Cultural, Ethnic, and Political Nationalism in Contemporary Taiwan: Bentuhua

Cultural, Ethnic, and Political Nationalism in Contemporary Taiwan

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Cultural, Ethnic, and Political Nationalism in Contemporary Taiwan Bentuhua Edited by John Makeham and A-chin Hsiau

CULTURAL, ETHNIC , AND POLITICAL NATIONALISM IN CONTEMPORARY TAIWAN

© John Makeham and A-chin Hsiau, 2005. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. First published in 2005 by PALGRAVE MACMILLAN™ 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010 and Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire, England RG21 6XS Companies and representatives throughout the world. PALGRAVE MACMILLAN is the global academic imprint of the Palgrave Macmillan division of St. Martin’s Press, LLC and of Palgrave Macmillan Ltd. Macmillan® is a registered trademark in the United States, United Kingdom and other countries. Palgrave is a registered trademark in the European Union and other countries. ISBN 1–4039–7020–3 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Cultural, ethnic, and political nationalism in contemporary Taiwan : bentuhua / edited by John Makeham and A-chin Hsiau. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 1–4039–7020–3 1. Nationalism—Taiwan. 2. Ethnicity—Taiwan. 3. Democratization— Taiwan. 4. Taiwan—Politics and government. I. Makeham, John, 1955– II. Hsiau, A-chin. DS799.847.C85 2005 320.54⬘095124⬘9—dc22

2005040471

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. Design by Newgen Imaging Systems (P) Ltd., Chennai, India. First edition: August 2005 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Printed in the United States of America.

Contents

Introduction

1

I. Democratization and Nationalism 1. “Taiwanization” in Taiwan’s Politics J. Bruce Jacobs 2. Why Bother about School Textbooks?: An Analysis of the Origin of the Disputes over Renshi Taiwan Textbooks in 1997 Fu-chang Wang

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II. Identity in Literature 3. Being/Not Being at Home in the Writing of Zhu Tianxin Rosemary Haddon 4. The Indigenization of Taiwanese Literature: Historical Narrative, Strategic Essentialism, and State Violence A-chin Hsiau

103

125

III. Memory and the Built Environment 5. Reading History Through the Built Environment in Taiwan Jeremy E. Taylor

159

vi

Contents

IV. The “China-centered” Paradigm and Indigenization 6. Indigenization Discourse in Taiwanese Confucian Revivalism John Makeham

187

7. The Movement to Indigenize the Social Sciences in Taiwan: Origin and Predicaments Maukuei Chang

221

Epilogue: Bentuhua—An Endeavor for Normalizing a Would-Be Nation-State? A-chin Hsiau

261

Notes on Contributors

277

Index

279

Introduction John Makeham

The purpose of this volume is to make a timely contribution to analyzing what is arguably the single most important aspect of cultural and political change in Taiwan over the past quarter-century: the trend toward “indigenization” (bentuhua ). In Taiwan, indigenization has functioned as a type of nationalism that champions the legitimacy of a distinct Taiwanese identity, the character and content of which should be determined by the Taiwanese people. As such, it has contributed to the formation of, and, in turn, been enhanced by, such interrelated constructs as “Taiwan consciousness” (Taiwan yishi ), Taiwanese identity (Taiwan rentong ), Taiwanese subjectivity (Taiwan zhutixing ), cultural subjectivity (wenhua zhutixing ), national culture (minzu wenhua ), and Taiwan independence consciousness (Taidu yishi ). This is the first book-length study of the subject in any language and draws on the expertise of political scientists, literature specialists, cultural historians, intellectual historians, and sociologists. Focusing on the indigenization of politics and culture and its close connection with the identity politics of ethnicity and nationalism, this volume is an attempt to map prominent contours of the indigenization paradigm as it has unfolded in Taiwan’s academic and intellectual cultures. The opening chapters concern the origin and nature of the trend toward indigenization with its roots in the unique historical trajectory of politics and culture in Taiwan. Subsequent chapters deal with responses and reactions to indigenization in a variety of social, cultural, and intellectual domains.

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Democratization and Nationalism In the opening chapter, “ ‘Taiwanization’ in Taiwan’s Politics,” J. Bruce Jacobs provides a detailed account of changes in Taiwan’s political landscape over the past quarter-century, plotting the advances in democratization and an increasing bentuhua trend during the 1990s. He traces the impetus for these developments to the rise of the dangwai (literally, “outside the [Chinese Nationalist] Party”) in the late 1970s. Based on his analysis of articles published in the opposition movement’s magazine, Meilidao , Jacobs argues that the key political issue the dangwai movement sought to promote was democracy: “the issue of ‘Taiwanization’ or bentuhua received almost no attention at this time.” The first half of the chapter introduces and analyzes the significance of a range of political issues in the late 1970s and early 1980s. The second half of this chapter deals with political events in the process of democratization from the late 1980s until today, under the rule of presidents Li Denghui (Chinese Nationalist Party [Zhongguo guomin dang ; GMD]) and Chen Shuibian (Democratic Progressive Party [Minzhu jinbu dang ; DPP]). Jacobs concludes, “the key element of politics under presidents Li and Chen has been ‘democratization’ not Taiwan ‘nationalism’ ” and insists that it was the process of evolving democratization that provided the political climate which facilitated the expression of the bentuhua phenomenon of Taiwan consciousness rather than the other way around. Fu-chang Wang’s chapter, “Why Bother About School Textbooks?: An Analysis of the Origin of the Disputes over Renshi Taiwan Textbooks in 1997,” is also concerned with political upheavals in Taiwan such that today, “unlike twenty years ago, ‘Chineseness’ is no longer regarded as the core element in Taiwanese cultural identity.” Wang explores this development by framing one particular question against a broad background of ethnic and nationalistic politics: “In 1989 the Minister of Education decided to add a new course of Renshi Taiwan (Getting to Know Taiwan) in the seventh grade. The decision was accepted without any controversy. In June 1997, just after the Renshi Taiwan textbooks were finally finished and three months before their scheduled adoption by all seventh graders throughout the country, a series of disputes and conflicts broke out over them. The conflicts, in the news media and on the streets, lasted for two months and ended abruptly when the commissioners in charge decided to release the textbooks as scheduled after some minor revision

Introduction

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in the content. Why did the conflicts occur in 1997 and not in 1989, when the agenda of curriculum reform was passed?” Wang proposes that the differing responses to the textbook issue in 1989 and 1997 can be attributed to the changing political environment in Taiwan over the decade that led to the increasing displacement of what he terms a “China-centered” paradigm by a “Taiwancentered” or bentuhua paradigm.1 The first of the chapter’s three parts describes political and historical developments that led to the development of the China-centered paradigm. The second part focuses on the social and political contexts that gave rise to bentuhua and advances an explanation for the paradigm change in terms of the development of ethnic and nationalistic politics in the postwar era in Taiwan. In the third part of this chapter, Wang discusses the consequences of the clash between the bentuhua paradigm and the China-centered paradigm, evaluating the effects “not only in the realm of school textbooks, but also in Taiwan’s general historical and cultural visions.” While Jacobs argues that “the key element of politics under presidents Li and Chen has been ‘democratization,’ not Taiwan ‘nationalism,’ ” Wang maintains that democratic changes during this period—such as the popular election of all national congressional members (1991, 1992), the mayors of Taipei and Kaohsiung (1994), the provincial governor of Taiwan (1994), and the president of the Republic of China (1996)—were driven by nationalistic concerns and ultimately by ethnic nationalism.

Identity in Literature Rosemary Haddon’s essay, “Being/not Being at Home in the Writing of Zhu Tianxin” (chapter 3), explores the dissonance between the sentiments expressed in the novella, Gudu (Ancient Capital; 1997), and the exclusionary practices of bentuhua in which Taiwan’s differences from China are emphasized. Haddon traces the ascendancy of the bentuhua political movement to the 1980s, one consequence of which was that by the early 1990s, many “mainlanders” (waishengren )2 felt a growing sense of political and social alienation. Consistent with what Fu-chang Wang has termed a shift from a “China-centered paradigm” to a “Taiwan-centered paradigm,” Haddon similarly identifies a crisis within the émigré community that “forced a paradigmatic shift from the view of China as the ‘old home’ to a perception of it as the ‘old country’ (yuanxiang), that is, the place from which one comes and to which it was no longer possible to return.” Haddon’s focus is on the human face of this paradigm shift.

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Her analysis explores a number of key themes in Zhu Tianxin’s (b. 1958) writings, such as alienation, existence as an exile, nostalgia, longing, displacement, rootlessness, and memory. It is memory, however, that emerges as central: “Memory is a determining factor in the recording of the past; that is, the question of whose memory counts determines the view that is ascendant in the official writing of history. Indigenization privileges the Hoklo ( ) experience in the interpretation of events and casts into oblivion the other whose experience is deemed suspect in the political scheme of things.” In chapter 4, “The Indigenization of Taiwanese Literature: Historical Narrative, Strategic Essentialism, and State Violence,” A-chin Hsiau (Xiao Aqin) identifies Taiwanese literature and history as two key fields in which indigenization has functioned as a paradigm directing and informing national identity discourse since the 1980s. Concentrating his analysis on the field of literature, the focus of this chapter concerns what he terms the “literary indigenization paradigm,” the heated debates it has provoked, and its connections with the identity politics of ethnicity and nationalism. Hsiau defines the essence of the literary indigenization paradigm as a “historical narrative, or ‘emplotted’ discourse, that places events in a sequential order with a clear beginning, middle, and end.” He traces how this narrativized indigenization paradigm came to dominate the field of literature, by examining the viewpoints adopted by Ye Shitao and Chen Yingzhen, its leading proponent and critic, respectively. Their two competing historical frameworks have dominated literary debates in Taiwan from the 1970s until today. Hsiau maintains that the formation of an indigenization paradigm structured on a Taiwanese nationalist historical narrative represents a process of “re-decolonization” or “de-Sinicization.” The Taiwanese identity constructed in the literary indigenization paradigm—whereby the collective true self of the Taiwanese, as authenticated by history, comes to be identified—bears the hallmark of postcolonial essentialism. Hsiau’s objection is that even if the essentialist claim of Taiwanese identity is made strategically—an assumption that he shows to be conceptually untenable—in practice it turns out to be a form of de facto essentialism that, in turn, provokes other forms of essentialist backlash.3 He also discusses the notion of the “four great ethnic groups” (sida zuqun ) to illustrate the sort of ethnic tensions that are created in the process of essentializing identities. “To downplay dominance by Taiwanese of Hoklo origin in the DPP, and enlist the support of other ethnic groups, the party leaders created the concept

Introduction

5

of ‘four great ethnic groups’ as an alternative to the prevailing dichotomy of ‘Taiwanese’ and ‘mainlanders.’ Over the last decade, this conception has been widely accepted in society to the degree that it has become a dominant frame of reference of dealing with ethnic and nationalist issues.” Although the multiethnic/cultural rhetoric may have been formulated as a means to ease ethnic tensions, “a major effect of the collective mobilization of essentialized identities is that such a process as the ‘ethnicization’ of politics—as in the case of Taiwan—can rarely be reversed.” As Arif Dirlik has noted: “In these times of reemergent cultural particularity, when an uncritical universalism has been replaced by an equally uncritical multiculturalism, we may also share an obligation to take a historically informed critical stance towards claims to cultural spaces that are increasingly hard put to it to define the boundaries of the spaces they would claim.”4 It is precisely this sort of historically informed critical stance that Hsiau has brought to bear in his analysis of the Ye’s and Chen’s respective approaches to the literary indigenization paradigm. The difficulty of halting the ethnicization of politics in Taiwan is highlighted by the growing political voices of Taiwan’s aboriginal peoples (or nations) and the Hakka. As anthropologist P. Steven Sangren points out, “disputes over identity issues are not limited to the longstanding tensions between Taiwanese and ‘Mainlanders,’ or between the PRC (People’s Republic of China) and Taiwan. Most obviously, the identity status of Taiwan’s aboriginal peoples (of Austronesian heritage) further complicates any straightforward definition of what constitutes ‘Taiwaneseness’;5 more demographically significant are distinctions between the Taiwanese who trace their ancestry to Hakka areas of China’s Southeast Coast macroregion, and to Zhangzhou and Quanzhou prefectures.”6 Indeed, the rise of “Hakka consciousness” in recent years is particularly noteworthy, both on the political stage and in society at large, a fact underscored by the central government’s establishment of the Council for Hakka Affairs—a Cabinet level agency—in June, 2001. The former chairwoman of the Council, Ye Julan , was appointed as Taiwan’s first female vice premier soon after the presidential election results were finalized early in 2004. Recent visitors to Taipei would have noticed that prerecorded announcements on Taipei’s Mass Rapid Transit (MRT) system informing passengers of the name of the next station are now given in English, Madarin, Hoklo, and Hakka. In February 2004, TV viewers were treated to a slick advertisement designed to sell Chen Shuibian’s bid for reelection in the March elections. The advertisement presents

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Chen together with a “teacher” attempting (in a less than scintillating performance) to learn a few Hakka phrases. (Although obviously designed to attract Hakka votes, the more cynical may have suspected that it was more likely to achieve the opposite outcome.) A 24-hour Hakka-language cable TV channel was also launched in 2003.7

Memory and the Built Environment Jeremy Taylor’s essay, “Reading History through the Built Environment in Taiwan” (chapter 5), examines changes in what has been classified as “historic” and “ahistoric” in Taiwan’s built environment over the last two decades and how this reflects changes in the interpretation of the past. The chapter begins by examining the terminology used for preservation and restoration activities in Taiwan and how changes in the choice of terminology reflect changing notions of the historic built environment. Taylor identifies a direct link between changing conceptions of the built environment and the nascent field of “Taiwan history” (Taiwanshi )8 that grew rapidly during the 1990s. “Like much else that evolved out of nativist Taiwanese nationalism, Taiwanshi has set itself against earlier interpretations of the past aligned to Republican Chinese thought. . . . This field was in many ways a conscious effort to create a history opposed to the earlier tradition of ‘Guoshi’ or ‘National [i.e., Chinese] history,’ ” a phenomenon that again replicates a form of the China-centered/Taiwan-centered paradigms described in other chapters in this volume. A salient characteristic of Taiwanshi is its reassessment of the period of Japanese colonial rule. As Leo T. S. Ching has cogently argued, “the Japanese colonial period remains a powerful subtext in which the questions of ‘Taiwanese consciousness’ and ‘Chinese consciousness’ are imbedded and contested” because “Japanese colonialism was instrumental in delineating and delimiting the relationship between mainland China and colonial Taiwan.”9 Indeed, it is important to recognize that the very notion of Taiwanese consciousness presupposes an identity through a history in which Japanese domination was very much a reality. Whereas earlier generations of historians who studied or taught Guoshi presented this period as one of national shame, scholars working within the new field of Taiwanshi drew attention to the contributions the Japanese had made to Taiwan’s modernization and socioeconomic infrastructure while often ignoring the suppression, violence, and exploitation of 50 years of colonial rule

Introduction

7

under the Japanese. As Taylor points out, “Japanese colonialism has come to be the focus of this field precisely because it is believed to represent an experience that differentiates Taiwan from China.” Taylor refers to this positive assessment of the period of Japanese colonization as “pro-colonial history,” arguing that it is in the field of historic preservation and conservation that the “pro-colonial” trend has become most manifest, as evidenced by the protection of historic buildings and religious sites associated with the colonial period. Indeed, “virtually any aspect of the built environment that can be traced to the era of Japanese administration is now viewed as being of the highest historical importance,” something that would have been inconceivable prior to the 1990s. These observations prompt one to ask if the phenomenon of “procolonialism” in Taiwanshi is simply a case of wistful nostalgia for the period of Japanese colonial rule or is it better understood as an attack directed at colonization under the GMD? If it is simply wistful nostalgia, to what ideological ends, if any, is this nostalgia harnessed? If it is, however, really an attack directed at the GMD’s colonial occupation of Taiwan, how does this form of attack gain rhetorical purchase? One explanation worth considering is that this form of attack gains rhetorical purchase by implicitly challenging the counter-discourse associated with the GMD in which the period of Japanese colonization was excoriated as one of emasculation and national shame. In other words, the “pro-(Japanese) colonial” guise is really a stalking horse deployed in the service of an “anti-(GMD) colonial” agenda. To the extent that the period of Japanese colonization can be shown to have contributed in fundamental ways to Taiwan’s modernization, then this serves to challenge the GMD’s one-sided portrayal of Taiwan’s history under Japanese colonial rule and also to contrast Taiwan’s advanced level of development relative to that of the mainland during the 1930s and 1940s.10 It is also true that many older Taiwanese—former Japanese subjects—remain nostalgic about the period of Japanese rule in Taiwan, a nostalgia encouraged by the “softening” effects of the passage of 60 years and by a loathing of the GMD’s regime of “white terror” perpetrated during the 1950s and 1960s. Leo T. S. Ching maintains that in Taiwan the effect of “the abrupt dissolution of the Japanese Empire by an external mandate instead of through prolonged struggle and negotiation with its colonies” created a void after “liberation” that “was filled not by the Taiwanese but by the takeover army from mainland China.11 The graft and corruption of the mainlanders fostered in

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the Taiwanese a deep resentment against the Chinese and they consequently reconstituted and reimagined their colonial relationship with Japan.”12 If we accept this analysis, then two factors might be identified as having sustained and nurtured this nostalgia over the following decades: the psychological consequences of being denied “closure” because there had been no genuine process of decolonization; and an enhanced “ethnic division” between those who were recolonized and their new colonizers, the GMD and its armed forces from the mainland. It is this second factor that provides the more compelling explanation, especially as it came to form a keystone in the ideological platform of the Taiwan independence and dangwai movements from the late 1970s onward. It should, however, be borne in mind that people in Taiwan hold various attitudes toward the Japanese legacy.13 For example, there is strong pride in the history of resistance to Japanese colonial occupation and repression (many academics and writers regarding this resistance as instrumental to the formation of Taiwan consciousness from the 1920s onward). There is also ongoing pain and anguish caused by aspects of the legacy of Japanese colonialism.14 Generations brought up in the postwar period display still other attitudes. Koichi Iwabuchi cites the example of Wu Nianzhen, director of the film Dosan: A Borrowed Life (1994), a key theme of which is an exploration of nostalgia for the Japanese colonial period. He describes how Wu “was taught negatively about the Japanese occupation as a student . . . [and] hated his father’s longing for that period—alonging which was betrayed by the unresponsiveness Japan displayed to Taiwan after the War.”15 The young consumers of Japanese popular culture who emerged in the 1990s respond differently again. According to Wu, “the younger generations have no special affection for Japanese culture, as there is no difference between Japan, America, and Europe for them. Japan is just one option among many.”16 Jeremy Taylor also notes that “the rediscovery of a Japanese architectural heritage and the ‘pro-colonial’ readings of history . . . are connected in particular with a contemporary Taiwanese fascination with Japanese exotica—a trend which, in its more popular form, has come to be termed ‘ha Ri’ , or ‘Japanophilia.’ ” Iwabuchi describes this attitude as a manifestation of a broader phenomenon: “the shift in the Asian reception of Japanese popular culture, from an enthusiastic embrace to a more detached, superficial consumption . . . reminiscent of a general feature of the postmodern consumption of global culture.”17

Introduction

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The “China-centered” Paradigm and Indigenization The final two chapters in the volume explore two expressions of indigenization based on a China-centered collective memory: Confucian revivalism and the indigenization or sinicization of the social sciences. Up until the early 1990s, in contrast to mainland China, Taiwan was often portrayed (and widely perceived) to be a bastion for many traditional Chinese cultural practices and values, including those identified as “Confucian.” In chapter 6, “Indigenization Discourse in Taiwanese Confucian Revivalism,” John Makeham asks, “How have modern day supporters and interpreters of Confucianism positioned themselves in the cultural politics of indigenization discourse?” Although modern-day proponents of Confucian values share the belief that culture, rather than polity or ethnicity, is the principal source of group identity consciousness, leading representatives of Confucian philosophy in the Taiwanese academic community have largely avoided involvement in the identity politics of indigenization. The subject of Makeham’s essay is one influential group of Confucian revivalists that has actively sought to argue that Confucianism is inextricably linked to issues of Taiwanese identity. Maintaining that “Taiwanese culture” is a part of “Chinese culture” and that Confucian values and cultural norms are integral to Taiwanese identity, the representatives of this group—literary historian Chen Zhaoying , historian Huang Junjie , and philosopher Lin Anwu — have sought to reconcile Taiwanese cultural identity with Confucian identity. The fact that Chen, Huang, and Lin are all native Taiwanese underscores the danger of mechanically associating or eliding a person’s cultural identity with their ethnic background.18 It also warns us not to treat the phenomenon of indigenization as purely and simply an issue of ethnic nationalism.19 These Taiwanese Confucian revivalists have adopted a seemingly ambivalent attitude toward indigenization discourse, being at once critical of those who would portray Confucianism as a vehicle of colonial cultural assimilation—and hence anathema to the integrity of Taiwanese cultural identity—while also claiming for Confucianism a foundational and inalienable role in indigenization discourse. Having analyzed how successful the Taiwanese Confucian revivalists have been in developing strategies to reconcile this perceived ambivalence, Makeham concludes that they have failed to mount a convincing case to support their conviction that Confucianism has a foundational and

