Bunun teacher gives aboriginal students new voice

Bukut Tasvaluan believes that becoming part of a choir can help spark children’s creativity and interest in learning. (Courtesy of the National Chinese Orchestra Taiwan)

By June Tsai

For the Vox Nativa Choir Taiwan, its May 18 performance was special in a number of ways. It was the first time the choir, all aboriginal children, has worked with the National Chinese Orchestra Taiwan. And it was the first time the group has performed at the National Concert Hall in Taipei, arguably the best stage in Taiwan.

The show was a great success. Tickets were completely sold out four weeks in advance. The children’s voice was “heavenly,” according to concert conductor Huang Guang-you. The audience agreed wholeheartedly with his assessment, judging from their enthusiastic and prolonged applause.

Behind the group’s triumph, however, lies a tale of poverty and overcoming the odds, of hard work and perseverance, according to Bukut Tasvaluan, founder and chorus master of the VNCT.

“People think indigenous peoples are naturally gifted singers, but such an idea does not do justice to these children,” Bukut said in Taipei while promoting the show.

“It is of course a great achievement for these children, all of whom are still in grade school, to stand on the stage of the National Concert Hall,” he said. “But I hope the audience can try to imagine the difficulties they had to go through to get to where they are today.”

Bukut, principal of Luona Elementary School in mountainous Xinyi Township, Nantou County, founded the VNCT as part of a music school project to help talented aboriginal children shine both academically and musically.

“The purpose of the VNC School is to help aboriginal children, who enjoy fewer educational resources than their city peers, build self-confidence, and music is a means to that end,” said Bukut, an ethnic Bunun, one of the 14 officially recognized indigenous groups in Taiwan.

“The children like singing, and if they do well in this field, they become more self-assured, and that can inject something positive into their academic learning and lives in general.”

Students of this special school come from different elementary schools in 11 aboriginal villages in Xinyi Township. According to Bukut, over 80 percent of them are from lower-income households. “They have potential. All they need is a stage.”

After being an educator for more than 20 years, Bukut began to think that Taiwan’s younger generation of indigenous peoples would benefit if they joined a choir. Originally a sports teacher, he taught himself music so that he could teach children.

The VNC School recruits students from the 2nd grade up. The pupils spend their weekends, summer and winter vacations boarding in the school learning math, reading, English and choir singing. When this special school started in April 2008, there were 44 students. It now has 91.

Gaining admission to the VNC School requires not only a good voice, Bukut said. He demands that students finish their homework assignments before coming to the music school, and they must arrive for each and every choir practice session on time.

The students feel passionate about singing in a choir and their father-like school director. Some brave a 90-minute drive and freezing morning weather just to make it to the school.

For many, the school head should be credited for having given their children the courage to dream and the ability to realize their dreams. “Parents have told me their children become more helpful, responsible and organized at home, and perform better in school, as a result of our program,” Bukut said.

The musical outcome has also been encouraging. Over the last two years, the group has performed in Bangkok, Hong Kong, Shanghai and Singapore. In 2009, the VNC released its first CD, which won jury recognition in Taiwan’s Golden Melody Awards. The choir has received invitations to sing and has been featured in TV commercials. The group is expected to release another album soon.

Bukut believes choir singing offers students the opportunity to open their eyes to the world. While working with the NCO, for example, the students marveled at how traditional Chinese instruments such as the erhu and reed pipe could imitate the howling of the winds, he noted, adding that some members of the audience were also amazed at how the voices of the children and the NCO’s instruments complemented one another.

The VNCT offered five Bunun folk songs at the Taipei concert, including the well-known “Kipahpah ima,” or “Let’s clap together,” and “Pislahi,” a song chanted during Bunun hunting festivals.

Bukut arranged the songs for the chorus himself. Learning the songs means becoming acquainted with the language, culture and history of the Bunun people, he said, adding that this is how he manages to pass on aboriginal culture and values to the next generation.

He is highly aware that people might value the choir only because it is made up of minorities, and not for its musical achievements.

“Such a danger surely exists, but bringing indigenous music out of the tribal environment and into music halls is a necessary process,” he said.
“When we make that breakthrough, and the singing of these children is appreciated, then their achievement becomes valid.”

Bukut insists that the priority for the choir members is learning, not singing, something he repeatedly tells his students. Thus the number of performances, large or small, has been capped under eight shows a year. Proceeds from their albums go to VNC students’ education.

“We hope these students can get into college and become leaders of the indigenous community,” he said. “They must be able to stay committed to their communities while pursuing their dreams in the world,” he said.

Non-aboriginal teachers have been impressed by Bukut’s ideas and efforts. A Taipei-based association has been founded to assist his project. The association, which provides teachers and raises funds for the children’s education, promises to support them until they attend university.

“I know aborigines in Taiwan have been made dependent on the government by past policies that wrongly treated them as subjects rather than citizens,” Bukut said. “But I want the children to be rid of this ingrained mentality, so that they can have control of their own lives, and contribute to Taiwan’s indigenous community.”

This article first appeared in online Taiwan Today May 27, 2011.

Centennial exhibition captures history of photography in Taiwan

John Thomson’s “Fort Zeelandia” from 1871 opens the exhibition “Eye of the Times—Centennial Images of Taiwan.” (Photos courtesy of Taipei Fine Arts Museum)


By June Tsai


Taiwan has changed so much in the last century that it is difficult to imagine what things were like in the past—before skyscrapers and cars came to dominate the landscape, and everyone started wearing western-style clothing. An exhibition at the Taipei Fine Arts Museum, however, is bringing the nation’s past vividly to life.

“Eye of the Times—Centennial Images of Taiwan,” which runs until June 26, offers glimpses of Taiwanese society and culture over the last 140 years through the lens of the camera, according to curators Chuan Ling and Chang Tsang-sang, both renowned photographers themselves.

The exhibition, they added, illuminates how social and artistic changes are deeply intertwined.

