to choose their own destiny, protesters urged.
Tsegyam Ngaba, head of the Tibet Religious Foundation of H.H. the Dalai Lama and de facto ambassador of Tibet's government-in-exile to Taiwan, said in a telephone interview that he greatly appreciated the sense of mission demonstrated by the publisher for supporting such books that, despite their importance to Tibetans, are unlikely to become bestsellers. He expressed his hope that the books, though they represent only a tiny portion of Tibet's plight, would allow Taiwanese people to learn more about Tibet than its religious aspects, which is inseparable from Tibet's overall situation.
This article is published in Taiwan Journal March 31, 2006
It has been 40 years since the beginning of the euphemistically named Cultural Revolution in China. Hundreds of books have been published about that time of chaos and upheaval, yet comparatively few have been penned about the sad fate of Tibet, whose exiles recently marked the 47th year since the Tibetan uprising, which attempted to free the country from Chinese occupation, or about the cultural genocide that followed. Of those accounts that have been written on the subject, almost none have been from the perspective of Tibetans themselves.
Taiwan's Locus Publishing Co. recently released three books in the Chinese language by the same author, offering a rare glimpse of life in Tibet during the Chinese Cultural Revolution. Tibetan author Woeser, born 1966 in Lhasa, spent six years conducting research and writing about Tibet, an effort that has resulted in her three volumes, "Forbidden Memory: Tibet During the Cultural Revolution," "Remembering Tibet" and "Notes on Tibet." The first two are brand new, while the third was banned in China in 2003 and is now in print in Taiwan under the title "A Poem Named Tibet." "Forbidden Memory" contains hundreds of photographs taken between 1966 and 1970 by Woeser's father, Tsering Dorje. In addition to being an ardent amateur photographer, he was also a member of the People's Liberation Army, despite being ethnically Tibetan. Her father was stationed outside of Tibet after 1970 owing to partisan conflicts within the military. He died in 1991 in Tibet, leaving behind a collection of photos. In the preface to her book, Woeser wrote that it was not until 1999 that she decided to rediscover the stories and memories hidden behind those pictures, which she sent to Wang Lixiong, a Chinese expert on Tibet, to get his impression of their importance. Wang returned the photos to her, insisting that they bear witnesses to an age that has been wiped out by force and needs to be rediscovered.
Although Woeser had not met Wang at the time she asked for his advice on the photos, the two got to know each other quite well and later married. Wang wrote in an introduction to the book that Tibet is a lacuna in any study, either official or private, of the Cultural Revolution. There are only three documents about the Tibet of those years available in the official Archive in the "Tibet autonomous region." These documents exist, but they are classified and strictly guarded by the Chinese military. It is as if, he wrote, there were no Tibet between 1966 and 1976. Wang urged his Tibetan wife to shoulder the responsibility of recovering the memories from that time period by hearing and retelling the stories of her people.
Thus in 1999, Woeser, with photos in hand, began visiting and interviewing people who had lived through that period. Most of her interview subjects--more than 70 people in all--were Tibetan, though some were Chinese or Muslim. The result is "Remembering Tibet," a collection of oral histories.
If photos congeal the truth of historic moments, then names tell an even harder truth. The Chinese title for "Forbidden Memory" sounds like the Tibetan word for revolution. According to Woeser, when the Chinese army marched into Tibet in the 1950s, there existed no such word for revolution in the Tibetan language. In Chinese, the Tibetan word that was coined sounds, appropriately enough, like the word for "holocaust." Woeser's attention to a period of history that is embarrassing to the authorities in Beijing no doubt came as a disappointment to them. For all intents and purposes, she was expected to become a model Tibetan that the communist government could show to the world to demonstrate its success in civilizing Tibet. She attended the Chinese Department of South-West Nationalities Institute in Chengdu where she studied Chinese literature, and was employed as an editor at Tibetan Literature, a Chinese-language journal based in Lhasa. With her talent, background and education, she was to have been one of the leading luminaries of China's "New Tibet." These plans changed in 2003, however, after Woeser published a compilation of 38 short travel stories called "Notes on Tibet," which deviated from the official line. Nine months after the book was published, it was banned, and Woeser was fired by her work unit and driven out of Tibet. The government confiscated her home and deprived her of health and retirement benefits.