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inalienable role to play in the identity debates of indigenization discourse: “Only by assuming a Confucian culturalism—in which Confucian identity is posited as an essential feature of Taiwanese cultural identity—can the connection between Confucian identity and Taiwanese cultural identity be sustained.” The Confucian revivalists’ vision of promoting a body of philosophical teachings, intellectual and moral values, and cultural practices—“Confucianism”—is one that more “mainstream” Taiwanese cultural nationalists find alien to Taiwanese cultural identity. The fundamental point of difference, according to Makeham, is that the Confucian revivalists “find it unproblematic to assume that because the essence of Chinese cultural identity is ‘Confucian’ and that because Chinese culture has always been the principal content of Taiwan’s native culture, therefore Confucian values and cultural norms are an integral component of Taiwanese identity.” Thus, ironically, “precisely because the Confucian revivalists hold such strong views on the primacy of Chinese culture they have been unable to escape the unwanted but inevitable lingering associations with former GMD policies.” Maukuei Chang’s chapter, “The Movement to Indigenize the Social Sciences in Taiwan: Origin and Predicaments,” is also concerned with a conception of indigenization that takes Chineseness as central to Taiwanese identity. Chang presents an historical overview and analysis of the movement to “Sinicize” or “indigenize” the social sciences (social psychology, anthropology, and sociology) in Taiwan over the last two decades, with a particular focus on sociology. Following the lead of the social scientists he has studied, Chang translates the term Zhongguohua variously as Sinicization and indigenization. This marks an important difference from the way these terms are employed in other essays in this volume, where the terms refer to antithetical ideological platforms. Chang demonstrates that, over the last two decades, when applied to the social sciences, the term Zhongguohua was a contested term open to different emphases and interpretations. By and large, however, it represented the claim that the social sciences (or particular social science disciplines) should be grounded in local/ regional culture, experience, and perspectives, where the “local/ regional” variously refers to a somewhat vague notion of “China” or Chinese society (including Taiwan), or to particular “Huaren ” (Sinitic) societies, or to Taiwan. It is this emphasis on the crucial role of the local/regional (in the above senses), as contrasted with the “West,” that underlies treating the term “indigenization” as effectively

Introduction

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synonymous with “Sinicization.” Chang concludes: “the Sinicization/ indigenization movement in the social sciences in Taiwan is NOT unique, when compared to other non-western countries, and, moreover . . . it has many problems which parallel the development of the social sciences in western Europe and the United States. . . . Historically, sociology, like other social science disciplines, has been an ‘indigenous’ enterprise almost from its beginning.”

A Note on the Term Bentuhua Contributors to this volume disagreed on how to translate the term bentuhua into English. During the workshop held in preparing for this volume and in ensuing discussions, various translations were suggested, including “localization” (and its related term “localism”), “nativization,” “indigenization,” and “Taiwanization” (Taiwanhua ). Jacobs discusses these translations in chapter 1 and argues that localism may refer to a narrow concern for one’s local community rather than the national one. In the context of discussing national identity in Taiwan, such a connotation would be misleading. As he points out, this term is also misleading because it “fits too closely with the Chinese view of Taiwan as a ‘local’ government.” The drawback with indigenization is that it could be used to refer to the identity politics of Aboriginal Taiwanese instead of the issue this book focuses on. Rejecting nativization as somewhat vague, Jacobs argues that Taiwanization is the most appropriate translation, faithful in spirit because it “translates the meaning rather than the literal text of the word bentuhua.” Since the 1970s, politically indigenization has principally referred to the process whereby benshengren demand and secure full civil citizenship, achieve equal political citizenship and political power, and are able to pursue the goal of a distinct nationstate status for Taiwan. Culturally it refers to the general idea that the uniqueness of Taiwanese society/culture/history must be appreciated and interpreted from the viewpoint of the Taiwanese people per se. In this sense, Jacobs’ translation of bentuhua as Taiwanization is apt.20 In Taiwan today, however, the term “bentuhua”—the closest literal translation equivalents of which are indigenization and nativization— is much more popular than “Taiwanhua.” As editors, we have allowed individual contributors to adopt whichever translation they feel is appropriate and to adopt alternative translations according to the context.

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Notes The editors express their gratitude to the Chiang Ching-kuo Foundation for International Scholarly Exchange for generously supporting the workshop held in preparation for this volume. 1. In 1994, President Li Denghui stated in an interview with a Japanese journalist: “I want our country’s primary education to add more courses on the history of Taiwan, the geography of Taiwan, our roots, and so on. In the past, matters about Taiwan were not taught; what was taught was usually about the mainland. So absurd the education was!” See Timonthy Ka-ying Wong, “From Ethnic to Civic Nationalism: The Formation and Changing Nature of Taiwanese Identity,” Asian Perspective, 25.3 (2001): 194. 2. The term refers to Chinese people who emigrated to Taiwan from 1945 onward (particularly between 1945 and 1949), as well as their offspring, and even the third generation offspring of mixed Taiwanese and mainlander partnerships. In Taiwan, the term mainlander is used in distinction to “local Taiwanese” (benshengren ). On the creation of waishengren as a new ethnic category and the contradictions involved in the gradual “Taiwanization” of this identity, see Stéphane Corcuff, “Taiwan’s ‘Mainlanders,’ New Taiwanese?” in Stéphane Corcuff (ed.), Memories of the Future: National Identity Issues and the Search for a New Taiwan, Armonk and London: M.E. Sharpe, 2002, 163–195. 3. In chapter 7 in this volume, Maukuei Chang similarly concludes: “Indigenization strives to achieve not only self-recognition, but also other-recognition. The essentializing tendency in the construction of the opposing groups of ‘peoples,’ however, can lead to nationalistic and ethnocentric pitfalls that are harmful to knowledge production even though essentialism may assist indigenous scholars to promote themselves in the short-term.” Cf. the related analysis by Allen Chun, “Democracy as Hegemony, Globalization as Indigenization, or the ‘Culture’ in Taiwanese National Politics,” Journal of Asian and African Studies, 35.1 (2000): 19— The call for Taiwanese ethnic consciousness as a basis of national solidarity, eventually leading to independence, is a dangerous solution to the process of democratization which runs the risk of creating its own factionalism, each dependent upon the fermenting of ‘primordial sentiments’ for its survival. While invoking Taiwanese ethnic consciousness is, in one respect, an admirable effort to call attention to the repression of the populace and the need to demystify a past generation of ‘collective misrepresentation’ . . . in order to reclaim lost, dormant or suppressed histories and cultural traditions, this passion to ‘rectify’ historical truth also creates an unending pattern of internal colonialism. 4. See his review of Gloria Davies (ed.), Voicing Concerns: Contemporary Chinese Critical Inquiry (2001), in Asian Studies Review, 26.4 (2002). 5. For a recent study of the complexities involved in distinguishing between Taiwanese and plains Aboriginal identities, see Melissa J. Brown, Is Taiwan

Introduction

6.

7.

8.

9.

10.

11.

13

Chinese? Berkeley: University of California Press, 2004. See also Michael Stainton, “The Politics of Taiwan Aboriginal Origins,” in Murray A. Rubinstein (ed.), Taiwan: A New History, Armonk: M.E. Sharpe, 1999, 27–44. On political sensitivities surrounding the term yuanzhu minzu (aboriginal nations), see Michael Stainton, “Aboriginal SelfGovernment: Taiwan’s Uncompleted Agenda,” in Rubinstein, Taiwan, 430. As Prasenjit Duara notes, “individuals and groups in both modern and agrarian societies identify simultaneously with several communities, all of which are ‘imagined’; these identities are historically changeable and often conflicted internally with each other.” See Duara, Rescuing History from the Nation: Questioning Modern Narratives of Modern China, Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1995, 54. Sangren also points out: “In Taiwan, to identify oneself as a Zhangzhou ren or as a Quanzhou ren . . . conveys both the sense that one’s ancestors hail from Zhangzhou or Quanzhou and that one belongs to the category of those Taiwanese who trace their ancestry to those locales. . . . Terms like Zhangzhou ren and Quanzhou ren have taken on rather odd, almost totemic qualities in Taiwan. No longer directly territorial designations of local cultural identity, they now also convey the sense of different types of people.” P. Steven Sangren, “Anthropology and Identity Politics in Taiwan: The Relevance of the Local Region,” in Paul R. Katz and Murray A. Rubinstein (eds.), Religion and the Formation of Taiwanese Identities, New York: Palgrave MacMillan, 2003, 256, 260. On the resurgence of interest in, and support for, Hakka culture and language, see Oscar Chung, “Hakka Culture—Visible Again,” Taiwan Review, 53.8 (August 2003): 20–25. For a recent introduction to the background and development of Taiwanshi, see Q. Edward Wang, “Taiwan’s Search for National History: A Trend in Historiography,” East Asian History, 24 (2002): 93–116. Leo T. S Ching, Becoming Japanese: Colonial Taiwan and the Politics of Identity Formation, Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2001, 8, 7. On Taiwan’s economic development under Japanese rule, see Harry J. Lamley, “Taiwan Under Japanese Rule, 1895–1945: The Vicissitudes of Colonialism,” in Katz and Rubinstein, Religion and the Formation of Taiwanese Identities, 201–48. The sense of a “void” would have been compounded by the GMD’s efforts to erase the Japanese legacy. As Fu-chang Wang explains in his chapter to this volume, “they virtually ignored the positive aspects of Japanese contributions to Taiwan made during the colonial period, while emphasizing Taiwan’s Chinese ‘roots’ prior to Japanese ‘occupation,’ Taiwan’s connections with China during the Japanese era, and Taiwanese suffering under Japanese rule. In other words, Japan was almost completely erased from Taiwan’s history, except that it was a foreign power that discriminated against Taiwanese during its administration.” Robert Edmondson has noted the “radically alienating effects” that the process of “reintegration” had on the Taiwanese people during the late 1940s. “Incorporation into a new Chinese nation . . . involved

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14.

15.

16. 17. 18.

19. 20.

John Makeham the imposition of a very new kind of Chineseness, one that rejected and sublimated all other identities in order to create subjects whose primary sense of self was tied to the nation.” Before these developments, “Chineseness on Taiwan was one of several nonexclusive modes of identification.” See his “The February 28 Incident and National Identity,” in Corcuff (ed.), Memories of the Future, 27. Ching, Becoming Japanese, 20. This is vividly illustrated even in such mundane items as phonecards. See the reproduction of two Taiwanese phonecards from the mid-nineties, one of which celebrates a nostalgic scene of “modern elements of the Japanese occupation period” while the other features the exploits of one Liao Tianding , “a Robin Hood figure who supposedly bedeviled Japanese police with his thievery and bravado.” See Andrew D. Morris, “Taiwan’s History,” in David K. Jordan, Andrew D. Morris, and Marc L. Moskowitz (eds.), The Minor Arts of Daily Life: Popular Culture in Taiwan, Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 2004, 28. Ching, Becoming Japanese, 1–4, relates the poignant example of one group of Taiwanese aboriginal people who traveled to the Yasakuni Shrine in 1979 to demand the return of the spirits of the hundreds of aboriginal soldiers killed as conscripts in the Japanese army during World War II. Koichi Iwabuchi, Recentering Globalization: Popular Culture and Japanese Transnationalism, Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2002, 125. It should be noted, however, that the matter of Japan’s “unresponsiveness” is more complex than Iwabuchi implies. See Ching, Becoming Japanese, chapter 2. Iwabuchi, Recentering Globalization, 126–127. Ibid., 127. In the “bio-data” presented on the inside covers of her two most important books (Taiwan wenxue yu bentuhua yundong [Taiwanese Literature and the Indigenization Movement], Taipei: Zhengzhong shuju, 1998; Taiwan Ruxue: Qiyuan, fazhan yu zhuanhua , [Taiwanese Confucianism: Origins, Development, and Turningpoint], Taipei: Zhengzhong shuju, 2000), Chen even takes the trouble to point out that her mother was a native of Tainan and her father a native of Kaohsiung. See also the example of Long Yingtai , as cited by Fu-chang Wang in chapter 2 in this volume. Other scholars, however, use the term “Taiwanization” to refer to the adaptation of foreign cultural commodities to the Taiwan context. See the example of TV call-in shows discussed in Alice R. Chu, “Taiwan’s Mass-Mediated Crisis Discourse: Pop Politics in an Era of Political TV Call-in Shows,” in Jordan et al., The Minor Arts of Daily Life, 90–108. Popular cultural phenomena such as this need to be distinguished from bentuhua, understood primarily as a self-conscious nationalism that champions the legitimacy of a distinct Taiwanese identity, the character and content of which should be determined by the Taiwanese people.

I

Democratization and Nationalism

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1 “Taiwanization” in Taiwan’s Politics J. Bruce Jacobs “What actually is the goal of Taiwan’s democratization? Speaking simply, it is the ‘Taiwanization of Taiwan’ (Taiwan de bentuhua ).” —Former president Li Denghui1

Historically, the concept of “Taiwan” has played a variety of roles in the politics of the island. During the Qing dynasty (1683–1895 in Taiwan), the Han-settled areas of Taiwan were local areas within the larger Qing empire, while the aboriginal areas were quite literally “off the map.” During the Japanese period (1895–1945) several approaches to the identity of Taiwan competed including assimilation as Japanese, local autonomy as Taiwanese in the Japanese empire, and Taiwanese as Chinese. Most sources agree that the Taiwanese people welcomed the reunion with China in late 1945 after World War II. Even Peng Mingmin , a prominent leader of the Taiwan independence movement, noted in his 1972 memoirs, “One day I fell into conversation with two Americans in a jeep beside the road [in early occupied Japan], and in passing, explained to them that I was not a Japanese, but a Chinese from Formosa. It was something of a shock to find myself for the first time openly and proudly making this distinction.”2 Unfortunately, despite warnings, the Chinese Nationalist Party government of Jiang Jieshi (Chiang Kai-shek) had not prepared well for the Japanese surrender. The corrupt government “occupied” the “Treasure Island” rather than welcomed it back into the “bosom

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of the motherland.”3 This led to the February 28 (1947) Incident (er er ba shijian, ), the renewed Taiwanese attempts to talk to the government and gain some democracy, and the government repression, that destroyed much of the Taiwanese leadership and became the “White Terror.”4 It was only after February 28, 1947, that the concept of “Taiwan independence” (Taiwan duli , abbreviated as Taidu ) became an important force. One group of activists went to Hong Kong where its members founded the Taiwan Democratic Self-Government League (Taiwan minzhu zizhi tongmeng ) in November 1947. They later became involved in the founding of the People’s Republic as one of the minor parties, a status they have to this day. Of course, very early they accepted China’s “One China” policy and the “leadership” of the Chinese Communist Party.5 Another group went overseas, first primarily to Japan and later also to the United States. Only in the 1990s, after Li Denghui (Lee Teng-hui) became president, did this latter group begin to return to Taiwan and to participate in Taiwan politics.

Definition of Bentu The concept of bentu is, of course, the central concept unifying this book. In the Chinese language, the concept tightly weaves the book’s chapters, but in the workshop that led to this volume participants had some disagreement as to how to translate bentu into English. Bentu literally means “this earth.” Thus, the term can be used to designate “local products” (bentu chanpin ). According to various dictionaries, by extension the term has come to mean “one’s native land” or the “metropolitan land” of a country with colonies. In the workshop, participants suggested such translations for bentuhua as “nativization,” “localization,” and “indigenization.” At the time, I supported using localization, but I now realize that this term fits too closely with the Chinese view of Taiwan as a “local” government. Thus, localization is grossly misleading as a translation. Indigenization also fails because it appears to refer to Taiwan’s “indigenous” or “aboriginal” population rather than to Taiwan’s population as a whole. Nativization is too vague. I now believe the correct translation for bentuhua is “Taiwanization.” Bentuhua is a focus on Taiwan as opposed to China (or the world). The hua indicates an ongoing process. Basically bentuhua is a variation of bentu. Taiwanization of course translates the meaning rather

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than the literal text of the word bentuhua. Yet, the “this earth” of bentu is precisely “Taiwan” in the context of the island. In English, Taiwanization is clear and it avoids the problems facing the other English terms. We can gain a sense of the current use of bentu from a passage in President Chen Shuibian’s inauguration speech of May 20, 2000. We must open our hearts with tolerance and respect, so that our diverse ethnic groups and different regional cultures may communicate with each other, and so that Taiwan’s local cultures (Taiwan de bentu wenhu ) may connect with the cultures of Chinese-speaking communities and other world cultures, and create a new milieu of a “cultural Taiwan in a modern century.”6

Translated more precisely, the second part of the passage reads: “to enable Taiwan’s own cultures to interact naturally with Chinese cultures and world cultures in order to create a new structure of a ‘cultured Taiwan in a century of reform.’ ” Bentu culture in this sense clearly means Taiwan’s cultures as opposed to Chinese cultures (Huaren wenhua ) and world cultures (shijie wenhua ).