A total of 247 pictures by 114 photographers are being shown. The majority of the photos are arranged chronologically, with four special rooms dedicated to specific topics: Orchid Island, mental imagery, fine art photography and portraits. The theme rooms allow visitors to appreciate the diversity in style and content of Taiwanese photography, the curators said.

According to Chuan, the pictures as a whole illustrate the three major purposes of photography—to record, re-create and assist in seeing.

“The ability to represent things precisely is almost the main reason for photography to exist,” he said.

In the earliest batch of images, Scottish photographer John Thomson (1837-1921) recorded what he saw in today’s Tainan and Kaohsiung back in 1871, about three decades after the invention of photography.

The 22 images, reproduced from original glass plate negatives now part of a private collection, depict people in their native environments, and are notable for their historical value.

Other pictures of Taiwan from the time when it was still under the control of the Qing dynasty include those of missionary George Leslie Mackay (1844-1901). One shows Mackay as a teacher, while another shows him as a dentist, in the process of helping the natives pull out rotten teeth.

Some pictures capture Taiwan in a state of transformation in the 1890s. “Xichang Street, Wanhua,” for example, shows some men dressed in Han Chinese costume and wearing braids, as required by the Qing court, and others sporting a short haircut and Western-style clothing, following the example of their Japanese colonizers.

Japanese anthropologist Ryuzo Torii (1872-1953) is credited for one of the most important collections from the Japanese colonial era (1895-1945). On display are a dozen photos he took of Taiwan’s indigenous tribes. They are on loan from Taipei’s Shung Ye Museum of Formosan Aborigines, which owns 248 of the more than 800 originals by Torii.

These pictures, taken between 1896 and 1900, were used to assist anthropological studies and were meant to be comprehensive, Chuan said.

“The images contain important information on Taiwan’s indigenous peoples, and from their clothes and houses we are able to see the increasing influence Han Chinese had on the native inhabitants of Taiwan,” he said.

Curators suggested that these pictures can be compared with later ones, offering viewers the opportunity to ponder the different intentions of the photographers in representing their subjects.

For example, images in the Orchid Island gallery that were taken by local photographers in the last three decades show the Tao tribe in their natural and cultural surroundings rather than an object for study.

The pictures of Lin Chao (1881-1953) are also on display. A military photographer, Lin helped train the first generation of Taiwanese photographers and founded Taiwan’s longest-running photo studio.

Between 1905 and 1910, he was the in-house photographer for the Lin family, a prominent clan in the Wufeng district in central Taiwan during the Japanese era. The family representative, Lin Hsien-tang, was a well-respected democracy advocate and cultural reformer, and many of the cultural and political activities he took part in were faithfully recorded by Lin Chao.

The original glass-plate negatives were discovered by accident only in 1985, when historians were going through the family mansion, according to Chuan.

For Chang, the Lin series helps form a better picture of the social and cultural climate at the time. “Lin Hsien-tang’s generosity and Lin Chao’s documentary ambition are evident in these pictures,” Chang said, noting that at a time when photography was expensive, maids and servants were included in the family portraits.

According to Chuan, postwar photography in Taiwan evolved to combine documentary and aesthetic functions of the modern invention. Important cameramen include the famous triad of Taiwan’s pioneering documentary photographers Teng Nan-guang (1907-1971), Chang Tsai (1916-1994) and Lee Ming-tiao (1922- ), as well as the next generation of practitioners, who even more consciously incorporated social concerns into their work. Representatives of the latter group include Juan I-jong, who was also an influential writer on photography, and Chang Chao-tang, winner of the Taiwan National Cultural Award in 2011.

Parallel to these artists are those who did salon work, beginning with Lang Ching-shan (1892-1995). Salon photography, which emphasizes on style more than on content, was the main interest of Taiwan’s amateur photographers.

Yet both groups are given space at the exhibition. The reason, Chuan said, “is to do justice to a good photographer, who cannot be pinned down easily and who has more things up his sleeve than we can easily appreciate.”

During the three decades since the 1980s, the turmoil of social and political changes offered inspiring themes for modern photographers, whose works are also amply represented at the exhibit. Their photos, which record important events, are examples of photographers’ engagement with society.

Both curators observed how more recent pieces have incorporated digital technology and multimedia art. Authors, as they can be called, seem to have turned toward individual expression with only a secondary emphasis on society, they said.

Of note for the show are the printed texts on the wall by renowned Taiwanese writers, intended to prepare viewers for each section of the exhibition they are entering. Chuan said the arrangement was inspired by “The Family of Man,” an exhibition created by American photographer Edward Steichen for the Museum of Modern Art in New York in 1955. The exhibit has since been called “the greatest photographic enterprise ever undertaken.”

But unlike “The Family of Man,” which delivers a strong message for the universality of peace but downplays differences among mankind, the Taiwanese exhibition does not try to reconcile differences in a unified moral message.

According to the curators, the show is not meant to provide a comprehensive view of Taiwanese photography. Rather, the works allow viewers to see how photographers with their unique aesthetics look at Taiwan’s people, land and society, they said.

“The exhibition can probably serve as a ‘pre-text’ for Taiwan’s photographic history,” Chuan said, adding he hoped the show to start the base for the long overdue work of collecting images related to the country and constructing a history of photography in Taiwan.

This article first appeared in online Taiwan Today May 13, 2011.

Controversial projects highlight need for social impact assessment

By June Tsai

For Taiwan’s environmentalists and community activists, April was an encouraging month as several contentious developments were brought to a standstill. The controversies themselves, however, highlight the urgent need for a formal system to review the social impact of development projects.

On April 22, President Ma Ying-jeou called a halt to the Kuokuang petrochemical project in the coastal wetlands of western Changhua County. Ma’s decision came after a two-day marathon environmental impact assessment meeting could not resolve the Kuokuang case, despite a total of 24 hearings and 600 days of protests by residents, scholars, civic groups and students opposed to the naphtha cracker plant.

Earlier in the month, Tainan City stopped the construction of a landfill, which had been conditionally approved 10 years ago, but local nongovernmental organizations had exposed falsified data and irregularities in the developer’s EIA.