The strict state censorship on literature that takes place today, she now believes, is an example of the same government-imposed controls over thought that were employed during the Cultural Revolution. She therefore decided to publish the book of photos under her real name on the 40th anniversary of the Cultural Revolution, but pragmatically chose to do so through a Taiwanese publisher. She and Wang now live in Beijing.
Wang, an author himself, was in Taipei last month to promote his new book. While there, he also took the opportunity to boost Woeser's three books, since she herself was not able to travel to the country.
Meanwhile, Tibetans living in Taiwan took to the streets of Taipei March 10 to commemorate the Tibetan uprising against China's occupation in 1959, the year when their spiritual leader His Holiness the Dalai Lama was driven into exile. Taiwanese human rights groups as well as several politicians took part in the march to show their support for a free Tibet. Human rights groups asked the ROC government to designate March 10 Tibet Day, and to dissolve the Cabinet-level Mongolian and Tibetan Affairs Commission, which represents the ROC's claim of sovereignty over Tibet and Mongolia. Instead, the ROC government should respect the will of the people of Tibet to choose their own destiny, protesters urged.
Tsegyam Ngaba, head of the Tibet Religious Foundation of H.H. the Dalai Lama and de facto ambassador of Tibet's government-in-exile to Taiwan, said in a telephone interview that he greatly appreciated the sense of mission demonstrated by the publisher for supporting such books that, despite their importance to Tibetans, are unlikely to become bestsellers. He expressed his hope that the books, though they represent only a tiny portion of Tibet's plight, would allow Taiwanese people to learn more about Tibet than its religious aspects, which is inseparable from Tibet's overall situation.
This article is published in Taiwan Journal March 31, 2006
Sep 6, 2009
Pro-democracy activist speaks out
By June Tsai
Chinese pro-democracy activist Wang Dan is scheduled to teach at Taiwan’s National Chengchi University, one of the country’s top universities in the humanities and social sciences, in the fall semester, having received his Ph.D. in history from Harvard University. Wang, a student leader in the 1989 Tiananmen protest, offered his thoughts on the landmark event of 20 years ago and his views on cross-strait relations, as well as speaking on his recent plans and himself in an e-mail interview with Taiwan Today staff writer June Tsai.
Q: Your doctoral dissertation is a “comparative study of state violence between mainland China and Taiwan in the 1950s.” Why do you focus on the 1950s? What do you expect from your teaching at NCCU’s Graduate Institute of Taiwan History?
A: During the 1950s, the ruling parties on both sides of the Taiwan Strait faced similar crises in maintaining political control, and they adopted similar strategies in consolidating their regimes, which was by means of social fear. The ways they wielded state violence were different, yet both were characterized by totalitarianism that intruded deeply into the social sphere and the individual’s psychology. This comparative study thus aims to provide insight into the nature of totalitarian regimes.
In Taiwan, studies of the white-terror rule have made considerable progress, yet they still lack a comparative reference. I hope my own study can provide some new perspectives for this research, and would like to encourage students to take a broader approach to history.
Q: You were a student in love with literature and you write poetry. How did you become a political activist?
A: My political enlightenment was due to the overall social environment on the mainland during the 1980s. That was a decade full of idealism, and the major concern of the society at the time was political liberalization. This Zeitgeist wielded great influence on students. As a student at Beijing University, which has a history of liberal thinking and free discussion, my passion for public affairs was stimulated by campus life. While loving literature, I also turned my attention toward politics.
Q: Twenty years after the Tiananmen Square incident, what do you think about all that happened?