The Political Climate under the Two President Jiangs Toward the end of the Chinese civil war (1946–1949), the United States made several overtures to the Chinese Communists. Chairman Mao Zedong, however, had decided to “lean to one side” (yi bian dao ), that is to the Soviet Union.7 China did not respond to the American overtures and, with the North Korean invasion of South Korea in June 1950, President Truman intervened to “neutralize” the Taiwan Strait and prevent any military invasion from either side. With the entry of Chinese “volunteers” into the Korean War at the end of 1950, the enmity between the United States and the People’s Republic of China (PRC) intensified. After the Korean War, the Republic of China on Taiwan under Jiang Jieshi, with the support of the United States, successfully represented the whole of China at the United Nations and in much of the world until 1971. In its own terms, the Nationalist government considered that it represented the whole of China. Although Taiwan formed the physical base for the government, the island had been a Japanese colony during China’s war of resistance against the Japanese

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invasion. Hence, the Nationalists believed that Taiwan was tainted by Japanese colonialism. In contrast, for many Taiwanese, the Nationalists maintained a “colonial regime” over the island.8 Native Taiwanese found themselves excluded from central politics and only participated in local politics in a restricted manner.9 With Henry Kissinger’s visits to Beijing in July and October 1971, Taiwan’s status as the major world representative of China crumbled. Facing defeat, Taiwan withdrew from the United Nations and then broke off relations with more and more countries as they recognized Beijing. Taiwan’s “One China policy,” together with China’s “One China policy,” led to increasing diplomatic isolation for the island. The ageing of Taiwan’s original Chinese Nationalist Party (Zhongguo guomin dang ) leadership led to the de facto succession of Jiang Jieshi by his son, Jiang Jingguo (Chiang Ching-kuo) in 1972. As the new premier, Jiang Jingguo moved toward political reform including increasing the numbers of native Taiwanese as well as appointing younger and better educated people to provincial government posts, cutting back on corruption, and increasing the number of legislative seats elected from Taiwan. Yet, the basic one-party structure of the Nationalist state—supported by the hard, if velvet-covered, fist of the security forces—remained to remind people not to wander too far in speech or print in exploring political liberalization. Democratization was still a distant dream. In the late 1970s, in the context of increasing pressure both internally for further reform and externally from increasing isolation, further steps toward democratization took place. Many members of the opposition began working together much more positively in a movement known as the dangwai , literally, “those outside the Party.” At the same time, the Nationalist Party began strengthening both its organization and its role in local politics. This led to unprecedented defeats around the island as local politicians expressed anger at their local Nationalist Party offices.10 At the time, the county executives (and mayoral equivalents) were the highest elected executive office and the provincial assembly was the highest elected legislative office. (The provincial governor was not elected until 1994 and the central legislature was not completely elected from Taiwan until 1992.) The November 19, 1977 election for county executive and provincial assembly became an important victory for the dangwai as nonpartisans won 4 of the 20 County Executive posts—defeating Nationalist Party nominees in each case— and 21 of the 27 seats in the Provincial Assembly including the defeat

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of 14 of the 69 Nationalist Party nominees. This election led to the famous Chungli Incident (Zhongli shijian ) when voters, fearing the Nationalist Party would steal the election from Xu Xinliang , the nonpartisan candidate for Taoyuan County Executive, burned down a police station.11 With its new strength in the Provincial Assembly, the dangwai began to play an ever-increasing role in Taiwan’s politics. Yet, the lack of access to Taiwan’s mainstream mass media made it difficult for the dangwai to reach Taiwan’s population as a whole. Thus, the dangwai conducted a series of demonstrations throughout the island aimed at gaining support in the central-level election planned for December 23, 1978. The announcement of the establishment of diplomatic relations between Beijing and Washington on December 16, 1978, led to the postponement of this election. In 1979, the dangwai organized further and held many rallies in order to stay in the public eye for the forthcoming, postponed legislative election. One notable event was a celebration of Xu Xinliang’s birthday in Chungli on May 26, 1979, the largest non-electoral public rally ever held in Taiwan up to that time.12 Other important rallies held in 1979 include the Taichung Incident (Taizhong shijian ) of July 28, 1979,13 and the Zhongtai Hotel Incident (Zhongtai binguan shijian ) of September 8, 1979.14 In the meantime, the dangwai had organized as a “political party which does not call itself a ‘political party’, ” to use the words of Shi Mingde , who was released from prison in June 1977, after 15 years in jail.15 This organization was the Meilidao (Formosa) Magazine, which established Service Stations in most of Taiwan’s counties and municipalities. It was the Meilidao magazine that sponsored many of the dangwai rallies including the December 10, 1979 Human Rights Rally in Kaohsiung and which planned a rally in Taipei on December 16, 1979, the first anniversary of the announcement of the break in Taiwan–US diplomatic relations. From the perspective of almost twenty-five years later, it is apparent that the Kaohsiung Incident (Gaoxiong shijian ) of December 10, 1979, was a key event in Taiwan’s democratization. At the time, however, no one could know this. Some violence broke out. The government stressed the numbers of security force injuries, but in fact many demonstrators were also injured. Both sides clearly made mistakes. Some leaders of the demonstrators insisted on marching when permission had already been granted for a rally in a fixed place. The security forces were unfamiliar with new riot-suppression equipment

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and at least some trucks spewed a gas that some demonstrators believed was “tear gas.” Tear gas is used to disperse crowds, but the security forces had blocked exits. The result was a “Tragedy of Errors.” The Meilidao magazine leaders called a press conference the morning of December 12 and expressed regret about the violence. The Nationalist Party leadership met for two days at Yangmingshan before reaching their decision to repress the dangwai movement. The arrests came in the early morning of December 13, more than 48 hours after the Kaohsiung demonstrations. The resultant trials ended in long sentences for many Meilidao magazine leaders. Yet, the Zhongguo shibao (China Times) published a virtual transcript of the trial and it became clear that the state had failed to prove its case against the Kaohsiung defendants.16 What is critical about this period—and a rereading of the four issues of Meilidao magazine confirms this—is that the key issues centered on the issue of “democracy.” The issue of Taiwanization or bentuhua received almost no attention at this time. Of course, everyone knew that the territory controlled by the Republic of China was limited to Taiwan, the surrounding islands and the offshore islands, and that recognition of this fact together with genuine democratization would give “native Taiwanese” a substantial majority in electoral politics. But such discussions had not yet entered the public debate within Taiwan.

The Early 1980s: The First Stirrings of Taiwan Nationalism in Taiwan With the main leaders of the dangwai in prison, political activity shifted to a variety of groups led by the spouses of political prisoners and the lawyers for the Kaohsiung defendants. These groups published a variety of journals (some of which predated the Kaohsiung Incident). In the words of one now very senior official in the Democratic Progressive Party government, they were often “radical” and they could be quite cruel to people perceived as “moderate.” The discussion of Taiwan took some time to develop on the island. During a visit by four dangwai central parliamentarians to the United States in mid-1982, the journal, Yazhouren , published a joint statement of the Taiwanese Associations of the United States, which they hoped all members would “transmit to our elders, brothers and sisters in our native land.” Four of their six requests have relevance to

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the issue of a Taiwanese nation, namely, 1. The future of Taiwan should be jointly decided by the 18 million people of Taiwan. 2. Release the people imprisoned because of the Kaohsiung Incident and other political prisoners, especially Lin Yixiong and Rev. Gao Junming . 3. Open the restrictions on political parties and newspapers. 4. Completely reelect all central parliamentarians.17

These statements seem harmless enough yet Yazhouren clearly took some risks in publishing them in Taiwan. The joint statement of the four dangwai central parliamentarians was much more cautious.18 Three months later Yazhouren published an excellent article on the “right of resistance” under 30 years of martial law. Yet, despite being quite outspoken, the article made no comment on the national issue and called for “building a joint understanding between those in and out of government.”19 Real discussion of the Taiwan question began in mid-1983. In May 1983, Lan Yiping boldly wrote, “Democratization is precisely Taiwanization (minzhuhua jiu shi Taiwanhua ).” Lan noted that 75 percent of Nationalist Party members were Taiwanese, “but from beginning to end they have no way to hold key positions within the Party.” Two-thirds of the members of the Central Standing Committee are mainlanders. Taiwanese have never held many of the key Party administration positions such as the secretary-general, the directors of the Organization, Youth Policy, and Culture departments. In government, the numbers of Taiwanese have increased substantially since 1945 so that the vice president, the ministers of the Interior and Communications, the mayors of Taipei and Kaohsiung, and the governor of Taiwan Province are all Taiwanese. “But it must be pointed out that important positions in the Cabinet such as the ministries of National Defence, Finance, Economics, Foreign Affairs, Justice, the Economic Planning Commission and the Government Information Office have never been led by a Taiwanese. One has an even smaller chance to touch the area of the security organs.” And, even though Taiwanese form the backbone of the 600,000 military, “Taiwanese from beginning to end have no way to undertake important commanding positions.” Because educational opportunities were equal, this was causing a crisis for Taiwanese in their career opportunities.20 A sustained discussion of the national question began in mid-1983 in a magazine published by two important mainlanders in Taiwan’s

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opposition, the dangwai legislator, Fei Xiping , and Lin Zhengjie . Both later became leading members of the Democratic Progressive Party. Perhaps the spark for this discussion was the “defection” to China of Hou Dejian , a well-known rock singer in Taiwan of mainlander background who had composed a very popular song, “Heirs of the Dragon” (long de chuanren 21 22 ). After announcing Hou’s arrival in Beijing, Qianjin zhoukan followed with an article entitled “Great Dragon! Great Dragon! You Have Become Blind!” which stated: The words of his songs abstrusely talk about “China,” the Yangzi River and the Yellow River, but even though these three things still exist, under his pen they have become “ancient China” and the “distant Orient.” It is like in our education, the anti-Communist propaganda actually did enter every mind. Even mentioning China, the Yangzi River and the Yellow River caused a limitless distance and feeling of terror.23

The next issue of Qianjin zhoukan had six articles on Hou Dejian24 as well as pictures of him in both the front and back inside covers. The article by Chen Yingzhen , a well-known Chinese nationalist, exploded with Chinese patriotism and raised the issue of Taiwan as a nation. The concepts and emotions [of Hou’s lyrics] have developed for nine thousand [sic] years to become a memory and emotion for the entire people. They have deeply infiltrated the blood of the Chinese people. . . . It takes us merely to be willing to say fairly and sincerely that there is absolutely no difference between Taiwanese and mainlanders. . . . There is a small minority of people who believe, owing to provincial origins, that responses to the emotion of China are different. If you say that the song “Heirs of the Dragon” is only for “mainlanders” (or even go so far as to say only “Chinese” will like the song), how can you explain the song’s longevity (already one to two years) and its broad popularity? “This is only a kind of ‘utopian Han nationalism,’ ” they say. They stand for the idea that “Taiwan, occupying a geographical and social environment separated from the Chinese mainland (Zhongguo bentu ), has undergone four hundred years of historical development marked by particular migration, development, and modern capitalist historical expansion. This has created ‘Taiwanese’ who are different socially and mentally from ‘China and Chinese’. ”25

In the same pages, Lin Shimin blamed the ruling Nationalist Party’s nationalist education for Hou’s defection.

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Nationalism (minzuzhuyi ) can be used as a tool for political control. . . . The ruling party pursues education with a nationalist spirit and thus can use it to strengthen political control, but at the same time it also brings some troubles. The nationalism that the ruling party pursues is the nationalism of one billion people. If one talks about the nationalism of one billion people to one billion people, perhaps this would not bring so many problems. But, unfortunately, the ruling party has no method to talk to one billion people. The ruling party can directly talk to only 18 million people about the “national mission” (minzu de shiming ). It requests 18 million people to sacrifice for the national mission of one billion people and to put their lives, property, freedom and rights in the hands of the ruling party (according to the Temporary Provision Effective During the Period of Communist Rebellion) to form government. If we press the nationalism of one billion people onto the heads of 18 million people, what good consequences can we expect? It is like placing a three thousand kilogram burden on a person’s body. He can only escape this burden (“Taiwan Independence”) or climb on top of the burden and allow himself to become part of the burden (“run to the Chinese mainland”). What else can he do?26

In the next issue of Qianjin zhoukan, Cai Yimin long attack on Chen Yingzhen.

launched a

Amidst this cleverness and intelligence, there is a blind spot. It has no name so I’ll call it the “China Complex” (Zhongguo jie ). . . . Chen Yingzhen says he wants to distinguish historical and cultural China and the specific political powers of any period of rise and fall. But when he then suddenly faces this kind of concrete phenomenon that manifests itself in a specific historical and geographical time and space, he unexpectedly slips into the complex that the expressions and attitudes of the lyrics of “Heirs of the Dragon” have created.27

How, Cai asks, can a complex culture be discussed in a simple song?28 In further discussion of the “China Complex” and the “Taiwan Complex,” Chen Yuan raised a number of questions: In the end, how are we to write our history of Taiwan? Should we start with the period of the Three Kingdoms? Should we start with the great period of world imperialism? Or should we start with the [Chinese] recovery of Taiwan after the Second World War? How should we write our political and social history? How should we treat minority peoples? How does one fairly treat the several hundred years of blood- and

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Chen Yingzhen responded much more reasonably in the next issue of Qianjin zhoukan. He said a rational discussion of the issues required democracy, and then raised a series of questions: But why is it that people who want a Taiwan that is more free, more democratic, and more socially just are unwilling to say that they are Chinese? Why is it that those mainlanders who support, love, and respect the dangwai democratic movement are in the end only given the “title” of “Chinese with a conscience” or a “progressive Chinese” and why are they forever separated by a gulf which prevents them from being unified with those who call themselves the “Taiwan nationality” (Taiwan minzu )? Why is it that “Nationalist Party education”—which taught us that to be Chinese is honorable, that Chinese mountains and rivers are beautiful, and that a divided China creates indignation—is certainly shameful and laughable? . . .30 Let us all deeply realize that in history this is only a temporary Taiwan separatism. Actually, it is a peculiar creature born from the dark politics and international imperialism of modern Chinese history. Let all those people who accept that they are Chinese, who feel deep shame, to use their deepest love and patience firmly and unchangingly to oppose those among the people who create hate and division in order to strengthen unity and peace among the nationality.31

Jiang Xun responded to both Chen Yingzhen and to Cai Yimin. He argued that the democratic movement and the Taiwan nationalist movement must be differentiated. He also stated, “Taiwanese consciousness” (Taiwan ren yishi ) and “Taiwan consciousness” (Taiwan yishi ) originally were two quite different concepts. In order to seek the development of deciding for one’s self (such as state sovereignty, academic independence, economic initiative), an appropriate “Taiwan consciousness” is necessary. In the final analysis, from this comes our self-identity, but it can advance to the people’s showing concern for this piece of land. A firm, unchanging social consciousness can begin to emerge. But emphasizing the blood origin of “Taiwanese consciousness” . . . will, on the contrary, create an irreversible calamity for Taiwan’s future.32

As the December 3, 1983, legislative election approached, discussion became more concrete and the issue of “self-determination” (zijue )

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rose to the fore in dangwai publications. Seventeen dangwai candidates had agreed on “Ten Common Political Viewpoints,” the first of which was “Taiwan’s future must be jointly decided by all of Taiwan’s inhabitants.” According to the Nationalist Party, this political viewpoint contradicted Article 54 of the Election and Recall Law that prohibited inciting other people to commit the crimes of insurrection or foreign aggression.33 The Senh-kin magazine (Shenggen zhoukan , officially translated as Cultivate but perhaps better translated as Roots), was founded by Xu Rongshu , the then wife of Kaohsiung defendant Zhang Junhong . Xu was later a key dangwai and then Democratic Progressive Party politician in her own right. With Wu Nairen and Qiu Yiren , two key dangwai and later Democratic Progressive Party leaders, as president and vice president, the Senh-kin editorialized: All of Taiwan’s residents—including those who were born and have grown up here and those people who have come to this piece of land over the past thirty years—have the right to decide their own style of life and the right to seek political, economic, social, and cultural styles. This is a basic human right which all mankind jointly recognizes; it is not a dangerous view which a minority of people have plucked out of thin air or thought up on their own. . . . In order to enable readers to understand the developmental process of advocating self-determination as well as the Nationalist Party’s policy decisions of closing down discussions, this magazine is presenting “Democracy, Self-Determination, Save Taiwan” (minzhu , zijue , jiu Taiwan ) to enable readers to think deeply.34

According to You Qingqing , the first time anyone presented the principles and concepts of self-determination for Taiwan occurred on December 29, 1971, when the Presbyterian Church proclaimed: “Although human rights are given by God, the people themselves have the right to decide their own destiny.”35 The Presbyterian Church issued “A Declaration of Human Rights” on August 16, 1977, which also stated: We insist that the future of Taiwan shall be determined by the 17 million people who live there. . . . In order to achieve our goal of independence and freedom for the people of Taiwan in this critical international situation, we urge our government to face reality and to take effective measures whereby Taiwan may become a new and independent country.36

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When the December 23, 1978, legislative elections were postponed after the December 16, 1978, announcement that the United States would recognize Beijing, Kang Ningxiang declared: Taiwan is formed from 17 million people who love freedom. Our ideology and our political and economic systems are different from those of the Chinese Communists. To force an amalgamation would certainly cause a frightening tragedy. The United States is a free, democratic country with an honorable tradition. It should not ignore the strong and historical demands of Taiwan residents to seek to control their own destiny. Taiwan’s future must be jointly decided by the 17 million people now residing there.37

According to You, “This was the first time a dangwai personage had openly echoed the Presbyterians’ advocacy of self-determination.”38 On September 9, 1983, the dangwai agreed to promote self-determination as a principle and this was reaffirmed on October 13, 1983, when it became a political viewpoint of the dangwai legislative candidates. In the campaign, this became “Democracy, Self-Determination, Save Taiwan.”39 Qianjin guangchang—a variation of Qianjin zhoukan, with even the same editorial leadership—ran a special on the dangwai candidates as the election approached. Clearly self-determination had become a campaign issue and one article, which punned on self-determination (zijue ) and “self-destruction” (zijue ), stated: In order to deal with the ten joint political viewpoints put forth by the dangwai candidates in this year’s legislative election, the Nationalist Party government first went through the Central Election Commission to examine the political viewpoints. With regard to the first political view of the dangwai personages, “The future of Taiwan must be jointly decided by all of Taiwan’s residents,” [the Central Election Commission] expressed the view that this political viewpoint was suspected of being opposed to Article 54 of the Election and Recall Law. As it incited others to change the national system and thus appeared guilty of committing the crimes of insurrection and foreign aggression, it ought not be published in the electoral notice. Then, the Minister of the Interior, Lin Yanggang , in his role as chairman of the Central Election Commission, published a statement going a step further in prohibiting dangwai personages from using this political viewpoint in political meetings or in election pamphlets. Those who opposed this order would be sentenced to terms of around seven years according to law. This made the advocacy of “self-determination” the biggest taboo in this year’s election.40

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The author concluded his argument by pointing to the counterproductivity of the authorities’ actions thus: Actually, the Nationalist Party used this kind of sly trick before in the 1980 legislative election. At that time, the spokesman for the Taiwan Garrison Command, Brigadier General Xu Meilin , announced: no one was allowed to raise the “Kaohsiung Incident” as it was “rebellious” to make propaganda by presenting the Kaohsiung Incident in a favorable light. Those who broke this ruling would be prosecuted according to the law of rebellion. In fact, the results were the exact opposite. The more the Nationalist Party forbad the topic, the more the dangwai candidates discussed Meilidao. The more the dangwai criticized the guilty practices of the Nationalist Party, the more the voters supported the candidates who appealed on behalf of Meilidao. After the election, the fact that family members of Meilidao like Zhou Qingyu , Xu Rongshu and Huang Tianfu were all elected with the highest votes demonstrates that the high level with which the voters identify with Meilidao. These “rebels” in the eyes of the Nationalist Party, one by one became Taiwan democratic heroes.41

A calmer analysis of self-determination appeared in the election-day issue of Qianjin guangchang. The author, Zhao Chang , noted that another of the ten joint dangwai political viewpoints was “Democracy, self-determination, save Taiwan.” Zhao then dissected several of the dangwai candidates’ viewpoints and concluded that the “conflict” in the campaign came from the participation of the Formosa Alliance (Meilidao lianxian ) and not from the political viewpoint of self-determination. It was the Nationalist Party’s “nervous fear and their intent to stifle the dangwai’s momentum which caused them to find the argument that ‘self-determination’ is tantamount to advocacy of ‘Taiwan Independence’. ”42 Jian Jinfeng argued that the Nationalist Party’s control of the Taiwan question actually raised levels of anxiety: “Everyone saw that the so-called ‘Taiwan question’ was placed on the negotiating tables of Washington and Beiping. This island had almost become the chip in their great gambling stakes. This could not but make people anxious.”43 Just before the election, Senh-kin published an extensive account of speeches by 12 dangwai candidates and campaign workers.44 Fang Sumin , the wife of Kaohsiung defendant Lin Yixiong, said: “They [the Nationalists] have no roots in Taiwan and they do not want to establish roots in Taiwan. But I, Fang Sumin, am different from the Nationalist Party! My roots are in Taiwan. Since I was born,

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my roots have been deeply cultivated in our beautiful homeland, Taiwan.”45 Xie Changting (Frank Hsieh) , later a major figure in the Democratic Progressive Party, used the Nationalist Party’s ideology of the Three People’s Principles (Sanmin zhuyi ), to argue against the ruling party: You [the Nationalist Party] want to use the Three People’s Principles to unify China, but first you must use the Three People’s Principles to unify Taiwan. You want to use the Three People’s Principles to unify Taiwan, but first you must use the Three People’s Principles to unify the Nationalist Party! . . . The Nationalist Party doesn’t even have a method to use the Three People’s Principles to unify its own party members. How can it unify Taiwan?46

Xie then discussed the principle of “Nationalism” and noted Sun Yixian (Sun Yat-sen) had said, “the objective of nationalism was to gain equality for our country among nations.” But, Xie asked, “With whom is our international status equal? . . . Our foreign ministry ‘breaks relations’ every day. . . . Our international friends have gone from over a hundred countries to only some twenty-odd countries. Is this progress?”47 Xie then turned to the second of the Three People’s Principles, “Democracy”: The Nationalist Party says that martial law is to arrest bad people and to protect good people . . . In Lin Yixiong’s family, three people were murdered. Was that murderer a bad person? Has martial law captured him? . . . Were Lin Yixiong’s daughters not good people? Was Lin Yixiong’s mother not a good person? Did the Nationalist Party protect them? The Nationalist Party said that the probability was 9,999 out of 10,000 that it would break the case!48

Huang Tianfu , the younger brother of Huang Xinjie , the imprisoned publisher of Meilidao, said, I, Huang Tianfu, was born a Taiwanese. When I die, I will still be a Taiwanese. From my more than ten years of experience as a people’s representative, I want to tell everyone that the Taiwanese have no political status. . . . In fact the rulers remain forever the rulers and the ruled are forever the ruled. Among Taiwan’s 18 million population, there are

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five thousand rulers who are the party and state elders, important government officials, party cadres, political warfare officers, and a very few central parliamentarians. They will not give away their privileges and if they give them away it will be to their sons and grandsons.49

Xu Rongshu, running for reelection as a legislator, raised the issue of “self-determination” and helped define what it means to be “Taiwanese”: Last November I was in the legislature and formally asked the Nationalist Party an interpellation question about “the future of Taiwan should be decided by the 18 million people themselves.” This was the first time a legislator had directly stated to the Nationalist Party the heart-felt feelings and hopes of Taiwan’s residents! I believe each of you has read in the newspapers about the first joint political viewpoint of the dangwai on the future of Taiwan. The Nationalist Party government has not approved our raising this. Actually, every day the newspapers are discussing this issue. So, if they are going to arrest people, they must first arrest the newspapers!50 Our feet tread Taiwan’s earth, our mouths drink Taiwan’s water, and sitting down we eat Taiwan’s rice. Which people bestow this to us? This is bestowed by you [the voters]! I ask the men in the Central Election Commission, I ask the secret policemen of the Taiwan Garrison Command, do you drink Yangzi River water? Do you eat rice from the Yellow River? We all know that whoever loves this piece of land is the owner of this piece of land. The owners of each part of this land all have the right to express an opinion about the future of this land. But in fact is it like this? No! The Nationalist Party says, if we express an opinion, it is Taiwan independence, it is rebellion. Why can’t we ourselves plan our future? If we lack even an opportunity to put in a word, then who in the end will decide?51 Fellow countrymen! What we dangwai are going all out for is the historical mission of we Taiwanese over the last four hundred years. So I hope that everyone can strive together with us in order one day in the near future to complete the goals and vitality of freedom and human rights in this beautiful island.52

It is important to note that the above are speeches given by candidates, not academic discourses. It is also important to note that many other subjects beyond the status of Taiwan were also raised. But the status of Taiwan and its future had clearly become part of the dangwai election rhetoric in the campaign of December 3, 1983.