Later, the Ministry of the Interior’s Regional Planning Commission rejected a Miaoli County proposal to expropriate prime agricultural land in Wanbao, Houlong Township, for a science park. Wanbao farme blew the whistle on the land expropriation plan, on which they had never been consulted.

In a workshop on social impact assessment organized by National Taiwan University’s Graduate Institute of National Development April 15, scholars and NGO representatives examined current EIA and land planning practices, and called for a change to the expert-centered approval process.

“The existing EIA review system in Taiwan looks at the environmental and health risks of a development, but ignores long-term social changes and effects on people’s lives,” said Hsu Shih-jung of National Chengchi University’s Department of Land Economics.

The participation of citizens affected by or concerned about proposed developments, moreover, have been largely overlooked in practice. For example, Hsu said, public hearings are not mandatory under the Administrative Procedure Act. The Environmental Impact Assessment Act includes clauses on public participation, “but most practices aimed at including the public are formalities at best,” he said.

It has become the norm for protesters to take to the streets, as those affected by development projects lack access to policymakers and transparent information, he added.

Lin Tzu-lin, secretary-general of Wild at Heart Legal Defense Foundation, pointed out how the social impacts of development have been ignored by the powers that be.

“Facing flawed implementation of the law or even failure to enforce the law, local NGOs have worked to monitor development projects undertaken by the government or private developers before potential negative impacts become a reality,” she said.

According to Chou Kuei-tien, a GIND professor, expert meetings convened by the Environmental Protection Administration on the Kuokuang case proceeded with a cost-benefit analysis for the petrochemical industry, including effects on the life spans of individuals in the local population and prevention of land subsidence.

“But that’s not social impact assessment, nor are questionnaire surveys conducted with people in the area,” he said.

“In a valid SIA, the impact on oyster farmers, tourism and national food safety, and the effects of a changed ecology on health should all be taken into consideration,” Chou said. If these factors had been analyzed in the Kuokuang case, he added, the plan would never have got off the ground.

SIA has been institutionalized in several countries, becoming an integral part of the EIA procedure, according to David Fu-keung Ip, an associate professor at Hong Kong Polytechnic University’s Department of Applied Social Sciences.

In Australia for example, Ip said, the Environmental Protection and Biodiversity Conservation Act of 1999 incorporates principles of ecological sustainability, implying that the social consequences of development plans must be factored in.

According to practices Down Under, SIA covers the geographical boundaries of a development plan, impacted regions and stakeholders—the developer and affected individuals, groups and communities and their participation in the assessment process—as well as comparison of desirable and adverse impacts and measures for minimizing negative effects.

Ip, an experienced SIA practitioner, explained that SIA should be applied to development, policy changes and the consequences arising at different stages of a project.

Yet in practice, manipulation is still possible, Ip said. Governments, developers and campaign organizations outsource SIA work to consultancy firms or individuals with SIA expertise. But assessment methods vary, and professionals are not without their own biases with regard to development, he noted.

“SIA practitioners, mostly social scientists, must realize that SIA is not just a technical exercise, but involves ethical questions and value choices,” Ip said. “The credibility of SIA lies in their professional ethics and conscience.”

In Taiwan, Lin said, many social scientists have chosen to side with affected communities and NGOs in recent controversies, but some of their peers involved in assessment and approval processes have tended to hide or downplay problems in favor of developments, “so that they can be given more research commissions.”

Lin stressed that scholars have professional knowledge and access to information beyond the reach of ordinary people. “We expect them to play a greater and fairer role.”

Chou worried that SIA could become a tool of the state, as has already begun to happen with EIA, if it is institutionalized and becomes a task the government is allowed to outsource. In addition, stakeholders with sufficient power and money may still disregard decisions to halt or modify development, whether they come from review committees or courts of law.

Scholars at the workshop were quick to point out that Taiwan’s academic bureaucracy and civil service system are inclined to put the needs of the state first.

Both academics and officials tend to cite the role of objective science in decision-making, claiming everything has been done in accordance with the law, said Liao Pen-chuan, a professor of urban planning at National Taipei University and social activist. “Yet expert opinions and legal interpretations are steered toward satisfying what their superiors want,” he said.

Liao argued that the incessant drive for development is the source of recent disputes. Sadly, he said, the development projects have not been based on any master plan for national land use or a sound vision for the country’s development.

“If there were an overall national plan, and we decided to go ahead with a specific project, the first thing to do would be to talk about locations and alternatives. Then an EIA would be conducted, focusing on measures to mitigate adverse impacts,” Liao said.

“The last issue, and one preferably avoided at all costs, would be the expropriation of people’s land,” he said. “In recent cases, however, that whole process has been reversed.”

With this situation in mind, Chou proposed that SIA play a reforming role in the country’s decision-making processes, as well as in the approval and monitoring of policies and projects.

“This will help effectively solve conflicts involving the state, private industry and the people, creating and maintaining a balanced relationship among these parties,” he said.


This article first appeared in online Taiwan Today May 6, 2011.

National Taiwan Symphony Orchestra makes musical history

(From left) Composer Pan Hwang-long, Taiwanese opera singer Tang Mei-yun and NTSO Director Liu Suan-yung promote the orchestra’s eclectic performances for 2011 in Taipei March 1. (Photos courtesy of NTSO)



By June Tsai

It may not be as well known today as the National Symphony Orchestra in Taipei, with which it is often confused. But Taichung-based National Taiwan Symphony Orchestra has had a far more storied history than its northern counterpart, and its best days could still be well ahead of it.

“The NSO represents our country to the world, but the NTSO has made distinctive contributions to Taiwan’s musical education and creativity,” Director Liu Suan-yung said March 1.

The NTSO’s development closely mirrors Taiwan’s political history over the last few decades.

It was founded in September 1945, one month after Japan announced its unconditional surrender in World War II.

Following Japan’s defeat, the Kuomintang government in mainland China took over Taiwan.