A: The significance of the 1989 Tiananmen protests can be summed up in three points. First of all, it was an enlightenment, an intellectual movement culminating in action. Led by students, but joined by all people from all walks of life, the protests helped spread the idea of democracy. In the 1980s, official documents still condemned democracy as something belonging to Western capitalism; yet in the 1990s, words such as “human rights” were written into China’s constitution.
Second, the protests prepared a generation for the next wave of the pro-democracy movement. Many participants from that year started to take the ideals of democracy and human rights as personal causes. Many civil rights lawyers in China today were protesters in 1989.
Third, the movement paved the way for China’s future democratization in terms of political culture and psychology. China has been a society in which individuals are overly dependent on the state for improvements in their lives. In some sense, the 1989 protests were a continuation of the traditional political culture. People pinned their hopes for reform and liberalization on the rulers’ good will. This dependent mentality prevents the development of a civil society and citizenship awareness in China. The government’s suppression crushed hopes and resulted in apathy toward politics, which has lasted until today.
The other side of the movement is that, from then on, there has evolved a distance between the individual and the state, which I think allows a civil society to form, although at great expense. After 1989, any call for political reform was totally suppressed.
Q: Can the apathy toward political affairs among the young generation be turned around?
A: The apathy, to a great extent, is not of their choice. For 20 years, the state’s control of information has prevented young people’s passion for politics from receiving intellectual resources and support for action. Moreover, the suppressive environment provides no soil for an enthusiasm for public affairs to grow. Thus, instead of considering their political apathy, we should deal with the root causes of this issue from, putting our efforts into changing the external conditions. Once the environment is changed, people’s desires for political reform will grow and prosper again. In Hong Kong, where there is freedom of speech, a historic number of young people participated in the memorial for the Tiananmen massacre. This is clear proof.
Q: Has China made any changes in its recent decades of economic achievement? In this context, what is the significance of Charter 08, the first human rights document drafted by the civil society in China?
A: There have been changes on the social level and big improvements economically; but in politics, nothing has really changed, and the Chinese government remains dictatorial. The Charter 08 campaign of last December is a renewed call for political and social reform. It represents an attempt by the civil society to confront the state. I believe there will be more such attempts in the future. And only when such attempts increase will they accumulate sufficient social strength to interact with the state. This is a process that takes time. For now, the government is still unwilling to make any positive response.
Q: How should the international community engage today’s China in this regard?
A: I believe engagement with China should not be conducted with only economics in mind. The world’s leaders should also be aware of the social injustice lying behind China’s economic development. If not, the international society will be caught off guard once the social crisis explodes.
Q: To what extent do you think China’s democratization, if it does happen, could be modeled on Taiwan’s experience?
A: Judging from the present situation, I don’t think Taiwan’s experience could be duplicated in China. The reasons are, first, the opposition in Taiwan has been accumulating political strength through local elections since the 1950s. There is no such possibility in China. Second, during the late period of Chiang Ching-kuo’s rule and throughout the Lee Teng-hui era, the ruling Kuomintang was willing to respond to the society’s demands for democratization, yet there is no sign of such responsiveness with China’s leadership.
Moreover, Taiwan’s small and medium-sized enterprises were in great part credited for its economic rise, whilst in China, the “middle class” is a fake, and is actually part of “bigwig capitalism.” It is therefore unlikely that China will move toward democratization based on the growth of a middle class with necessary riches and education.
The future of China’s democratization will have to rely on the development of its civil society. Only when a substantial socioeconomic power truly independent of the state develops amid the Chinese public can democratization be possible. The advance of the Internet offers great hopes in this regard, and many, including myself, are waiting with open eyes.
Q: What is your take on the current exchanges between mainland China and Taiwan, which are expanding around an economic pivot? What do they imply for the societies on both sides of the Taiwan Strait?