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Yazhouren also published a special edition two days before the election with the theme of “Elections, Self-Determination, and the Dangwai.”53 An editorial entitled “Taiwan’s Destiny” stated: These two words, “self-determination,” are in the Charter of the United Nations, in the will of the Father of the Country [Sun Yixian], in the Constitution of the Republic of China, and in several western democratic political systems. Everywhere one can find the sources of these theories and hints for practical application. They are a natural, absolute basic human right.54

The editorial continued with three reasons why self-determination is important. “First, with respect to the outside world, it advocates protection of national sovereignty.” The editorial pointed out how Taiwan had become “Asia’s orphan” while China had risen in international affairs. “Secondly, internally it advocates that sovereignty resides with the people. The dangwai’s advocating self-determination is advocating democracy.” Finally, self-determination would help build a sense of common fate among Taiwan’s residents. At present, the mainlanders “believe Taiwan only has value as a tool that is temporary. Only the mainland has eternal and absolute value.”55 Yazhouren also included three more academic statements56 and the campaign statements of six dangwai candidates on “self-determination.”57 Jiang Pengjian argued that self-determination had two key meanings for Taiwan. First, the 18 million residents of Taiwan should decide Taiwan’s future and not the United States, Japan, the Chinese Communists or even the Nationalist Party. Second, the method for deciding Taiwan’s future will be democratic.58 Xu Rongshu noted, “Premier Sun Yunxuan has openly pointed out, ‘Hong Kong’s future must respect the wishes of Hong Kong’s people.’ So, right here, I openly declare, ‘Taiwan’s future must respect the wishes of Taiwan’s people.’ ”59 As soon as he heard that the Nationalist Party authorities had prohibited discussion of self-determination, Zhang Deming began to discuss the issue. He argued that the concept had two different levels of significance. Externally, it related to the nation’s right for human dignity. Internally, it related to sovereignty of the people.60 Kang Ningxiang emphasized that Taiwan’s future must not be decided by one party or one faction or by foreigners, but must be jointly decided by the 18 million residents of Taiwan.61

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The December 3, 1983, election was in many ways a transition election between the first post–Kaohsiung Incident election of December 6, 1980, and the legislative election of December 6, 1986, the first in which the new Democratic Progressive Party (Minzhu jinbu dang ), founded on September 28, 1986, ran under its own label. Clearly, the appointment as ambassador to Paraguay and de facto exile of General Wang Sheng —the archconservative who came to the fore following the Kaohsiung Incident—on September 20, 1983, signaled a more “liberal” direction domestically for Taiwan. On February 15, 1984, the Second Plenum of the Twelfth Central Committee nominated Li Denghui, a native Taiwanese without mainland connections or experience, to be the Nationalist Party’s vice presidential candidate in that year’s presidential election.62 This too suggested a more liberal direction. Toward the end of his life, President Jiang Jingguo regretted that— unlike President Lee Kuan Yew of Singapore with whom he traveled around Taiwan—he could not speak Hokkien to talk to his own people. Late in his life, Jiang Jingguo made two important statements. First, on December 25, 1985, he said that a member of the Jiang family “could not and would not (bu neng ye bu hui )” run for president. Second, on July 27, 1987, he said, “I am also a Taiwanese (wo ye shi Taiwan ren ).”63 In the context of a Taiwan that was—at least in part—turning away from China, this was a very important statement. In the last 18 months of his life, President Jiang Jingguo promulgated three key reforms. While none related to the national question, they helped set in train the democratization that enabled Taiwan to begin to deal with the national question openly. First, Jiang Jingguo allowed the existence of an opposition political party. As noted above, the Democratic Progressive Party, founded on September 28, 1986, campaigned under its own name in the December 6, 1986, election. Second, on October 15, 1986, less than three weeks after the founding of the Democratic Progressive Party, the Nationalist Party announced the decision to end martial law, effective in July 1987. Finally, in October 1987, Jiang Jingguo allowed Taiwan residents to visit the Chinese Mainland. The discovery by Taiwan residents that China was worse than even Nationalist Party propaganda had proclaimed damaged the prospects for any acceptance in Taiwan of Beijing’s “one country, two systems” policy. The Beijing Massacre of June 3–4, 1989, only increased the concerns of Taiwan’s residents.

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Democracy and the National Question in the Early Presidency of Li Denghui Under presidents Li Denghui and Chen Shuibian, the idea of a separate Taiwan “nation” has grown significantly.64 However, the key element of politics under presidents Li and Chen has been “democratization” not Taiwan “nationalism.” The sense of a Taiwan nation has grown among Taiwan’s electorate as a result of democratization in that the majority—rather than the old mainlander minority of 15 percent— now rules. This new majority has little experience of China and no emotional baggage that links it to China. On the contrary, the old Nationalist authoritarian regime, with its emphasis on China rather than Taiwan, and the shortsighted policies of the People’s Republic have helped separate Taiwan’s citizens from the mainland and focus their attention on their own island. Because this process of democratization has been so important to the development of a Taiwan nation, however, we devote some space to its discussion. When Li Denghui succeeded to the presidency following President Jiang Jingguo’s death on January 13, 1988, the mainlander elite expected him to be a quiet president in the manner of Yan Jiagan who succeeded Jiang Jieshi after his death in 1975. The Republic of China Constitution is unclear as to whether the top leader is the president or the premier and it was unclear in the late 1940s from which office Jiang Jieshi would lead. In 1975, Jiang Jingguo became chairman of the Nationalist Party soon after his father died, signaling clearly that he had succeeded his father even though he remained the premier. In part, Jiang Jingguo decided to become the president in 1978 because the premier had a very busy schedule dealing with day-to-day matters and Jiang Jingguo hoped to reduce his workload to some extent.65 When Li Denghui became the first Taiwanese president of the Republic of China, the mainlander elite expected one of their own to become the chairman of the Nationalist Party. Li was only appointed acting chairman of the Nationalist Party on January 27, 1988, two weeks after Jiang Jingguo died. His formal election as chairman took place only on July 8, 1988, at the Thirteenth Party Congress.66 A key supporter of Li at this time was Song Chuyu (James C. Y. Soong) , a close aide of the Jiang family and a deputy secretary general of the Nationalist Party at that time.67 President Li was very concerned about democratizing Taiwan and took a variety of steps to realize this goal. The national question was linked to democratization in the sense that a majority would rule in a

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democracy, but the national question clearly did not dominate President Li’s early thinking or actions. Li began to move most strongly after he had been elected as the president in his own right on March 21, 1990.68 Three days previously, on March 18, President Li announced that he would call a National Affairs Conference (guoshi huiyi ). Meeting from June 27 to July 4, 1990, the National Affairs Conference brought together a wide variety of people from within the Nationalist Party, the Democratic Progressive Party, and the academic community. It included, for example, former political prisoners who had been recently released from incarceration. Although lacking any constitutional status, the National Affairs Conference enabled the discussion of many previously forbidden subjects.69 Remarkably, consensus on many of the most disputed topics, such as whether the president should be popularly elected, emerged within a few years of the Conference. As the president, one of Li’s first tasks was to neutralize the mainlander elite. In order to do this, Li used the contradictions within the mainlander elite themselves. At first, Li retained Yu Guohua , who represented mainlanders in government administration, as premier. In 1989, he replaced Yu Guohua with Li Huan , a liberal mainlander with strength in the Nationalist Party organization. Li Huan, however, had been disloyal during the 1990 presidential election and public order had declined during his premiership, so President Li appointed Hao Bocun , a former commander-in-chief of the army (1977–1978), chief of the general staff (1981–1989), and minister of national defense (1989–1990), as the premier. Hao’s appointment neutralized supporters of Li Huan, especially as public order improved. It also enabled President Li to compromise and to make a temporary coalition with two key powers within the Nationalist Party—the military and the mainlander elite. But an open split in the ruling Nationalist Party meant the coalition between President Li and Premier Hao would only prove temporary. Following Japanese terminology, the press dubbed President Li’s group the Mainstream Faction (zhuliupai ) and that of mainlander elite the Anti-Mainstream Faction (feizhuliupai ). The Mainstream Faction tended to be supported by Taiwanese (though some mainlanders also supported it) and by those with more “liberal,” “open-minded,” and “democratic” views. The Anti-Mainstream Faction had support mainly from the older, conservative mainlander elite, which was concerned with preserving its former status, and from the younger mainlanders concerned with their future in a “Taiwanese” Taiwan as opposed to a “Chinese” Taiwan.

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The key struggle came in the December 19, 1992 legislative election, the first election in which the legislature was entirely elected from Taiwan (see later). In this election, the Mainstream Faction candidates did particularly well and it became clear that Premier Hao would not receive sufficient support from the new legislature. Premier Hao resigned, refusing the request that he carry out a military coup d’état. A key change in terms of the “national question” took place in 1991. The Republic of China in Taiwan recognized that it did not control the Chinese mainland. This was done through three key documents. First, and most importantly, Article 10 of the Constitutional Amendments of 1991, “limits the area covered by the Constitution to that of the Taiwan area, and recognizes the legitimacy of the rule of the People’s Republic of China on the Chinese mainland.”70 Second, the Guidelines for National Unification, adopted by the National Unification Council on February 23, 1991, and the Cabinet on March 14, 1991, declared: “The two sides of the Straits should end the state of hostility and, under the principle of one China, solve all disputes through peaceful means, and furthermore respect—not reject—each other in the international community, so as to move toward a phase of mutual trust and cooperation.”71 The third important document was the termination of the “Period of National Mobilization for Suppression of the Communist Rebellion,” effective on May 1, 1991.72 According to an official Republic of China source, “Thus, the ROC government recognized the fact that two equal political entities exist in two independent areas of one country.”73 These actions helped convene the Wang-Koo talks between China and Taiwan, led by Wang Daohan and Gu Zhenfu (Koo Chen-fu) , in Singapore, during April 27–29, 1993. These talks reached four agreements,74 but the Qiandao Lake Incident of 1994, in which many Taiwanese tourists to China were killed, reduced the momentum of cross-Strait interaction.75 Beginning in mid-1990, a series of important constitutional, quasiconstitutional, and political changes greatly changed Taiwan’s constitutional and political framework. This created the new political environment that led to the Mainstream Faction’s victory in the December 19, 1992, legislative election and contributed to more open discussion of the national question. The first key change concerned the indefinitely extended terms given to central parliamentarians elected on the mainland. On June 21, 1990, the Council of Grand Justices (Taiwan’s Constitutional court), by an overwhelming majority of 13 to 2, handed down Interpretation No. 261 that ended the terms of those central parliamentarians on

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December 31, 1991. More than any other single act, Interpretation No. 261 swept away the remnants of the old mainlander elite. Naturally, many of the central parliamentarians protested and called the interpretation political. The head of the judicial branch, Lin Yanggang, acknowledged some of the politics behind Interpretation No. 261. The Constitution is different from civil and criminal law. The Constitution itself is the highest law of a political nature. Interpretations of the Council of Grand Justices naturally have a political nature, but the Interpretation of the Council of Grand Justices regarding the terms of central parliamentarians also takes into account an awareness (ticha ) of trends in public opinion (minyi quxiang ). It rises above partisanship and is an independent, impartial decision.76

The National Assembly passed ten constitutional amendments, the first of several sets under President Li Denghui, on April 22, 1991. In addition to limiting the sovereignty of the Republic of China to Taiwan, Penghu, the offshore islands, and the islands around Taiwan, these amendments established parameters for the forthcoming central parliamentary elections and provided that any laws intended to apply solely during the Period of National Mobilization for Suppression of the Communist Rebellion would cease operating by July 31, 1992, unless terminated earlier. In accord with Article 5 of these amendments, the National Assembly election took place on December 21, 1991.77 In this election, the Nationalist Party did surprisingly well, gaining 67.72 percent of the vote while the Democratic Progressive Party obtained a disappointing 22.78 percent, well below its results in 1989 and worse than the results the opposition had gained under martial law prior to July 1987. Two different analyses account for this relatively poor opposition showing. A majority of journalistic observers and many academic writers argued that the Democratic Progressive Party’s poor electoral support resulted from its declaration of support for Taiwan independence, at the time a seditious platform. The Nationalist Party effectively responded with a broadcast advertising campaign that asserted: The Chinese Communists are not China and China is not the Chinese Communists. No one among Taiwan’s twenty million people wants to unify with the Chinese Communists. But no one wants to be separated from China forever. The Chinese Communists are the same as the

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In mid-1992 interviews, Democratic Progressive Party leaders unanimously agreed that the declaration of support for Taiwan independence was a tactical mistake. Another analysis, however, which argues that the issue of Taiwan independence played a minimal role in the election result, stresses two other key factors. First, the Democratic Progressive Party nominated a limited number of candidates and did not organize its campaign well. Second, interviews and preliminary survey research suggest that very few voters, probably less than 20 percent, voted on the basis of party platform. Rather, they voted on the basis of individual relationships (guanxi ) with candidates or their local supporters. This suggests that the Democratic Progressive Party declaration of support for Taiwan independence had little to do with the final election results. Irrespective of its importance in the election results, however, the Democratic Progressive Party’s public advocacy of Taiwan independence in the campaign broke the last taboo limiting freedom of speech. Formal removal of this taboo occurred within six months, on May 15, 1992, when the legislative branch amended Article 100 of the Criminal Law on the Crime of Insurrection. The amendments to Article 100 significantly enhanced freedom of speech in Taiwan because advocacy of ideas or even nonviolent action no longer qualified as insurrection. To be guilty of insurrection, one must actually use violence or coercion. Following the amendment of Article 100, nonviolent advocacy of Taiwan independence was no longer illegal. The new National Assembly met and approved a further eight constitutional amendments on May 27, 1992. The National Assembly deadlocked over the critical issue of whether the president should be popularly elected or indirectly elected by the National Assembly and agreed that a meeting of the National Assembly would be held before May 20, 1995, to determine the method of election.78 This democratization of Taiwan coincided with a burst of “Taiwan consciousness” (Taiwan yishi ). Under the “China consciousness” of the dictatorial period, Chinese attributes received emphasis. Thus, leading hotels served various types of Chinese foods, schools taught Chinese geography, history, and literature, and officially people spoke Mandarin in the workplace. As Taiwan democratized, people celebrated their Taiwaneseness. Fancy hotels and many new restaurants now served “Taiwanese food,” a new interest in Taiwanese history,

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society, literature, and language led to the publication of hundreds of books, and people even spoke Taiwanese (Hoklo) in the offices of the leaders of the Nationalist Party’s central headquarters.79 Wang Fu-chang’s chapter in this book provides statistics that clearly demonstrate this new interest in Taiwan. All of this growing interest in Taiwan helped form a strong basis for the increased sense of a Taiwan nation that was developing and would continue to develop over the next decade.

Democracy and the National Question in the Middle Presidency of Li Denghui The tensions between the Mainstream and Anti-Mainstream factions finally led to a formal split in the Nationalist Party with many supporters of the Anti-Mainstream faction founding the New Party (Xin dang ) on August 10, 1993.80 The New Party emphasized its strong support for a Chinese identity for Taiwan, but it also called for clean politics and social welfare. In succeeding elections it polled strongly among the white-collar and the professional people in urban areas. Interestingly, although widely perceived as a mainlander party, the New Party received about half of its votes from the urban, the white-collar, and the professional Taiwanese.81 Like the Nationalist Party and Democratic Progressive Party, the New Party is riven with factions. The older mainlanders stress Chinese identity while the younger members stress clean politics and social welfare. Personality conflicts also divide the New Party; the New Party’s image suffered grievously when a breakfast meeting of its legislators deteriorated into a food fight.82 While the New Party did well in several elections, it was decimated in the legislative election of December 1, 2001, when it won one seat and failed to obtain the five percent of the vote necessary to receive its government campaign subsidy.83 To some extent, its voter base had been taken over by the new People First Party (Qinmin dang ) led by Song Chuyu, which was established after the 2000 presidential election. But the New Party had also moved to a more virulently pro-China position. The New Party did slightly better in the December 7, 2002 Taipei Municipal elections gaining five city council seats and nine percent of the council vote, but in Kaohsiung it received only 0.63 percent of the council vote.84 In mid-1994, the constitutional amendments of 1991 and 1992 were consolidated into ten “additional articles” to the constitution.