It was thought at the time that symphonies are a symbol of national strength, according to Hsu Li-sha, music professor of National Taichung University of Education.

Thus Chen Yi, the KMT’s point man in Taiwan, ordered the creation of the Provincial Garrison Symphony Orchestra, which would later become the NTSO.

Tsai Chi-kun, a Taiwanese descendant born in Fujian province and founder of the Fujian Music Conservatory, was put in charge of Taiwan’s first orchestra.

A conductor, Tsai succeeded in recruiting several Taiwanese musicians, many of whom were educated in Japan and had already played in private bands during the colonial era.

The garrison symphony began giving concerts in Taipei in December 1945. These performances attracted far more audience members than Taipei Zhongshan Hall, the nation’s premiere concert venue of the time, could accommodate, according to Hsu.

“Sixty years ago, musical instruments and performance centers were not as good as they are now, but back then people really loved going to concerts,” she said.

Social turmoil in the postwar era made musicians and the public alike extremely enthusiastic for classical music. “The audience hungered for the comfort and inspiration that only music can provide,” Liu added.

The white-terror rule in the 1950s put a dent on the development of the orchestra, which by now had become a civilian outfit separated from Garrison Command, and renamed Taiwan Provincial Symphony Orchestra.

Another chapter did not begin for the orchestra until the 1960s, when Dai Cui-lun, a much-remembered music educator, became its director.

Dai revamped the orchestra by securing offices and studios for its members, and gradually equipping it with a new set of musical instruments.

Just as the group was ready for takeoff, however, an administrative restructuring in 1972 resulted in the NTSO having to move to Taichung City.

The relocation dealt a blow to the NTSO, as Dai and other talented members left the group to stay in Taipei.

The most immediate task for his successor—Shih Wei-liang, a composer educated in Madrid, Vienna and Stuttgart—was to raise morale.

He set several goals for the NTSO that remain in force even today: for it to become a symphony orchestra with local characteristics; and for it to place equal emphasis on composition and performance, research, and education.

With these objectives in mind, Shih took advantage of the band’s location in central Taiwan to launch a folk music revival movement.

He also began commissioning local composers for original works. Most famously, he encouraged Lin Hwai-min, later an internationally renowned choreographer, to establish Cloud Gate Dance Troupe, with NTSO accompanying the troupe’s dance numbers with its tailor-made orchestral works.

Living composers still fondly recall Shih’s vigor and enthusiasm, even though he had to leave the orchestra after just one year.

From the 1970s to the 2000s, the NTSO followed its performance routines, while music infrastructure in Taiwan continued to improve.

During the last few decades, top concert halls have been built for the NTSO in Wufeng and Taichung, both located in central Taiwan. The orchestra also goes on numerous concert tours throughout the country.

Taiwan’s democratization brought about renewed interest in the country’s diverse cultural heritage. Since the 1990s , NTSO has paid particular emphasis on promoting local works and musicians, pursuing creative attempts with Taiwan’s aboriginal musicians, Chinese and Taiwanese opera companies, and children’s theaters.

Present director Liu, a trombonist, took the helm in March 2008. The first NTSO musician promoted from within to the post, he has inherited a staunch and open mind from his predecessors.

“As an orchestra that has Taiwan in its name, the NTSO is duty bound to make the nation’s citizens proud of it,” Liu said.

To broaden its audience base, the NTSO gives concerts and tours, and organizes competitions, music camps for young musicians and tourism-oriented festivals.

“Though music promotion has been the orchestra’s main job, we are just as concerned about keeping up the quality of our music,” Liu added.

Thus the NTSO has challenged itself by collaborating with international musicians and by working with various types of music, be they classical or contemporary, Western pieces or local productions, he said.

Some people in the orchestra were initially reluctant to embrace Liu’s brand of activism, contented as they were to carry out NTSO’s long prescribed role of performing for towns and schools. However, even the most recalcitrant members have now shaken off their lethargy to embrace their new role.

In 2011, the NTSO will offer a dazzling list of more than 60 programs of classical, contemporary and crossover music, according to Liu.

A major production of the year will see the symphony collaborate with Tang Mei Yun Taiwanese Opera Co. to perform a new piece, mixing music, dance and martial arts to present a story of Kshitigarbha Bodhisattva, the Buddhist guardian of the earth and deliverer of souls from hell.

In addition, the NTSO plans to present major works by Pan Hwang-long, its composer of the year, best known for his contemporary music.

“It takes a new set of techniques and a different sensibility for a classical music orchestra to master a contemporary work of music, and I am grateful the NTSO is willing to spend the time and energy on this task,” Pan said, noting that the NTSO has made considerable progress in recent years.

“Taiwan’s composers and musicians are surely indebted to the NTSO for its policies that aim to encourage musical creations and new talent as well,” he added.

Also, the NTSO has become an important tourist draw in central Taiwan, having held music festivals since 2008 in Sun Moon Lake Scenic Park, one of Taiwan’s most popular tourist destinations.

Liu’s marketing strategy has paid dividends. According to the NTSO, more than 120,000 people attended its concerts last year.

“We try to pay equal attention to tradition and innovation, to quality and diversity, and hope more and more people will appreciate our efforts,” he said.

This article first appeared in online Taiwan Today March 31, 2011.

Grass-roots food movement starts with Taiwanese wheat

Youngsters learn local wheat culture by making toys out of wheat stalks at the Rejoice harvest event. (JP)


By June Tsai

As bakery goods have replaced rice on their breakfast tables, Taiwanese consumers have acutely felt the impact of rising international grain prices and the country’s overreliance on imported wheat.

Statistics show that since 2002, Taiwan has imported over 1 million tons of wheat every year, mainly from the United States. Taiwanese on average consumed about the same quantity of wheat products as they did the traditional staple of rice, but domestic wheat is nearly nonexistent.

In Changhua County, one man’s initiative to promote local wheat production through contract farming, now in its fourth year, has resonated among farmers and consumers attracted to his idea of “growing our own wheat using eco-friendly methods.”