A: There are many issues you cannot solve solely by means of economics. The expanding cross-strait exchanges will have greater impact on Taiwan’s future than on that of China, since cross-strait affairs are not generally what concern Chinese people the most. However, closer ties have helped cool down some extremist nationalist hotheads. What worries me is that the present mode of exchange could serve to hide political and social issues from view, and hinder mutual understanding between peoples on both sides, for what we see of each other is not the true other.
For example, that democratization and its further consolidation in Taiwan necessarily involved localization is a historic reality. Yet I don’t think China’s government grasps this. Chinese decision makers on Taiwan-related affairs do not have a deep understanding of Taiwan, much less of its history. That is also why I chose to focus on Taiwan’s history in my study. Mutual understanding based on truth, and seeing the true other, is important for the future of the peoples on both sides.
Q: You have published several collections of poetry and essays in Taiwan, expressing your inner experiences since the 1990s. Do you still have that young soul for literature while engaging in political activism and academic study?
A: It is never a problem for me to roam between the world of lyrics and the world of reason.
Q: If you were able to make a choice, what would you hope to be?
A: If I had the choice, I wish I could be a travel journalist.
This article is published in Taiwan Today in Aug. 7, 2009.
Chinese pro-democracy activist Wang Dan is scheduled to teach at Taiwan’s National Chengchi University, one of the country’s top universities in the humanities and social sciences, in the fall semester, having received his Ph.D. in history from Harvard University. Wang, a student leader in the 1989 Tiananmen protest, offered his thoughts on the landmark event of 20 years ago and his views on cross-strait relations, as well as speaking on his recent plans and himself in an e-mail interview with Taiwan Today staff writer June Tsai.
Q: Your doctoral dissertation is a “comparative study of state violence between mainland China and Taiwan in the 1950s.” Why do you focus on the 1950s? What do you expect from your teaching at NCCU’s Graduate Institute of Taiwan History?
A: During the 1950s, the ruling parties on both sides of the Taiwan Strait faced similar crises in maintaining political control, and they adopted similar strategies in consolidating their regimes, which was by means of social fear. The ways they wielded state violence were different, yet both were characterized by totalitarianism that intruded deeply into the social sphere and the individual’s psychology. This comparative study thus aims to provide insight into the nature of totalitarian regimes.
In Taiwan, studies of the white-terror rule have made considerable progress, yet they still lack a comparative reference. I hope my own study can provide some new perspectives for this research, and would like to encourage students to take a broader approach to history.
Q: You were a student in love with literature and you write poetry. How did you become a political activist?
A: My political enlightenment was due to the overall social environment on the mainland during the 1980s. That was a decade full of idealism, and the major concern of the society at the time was political liberalization. This Zeitgeist wielded great influence on students. As a student at Beijing University, which has a history of liberal thinking and free discussion, my passion for public affairs was stimulated by campus life. While loving literature, I also turned my attention toward politics.
Q: Twenty years after the Tiananmen Square incident, what do you think about all that happened?
A: The significance of the 1989 Tiananmen protests can be summed up in three points. First of all, it was an enlightenment, an intellectual movement culminating in action. Led by students, but joined by all people from all walks of life, the protests helped spread the idea of democracy. In the 1980s, official documents still condemned democracy as something belonging to Western capitalism; yet in the 1990s, words such as “human rights” were written into China’s constitution.
Second, the protests prepared a generation for the next wave of the pro-democracy movement. Many participants from that year started to take the ideals of democracy and human rights as personal causes. Many civil rights lawyers in China today were protesters in 1989.
Third, the movement paved the way for China’s future democratization in terms of political culture and psychology. China has been a society in which individuals are overly dependent on the state for improvements in their lives. In some sense, the 1989 protests were a continuation of the traditional political culture. People pinned their hopes for reform and liberalization on the rulers’ good will. This dependent mentality prevents the development of a civil society and citizenship awareness in China. The government’s suppression crushed hopes and resulted in apathy toward politics, which has lasted until today.
The other side of the movement is that, from then on, there has evolved a distance between the individual and the state, which I think allows a civil society to form, although at great expense. After 1989, any call for political reform was totally suppressed.