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Most importantly, Article 2 provided for the direct election of the president and vice president, beginning in 1996. Thus, consensus was reached on a key constitutional issue not long after the great division of the National Affairs Conference of mid-1990 and the constitutional amendments of early 1992. This originally contentious issue, which was to have been revisited in 1995, was solved in 1994.85 Those who had originally opposed the direct election of the president feared leaving such a key decision to the people. The widespread support for this change indicates the rapidity and depth of democratic development among various groups in Taiwan. The mid-1994 constitutional amendments also provided for direct election of the governor of Taiwan province and for the election of the mayors of the provincial-level municipalities of Taipei and Kaohsiung. (Previously these leaders had been appointed by the central government.) These elections took place on December 3, 1994. Since Taiwan province covers 98 percent of the island’s area and 80 percent of its population, the gubernatorial election was especially significant. Despite the overwhelmingly Taiwanese population of Taiwan province, President Li supported the nomination of Song Chuyu, a mainlander, who won handily. In Taipei Municipality, Chen Shuibian , a Taiwanese leader of the Democratic Progressive Party won a three-way election over the New Party and the Nationalist Party candidates, thus giving the opposition Democratic Progressive Party control over Taiwan’s most important city and an important institutional power base. In the December 2, 1995 legislative election, the Nationalist Party almost lost its legislative majority, signaling the possibility of a peaceful transfer of power from government to opposition. Because party discipline in the Nationalist Party has never been as strong as in the Democratic Progressive Party and the New Party, the Nationalist legislative majority seemed slim indeed. Yet, the Nationalists benefited from holding the political middle ground as cooperation between the Democratic Progressive and New parties seemed unlikely even though both supported political reform. To the surprise of many in and out of politics, the first ballot for the Speaker of the legislature resulted in a tied vote between the nominees of the Nationalist and Democratic Progressive parties. Investigation revealed that an aboriginal Nationalist legislator had voted with the opposition. The crucial votes of the aboriginal legislators in the evenly divided legislature enabled the aboriginal legislators to bargain hard with the Nationalist leadership to gain several long sought aboriginal goals including a central Commission (Ministry) of Aboriginal Affairs

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(yuanzhumin weiyuanhui ). These promises enabled the Nationalist candidate for Speaker to win the next ballot and assured the Nationalist Party that President Li’s nomination of Lian Zhan , who was originally appointed in early 1993, would receive legislative support to continue as premier. The inability of the ruling Nationalist Party to control the legislature, however, led to the constitutional changes of mid-1997. A noteworthy aspect of the legislative election of December 2, 1995, and the National Assembly election held simultaneously with the presidential election of March 23, 1996, was an explicit attempt by the Nationalist Party to break down the gap between the government and the people. During the authoritarian period the top leadership remained immune to popular election. Beginning in 1995, the Nationalist Party required top leaders to face the electorate. As a result of this new policy, Xiao Wanchang (Vincent Siew) , a Taiwanese cabinet minister with extensive experience, resigned from his government positions and entered the December 1995 race for the legislature from Chiayi (Jiayi) Municipality, an opposition stronghold. (Xiao won, and was later appointed premier in 1997). Two prominent mainlanders, Foreign Minister Qian Fu (Frederick Chien) and Hu Zhiqiang (Jason Hu) , director general of the Government Information Office, had to seek support from the populace in the National Assembly election, although members of the National Assembly did not have to resign executive positions. (Qian became Speaker of the National Assembly and then president of the Control Branch in 1999. Hu later became the government representative in the United States, was appointed foreign minister in October 1997, and won election as mayor of Taichung Municipality in 2001.) This policy reduced the gap between high official and citizen and increased the sense of responsible government. The popular election of Taiwan’s president—an event feared by Taiwan’s conservatives in 1990 and 1992, yet approved with wide consensus in 1994—took place amid the Chinese military exercises and threats that created the Taiwan Strait crisis of March 1996. In many ways the Chinese threats proved counterproductive. The Chinese clearly tried to reduce President Li’s votes, but widespread polling indicates that the Chinese threats actually increased Li’s support on the island as Taiwanese determined to show the Chinese that they would not bow to intimidation. President Li would probably have obtained about one-third of the votes in the four-way race, but in fact he ended with 54 percent of the vote. Thus, Li gained a legitimacy—both domestically

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and internationally—that he otherwise would not have received. Taiwan also gained superb publicity and international understanding as literally hundreds of foreign journalists reported from the island during the election and the crisis. And, the crisis also demonstrated that the United States would support Taiwan in the event of Chinese aggression, an indication that strengthened Taiwan’s hand in its relationship with China.86 President Li’s running mate was Premier Lian Zhan. The Nationalists had promised Lian would resign as premier after the election, but the Nationalists could not gain legislative support for another candidate for premier and Lian thus had to serve as both vice president and premier. Angered, the legislature refused to let Lian Zhan, in his role as premier, deliver the government report to the legislature. This caused a governmental deadlock and led to the constitutional amendments of mid-1997. The government deadlock and the tense relationship with China led President Li Denghui to convene a National Development Conference in December 1996, which harkened back to the National Affairs Conference of 1990. Although nonpartisan academics played a role, the delegates from the three key political parties explicitly participated as party representatives. The Conference discussed topics grouped in three areas: constitutional government and multiparty politics, cross-Strait relations, and economic development. Importantly, all three political parties reached consensus on a wide variety of issues, though the New Party withdrew on a minor issue after having approved the key constitutional changes and the cross-Strait policies. Thus, the Taiwan political system entered 1997 with considerable consensus over the key issues of relations with China and the rules of the political game. The constitutional changes promulgated on July 21, 1997 can be grouped into two areas: adjustment of executive–legislative relations and the downsizing of government.87 The adjustment of executive– legislative relations requires no discussion here other than to note that following the constitutional revisions, President Li appointed Xiao Wanchang as premier on August 21, 1997, an appointment widely welcomed on the island. The downsizing of government has “frozen” (dongjie ) the Taiwan provincial government. People have long noted the anomaly of having a central government controlling Taiwan (and a few small offshore islands) as well as a provincial government that controls 98 percent of the island’s area and 80 percent of its population. Freezing the provincial government in accord with the 1997 constitutional

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changes means the provincial governor (shengzhang ) and the provincial assembly (sheng yihui ) are no longer popularly elected. On the other hand, the central legislature has increased in size. Most people applauded the elimination of this wasteful duplication of government, though the New Party claimed the abolition of the separate provincial government was actually a de facto declaration of Taiwan independence, an argument that Beijing has repeated.

Democracy and the National Question in the Later Presidency of Li Denghui and the Presidency of Chen Shuibian For whatever reason, the Chinese became convinced that President Li Denghui was, at heart, a supporter of Taiwan independence. They basically refused to talk with him, hoping the next president would prove easier to deal with in negotiations. President Li’s frustration with China became evident when he told Deutsche Welle radio on July 9, 1999: “The 1991 constitutional amendments have placed cross-Strait relations as a state-to-state relationship or at least a special stateto-state relationship, rather than an internal relationship between a legitimate government and a renegade group, or between a central government and a local government.”88 (The term for state here is guo , sometimes translated as “nation.”) The Chinese reacted strongly and cancelled Wang Daohan’s planned October 1999 visit to Taiwan. In the presidential election campaign of 2000, the three principal candidates—Chen Shuibian, Lian Zhan, and Song Chuyu—all had similar ideas for dealing with China. China was especially concerned about the candidacy of Chen Shuibian, the candidate of the still officially pro-independence Democratic Progressive Party. In his campaign speeches and in his inaugural address, Chen Shuibian was very careful to present a responsible image toward China. These policies became known as the Five Noes: As long as the CCP regime has no intention to use military force against Taiwan, I pledge that during my term in office, I will not declare independence, I will not change the national title, I will not push forth the inclusion of the so-called “state-to-state” description in the Constitution, and I will not promote a referendum to change the status quo in regard to the question of independence or unification. Furthermore, there is no question of abolishing the Guidelines for National Unification and the National Unification Council.89

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In the presidential election of March 18, 2000, President Chen won with a plurality of 39.3 percent of the votes. Song Chuyu came in second with 36.8 percent of the votes, while Lian Zhan came in a distant third with 23.1 percent of the votes. Song might have won if the Zhongxing (Chung-hsing) Bills Scandal had not created mistrust within the electorate. As a mainlander, Song won most of the mainlander votes in Taiwan. Song also gained many votes because as governor he had used the provincial government budget for widespread construction work and his visiting every township on the island also helped him establish guanxi. After the presidential election, Song established the People First Party.90 Despite having full support from President Li Denghui, who campaigned widely for the Nationalist candidate, Lian Zhan could not overcome the “wooden” image he presented to the voters. In addition, his campaign team, composed of young and middle-aged mainlanders, attempted to attract the votes of mainlanders from Song rather than Taiwanese votes from Chen Shuibian. This strategy was doomed, both because the mainlanders were firmly behind Song and because the mainlanders account for only about 15 percent of Taiwan’s body politic. By the time of the December 1, 2001, legislative elections, Li Denghui had been forced out of the Nationalist Party and Lian Zhan had taken over as Party Chairman. Li became “spiritual leader” of the new Taiwan Solidarity Union that has proven to be more “fundamentalist” (jiben jiaoyi pai ) on the national question than the Democratic Progressive Party. The Democratic Progressive Party and the Taiwan Solidarity Union have formed an informal “pan-green” (fan lü ) alliance, while the Nationalist Party and People First Party formed an informal “pan-blue” (fan lan ) alliance. Lian Zhan continued his attempt to recapture the “mainlander” vote from the People First Party during the campaign for the December 1, 2001 legislative elections. At a major press conference, Lian Zhan claimed that the Nationalist Party was the most “local” (bentu ) of Taiwan’s political parties, but everyone of the four aides beside him was born on the mainland!91 Despite the economic difficulties facing Taiwan, the voters still made the Democratic Progressive Party the largest bloc in the legislature with 87 seats. The Nationalist Party came in a poor second with 68 seats, while the People First Party gained 46 seats and the Taiwan Solidarity Union 13 seats. Unfortunately, from the Democratic Progressive Party’s perspective, the party failed to win the support of

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sufficient numbers of aboriginal and independent legislators to gain a pan-green majority. With only 100 of 225 seats, the pan-green parties still had to work with the uncooperative pan-blue forces. The only “hiccup” in President Chen’s stewardship of Taiwan’s China policy occurred on August 3, 2002. In a speech, President Chen said that there was “a state on each side of the Taiwan Strait (yibian yiguo ).” This stirred up a storm in Taiwan, China, and the United States. Taiwan’s government claimed there was nothing new in President Chen’s statement. After the chairwoman of the Mainland Affairs Commission, Cai Yingwen , spoke to American leaders, the brouhaha calmed down. While the “pan-blue” leadership of Lian Zhan and Song Chuyu— which became more formal with the mid-2003 nomination of Lian Zhan and Song Chuyu as the presidential and vice presidential candidates on the same ticket for the March 20, 2004 election—occasionally makes some statements about closer ties with China, its leaders have stopped well short of any pro-China statements. President Chen too has remained very cautious, but a series of events has increased and strengthened the sense of Taiwan nationalism on the island. The transmission of SARS from China to Taiwan in early 2003 greatly concerned Taiwan’s population and reduced pressure for increased cross-Strait economic relations including direct flights. The Chinese insistence that Taiwan should have no direct dealings with the World Health Organization (WHO) and that any assistance go through China greatly alienated Taiwan. The difficulties facing Hong Kong as part of “one nation, two systems”—especially the proposed Article 23 security law—also concerned Taiwan’s residents in mid-2003. The idea of a “de facto independent Taiwan” has gained widespread currency on the island. China’s military threats and its unwillingness to talk with Taiwan have, in fact, done much to create the de facto Taiwan independence that it has so feared. These trends indicating a growing support for de facto Taiwan independence can be seen in table 1.1.92 These figures become clearer when we add the first and the second, the third and the fourth, and the fifth and the sixth categories. This calculation gives us those who ultimately prefer independence, the status quo, and unification respectively. See table 1.2 for these results. These figures make three significant points. First, the numbers advocating immediate or future independence have increased significantly from 11.1 percent to 18.8 percent while those advocating immediate

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Table 1.1 Views on Taiwan’s Future, 1994–2003 View on Taiwan’s status

December 1994

June 2003

Independence as soon as possible Maintain status quo, move toward independence Maintain status quo indefinitely Maintain status quo, decide at later date Maintain status quo, move toward unification Unification as soon as possible Non-response

3.1 8.0 9.8 38.5 15.6 4.4 20.5

5.1 13.7 16.6 37.2 14.0 2.1 11.3

Total

99.9

100.0

Table 1.2 Simplified Views on Taiwan’s Future, 1994–2003 View on Taiwan’s status

December 1994

June 2003

Ultimately prefer independence Ultimately prefer status quo Ultimately prefer unification Non-response

11.1 48.3 20.0 20.5

18.8 53.8 16.1 11.3

Total

99.9

100.0

or future unification have declined somewhat from 20.0 percent to 16.1 percent. Second, the numbers preferring the status quo or the status quo with a decision at a later date have risen to more than half of the polled population. This cautious “middle” still remains by far the largest group. Finally, the “non-response” group has also declined substantially as people have become more aware of the issues and less afraid to express their opinions. Another survey conducted by the Election Study Center of National Chengchi University demonstrates these changes more starkly. This survey questions identity among Taiwan residents. In this survey, those who identify as both “Taiwanese and Chinese” have fallen slightly (though over the years there have been some increases and decreases), but the proportion who identify as Taiwanese has risen sharply while those who identify as Chinese has fallen considerably. The non-response rate has also fallen sharply. See table 1.3 for details.93 These data suggest, perhaps even more strongly, that the concept of a Taiwanese entity, separate from that of China, is growing throughout the island.

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47

Table 1.3 Identity in Taiwan, 1992–2003 Identity

June 1992

June 2003

Low score

High score

Both Taiwanese and Chinese Taiwanese Chinese Non-response

45.4 17.3 26.2 11.0

43.8 41.5 9.9 4.9

39.1 17.3 9.1 4.6

50.9 41.8 26.2 11.0

Total

99.9

100.1

NA

NA

Clearly, these trends indicate that “Taiwanization” or bentuhua has penetrated deeply within the Taiwan body politic. In mid-November 2003, only four months before the March 20, 2004 presidential election, the “pan-blue” alliance decided to appropriate the Taiwanese or bentu label. Now, the “pan-blue” alliance calls itself the “moderate Taiwan group” (wenhe de bentu pai ) while labeling its opponents as the “radical Taiwan group” (jijin de bentu pai ). At this time of writing, it remains unclear whether such a tactic will work, but, importantly, both main political groupings now believe that the concept of bentu has wide acceptance among Taiwan’s voters.94 In terms of cross-Strait relations, the ball is now in China’s court. Although the Chinese leadership has continued to insist that Taiwan belongs to China and refuses to negotiate except under the “One China” principle, the concept of a Taiwan “nation” has grown very rapidly in Taiwan. China has very little to attract Taiwan. For example, the “honor” of belonging to a “great” nation has little attraction for the island’s people who have fought long and hard for their democracy. The People’s Republic has done virtually nothing to respond to openings from President Chen Shuibian. Ironically, this has strengthened President Chen domestically and may help him win reelection in March 2004. Whether President Hu Jintao and Premier Wen Jiabao, who both have foreign images as “reformers,” can implement major changes in China’s policies toward Taiwan remains to be seen. I personally am pessimistic considering their difficult domestic struggles and the power of the conservative military in China’s domestic politics. Thus, China’s Taiwan policies will most likely continue as they have. In the meantime, Taiwan’s nationalism is developing at an everfaster rate. Peaceful reunification appears very unlikely in the near to medium future.

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Notes The author expresses his appreciation to the Australian Research Council for a three-year Discovery Grant enabling his research on ‘Democratizing Taiwan’. 1. Li Denghui , “Wo weihe tichu ‘teshu de guo yu guo guanxi’ ‘ ’ ” (Why I raised the “Special State-to-State Relationship”), in Li Denghui and Nakajima Mineo , Yazhou de zhilüe (Asian Intelligence and Ability), translated by Luo Wensen and Yang Mingzhu , Taipei: Yuanliu, 2000, 35. I believe that President Li Denghui came to this view quite late in his presidential career. 2. Peng Ming-min, A Taste of Freedom: Memoirs of a Formosan Independence Leader, New York, Chicago, and San Francisco: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1972, 45. 3. See, inter alia, J. Bruce Jacobs, “Taiwanese and the Chinese Nationalists, 1937–1945: The Origins of Taiwan’s ‘Half-Mountain People’ (Banshan ren),” Modern China, 16.1 (January 1990): 84–118. 4. The classic eyewitness account of the February 28 Incident and its aftermath is George H. Kerr, Formosa Betrayed, Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1965. A useful, though flawed account, written when the government began to open its archives, is: Lai Tse-han, Ramon Myers and Wei Wou, A Tragic Beginning: The Taiwan Uprising of February 28, 1947, Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1991. For an excellent, recent analysis, see Steven E. Phillips, Between Assimilation and Independence: The Taiwanese Encounter National China, 1945–1950, Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2003, chapter 4. In recent years, many Chinese-language memoirs on the Incident have been published. 5. This relies primarily on interviews conducted in China, though some textual evidence can be found at Zhonggong zhongyang tongzhan bu yanjiushi, Jinling zhi sheng guangbo diantai bianjibu ’ (Research Office of the CCP Central United Front Department and the Editorial Office of the Voice of Jinling Radio Station) (eds.), Tongyi zhanxian gongzuo shouce (Handbook on United Front Work), Nanjing: Nanjing daxue chubanshe, 1986, 272–275. 6. President Chen’s inauguration speech, “Taiwan Stands Up: Advancing to an Uplifting Era,” obtained at http://th.gio.tw/pi2000/dow_2.htm on November 12, 2003. Unfortunately, the original Chinese-language statement has been removed from the Web, but I have used a copy faxed to me at the time. 7. Mao Zedong , “Lun renmin minzhu zhuanzheng ” (On the People’s Democratic Dictatorship [June 30, 1949]), Mao Zedong xuanji (yi juan ben) ( ) (Selected Works of Mao Zedong [in one volume]), Beijing: Renmin chubanshe, 1969, 1362. An official translation appears as “On the People’s Democratic Dictatorship,” Selected Works of Mao Tse-tung, Peking: Foreign Languages Press, 1969, 4: 415. 8. This is the term of Parris Chang in Harvey J. Feldman (ed.), Constitutional Reform and the Future of the Republic of China, Armonk, NY and London: M.E. Sharpe, 1991, 45.

“Taiwanization” in Taiwan’s Politics

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9. Under Jiang Jieshi, most Taiwanese at higher levels in the system had “Half-Mainlander” backgrounds, see Jacobs, “Taiwanese and the Chinese Nationalists.” 10. J. Bruce Jacobs, Local Politics in a Rural Chinese Cultural Setting: A Field Study of Mazu Township, Taiwan, Canberra: Contemporary China Centre, Australian National University, 1980, 25–31, 178–179, 182–202 et passim. 11. For a detailed analysis of this election, see J. Bruce Jacobs, “Political Opposition and Taiwan’s Political Future,” The Australian Journal of Chinese Affairs, 6 (July 1981): 27–35. 12. For an account, see J. Bruce Jacobs, “Taiwan 1979: ‘Normalcy’ after ‘Normalization’, ” Asian Survey, 20.1 (January 1980): 91–93. 13. For articles on the Taichung Incident, see He Wenzhen , “Qi erba Taizhong shijian zhenxiang ” (The Truth about the July 28 Taichung Incident), Meilidao, 1 (August 1979): 73; and Fan Zhengyou , “Qi erba Taizhong naoju zhi wo guan: Gei Taizhong shimin de gongkai xin : ” (My Viewpoint on the July 28 Taichung Farce: An Open Letter to Taichung’s Citizens), Meilidao, 1 (August 1979): 74–76. 14. The classic account of the Zhongtai Hotel Incident is Wu Zhengshuo , “Zhongtai binguan shijian shimo ” (The Zhongtai Hotel Incident from Beginning to End), Da shidai, 4 (October 1979): 7–19. Other useful accounts include: Ben she (Formosa Magazine), “Dangwai zhenglun: Shaoshu pai yu baoli, ping Zhongtai binguan qian de naoju : , ” (Dangwai Political Comment: A Minority Faction and Violence, a Critique of the Farce in Front of the Zhongtai Hotel), Meilidao, 2 (September 1979): 4–5 and Wen Chaogong , “Ni kan de shi shenme bao? Ge bao dui Zhongtai shijian de baodao ” (What Newspaper Do You Read? The Reports of Various Newspapers on the Zhongtai Incident), Meilidao, 2 (September 1979): 83–87. 15. Jacobs, “Political Opposition,” 41, n. 8. 16. The best writing on the trial in English is John Kaplan, The Court-Martial of the Kaohsiung Defendants, Berkeley: Institute of East Asian Studies, University of California, Berkeley, 1981. A number of Chinese-language memoirs have been published, but all have some problems. 17. “Lü Mei Taiwan tongxiang hui gongtong shengming ” (A Joint Statement of Taiwan Associations in the United States), Yazhouren, 15 (August 1982): 17. 18. Ibid. Kang Ningxiang , president (shezhang ) of Yazhouren, was one of the four dangwai parliamentarians. 19. Zhuo Taisheng , “Sanshi nian jieyan tizhi xia de dikang quan ” (The Right of Resistance under Thirty Years of the Martial Law System), Yazhouren, 18 (November 1982): 19–26; the quotation is from p. 26. 20. Lan Yiping , “Minzhuhua jiu shi Taiwanhua ” (Democratization is Precisely Taiwanization), Minzhuren, 8 (May 1983): 11–12.