“It’s been said that Taiwan’s soil and weather are not good for growing wheat, but the island’s farmers were already harvesting the crop during the Japanese colonial period [1895-1945],” said Adama Shih, owner of the Rejoice Bread Workshop in Changhua’s coastal township of Fangyuan, and the man behind the movement.

Shih opened Rejoice in 2003, first as an attempt to offer jobs to the physically or mentally impaired. The bakery built its sales channels, and reputation, via the Internet and the collective purchase network of the Homemakers’ Union Consumers Cooperative.

He then set out to learn the history of wheat farming in Taiwan out of a thirst for knowledge about the crop.

Documents show that in the 1920s wheat fields spread across Taiwan’s southwestern plains from Taichung to Tainan, Shih said. After World War II food shortages prompted the government to encourage the cultivation of various grains, particularly wheat, and in the early 1960s wheat fields covered 25,000 hectares.

In the meantime, the country became a recipient of U.S. aid in the form of wheat surpluses, and the consumption of flour products in place of rice was encouraged. The government eventually allowed the import of American wheat in 1967, and during the 1970s, U.S. corn, soybeans and wheat were imported in large quantities to balance trade. Domestic farmers could not compete and by 1974 only 304 hectares of the crop remained.

While corn and soybean production continued to decline, wheat growing got a boost in 1975, when booming liquor exports prompted the state-run Tobacco and Wine Monopoly Bureau to contract the cultivation of wheat as a raw material for distiller’s yeast, and to guarantee purchase prices. This practice was halted in 1995, however, due to free trade pressures.

In 2007 Shih found wheat fields in Taichung’s Daya and Tainan’s Xuejia districts, with around 60 and 30 hectares, respectively, under cultivation, supplying the crop on contract to Kinmen Kaoliang Liquor Inc.

But the global food crisis that year caused the price of imported wheat to double in just a few months, prompting Shih to put his idea of self-sufficient wheat production into action.

He started a contract-farming project with one of the last two wheat farmers in Taiwan—Daya’s Chang Wen-yen—in November 2007. Chang devoted a 1-hectare field to the plan, and the HUCC preordered flour from his harvest.

With ready buyers, more farmers joined Shih’s project. The harvest grew from seven tons in 2009 to 20 in 2010. Last winter, 45 farmers throughout Taiwan took part, and with 27 hectares planted in wheat the total harvest was expected to reach 40 tons.

“We should thank the birds for what they left us,” Shih told farmers, consumers, students and activists at a harvest celebration in Fengyuan March 26.

“Our farmers kill no birds,” he said, although birds are the main threat to the wheat crop in many areas. “Nor do they use herbicides, pesticides or chemical fertilizers.” Eco-friendly farming is a requirement for participation in the network.

“These practices are good for both nature and us farmers,” Chen Wen-lung said. Chen and his wife, both in their 70s, joined the project last year, rotating wheat between their two annual crops of rice in Miaoli County’s Yuanli Township. Like other contracted farmers, the Chens recorded their production process in a computer system set up by Shih for supply chain tracking.

“Large-scale farming can help reduce damage from birds, but Shih insisted on contracting small farmers for good reasons,” said Warren Kuo, a professor at National Taiwan University’s Department of Agronomy who offered assistance to Shih’s contract farmers.

“Working with small farmers contributes to fair trade practices and helps increase farmers’ income,” Kuo said. He noted that the country’s long-time, laissez-faire crop price policy and multilayered agricultural trade have led to farming households relying on nonagricultural activities for more than 50 percent of their income.

Shih’s program highlights the government’s inertia in addressing issues concerning Taiwan’s food safety, Kuo said. Taiwan has a stunningly low rate of food self-sufficiency—32 percent, based on calorie intake from domestic production. The rate is even lower for grain alone, at 24 percent, while that for wheat is a paltry 2 percent.

“Taiwan’s arable land has been disappearing over the past several decades,” Kuo said. Current policies subsidize farmers for leaving their land fallow and transferring water and land resources to industrial and commercial uses, he pointed out.

Growing wheat between rice crops helps keep the land in good shape and diversifies the agricultural landscape, Shih said. Moreover, it creates a knowledge bank on wheat cultivation in different parts of Taiwan, with their particular moisture, temperature and soil conditions and under the varying field management techniques farmers come up with.

Shih’s attempt to promote locally grown food has won professional respect and assistance. University researchers are providing knowledge on wheat, a local mill agreed to grind the relatively small quantities of wheat produced and Uni-President Enterprise Corp.’s Central Research Institute analyzes the properties of the grain, pro bono, to improve quality.

Perhaps the most encouraging sign is the increasing participation of young farmers. “There is a big gap in experience, as only farmers over 70 have grown wheat or barley before,” said Hwang Yu-ren, 36, who expects to harvest 200 kilograms of wheat from his 0.1-hectare plot in Tainan.

A former urban planning major, Hwang said he turned to farming after seeing how the society’s drive toward rapid economic development had made arable land a market commodity rather than a life-sustaining resource. “In the face of threats from nature and the government’s negligence, farmers and consumers should help themselves,” he said.

The contract-farming project has also served to reconnect local production chains for grains other than rice. “With tight farm-to-table links being built, the best part of local wheat is its freshness,” Shih said. “Think of the mileage involved in imported wheat! Now it takes only one month from harvest to delivery to your home.”

This article first appeared in online Taiwan Today April 22, 2011.

One-time activist dons renewable energy hat

A2peak Power’s building-integrated PV at the Taipei European School provides power and serves as a shelter for children come rain or shine. (Courtesy of A2peak Power Co. Ltd.)

By June Tsai

Japan’s recent crisis has shaken the myth of safe and clean nuclear energy. Appalled that such a catastrophe could occur in one of the most technologically advanced nations of the world, governments are re-examining the safety of this power source as citizens press for greater transparency on relevant policies.