Q: Can the apathy toward political affairs among the young generation be turned around?
A: The apathy, to a great extent, is not of their choice. For 20 years, the state’s control of information has prevented young people’s passion for politics from receiving intellectual resources and support for action. Moreover, the suppressive environment provides no soil for an enthusiasm for public affairs to grow. Thus, instead of considering their political apathy, we should deal with the root causes of this issue from, putting our efforts into changing the external conditions. Once the environment is changed, people’s desires for political reform will grow and prosper again. In Hong Kong, where there is freedom of speech, a historic number of young people participated in the memorial for the Tiananmen massacre. This is clear proof.
Q: Has China made any changes in its recent decades of economic achievement? In this context, what is the significance of Charter 08, the first human rights document drafted by the civil society in China?
A: There have been changes on the social level and big improvements economically; but in politics, nothing has really changed, and the Chinese government remains dictatorial. The Charter 08 campaign of last December is a renewed call for political and social reform. It represents an attempt by the civil society to confront the state. I believe there will be more such attempts in the future. And only when such attempts increase will they accumulate sufficient social strength to interact with the state. This is a process that takes time. For now, the government is still unwilling to make any positive response.
Q: How should the international community engage today’s China in this regard?
A: I believe engagement with China should not be conducted with only economics in mind. The world’s leaders should also be aware of the social injustice lying behind China’s economic development. If not, the international society will be caught off guard once the social crisis explodes.
Q: To what extent do you think China’s democratization, if it does happen, could be modeled on Taiwan’s experience?
A: Judging from the present situation, I don’t think Taiwan’s experience could be duplicated in China. The reasons are, first, the opposition in Taiwan has been accumulating political strength through local elections since the 1950s. There is no such possibility in China. Second, during the late period of Chiang Ching-kuo’s rule and throughout the Lee Teng-hui era, the ruling Kuomintang was willing to respond to the society’s demands for democratization, yet there is no sign of such responsiveness with China’s leadership.
Moreover, Taiwan’s small and medium-sized enterprises were in great part credited for its economic rise, whilst in China, the “middle class” is a fake, and is actually part of “bigwig capitalism.” It is therefore unlikely that China will move toward democratization based on the growth of a middle class with necessary riches and education.
The future of China’s democratization will have to rely on the development of its civil society. Only when a substantial socioeconomic power truly independent of the state develops amid the Chinese public can democratization be possible. The advance of the Internet offers great hopes in this regard, and many, including myself, are waiting with open eyes.
Q: What is your take on the current exchanges between mainland China and Taiwan, which are expanding around an economic pivot? What do they imply for the societies on both sides of the Taiwan Strait?
A: There are many issues you cannot solve solely by means of economics. The expanding cross-strait exchanges will have greater impact on Taiwan’s future than on that of China, since cross-strait affairs are not generally what concern Chinese people the most. However, closer ties have helped cool down some extremist nationalist hotheads. What worries me is that the present mode of exchange could serve to hide political and social issues from view, and hinder mutual understanding between peoples on both sides, for what we see of each other is not the true other.
For example, that democratization and its further consolidation in Taiwan necessarily involved localization is a historic reality. Yet I don’t think China’s government grasps this. Chinese decision makers on Taiwan-related affairs do not have a deep understanding of Taiwan, much less of its history. That is also why I chose to focus on Taiwan’s history in my study. Mutual understanding based on truth, and seeing the true other, is important for the future of the peoples on both sides.
Q: You have published several collections of poetry and essays in Taiwan, expressing your inner experiences since the 1990s. Do you still have that young soul for literature while engaging in political activism and academic study?
A: It is never a problem for me to roam between the world of lyrics and the world of reason.
Q: If you were able to make a choice, what would you hope to be?
A: If I had the choice, I wish I could be a travel journalist.
This article is published in Taiwan Today in Aug. 7, 2009.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)