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21. Hou later became important as a supporter of the demonstrators in Beijing during the spring of 1989. For a quirky, but very useful discussion of Hou, see Linda Jaivin, The Monkey and the Dragon: A True Story about Friendship, Music, Politics and Life on the Edge, Melbourne: Text Publishing, 2001. Jaivin sometimes makes factual mistakes about Taiwan politics. 22. “ ‘Long de chuanren’ dao Beijing ‘ ’ ” (“Heir of the Dragon” Arrives in Beijing), Qianjin zhoukan, 11 (June 11, 1983): 14–15. 23. Yang Zujun , “Julong! Julong! Ni xia le yan! ” (Great Dragon! Great Dragon! You Have Become Blind!), Qianjin zhoukan, 11 (June 11, 1983): 16–18. The quotation is from p. 17. Yang Zujun was the wife of Lin Zhengjie , the president of the Qianjin (Progress) magazines and one of the early mainlanders in the dangwai movement. Yang ran for the legislature in the December 3, 1983 election. See Wen Xi , “Lü dang, dangwai dang, meigui dang, tebie baodao: Yang Zujun xuanzhan shi dangwai yundong duoyanghua de xiansheng : ” (Green Party, Dangwai Party, Rose Party, Special Report: The Election Battle of Yang Zujun is the Harbinger of the Dangwai Movement’s Diversification), Qianjin guangchang, 17 (December 3, 1983): 24–30, esp. p. 25. 24. Qianjin zhoukan, 12 (June 18, 1983): 4–19. 25. Chen Yingzhen, “Xiangzhe geng kuanguang de lishi shiye ” (Toward a Wider and Broader Historical Horizon), Qianjin zhoukan, 12 (June 18, 1983): 13. 26. Lin Shimin, “Long meiyou chuan yifu ” (The Dragon Is Not Wearing Clothes), Qianjin zhoukan, 12 (June 18, 1983): 15. 27. Cai Yimin, “Shi lun Chen Yingzhen de ‘Zhongguo jie’ ‘ ’ ” (Trying to Discuss Chen Yingzhen’s “China Complex”), Qianjin zhoukan, 13 (June 25, 1983): 21. 28. Ibid. 29. Chen Yuan , “ ‘Zhongguo jie’ yu ‘Taiwan jie’ ‘ ’ ‘ ’” (“China Complex” and “Taiwan Complex”), Qianjin zhoukan, 13 (June 25, 1983): 23. 30. Chen Yingzhen, “Wei le minzu de tuanjie yu heping ” (For National Unity and Peace), Qianjin zhoukan, 14 (July 2, 1983): 40. 31. Ibid., 41. 32. Jiang Xun, “ ‘Taiwan minzu zhuyi’ de diaogui ‘ ’ ” (The Paradox of “Taiwanese Nationalism”), Qianjin zhoukan, 16 (July 16, 1983): 59. 33. An English translation of this law appears in John F. Copper with George P. Chen, Taiwan’s Elections: Political Development and Democratization in the Republic of China, Baltimore, Maryland: Occasional Papers/Reprints Series in Contemporary Asian Studies, School of Law, University of Maryland, No. 5, 1984, 128–167. 34. “Bianji shi biji ” (Notes from the Editorial Room), Shenggen zhoukan, 4 (November 17, 1983): 1. 35. You Qingqing, “You ‘zijue’ dao ‘zijue’ ‘ ’ ‘ ’ ” (From “SelfAwakening” to “Self-Determination”), Shenggen zhoukan, 4 (November 17, 1983): 5. Clearly 1971 was not the first such case. Peng Mingmin’s “Declaration

“Taiwanization” in Taiwan’s Politics

36. 37. 38. 39.

40.

41. 42.

43.

44.

45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52.

51

of Formosans” (1964) laid a claim for an independent Taiwan as did the work of many Taiwan independence supporters in the late 1940s and 1950s. For an English version of Peng’s 1964 Declaration, see Victor H. Li (ed.), The Future of Taiwan: A Difference of Opinion, White Plains, NY: M.E. Sharpe, 1980, 174–185, especially section VI, 181–182. You Qingqing, “You ‘zijue’ dao ‘zijue’ ,” 7. The English text of the Declaration may be found in Victor H. Li, Future of Taiwan, 186–187. You Qingqing, ibid., 7. Ibid. Ibid., 8. The Nationalist Party’s response, according to the dangwai, was recorded in Bo Yi , “Zijue dizhen: Guomin dang de ‘zui gao zhiling’ : ‘ ’ ” (The Self-Determination Earthquake: The Nationalist Party’s “Highest Order”), Shengen zhoukan, 4 (November 17, 1983): 9–12; “Fei Xiping yu Lin Yanggang de duihua ” (A Dialogue between Fei Xiping and Lin Yanggang), ibid., 10–11. , “Guomin dang ‘zijue’ yu Taiwan quanti zhumin Huang Jiaguang ‘ ’ ” (The Nationalist Party’s “Self-Destruction” is in the Hands of All of Taiwan’s Residents), Qianjin guangchang, 16 (November 26, 1983): 22. Ibid., 23. Zhao Chang , “Minzhu jiaqi da bianlun: Dang neiwai yanzhong de ‘zijue’ : ‘ ’ ” (The Great Debates of the Democratic Holiday: “Self-Determination” in the Eyes of the Party and Those Outside), Qianjin guangchang, 17 (December 3, 1983): 12. For a further compilation of dangwai candidates’ viewpoints, see Wu Yue , “Yao zenme gan, , xian zenme shuo: Dangwai houxuanren jingxuan yanlun jiyao : ” (For What They Will Do, First See What They Say: A Summary of Dangwai Candidates’ Campaign Speeches), Qianjin guangchang, 17 (December 3, 1983): 12–17. A useful discussion of the discussion in the United States at a Formosa Association of Public Affairs (FAPA) meeting is Zhuang Youlong , “ ‘Taiwan qiantu jueyi an’ jingwei ‘ ’ ” (The Main Points of the “Resolutions on Taiwan’s Future”), ibid., 46–49. Jian Jinfeng , “Taiwan de xuanju heyi ruci jinzhang ” (How Is It that Taiwan Elections Are So Tense), ibid., 40. “Dangwai zhengjian zhen jingcai ” (The Political Views of the Dangwai Candidates Are Really Excellent), Shenggen zhoukan, 5 (November 24, 1983): 4–30. Ibid., 6. Ibid., 12. Ibid., 12–13. Ibid., 13. The case remains unsolved to date. Ibid., 15. Ibid., 22. Ibid., 23. Ibid., 24.

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53. Yazhouren, 31 (December 1, 1983). 54. “Taiwan de mingyun ” (Taiwan’s Destiny), Yazhouren, 31 (December 1, 1983), inside front cover. 55. Ibid., inside front cover and p. 1. 56. Li Hongxi , “ ‘Zijue’ de fali jichu ‘ ’ ” (The Foundation in Legal Principles of “Self-Determination”), Yazhouren, 31 (December 1, 1983): 18–20; Cai Dunming , “Tan ‘zijue’ gou bu goucheng shanhuo zui? ‘ ’ ” (Does Talking about “Self-Determination” Constitute the Crime of Incitement?), Yazhouren, 31 (December 1, 1983): 20–21; Zhang Xucheng (Parris Chang) , “ ‘Zijue’ shi yi zhong quanli ‘ ’ ” (“Self-Determination” is a Right), ibid., 20. 57. “Dangwai houxuanren de ‘zijue’ zhengjian ‘ ’ ” (Political Viewpoints about “Self-Determination” of the Dangwai candidates), Yazhouren, 31 (December 1, 1983): 23–28. 58. Ibid., 24. 59. Ibid., 25. 60. Ibid., 26. 61. Ibid., 28. 62. For an early forecast of the choice of Li Denghui, see Xu Ce , “Li Denghui shi xia yi jie fuzongtong? ” (Is Li Denghui the Next Vice-President?), Qianjin zhoukan, 10 (June 4, 1983): 6–12. A month later, another article suggested “Li Denghui maoshang Lin Yanggang ” (Li Denghui Jumps Ahead of Lin Yanggang), Qianjin zhoukan, 14 (July 2, 1983): 14–15. Lin’s later mishandling of the self-determination issue in his role as Chairman of the Central Election Commission may have also hurt his prospects as a potential vice president. 63. The dating of this second statement has become clear with the publication of Li Denghui’s book, Jianzheng Taiwan: Jiang Jingguo zongtong yu wo : (Witness for Taiwan: President Jiang Jingguo and I), Taipei: Guoshi guan, 2004. Li says that Jiang Jingguo made this statement to 12 old Taiwanese personages whom he met on July 27, 1987 (see Jianzheng Taiwan, p. 231 for the quotation as well as pp. 229–232, 240). According to the very complete Taiwan lishi nianbiao (Taiwan Historical Chronicle), Vol. III (1979–1988), Taipei: Guojia zhengce yanjiu zhongxin, 1991, the quotation did not appear in the press. To the best of my knowledge, in English publications only Joseph Bosco gives the correct date, although he does not give the circumstances; see Joseph Bosco, “The Emergence of a Taiwanese Popular Culture,” in Murray A. Rubinstein (ed.), The Other Taiwan: 1945 to the Present, Armonk, NY and London: M.E. Sharpe, 1994, 401. 64. Some of the analyses in this section are drawn from J. Bruce Jacobs, “Democratisation in Taiwan,” Asian Studies Review, 17.1 (July, 1993): 116–126. 65. Based on interviews conducted at the time. 66. For some preliminary discussion, see James D. Seymour, “Taiwan in 1988: No More Bandits,” Asian Survey, 29.1 (January 1989): 56–58.

“Taiwanization” in Taiwan’s Politics

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67. Song had been appointed director general of the Government Information Office in 1979 and thus was government spokesman during the Kaohsiung Incident and subsequent trials. He rose to high positions under President Li Denghui, including secretary general of the Nationalist Party (1989–1993) and governor of Taiwan Province (1993–1998). He later fell out with President Li and ran for president as an independent in 2000, losing to Chen Shuibian in a close election. He subsequently founded the People First Party (Qinmin dang ). 68. In 1990 Li was, of course, elected indirectly by the old National Assembly. On the 1990 presidential election, see Ts’ai Ling and Ramon H. Myers, “Surviving the Rough-and-Tumble of Presidential Politics in an Emerging Democracy: The 1990 Elections in the Republic of China on Taiwan,” The China Quarterly, 129 (March 1992): 123–148. 69. For a useful discussion of the issues following soon after the National Affairs Conference, see Harvey J. Feldman, Constitutional Reform and the Future of the Republic of China. 70. The quote is from President Li Denghui’s interview with Deutsche Welle on July 9, 1999; see “President Lee Teng-hui Interviewed by Deutsche Welle, July 9, 1999,” Taipei Speaks Up: Special State-to-State Relationship, Republic of China’s Policy Documents, Taipei: Mainland Affairs Council, Executive Yuan, 1999, 1. Li also cites Additional Articles 1 and 4 as indicating the separation. For the English text of the 1991 additional articles, see Republic of China Yearbook 1991–1992, Taipei: Kwang Hua Publishing Company, 1991, 580–581. The English text does not clearly confirm President Li’s analyses. 71. “Guojia tongyi gangling ” (Guidelines for National Unification), published in numerous places. Translation from Republic of China Yearbook 1991–1992, 583–584. 72. See statement of President Li Denghui, April 30, 1991, in Republic of China Yearbook 1991–1992, 584–585. 73. Ibid., 141. 74. Republic of China Yearbook 1995, Taipei: Government Information Office, 1995, 148–149. 75. J. Bruce Jacobs, “China’s Policies Toward Taiwan,” in C. L. Chiou and Leong H. Liew (eds.), Uncertain Future: Taiwan-Hong Kong-China Relations after Hong Kong’s return to Chinese Sovereignty, Aldershot, Brookfield, Singapore, Sydney: Ashgate, 2000, 96–97. 76. Article by Zhang Kunshan in Zhongyang ribao guojiban (Central Daily News International Edition), June 24, 1990, p. 1, reprinted from Lianhe bao (United Daily News). 77. For details of this election, see Simon Long, “Taiwan’s National Assembly Elections,” The China Quarterly, 129 (March 1992): 216–128. 78. For the English text of these amendments, see The Republic of China Yearbook 1993, Taipei: Government Information Office, 1993, 728–731. 79. This draws on J. Bruce Jacobs, “Rip Van Winkle Returns to Taiwan,” Far Eastern Economic Review, May 13, 1993, 36. 80. Some of the analyses in this section draw on J. Bruce Jacobs, “Democratisation in Taiwan Revisited,” Asian Studies Review, 21.2–3 (November 1997): 149–57.

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81. This observation is based on several polls conducted by both the Nationalist Party and the Democratic Progressive Party. 82. See Taiwan press of February 26, 1997. 83. J. Bruce Jacobs, “Cementing Democracy,” Taipei Review, 52.2 (February 2002): 34–39, esp. 36, 38. 84. J. Bruce Jacobs, “A Tale of Two Cities,” Taiwan Review, 53.3 (March 2003): 24–29, esp. 27. 85. For the English text, see Republic of China Yearbook 1995, 766–769. 86. For an analysis of the counterproductivity of China’s policies toward Taiwan, see Jacobs, “China’s Policies Toward Taiwan,” 101–106. An abbreviated version appears as J. Bruce Jacobs, “A Delicate Balance: The Future of ChinaTaiwan Relations,” Harvard Asia Pacific Review, 2.1 (Winter 1997/1998): 46–49. 87. For the English text, see Republic of China Yearbook 1999, Taipei: Government Information Office, 1999, 690–695. 88. “President Lee Teng-hui Interviewed by Deutsche Welle, July 9, 1999,” 1–2. 89. From President Chen’s inauguration speech, “Taiwan Stands Up.” 90. Note, the Chinese name of the People First Party, Qinmin dang, means “to be close to the people.” This is not a very “democratic” name as leaders in a democracy are supposed to be part of the people and not just close to the people. 91. Bruce Jacobs, “KMT Leadership Largely to Blame for Drop in Votes,” Taipei Times, November 29, 2001, 3. 92. These data come from “Changes in the Unification–Independence Stances of Taiwanese as Tracked in Surveys by Election Study Center, NCCU (National Chengchi University) (1994–2003),” August 13, 2003; original chart provided by Election Study Center. 93. These data come from “Changes in Taiwanese/Chinese Identity of Taiwanese as Tracked in Surveys by the Election Study Center, NCCU (National Chengchi University) (1992–2003),” September 25, 2003; original chart provided by Election Study Center. 94. Huang Tai-lin, “Pan-blue Strategy: Call Yourself Moderate and Pray,” Taipei Times, November 15 (2003): 3.

2 Why Bother about School Textbooks?: An Analysis of the Origin of the Disputes over Renshi Taiwan Textbooks in 1997 Fu-chang Wang

Introduction Taiwan has undergone tremendous changes in the last two decades. Besides the well-known story of sustained economic development and the recent political development of popular presidential elections, less noticed cultural changes have also occurred during this period. When Japan ceded Taiwan to China in 1945, Taiwan had been an integral part of the Japanese empire and after 50 years of Japanese colonial rule, the Taiwanese people had been significantly influenced by Japanese culture. Among the first things that the Chinese government did after taking over Taiwan was first to “de-Japanize” (qu Ribenhua ) and then to “Sinicize” (Zhongguohua ) Taiwanese culture. The cultural policies of Sinicizing Taiwan in the postwar period intensified when the Chinese Nationalist Party (Zhongguo guomin dang ; GMD) government lost the civil war against the Red Army and retreated to Taiwan in 1949. The Sinicization of Taiwan, however, was achieved at the expense of the culture and dignity of Taiwan’s native cultures and their bearers. Demands for the indigenization (bentuhua ) of cultural policies emerged along with the rise of political movements that demanded democratic reforms in the late 1970s and early 1980s.1 By the time the first

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native opposition party, the Democratic Progressive Party (Minjin dang ), emerged in 1986, a nativist turn in cultural orientation had already occurred, first in the nongovernment sector and then gradually in the national domain. A new wave of discovering Taiwan’s “lost” history and culture surged in the mid-1980s when a great number of new books on Taiwan was published. Compared to Sinicization of the 1960s, the process of bentuhua in culture occurred at a much faster pace as a result of technological developments in publishing and communication. Today, just by watching local television shows or simply walking on the streets a casual tourist to the island can notice that the once so important representations of “authentic” Chinese culture are gradually giving way to representations of local Taiwanese culture associated with Hoklo , Hakka , and aboriginal identities. The government now portrays Taiwan as a nation of successive waves of immigrants consisting of people with various cultural inheritances, one of which is Chinese. Unlike 20 years ago, “Chineseness” is no longer regarded as the core element in Taiwanese cultural identity. Under the banner of promoting bentuhua, Taiwan underwent a process of transformation that completely changed its basic political structure as well as the underlying national ideology. In a sense, the Taiwanese people’s sense of who they were, who they are now, and where they are heading is changing in the process of the development of indigenization discourse. This new discourse has replaced the old discourse based on a China-centered mode of thinking. This chapter discusses the effect of the indigenization movement on the dominant national ideology in Taiwan as shown in the reform of the high school curriculum during 1980s and 1990s. I demonstrate how a new Taiwan-centered paradigm in textbook writing emerged and has partially replaced the previous China-centered paradigm with regard to what and how much students should learn about Taiwan, in terms of its history, geography, and society. In the old paradigm, teaching materials on Taiwan constituted only a tiny proportion of textbook content, and were written in accordance with the idea that Taiwan was only a province of China. While the old paradigm enjoyed uncontested ascendancy for more than four decades, it seemed to give up without putting up a fight when it was challenged in the late 1980s. Responding to critics, in 1989 the minister of education decided to add a new course of Renshi Taiwan (Getting to Know Taiwan) in the seventh grade. The decision was accepted without any controversy. Once the decision to reform the curriculum was

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made, the need for a new way to view Taiwan in a more detailed way opened up a space for potential contenders. It was only a matter of time until a new paradigm would rise, challenge, and perhaps even replace the old one. The first questions this chapter addresses are: Why did the government suddenly decide to change its previous official position of treating Taiwan as a province of China in school textbooks? What was the social context that allowed such a major change to occur so smoothly without arousing any controversy or even conflict? That, nevertheless, is only part of the story. In June 1997, just after the Renshi Taiwan textbooks were finally finished and three months before their scheduled adoption by all seventh graders throughout the country, a series of disputes and conflicts over them broke out. The conflicts in the news media and on the streets lasted for two months and ended abruptly when the commissioners in charge decided to release the textbooks as scheduled after some minor revision of the content. Why did the conflicts occur in 1997 and not in 1989, when the agenda of curriculum reform was passed? A simple answer to this question would be: whereas people tend to agree on the principle of bentuhua, how the principle is put into practice is usually the focus of heated debate. In this essay, I propose a much more complicated answer: the two different responses to the textbook issue can be attributed to the changing environment and the atmosphere of ethnic and nationalistic politics in Taiwan. I argue that the disputes over school textbooks cannot be fully understood until we put them in the context of the interaction between the proponents and opponents of bentuhua that occurred over a period of time. The development of ethnic and nationalistic politics in Taiwan, in which the bentuhua debate is embedded, is crucial for explaining the conflicts surrounding the paradigm shift in attitudes to curriculum reform. This chapter contains three parts. In the first part, I describe political and historical developments that led to the development of the “China-centered” paradigm. In the second part, I propose an explanation for the paradigm change in terms of the development of ethnic and nationalistic politics in the postwar era in Taiwan, focusing on the social and political contexts that gave rise to the trend to bentuhua. In the third and final part, I discuss the consequences of the clash between the bentuhua paradigm and the China-centered paradigm. The effects will be evaluated not only in the realm of school textbooks, but also in Taiwan’s general historical and cultural visions.