In the midst of this emergency, Hu Shiang-ling, CEO of Taiwan’s solar panel manufacturer A2peak Power Co. Ltd., looks to Germany, where in regional elections at the end of March, voters responded to the Fukushima disaster by putting the anti-nuclear Green Party into power in coalitions with the Social Democrats.

This blow to Chancellor Angela Merkel’s Christian Democrats came despite her recent reversal on pro-nuclear policy, when she temporarily closed down seven of Germany’s 17 nuclear plants in the aftermath of events in Japan.

In Hu’s view, the citizens of Germany, where she has lived for 15 years, cast their ballots to tell politicians what kind of future they want. “Democratic elections are not about lending support [to a candidate]. They are tools to monitor a government, and the Germans did just that,” she said.

“It is indeed up to a country’s people to decide whether they want nuclear power,” she said in a recent interview with Taiwan Today. “It is not a matter for experts to decide, whether they are pro- or anti-nuclear. It is a matter of politics in which citizens should have a role,” she said.

It may seem unusual in Taiwan for a business figure to make comments such as these, but Hu has gone from a concerned intellectual to advocate for renewable energy to active player in the photovoltaic (PV) industry.

Hu was a student of the sociology of science and technology in the early 1990s when the Taiwan government’s plan to build the fourth nuclear power plant on the northeastern coast, where two plants were already in operation, met strong civic resistance from Taiwan’s increasingly democratized society. Her graduate research focused on the nuclear debates of the time.

Hu was involved in the anti-nuclear movement, but also tried to understand the arguments of nuclear engineers and policymakers in their context. “As a researcher, I would not say which of the opposing sides was more persuasive scientifically for me as there was a basic incommunicability between nuclear engineers and opposing scientists,” she said.

Taiwan’s government eventually approved the budget for the construction of the fourth nuclear power plant in 1994. Hu and her husband went to study in Germany around the same time.

Living in Germany, she began to realize what saving power really means and, gradually, how a nuclear-free homeland could be possible.

“You feel the pinch every time you switch on the power because of the high price of electricity,” she said. In Taiwan, a kilowatt-hour of electricity costs less than US$0.09, in comparison to Germany’s US$0.3. “The impact of one’s chosen way of living, that is, whether it was power-saving enough or not, is very real,” she said.

In 1999, shortly before Hu received her doctorate from the University of Bielefeld and assumed a teaching position in Bochum, the Taiwanese couple bought a 160-year-old farmhouse, a government-designated historic building, and began to repair it.

They took note of the local government’s rebates and low-interest loans for buildings that optimize energy supply and follow traditional building methods.

Having renovated their house in accordance with German law, they learned how traditional wisdom works in keeping a house warm. “Building materials and methods, down to details such as which way the house’s doors open, play a critical role, helping reduce energy consumption,” she said.

“We developed a brand new feeling about what an environmentally friendly way of life means, and finally understood that saving energy doesn’t mean we have to compromise the comfort we want in a home.”

Indoor lighting and air conditioning normally take up the lion’s share of a country’s total electricity consumption, Hu said. “But a comfortable life doesn’t entail consuming lots of energy to keep interiors warm, in Germany’s case, or cool, in Taiwan’s case. What we need is to follow nature’s way and provide a sensible support policy.”

Encouraged by their house restoration experience, Hu rallied dozens of people in January 2003 to build houses in an aboriginal village in Taiwan’s Nantou County for victims of the Sept. 21, 1999 earthquake.

A few months later she brought Taiwanese volunteers together with a German initiative constructing homes for victims of the Chernobyl nuclear disaster in Belarus.

She then collaborated on reconstruction projects in tsunami-devastated Ache province, Indonesia, in 2004, and a southern Taiwan aboriginal settlement damaged by Typhoon Morakot in 2009.

Rebuilding homes by bringing many people together and sourcing local materials and techniques became a kind of social movement for Hu, leading her out of school and into the life of the people. Her later involvement in the PV industry, one that embraces hope for the earth’s sustainability, has been a similar experience.

As she pursued her own path toward sustainable living, Germany’s spearheading of the movement to reduce dependence on nonrenewable fossil fuels and provide incentive programs for alternatives, as well as the results it has achieved in the past 20 years, continued to impress her.

Germany launched support for solar energy development with its 1,000 solar roofs program in 1991, followed by the 100,000 roofs program in 1999, both offering loans for photovoltaic installments. The Renewable Energy Sources Act of 2000 enticed more individual investors and companies to PV through low-interest loans and buy-down programs, combined with a mandatory purchase requirement by public utilities.

The latest statistics show that renewable energy now provides 17 percent of Germany’s electricity, with 2 percent coming from solar PV. “The figure is expected to reach 50 percent by 2050, with 20 percent from solar energy,” Hu said. “Government measures help increase installed PV capacity, create demand, bring down costs and boost Germany’s PV industry development.”

Observing events in Germany, she realized that renewable energy combined with efficient and conservative energy use in houses and construction would be an ideal solution for her home country, which in 2009 relies on nuclear energy for 13 percent of its power and fossil fuels for almost 75 percent.

The opportunity to put her German experience into practice in Taiwan came when a German PV enterprise with technical expertise proposed a joint venture, eyeing Taiwan’s quality manufacturing capacity and prospective market. Thus A2peak Power was established in December 2006.

The PV modules produced by the company are highly regarded in the European market. The firm weathered the global economic recession of 2008 relatively unscathed, installing more production lines in 2009. Today, the company has 252 “green collar employees,” as Hu refers to them.

In a recent development, A2peak began supplying custom-made modules for building-integrated PV, or BIPV, and participating in local solar housing projects.

Regarding the local market, Hu pointed out that “six of the world’s top 10 solar cell suppliers are Taiwanese, but solar applications are few and far between on this subtropical island.” Although the Taiwan government passed its own Renewable Energy Act, it fails to provide supplementary measures and infrastructure to encourage investment or entice bank loans, she added.

Yet Hu is determined to demonstrate through her business that green energy makes both sense and money. “Economic development and environmental protection are compatible,” she said. “The PV, construction materials and architectural sectors would all benefit from policies such as those implemented in Germany,” she added.

“The harnessing, conversion and distribution of solar energy produce no noise, no waste, and require no potential or kinetic energies,” she said. In contrast, nonrenewable energies involve processing and waste disposal costs that have been constantly overlooked by policymakers, who argue that nuclear is the cheapest form of power, she said.

The most understated risk is the threat to human life and the environment. “I believe the safest technologies are those that the average person can understand without experts’ persuasion,” she said.

In the wake of the disaster in Japan, “it is no longer a matter of whether we are for or against nuclear power,” Hu said. “We just need to decide what consequences we can live with.”

This article first appeared in online Taiwan Today April 8, 2011.

Hushan dam reignites Taiwan’s water resources debate

By June Tsai

The news last month that work on the controversial Hushan Reservoir in western Taiwan’s Yunlin County is past the halfway mark and set for a 2014 finish reopened festering wounds for local residents and environmental activists. It also raised questions over the need for this oft-maligned dam, which many believe was conceived solely to provide water for the local petrochemical industry.

Hushan, with its storage capacity of 530 million cubic meters, has been dogged by controversy since its inception in 2000. Opponents claim that government decision-makers have pushed ahead with project despite the area’s concentration of fault zones and a raft of negative environmental impacts.

Lee Ken-cheng, secretary-general of Kaohsiung-based Citizens of the Earth, and a leading member of the anti-Hushan movement, said the irony of the dam is that the government considered it less environmentally friendly than another plan under consideration at the time.

“It was only chosen because the construction site for the original proposal was ruled out by the 7.3-magnitude September 21, 1999 Earthquake in central Taiwan,” he said. “The reality is that Hushan should never have been built.”

According to Lee, the project stumbled out of the blocks courtesy of a conditional approval from the Environmental Protection Agency. “But over the past years, the developer has altered the project three times, attesting to the Alice-in-Wonderland nature of this project,” he said.

Lee believes that this unsatisfactory state of affairs is best illustrated by the final stage of Hushan. This involves building a channel to connect the reservoir with Jhoushuei River, Taiwan’s longest watercourse, which runs between Yunlin and Nantou counties.

But since construction on Hushan began in 2007, devastating typhoons and heavy rainfalls have made this plan unfeasible. The Water Resources Agency now proposes building a 4,160-meter underground tunnel through mountains instead.

For Lee, this proposal is just another brick in the formidable wall of procedural flaws that have plagued the Hushan decision-making process.

“Water Resources Agency Director-General Yang Wei-fuu claims Hushan will be Taiwan’s last dam,” Lee said. “But this statement leaks like a sieve given the official line that the reservoir was designed to serve as a stable water supply for domestic consumption.”

Hushan stands in stark contrast to the commonly held belief that water is Mother Nature’s gift to all, Lee said, adding that the dam was always intended to provide water for Yunlin’s offshore sixth naphtha cracker plant operated by Formosa Plastics Group.

Lee said at present, the FPG plant uses water sourced from Jiji Weir in the upstream area of Jhoushuei River, with the facility providing 260,000 tons per day, or just over half of the refinery’s needs. “To make up for this shortfall, the government is diverting water from local irrigation projects,” he added, citing a Ministry of Economic Affairs report.

“Once Hushan comes on line, total water production for both sites will reach 694,000 tons per day,” Lee said. “A little math pokes holes in government claims that the reservoir is for domestic use.”

Jiji’s staggering rate of sedimentation also highlights why, in Lee’s opinion, large capture facilities are not the answer to Taiwan’s water needs.

Citing the 36-year-old Zenwen Reservoir, Taiwan’s largest dam at 700 million cubic meters, as an example, Lee said sediment accounts for 22.3 percent of its capacity. The situation is worse in Tainan County, with the 17-year-old Nanhua Reservoir silted up to the tune of 32.9 percent, he added.

“What use is a dam that takes five to 10 years and vast amounts of capital to complete if its capacity is sharply reduced in just two or three decades? This question takes on even greater significance once the irreversible deformation and fragmentation of Taiwan’s rivers are taken into account.”

Chiang Ming-lang, director of the WRA Water Resources management Division, admits that his agency’s dredging programs have not been able to keep pace with the rate of silt accumulation. “How and where to move the dredged material have also caused major headaches,” he added.

Aside from sediment issues, Chiang feels that the country’s dams have performed as envisioned, and are well-suited to the job of drawing in water from rivers that are mostly short and descend quickly to the sea. “Taiwan’s watercourses have minimal water-retention ability,” he said. “So far, dams seem to be the most cost-effective way to capture and utilize surface water.”

But Lee dismissed Chiang’s position as “hogwash,” describing it as a tired argument that has been used to champion new dam projects over the past six decades.

In the postwar drive to boost Taiwan’s economy, more than 100 dams, reservoirs and weirs were built nationwide. Proponents argue that they have been instrumental in overcoming seasonal difference in rainfall and regulating water supply for the island. According to the WRA, a number of water management projects are still being considered for Taiwan, including those in Changhua, Kaohsiung, Hsinchu, Pingtung and Taichung.

“The question is not about greenlighting dams,” Lee said. “It is about developing a sustainable water resource policy and implementing far-sighted development strategy and governance.”

“The government needs to reconsider the direction of Taiwan’s development,” he said. “The current emphasis on steel, petrochemical and optoelectronics industries, which consume vast amounts of water, do not augur well for the island’s environment.”

Lee called on the government to up efforts aimed at cutting back on water loss through runoff and leakage, rolling out water recycling technology R&D and managing the use of underground water. “Taiwan’s water loss rate of 30 percent is unacceptably high and equates to losing one Zenwen-sized dam each year,” he said.

Another area that requires immediate attention is the country’s water consumption rate. “In Taipei, each citizen goes through 350 liters of water per day, compared to 150 liters for a Dutch citizen,” he said. “If this was brought down to 200 liters, the surplus could fill another Zenwen.”