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The China-centered Paradigm Before analyzing the details of the bentuhua paradigm shift in relation to the issue of the history textbooks, let us first look into what the paradigm challenges. The ideology behind school textbooks in the postwar era was only a detail in the grand design by the GMD government to legitimize its rule over Taiwan and to recover the Chinese mainland. After the GMD regime lost the civil war with the communists and relocated to Taiwan in 1949, a pressing issue was how to draw support from a hostile native population for its military campaign of recovering the mainland. Although the new immigrants, mainlanders (waishengren ), were a minority, they became the dominant émigré group. It was very difficult for the GMD to rely on repressing the hostile and much larger native population as a means of mobilizing resources and manpower for their military priorities. Ideological indoctrination of the native Taiwanese to accept Chinese national identity and Chinese nationalist discourse were essential to the survival of the GMD regime. To convince Taiwanese to shoulder the responsibility for retaking the mainland, Taiwan somehow had to be incorporated into the long course of Chinese history. From when the Qing dynasty ceded Taiwan to Japan in the 1895 Treaty of Shimonoseki until 1943 when it became increasingly evident that Japan would return Taiwan to the Chinese rule after the war, the Chinese considered Taiwan not to be part of China but to be a Japanese colony.2 The history of Taiwan’s relationship with both China and Japan had to be rewritten to accommodate this new development. Drawing on Taiwan tongshi (A General History of Taiwan) by Lian Heng (1878–1936)—a patriotic Han-nationalist Taiwanese in colonial Taiwan—the Nationalist government in China proposed a new version of Taiwan’s history emphasizing Taiwan’s long relationship with China even when Taiwan was still under Japanese colonial rule. The Japanese era was to be downplayed as a disgraceful page in Taiwan’s history. Being the most vicious national enemy of the Chinese people, the Japanese influence on Taiwan and its people was to be erased as soon and as thoroughly as possible. After the war, the victorious Chinese rulers adopted this historical perspective and imposed it on the native population. However, new developments in Taiwan added yet another dimension. Although most Taiwanese enthusiastically welcomed the new rulers from their fatherland and were eager to learn Mandarin Chinese, they did not appreciate the way the government treated their Japanese legacy, which included

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the Japanese language, Japanese body gestures and dress codes, as well as modernized infrastructure, hygiene conditions, law enforcement practices, and people’s law-abiding behavior. The Chinese rulers considered Taiwanese “enslaved” (nuhua ) by the Japanese after 50 years of colonization and insisted that Taiwanese should not be treated equally until they were “re-Sinicized.”3 Cultural differences and a sense of being discriminated against led to clashes between the local Taiwanese and the Chinese rulers, and contributed to an islandwide Taiwanese uprising, the February 28 Incident in 1947.4 After the February 28 uprising, the report of the chief investigators cited the Japanese “enslavement” of the Taiwanese people as one the prime causes of the incident.5 Whereas local Taiwanese were proud of their Japanese inheritance, mainlanders considered it a sign of the Taiwanese people’s being “poisoned” by their Japanese education. A “de-Japanized Taiwan” became a top priority for the GMD regime’s cultural policy in Taiwan, especially after its retreat in 1949. The conflicting sentiments of the local Taiwanese and mainlanders toward Japan posed a dilemma for the government on the matter of how to present Japan in Taiwan’s history. A totally negative description of Taiwan’s colonial past was belied not only by the reality that Taiwan was in fact far more advanced than China at the time, but might also have outraged the Taiwanese and caused further disturbances. As much as the GMD regime would have liked to have discarded Taiwan’s Japanese legacy, it was not considered a wise tactic. Instead, the GMD pursued an alternative course: they virtually ignored the positive aspects of Japanese contributions to Taiwan made during the colonial period, while emphasizing Taiwan’s Chinese “roots” prior to Japanese “occupation,” Taiwan’s connections with China during the Japanese era, and Taiwanese suffering under Japanese rule. In other words, Japan was almost completely erased from Taiwan’s history, except that it was a foreign power that discriminated against Taiwanese during its administration. More importantly, since Taiwan was part of China, Taiwanese people were required to learn more about their fatherland now that Taiwan was reunited with the Chinese nation. As Taiwan was only one of China’s 36 provinces, students learned about Taiwan and the rest of China in that proportion. These were the basic assumptions behind the government’s historical discourse and history writings throughout the 1950s and 1960s. The historical discourse on Taiwan, however, was not an urgent issue for the GMD before the 1970s. Anticipating an imminent largescale cross-Strait war, the GMD regime did not pay much attention to

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legitimizing its rule or to the urgent national goal of “retaking the mainland” (fangong dalu ) in its early years. Nor did the native population openly raise questions about these developments. Several factors contributed to this. Most natives had not yet recovered from the trauma and intimidation of the February 28 Incident of 1947. Most surviving elites either went abroad in despair, silently retreated from the political arena, or collaborated with the new rulers. Given that Chinese Communist Party (CCP) troops and GMD troops had clashed offshore, in particular in the air battle in 1952 and in the artillery attack on Quemoy Island in 1958, national war preparations were a reality and a priority for the GMD regime and, to a lesser degree, the Taiwanese people throughout the 1950s. Also, with the Cold War having just started, the atmosphere in the international arena at the time favored the GMD regime in Taiwan as the sole legitimate government of China in preference to the newly established People’s Republic of China, a communist regime. The GMD regime still represented China in the General Assembly and the Security Council of the United Nations until 1971. The domestic issue of political legitimacy was overshadowed by these greater international and more “urgent” national events. As such, the cultural policy of turning Taiwanese into Chinese was not among the government’s top priorities in this period, much less were such secondary matters as creating a standard version of history or the editing and writing of standard history textbooks for school children. There were various historical perspectives in Taiwan that coexisted with each other without arousing debate despite their contradictory contents. It may be fair to say that Taiwan in the 1950s consisted of different social groups who did not care for each other and were rather segregated from each other socially and geographically. These groups were thrown together by the goal of retaking the mainland that was imposed on the local population by the new and politically dominant migrants. Both the Taiwanese and the mainlanders expected this to be a temporary situation.6 The situation changed after the mid-1960s. After years of war preparation and no real military action, the feasibility of retaking the mainland became questionable. In 1958, the Free China magazine—a token “free press” sponsored by the GMD—published an article questioning the possibility of retaking the mainland by military means.7 The GMD regime was furious and suspended the magazine for “spreading the rumor of ‘no hope for retaking the mainland’ ” (fangong wuwanglun ). The tough measure against liberal dissent, however, did not stop skepticism from gradually spreading among the

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mainlanders as well as the Taiwanese. As a new generation was growing up—one that did not share the experience of having fought against the communists—political legitimacy in a state of national emergency became an increasingly pressing domestic issue. Also, as the CCP regime began to seek diplomatic support and recognition from other countries, the competition to represent China in the international diplomatic community emerged as a new challenge for the GMD regime. Domestically, political competition over Chinese representation was fought mainly in the cultural sphere. Since the leaders of the CCP regime were determined to form a new China by exorcising remnants of a “feudal” old China, the GMD regime under the leadership of Jiang Jieshi (Chiang Kai-shek) was able to position itself as the defender of “authentic” Chinese culture. A series of radical cultural reforms by the CCP regime was carried out in the Cultural Revolution launched in 1966. In response, the GMD regime initiated the Chinese Cultural Renaissance Movement (zhonghua wenhua fuxing yundong ) later in the same year.8 The purpose of the Cultural Renaissance movement was twofold: to show the world community that Chinese culture was well preserved in Taiwan, and to restore people’s confidence in the superiority of their cultural inheritance.9 In this way, the GMD portrayed itself as the legitimate heir and defender of Chinese cultural tradition and hence of the Chinese nation. The Chinese mainland communists, however, were not the only target of the Cultural Renaissance Movement. Given that the Taiwanese were six times more populous than the mainlanders in Taiwan, they were able to preserve their mother tongues despite the government’s rigorous efforts to impose Mandarin as the national language. After the first television station in Taiwan started to broadcast in 1962, the popularity of programs in the Taiwanese regionalect (Hoklo) soon caught the government’s attention. In particular, the government targeted a very popular puppet show, Yunzhou Daruxia (The Mighty Scholar-Warrior of Yunzhou), performed in Hoklo by Huang Junxiong . In 1970, a movement to promote the national language was also reinstituted to counteract the resurgence of Taiwanese regionalects among school children. For the first time, severe measures, such as asking the offenders to pay fines or to wear a sign of shame, became official policy and were widely utilized to punish students caught speaking Taiwanese regionalects (Hoklo or Hakka) by teachers or their fellow students in schools.10 In 1976, a new law regulating radio and television broadcasting specifically limited

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the total amount of broadcasting time for programs in Taiwanese regionalects.11 The harsh punishment of the student offenders and the law regulating broadcasting language were testament to the government’s anxiety as well as its determination to implement the policy of Sinicizing Taiwan. In 1968, during the heyday of the Cultural Renaissance Movement, the National Bureau of Editing and Translation issued the first standardized textbooks for students across the nation. Given the continuing national crisis, the content of these textbooks was designed to inspire students’ national consciousness and their hatred of the national enemy—the mainland communist regime—so that they would be willing to devote themselves to the sacred national duty of recovering the mainland. These intentions were clearly stated in the editor’s note in the textbooks.12 As such, students had to be taught to admire and to love the temporarily lost fatherland, the mainland, even at the expense of learning little about their present home, Taiwan. Such intentions were most vividly expressed in the content of the textbooks, especially those used in history, geography, and national language courses. The history curriculum in junior high school, for instance, was designed to cover world history in the first year and Chinese history in the second and third years. The history and geography of Taiwan were virtually ignored in these textbooks. From the GMD’s point of view, Taiwan was important only because of its status as a base for retaking the mainland after 1950. Taiwan’s history prior to 1950 was irrelevant except that it had been a Chinese territory since ancient times and was once lost to the Japanese. Chinese history, as was narrated in these textbooks, began more than 5,000 years ago with Yandi and Huangdi and went through a succession of more than 20 different dynasties until Sun Yat-sen founded the Republic of China in 1911. When the communist “rebels” “illegally” took over the mainland in 1949, the “legitimate” government of the Chinese nation retreated to Taiwan to regroup, just as many predecessors had done during temporary setbacks throughout history. The ancient story of Tian Dan fuguo (Tian Dan recovers the state of Qi)13 and the more recent experience of the Nationalist government’s moving the capital to Chongqing during the war against Japan (1937–1945) were especially emphasized in the textbooks in order to strengthen the discourse of retaking the mainland. As such, there was little place for Taiwan in Chinese history other than its current status as a retreat for preserving the Chinese nation and Chinese culture. According to Liu Xiaofen’s calculation, in terms of pages, Taiwanese history constituted

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less than five percent of Chinese history as represented in high school history textbooks.14 Besides the restricted number of pages, Taiwanese history was also presented in a rather biased manner in history textbooks. According to Jian Nan , several characteristics typify how Taiwan’s history was presented in the textbooks:15 1. For the ancient period, the textbooks emphasized the close relationship between Taiwan and China, referring to some scant accounts in ancient Chinese literature or to records that mentioned Taiwan by its various old names. 2. Dutch rule was largely ignored, with a mention only of the Dutch tyranny and the Chinese migrants who rose to fight against the Dutch. 3. Koxinga was considered a national hero because he fought against the Qing rulers and expelled the Dutch to recover Taiwan. 4. The only mention of the Qing era was the development and con16 struction carried out by Liu Mingchuan during the 1880s, less than ten years before Taiwan was ceded to Japan. 5. The Japanese era was basically ignored, except for some local uprisings against the Japanese. 6. The GMD regime’s construction of Taiwan to serve as a provisional base was the only focus of history after 1950. The 1945–1949 period was not even mentioned.

The situation in geography was rather similar to that of history. Since Taiwan was one of the 36 provinces in China, the content devoted to Taiwan accordingly constituted roughly the same proportion (onethirtieth or less than four percent) in high school geography textbooks. In other words, over 95 percent of school hours in history and geography were assigned to study the “great fatherland” and its history while less than five percent was devoted to Taiwan. Also, in the national language (Guoyu or Guowen ) course, more than 95 percent of the readings in the textbooks were literary works by ancient or contemporary Chinese authors. Very few Taiwanese writers’ works were included in the readings. The ironic exception to this literary work rule was that the political speeches of Sun Yat-sen and Chiang Kai-shek were typically arranged to appear as the first and second lessons in every textbook.17 All courses were taught in the standardized national language, Mandarin. It is evident that the textbooks were written from a China-centered viewpoint with the explicit intention of turning Taiwanese children into patriotic Chinese nationals. The actual content of how different

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periods and rulers in Taiwan’s history should be represented was, however, not as straightforward as it might seem. Although it was reasonable to emphasize Taiwan’s long and close relations with China, it did not follow logically that it was also necessary to ignore the Japanese inheritance and achievements in Taiwan or to demolish local cultures, especially when some Taiwanese were still very attached to them. Japan was no longer regarded as a national enemy for Taiwan under the Cold War scenarios.18 Taiwanese local cultures were in fact part of Chinese local cultures. Neither would necessarily get in the way of the “sacred” war against the CCP regime. They were nevertheless erased or banned in schools and textbooks during these nationalizing processes. It seems that nationalist ideology in the strictest sense was not the only reason behind this new set of cultural policies. Factors like the sour relations between the mainlanders and the local Taiwanese after the February 28 Incident of 1947 might also help explain how different periods were treated in the history textbooks. The ethnic factor—which operated subconsciously in the minds of those who developed these grand national cultural policies—had significant unintended consequences that led to the demise of the whole Cultural Renaissance project in less than 20 years. Under these policies, a bright, hardworking student could learn about Chinese history, geography, and literature in great detail at school and yet remain ignorant of the people, landscape, and history of the place he or she grew up and lived in. Although students of mainlander family background might have welcomed such a “thoughtful and sensible” scheme to keep them in touch with the “fatherland” they had never seen, their Taiwanese counterparts might have developed a sense of inferiority about coming from the less important region of Taiwan. In short, students were not encouraged to know much about Taiwan. According to these textbooks, students should have learned that Taiwan was an inseparable part of China, a fact that the GMD government considered to be historically undeniable and a sacred destiny for all people in Taiwan.

The Bentuhua Challenge and the Rise of the Taiwan-centered Paradigm When the Chinese Cultural Renaissance Movement was launched in 1966, the external conditions in the international community were already rather unfavorable for the GMD regime. The first major setback

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came in 1971 when Jiang Jieshi’s representatives to the United Nations were forced to give up their seats to the People’s Republic of China’s (PRC’s) delegates in the General Assembly and the Security Council. This incident underscored the fact that the GMD was losing in the competition with the CCP to obtain international support for the claim to be the only legitimate government of China. After 1950, based on the notion that the GMD regime was still recognized by most nations in the world community, Taiwan hosted the entire transplanted Chinese central government and was subject to its rule. According to the constitution of the Republic of China (ROC), there were four tiers of government: national/central, provincial, county/city, and village/ town. Prior to 1970, Taiwanese people were generally kept out of the core of the national governmental bodies because Taiwan was deemed to be only a province, even though Taiwanese people supplied all the taxes and military recruits for the émigré regime. To be able to claim that it represented the Chinese people on both sides of the Taiwan Strait, the GMD government suspended the routine national congress elections and allowed the congresspersons from all Chinese provinces elected in 1947 to extend their terms until the mainland was recovered. To most Taiwanese, these arrangements were bearable and might not have seemed to be unfair to them so long as the central government intended to return to the mainland soon to rule the whole of China.19 The whole deal turned sour, however, when the international community no longer recognized the GMD as the legitimate government of China. The UN incident was the first sign of such a crisis of legitimacy for the GMD regime in the international arena. A series of diplomatic setbacks for Taiwan occurred after 1971 as more and more countries shifted their recognition from the GMD regime to the PRC.20 In facing the national emergency, demands for reform were brought about by a nascent democratic movement. In 1975, the first nativist democratic movement magazine, Taiwan zhenglun (Taiwan Political Review), was published. A younger generation of Taiwanese who grew up in the postwar era became the core members of this new movement. Besides criticizing the government’s inefficient authoritarian rule under President Jiang Jieshi’s national emergency law (dongyuan kanluan shiqi linshi tiaokuan ), they also challenged the GMD regime’s discriminatory practices of excluding Taiwanese from political recruitment, and the deprivation of citizens’ political rights under a situation of “national emergency.” By winning some seats in local elections, they began to pose a real threat to the ruling GMD.

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Jiang Jingguo (Chiang Ching-kuo), who began to take charge in the early 1970s as premier and assumed power after his father Jiang Jieshi died in 1975, responded to these challenges in a rather different manner. Instead of arresting dissidents, he opened up some seats in the national congress, held national elections to fill the new openings, and recruited more young Taiwanese into the GMD power structure. These measures, which were supposed to be remedies to restore popular confidence in the government without changing its official policy of Sinicization, failed to achieve the goal of diffusing the tensions that suddenly erupted after 20 years of authoritarian rule. Once the opposition proposed the idea of a true democratic system, the GMD’s claim of being a “democratic” regime was put under harsh scrutiny. The opposition’s challenge escalated in 1977 when the independent (dangwai ) candidates won an unprecedented number of seats in various elections. To make things worse, the GMD regime suspended an ongoing election in the name of a national emergency when the United States cut off its diplomatic ties with Taiwan and formally recognized the PRC in 1978. In 1979, the Meilidao (Formosa; subtitled “The Magazine of Taiwan’s Democratic Movement”) was formed to serve “the political movement of a new generation.”21 The opposition began to set up branch offices of the magazine all over the island, and held public meetings under the guise of birthday or wedding parties in order to bypass martial law regulations prohibiting political activities, including the formation of national organizations and unapproved public meetings. These actions, of course, were way beyond the level of tolerance the GMD had allowed since 1950 and eventually provoked it to take the radical measure of arresting almost all the prominent leaders of the opposition in the “Kaohsiung Incident” of 1979. To justify its repressive measures against the opposition, the GMD regime again appealed to a situation of national emergency to undermine the legitimacy of demands for democratic reforms.22 The GMD regime adopted reactionary rhetoric to convince its people that radical democratic movements would jeopardize the stability and the economic achievements of Taiwan, especially when it faced great obstacles in the international arena.23 Thus, according to the GMD, democratic reforms as demanded by the opposition were not the most urgent task when the very existence of the Chinese nation was apparently at stake, and indeed might put the nation at risk if they went unchecked. Reference to Vietnam’s fall to communism in 1972 was used to reinforce this reasoning.

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Although the demands for democracy might have been legitimate and fair by any Western standards, domestically they were no match for nationalistic sentiments, especially with those who had once been war refugees and had no real experience with democracy. Most mainland migrants fitted this profile perfectly and were therefore easy targets of this wartime propaganda mentality. For them, social stability, a decent life, and national dignity were more important and meaningful than being able to vote for public officials and to speak out about their grievances. To varying degrees, they also passed down these attitudes to their children. Moreover, most Taiwanese students were indoctrinated to become strong supporters of this hegemonic conviction. This explains why most Taiwanese were unsympathetic to the opposition camp when they were told that a riot had broken out on the streets of Kaohsiung and that the supporters of the democratic movement had attacked and injured more than a 100 policemen. Despite the minor complaints about the technicality of how the GMD regime handled its dissidents, most people seemed to approve or simply keep silent about the issue of the supremacy of nationalist discourse over democratic values and the priority of nationalism over democracy. Before 1979, since the opposition limited their challenges to demanding only democratic reforms, the GMD’s version of national imagination remained untouched throughout the contentious decade of the 1970s. The nationalizing process initiated by the GMD government in the late 1960s progressed smoothly, even at the height of the first wave of the democratic movement. Thus, it is no surprise that the Chinacentered paradigm of textbook writing could be sustained for another decade. Since the major reform in 1968, the course standards for junior high school curricula underwent six revisions: in 1972, 1975, 1983, 1985, 1989, and 1996 respectively.24 The content of national language, history, and geography courses remained largely unchanged in the four minor revisions between 1972 and 1985 because the focus was mainly on adjusting course structures. Major adjustments involving the three core courses did not take place again until 1989 when the Ministry of Education decided to add new courses about Taiwan. This issue is addressed in the next section. First, let us explore further the reasons for the Chinese paradigm’s dominance before 1989. Again, this has to do with developments in the political arena after the Kaohsiung Incident. Taiwan’s democratic movement suffered a major setback when most prominent opposition leaders were arrested and sentenced to jail in an open court-martial after the Kaohsiung Incident. The setback,

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however, paved the way for further development in two ways. First, the GMD’s harsh repression of the opposition backfired when families of the imprisoned leaders received high numbers of sympathy votes in subsequent elections. As a remedy, Jiang Jingguo added more routinely elected “supplementary seats” to the aging membership of the Legislative Yuan, the most important national congressional organ in Taiwan (See table 2.1). Although GMD candidates won most of these seats, the opposition managed to win more and more seats with each election and therefore gained greater influence over national politics. Consequently, a watershed was reached in 1986 when 11 candidates nominated by the newly established DPP won their elections and became legislators. This number of opposition congress members was unprecedented. For the first time, the opposition was able to make a

Table 2.1 Number of Supplementary Legislative Seats Open for Election, 1969–1992 Year

1969 1972 1975 1978a 1980 1983 1986 1989 1992 1995 1998 2001

Number of seats to be elected in Taiwan 7 29 37 38 64 65 73 101 125 128 176 176

Notes: a The 1978 election was suspended because of a national emergency (the United States broke diplomatic ties with Taiwan). 1. The seven legislators elected in 1969 served their terms until 1992. Those who were elected after 1972 served a three-year term. 2. The number of legislators chosen overseas was not included in this table. 3. All members of the Legislative Yuan were to be elected in Taiwan after 1992. Those who were elected before 1989 were deemed as taking “supplementary seats.” They made up less than one-fourth of all members because there were more than 400 members representing mainland provinces who were exempted from election after 1950.