“The bottom line is that Taiwan does not need dams like Hushan,” Lee said. “If enhanced water management practices are put into place, then existing catchment yields will rise creating a sustainable water future for all.”

This article first appeared in online Taiwan Today March 11, 2011.

Chiayi struggles to unlock prison history

By June Tsai

Japan’s colonization of Taiwan (1895-1945) brought with it the idea that prisons punish and rehabilitate, leaving a legacy of penal institutions and policies still influencing society today.

“Before the Japanese came, the most common penalties facing a convict were death or exile. The modern prison system is based on the practice of stripping a person of his bodily freedom, but focusing more on education than punishment,” according to Yang Meng-che, a comparative cultural studies specialist at National Taipei University of Education.

Japan copied the modern European penal system during the Meiji period in the 1880s, as part of the country’s modernization. “Prisons built on this new model were quickly reproduced in its colonies, Taiwan and South Korea, in the beginning of the 20th century,” Yang said.

Today Taiwan’s only surviving Japanese-era penitentiary is Chiayi Prison.

Built in 1922 and located in the center of Chiayi City, the now defunct institution is undergoing restoration. Under a Ministry of Justice plan, the structure will be transformed into a prison museum in the near future.

Everything about Chiayi Prison, from its spatial design and rehabilitation policies to the initiative to preserve it, speaks of Japanese influence.

Japan began constructing correctional facilities on the island in 1899, Yang said. The major prisons in Taipei, Taichung and Tainan were completed in 1904. In the following years, branches appeared in all parts of the island.

Chiayi Prison, completed in 1922, was affiliated with the Tainan complex. It continued to serve as a prison after World War II under Kuomintang rule.

Tracing the genealogy of Taiwan’s prisons, Yang pointed out similarities between the Chiayi facility and Japan’s most famous penitentiary, today’s Abashiri Prison Museum, on the east coast of Hokkaido.

The museum, on the Sea of Okhotsk, is a replication of the original penitentiary nearby, erected in 1890 to house inmates moved there to help build a road traversing Hokkaido and fortify the defenses of Japan’s northern territory.

Both prisons have a radial layout, with a central tower in the middle and cellblocks branching out from it. A guard standing watch in the tower commands a view down each corridor.

Abashiri Prison Museum Curator Hisayo Konno explained that the five-winged radial design was introduced after Meiji builders inspected the prison in Leuven, Belgium.

Another innovation was to surround the prison with farmlands. “During and after World War II, inmates were put to work at agricultural tasks, and Abashiri was so productive it even supplied food for prison populations throughout the country,” she said.

Japanese-built prisons in Taiwan were similarly designed to fulfill educational, correctional and production functions.

Factories and farms encircled the three cell wings of Chiayi Prison, Yang said. The design was intended to demonstrate the colonizers’ ability to institute civilized and constructive incarceration.

Yet there were differences, Yang noted. One was that prisons in Japan were required by law to be located at least four kilometers away from city centers. “But in Taiwan, for the convenience of the colonial rulers, new prisons were built within the precinct of official buildings and train stations.”

This choice of location, incidentally, led to latter-day conflicts between urban development and the preservation of local cultural heritage.

Most Japanese-era prisons have been demolished over the past 50 years, making way for public buildings, shopping malls and restaurants, while new prisons have been built outside of urban districts.

Chiayi Prison almost went down the same path. The MOJ put up a new facility in Lucao Township, Chiayi County, in 1994, and by 2000 the old prison had fallen into total disuse.

While some development-minded locals lobbied to demolish the penal complex and construct an international conference venue, some resident activists opposed the idea, calling on the government to turn it into a museum.

Yang helped invite experts from Abashiri Prison Museum and similar institutions in mainland China and South Korea to a conference in 2001 to discuss the preservation of Chiayi Prison. He also organized an art festival the next year showcasing inmate artwork.

The penitentiary was designated a national heritage site in 2005. Restoration work began in 2009 and is expected to be complete in September.

Chiu Ru-huei, a retired corrections officer with 30 years experience at Chiayi Prison and a participant in the local movement to preserve it, is optimistic about the historic, cultural and tourism value of a penal museum.

The four prison factories operated busily for many decades, making bamboo furniture and artifacts, as well as wool clothes and jeans for export, Chiu said. “They also supplied chairs, desks and notebooks for all elementary schools in Chiayi, and printed forms for the government,” she recounted.

“We hired the best local teachers to train inmates, hoping they would learn a skill to help them start a new life when they were released.”

Chiu said the Abashiri Prison Museum was made possible mainly because local people appreciated the inmates’ contribution to the development of the region.

“And Chiayi Prison is as storied as its Japanese counterpart,” Chiu said. “The prison structure and all the people associated with it are potential museum assets.”

Konno said the future Chiayi museum would be special in that it preserves the original location and apparatus of the prison, unlike the Abashiri museum.

“With the appropriate exhibition design and a well-researched narrative about the development of Taiwan’s prison system, it would be a successful museum,” she said.

The problem is that Taiwan realized the importance of preserving historic documents too late, said veteran Chiayi Prison official Lin Feng-tsai.

Though a thick book of documents from 1946 regarding Japan’s transferal of the prison to ROC government agents has survived, many more such papers from around the country have been lost or destroyed.

“In preparation for establishing the prison museum as the first of its kind in Taiwan, we have been making systematic efforts to collect and digitalize whatever materials are still available from Taiwan’s 43 prisons,” Lin said.

However, it is not yet clear who will run the prison museum once the restoration is complete, prison officials said.

Yang remarked that the Japanese prison museum has drawn millions of visits to Abashiri, a city of 42,000 people, since its establishment. “The keys are citizen awareness, government vision and museum professionalism,” he said.

The Chiayi Prison Museum could unlock the evolution of Taiwan’s penitentiary system, revealing its relationship with local industry and bringing the facts about life in the big house out from behind bars, Yang concluded.

This article first appears in online Taiwan Today March 4, 2011.