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meaningful challenge within and to the congress. Second, the arrests also facilitated the development of the opposition leadership. After the Kaohsiung Incident, a new group of younger activists rose to assume leadership and introduced different strategies to the opposition camp. The opposition movement was gradually radicalized in terms of its ideologies and protest strategies as a means of mobilizing more people to support their cause. After some heated debates in various dangwai magazines, those who favored the more radical street demonstrations over the moderate parliamentary reforms seemed to have the upper hand in attracting supporters and so took leadership. When the DPP was established in 1986, the so-called mass movement (qunzhong yundong ) was utilized as one of its main strategies. In 1987, the DPP established a special section to enhance its relations with social movement organizations in order to coordinate efforts to pressure the GMD regime. More than 3,000 demonstrations organized either by the DPP or other social movement organizations occurred in the 1980s. The strategies of publishing dissident magazines in the early 1980s and the later mass movements also set the stage for the development of a more radical ideology. In order to counteract the moral appeal of the Chinese nationalist discourse so frequently and effectively used by the GMD, DPP elites began to construct their own version of national imagination. Although a number of overseas Taiwanese independence organizations established after the February 28 Incident of 1947 had promoted the notion of a Taiwanese nation, it was still a political taboo in Taiwan during the 1980s. To claim that Taiwan constituted a nation and deserved to be a sovereign state meant that Taiwan would have to have to cut off its cultural and political ties with China— something unthinkable for those who identified themselves as Chinese. Thus, a different vision of the island’s history had to be constructed by the Taiwanese nationalists since Taiwan’s past was either ignored or distorted by the official version of history writings. A column introducing Taiwan’s history and historical figures regularly appeared in the Meilidao magazine in 1979, reflecting a new native consciousness aroused by the debate over native literature (xiangtu wenxue lunzhan ) between 1977 and 1978. This format was adopted by a number of other dangwai magazines in the early 1980s. Unsatisfied with the official version, they began to seek other sources and visions of history, including those of overseas Taiwanese nationalists such as Shi Ming .25 Bit by bit, different historical frames for Taiwan were formed in the heated polemics of opposition camp writers.26 These new

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historical visions were transmitted to the general public not only through the dissident magazines but also through public speeches at mass gatherings.27 To appeal to the sentiments of supporters, the opposition leaders imprisoned after the Kaohsiung Incident were portrayed as heroes and heroines in a long history of oppressing Taiwanese in mass gatherings. Many members of their families were elected and obtained the highest votes in their districts when they entered the following elections as substitutes for the leaders. A sentiment of national suffering was articulated in these campaigns, achieving some degree of success in constructing a national imagination different from the Chinese. By adding nationalist sentiment into the usual claims of equal civil rights on the basis of democratic values, the opposition was able to overcome the ordeal of the Kaohsiung Incident. What started out as a strategy of political competition gradually evolved into a cultural enterprise of conceiving a new Taiwanese nation. The influence of this new development in politics was not limited to the political arena. Inspired by the notion of a Taiwan nation, many Taiwanese scholars and graduate students committed themselves to studying or exploring aspects of history and culture that were uniquely Taiwanese. Together they created a “Taiwan studies fever” in the late 1980s both in the publishing industry and in the masters’ theses of university history departments. According to my own calculations, there were fewer than 30 books published annually on the topic of Taiwan before 1987; by 1990 it rose to nearly 100 and reached around 450 in 1995 (refer to table 2.2 for actual numbers). Similarly, it was only by 1992 that the proportion of masters theses in history departments on topics concerning Taiwan’s history increased to the impressive level of 20 percent of all masters history theses.28 It may be fair to say from this data that the political movement that proposed the idea of a Taiwanese nation triggered the Taiwan studies fever and not the other way around. These cultural changes had important implications for the revision of high school textbooks. After 1987, some people began to voice their criticism of the Chinese ideologies behind the textbooks in dissident magazines as well as in academic articles and newsletters of National Bureau of Editing and Translation.29 Although there was no consensus on how to present Taiwan’s history at the time, it was nevertheless evident that most people agreed that students ought to learn more about Taiwan in schools, regardless of their ethnic background. For instance, Long Yingtai , a famous liberal mainlander social critic and writer, complained in her newspaper columns that the total number of pages

71 Table 2.2 The Trend to Taiwan Studies, 1952–1998 Year

Proportion of M.A. History theses on Taiwan

Number of newly published books on Taiwan

1952 1953 1954 1955 1956 1957 1958 1959 1960 1961 1962 1963 1964 1965 1966 1967 1968 1969 1970 1971 1972 1973 1974 1975 1976 1977 1978 1979 1980 1981 1982 1983 1984 1985 1986 1987 1988 1989 1990 1991 1992 1993 1994 1995 1996 1997 1998

— — — — 0.00 — — — 0.00 — — — — — — — — 0.00 0.00 0.00 4.35 5.41 6.06 4.35 16.00 2.50 11.54 14.63 9.43 9.30 4.26 6.90 8.33 15.00 11.86 6.67 13.79 11.59 16.13 16.13 20.69 25.53 26.47 26.73 24.00 34.15 36.36

0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 13 1 4 1 2 2 8 1 10 7 15 14 11 12 15 15 22 23 44 65 90 85 135 210 284 288 457 392 472 402

Source: The data are taken from Wang (2001), Appendix 3.

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on the subject of Taiwan in the 12 volumes of primary and secondary school textbooks was insufficient (30 out of 1,200, or less than 3 percent).30 In responding to the mounting complaints and in adjusting to the postmartial law social situation, the Ministry of Education once again substantially revised the requirements for high school courses in 1989. Two major changes are of particular interest to our discussion. First, with regard to the structure, it was decided that a series of new courses entitled “Getting to Know Taiwan” (Renshi Taiwan ), which included history, geography, and social studies, would be added to the first year of junior high school curricula. According to the new design, students would learn about Taiwan in the first year, China in the second, and the world in the third. Second, one important guideline for the new textbooks was that they should avoid being biased toward any particular ethnic group. The committee stressed that the new textbooks should “treat all ethnic groups (minzu ) in China equally” and “should be objective and not emphasize the superiority of any particular ethnic group.”31 Presumably, this means that the committee in charge of the revision was addressing the common criticism that the previous textbooks adopted a Han-chauvinist writing style in presenting the Taiwanese aborigines unfavorably. Furthermore, the new textbooks had to accommodate the diversity of Taiwan’s ethnic composition.32 Since most people agreed that the previous textbooks contained too little material about Taiwan, this major proposed change in school textbooks was set in motion without arousing controversy. However, the scale and the direction of the change were open to different interpretations, especially in the history course, because there is no necessary relation between the number of pages and their content. It is quite possible to write a whole textbook about Taiwan’s history within the existing China-centered paradigm. On the other hand, it is equally plausible that the history of Taiwan can be written from a radically different viewpoint, as was demonstrated by the overseas Taiwanese nationalist historian Shi Min. It depended on the ideological stand of the committee in charge of editing and writing the textbooks. Still, the odds of the first situation prevailing were much smaller than the second one. Given that they had intentionally ignored Taiwan’s history in the past, in most cases the adherents of the China-centered paradigm were neither familiar with the materials relating to Taiwan’s history nor motivated to study them carefully.33 Thus, the change in course requirements opened up the possibility for other contenders with new

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historical visions to take the opportunity to rise to prominence. This seems to be what happened judging from the list of those who eventually took charge of compiling and writing the three new Renshi Taiwan textbooks.34 It is only logical to expect some objections from the supporters of the China-centered paradigm to the new textbooks written according to a new Taiwan-centered paradigm. What most people did not expect was the degree of conflict that this involved.

The Disputes over the Renshi Taiwan Textbooks in 1997 On June 3, 1997, Li Qinghua , a Chinese New Party (CNP) legislator at the time, held a press conference to reveal the “political inclination” of the new Renshi Taiwan textbooks to be used in the following semester. Li stated that the textbooks were written in accordance with the political agenda of promoting Taiwanese independence, had at least 32 serious “mistakes,” and therefore would have to be reedited before they were published. Four scholars specializing in Chinese history also attended the press conference to support Li’s accusations and demands. This incident immediately caught the public’s attention because it was presented as a controversy over national identity and because most newspapers gave prominent coverage to the story. It then triggered the first public dispute over historical perspectives on Taiwan. The dispute was not only limited to academic debates. The general public also became involved as the core members of the different camps later held at least five press conferences and initiated four mass demonstrations to mobilize popular support during the following months. Table 2.3 briefly describes these incidents. Within two months, there were 341 items of news coverage, editorials, columns, and readers’ contributions relating to this dispute in Taiwan’s four major newspapers.35 News of the dispute even made the leading front-page story on two occasions. In sum, these events mark the textbook controversy as one of the principal issues of ethnic conflict in the turbulent decade of the 1990s. The focus of the dispute was how to present Taiwan’s history to students, in particular Taiwan’s historical relations with the imperial Qing dynasty and colonial Japan, as well as the GMD’s rule after 1950.36 The new textbooks presented a viewpoint that can be characterized as Taiwan-centered, while those who challenged the new textbooks tried

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Table 2.3 Press Conferences and Mass Demonstrations Held During the Renshi Taiwan Textbooks Disputes, June–July 1997 Date

Events

June 3

Chinese New Party (Xin dang ) legislator Li Qinghua held a press conference to question: “Is the content of the Renshi Taiwan textbooks appropriate?” Taiwanese Independence Party (Jianguo dang ) and Taiwanese Professors Association (Taiwan jiaoshou xiehui ) jointly held a press conference (“The Controversy over the Renshi Taiwan Textbooks”) to respond to Li Li Qinghua held a second press conference and raised 20 questions to criticize the Renshi Taiwan textbooks A group of over 30 Chinese New Party supporters went to the National Bureau of Editing and Translation to throw eggs at its building in protest The Chinese New Party held a third press conference: “Scholars Demand that the Renshi Taiwan Textbooks be Reedited” Taiwanese Professors Association and DPP legislators started to gathersignatures to support “Don’t Choke the Taiwanese Children’s Right to Breath Taiwan’s Air” petition More than 100 Taiwanese Independence Party members gathered in front of the Ministry of Education to protest against the content of the new textbooks Li Qinghua held a third press conference: “Our Opinions on the Junior High School Textbooks, Renshi Taiwan” Li Qinghua and New Alliance Union (Xin tongmenghui ) led more than 100 supporters to the Ministry of Education and threw eggs to protest adoption of the textbooks Li Qinghua, the New Alliance Union, and the China Unification Union (Zhongguo tongyi lianmeng ) went to the Ministry of Education and threw eggs, demanding that the textbooks be withheld from printing

June 12

June 14 June 21

June 21 June 23

June 26

July 4 July 11

July 12

Source: Based on data compiled by the author from four Taiwanese newspapers.

to restore the integrity of the old China-centered paradigm. I summarize the main differences between the two paradigms based on a detailed content analysis of the topics mentioned in the four newspapers in table 2.4. As can be seen in table 2.4, the dispute revolved mainly around the basic assumption of whether Taiwan was part of China since ancient times. All the detailed arguments and disputes on how to present Taiwan’s past came down to one conviction that could not be validated to everyone’s satisfaction merely by presenting “hard historical

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Table 2.4 Comparison of Major Differences in Content Between the China-centered Paradigm and the Taiwan-centered Paradigm Regarding Taiwan’s history Old paradigm China-centered Basic Assumptions: Taiwan has been part of China since ancient times. Taiwan’s history should be viewed from a China-centered perspective.

New paradigm Taiwan-centered

Throughout history, the Taiwanese people had been subjected to different forms of foreign rule. Taiwan’s history should be viewed from a Taiwan-centered perspective.

Issue 1. What is Taiwan’s relation with China? Taiwan has been a sovereign part of Chinese migrants came to Taiwan and China since the eleventh century started to settle down a long time ago but when Chinese immigrants began to the Chinese government did not establish settle in Taiwan. any effective sovereign rule until 150 years ago. Also, there were other residents on the island long before the Chinese settlers came. Hence, Taiwan was not part of China since ancient times. Issue 2. The historical role of Dutch, Spanish, and Japanese rulers in Taiwan Taiwan was under Spanish and Spanish rulers, Dutch rulers, Koxinga, Dutch rule until Koxinga reclaimed Qing rulers, and Japanese rulers were all it in 1642. Koxinga’s son later foreign powers to the Taiwanese people. surrendered to the Qing dynasty. All foreign rulers left some legacies, for Taiwan remained under Chinese rule better or worse, and are an indelible until 1895 when Taiwan was ceded to feature of Taiwan’s unique history and Japan after the Sino–Japan War. culture. The Spanish, Dutch, and Japanese were foreign rulers and colonizers, whereas Koxinga and the Qing dynasty were not. Issue 3. Taiwan under GMD rule after 1945 After World War II, Japan ceded Taiwan was subjected to the authoritarian Taiwan to China and returned it to rule of the GMD’s émigré regime, another Chinese rule again. foreign power, until 1996 when the Taiwanese people were allowed to elect their own president through popular election for the first time.

evidence.” The essence of the dispute can be best summarized by Li Qinghua’s charge in the first press conference that the new textbooks “intended to cut off the umbilical cord connecting China and Taiwan.” Issue 1 in table 2.4 contrasts the different positions of the two paradigms on the historical relations between China and Taiwan.

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It was evident that the China-centered partisans were concerned that the textbooks were legitimizing and hence promoting a new “official” view that disassociated the historical connections between Taiwan and China. Such a viewpoint was typical of Taiwanese nationalists who for years had been advocating a change from de facto to de jure independence status. The China-centered partisans were worried that this official re-interpretation of the past was paving the way for future political independence. This indicates that while they were fighting over what students should know about Taiwan’s past, they were in fact concerned about the future. The new interpretation of ancient history, however, was not the only matter that was challenged. Li Qinghua and his colleagues also accused the textbooks of “glorifying these colonizers” and “exaggerating Li Denghui’s (Lee Teng-hui) contribution to Taiwan’s democratic achievements” (see Issues 2 and 3 in table 2.4). According to the critics, the new textbooks attributed the success of Taiwan’s modernization to the visions and efforts of the Japanese colonial administration. This representation was radically different from that of previous textbooks in which the Japanese contribution was not recognized at all. It was also very offensive to most mainlanders, especially the veterans, who fought the Japanese during World War II. Li Qinghua and his fellow Chinese historians argued that Taiwan’s modernization began with Liu Mingchuan, the Qing governor of Taiwan before the Japanese occupation in 1895. They were furious that the new textbooks “praised” the Japanese colonizers, the “national enemy,” while playing down the efforts of their own “national ancestors” in Taiwan’s modernization. In a less obvious way, Li Qinghua also questioned the way the textbooks presented the GMD’s rule in postwar Taiwan. He claimed that the textbooks unjustly favored President Li Denghui over the late president Jiang Jingguo in the evaluation of their contribution to Taiwan’s democracy. According to Li, this was done by providing incorrect information to discredit the elder Jiang’s efforts and merits37 and by overemphasizing the significance of popular presidential elections after 1996. The critics clearly showed strong resentment of President Li Denghui as well as the editors of the new textbooks, who “flattered” him with undue credits. The three issues raised by the critics indicated a direct confrontation between the two paradigms. As the editors intended to provide a “balanced” historical account of Taiwan’s past from a Taiwan-centered point of view in these new textbooks, their clashes with supporters of the old China-centered view were inevitable and perhaps predictable.

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The degree of conflict involved in the dispute over Renshi Taiwan textbooks in 1997 was, however, somewhat unexpected. Li Qinghua mobilized CNP supporters to participate in a series of organized and yet emotionally agitated protest actions. Besides demonstrating and throwing eggs, the protestors also rampaged and threatened to burn down the National Bureau of Editing and Translation buildings. In comparison to the lack of controversy when the decision to add new courses about Taiwan was announced in 1989, the severe conflicts in 1997 were a rather unforeseen development. However, they may not appear to be so remarkable if we place the conflict in the context of the political transformation of the 1990s. In a sense, the Renshi Taiwan dispute was only one of the many collective reactions by the mainlanders who felt that they were being marginalized in Taiwan’s bentuhua developments of the 1990s. The cultural and political dimensions of the bentuhua movement during the 1980s were further developed in the 1990s and encountered severe resistance. Bentuhua-inspired reform in the political domain can be best illustrated by the example of the Taiwanese people’s being allowed to elect by popular vote all national congressional members (1991, 1992), the mayors of Taipei and Kaohsiung (1994), the provincial governor of Taiwan (1994), and eventually, the president of the Republic of China (1996). Prior to this, Taiwanese people had not been allowed to elect these public officials either because the constitution was originally designed (in 1947) to accommodate the whole of China, including the mainland, or because these constitutional rights were “temporarily” suspended in a prolonged state of national emergency. Consequently, mainlanders were able to maintain greater influence over national politics before these reforms. Their influence deteriorated rapidly when Li Denghui, a Taiwanese, succeeded the late Jiang Jingguo to become the president in 1988 and a series of bentuhua political reforms began afterward. The fact that most of the important reforms in political institutions took place after Li Denghui became president in 1988 does not mean that he had a clear blueprint or a timetable for national reconstruction when he assumed power. Nor did the mainlanders resent him when he first took power. Li only became a prime target of attack for the mainlanders in general and the CNP in particular because of what he had done in the first few years of his presidency. Given their status as migrants, mainlanders in Taiwan used to rely on the ruling GMD to protect their ideological and material interests. Mainlanders had always been in control of the GMD before Jiang

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Jingguo’s death in 1988. In the post-Jiang era, mainlander elites within the GMD tried to maintain their dominance by attempting to replace Li Denghui in the party primary for the 1990 presidential election. It was the last time that the president was elected by members of the National Assembly that was made up of a majority of mainlander delegates elected back in 1947 when the GMD still ruled the Chinese mainland, and a minority of supplementary seats routinely elected in Taiwan. In response to this challenge within the GMD, Li Denghui appealed to the Taiwanese populace for support. As Li was the first Taiwanese president, his ethnic background was a great asset in obtaining popular support. Even the opposition reacted favorably to Li’s condemnation of ethnic discrimination against the Taiwanese by the mainlanders because it echoed what it had been claiming for years. With popular opinion on his side, Li eventually defeated his challengers in the party primary and became the only presidential candidate on the ballot. In retaliation, senior mainlander delegates in the National Assembly decided to expand their power. In March 1990, college students protested demanding the abolition of the National Assembly when the delegates passed a series of resolutions to expand their power before they cast their votes to elect the president.38 All these incidents set the stage for later radical reforms to the congressional structures. Instead of voluntary retirement without a specific timetable, the senior mainlander delegates were forced to retire by the end of 1991. Moreover, it was decided that there would be no more delegates representing the mainland provinces in the national congress after the 1991 election.39 The bad blood between Li and the mainlander elites escalated when the GMD refused to nominate some mainlander members of the New GMD Alliance (the predecessor of the CNP) to run for the Legislative Yuan in the 1992 election. To make things worse, in a 1993 interview conducted entirely in Japanese by Japanese writer Shibarii Tarh , Li Denghui openly revealed that he considered the GMD to be a foreign regime, and that he was raised as a Japanese until the age of 22. He also stated that the newly reformed GMD was only two years old. It seemed that Li had adopted the Taiwan-centered view since these statements directly contradicted the China-centered view of Taiwanese history. Because these statements were made by the president and the chairman of the GMD, they were especially offensive to the mainlanders. Li’s comments were repeatedly quoted in public gatherings organized by the New GMD Alliance to mobilize popular sentiments against him. Mainlander elites accused Li Denghui of trying to align

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himself with the DPP to form a Taiwanese coalition to subjugate the mainlanders,40 and that Li was secretly implementing a covert agenda of Taiwanese independence. Li’s tolerance toward the issue of Taiwanese independence seemed to substantiate these charges. In 1991, Li lifted the ban on members of the overseas Taiwanese independence organization, the Formosan Association for Public Affairs (FAPA), and allowed them to return to Taiwan and hold their annual meeting. More importantly, he did not take any repressive measures when the DPP decided to advocate conditional Taiwanese independence as part of its platform during the 1991 National Assembly election. Since the election was supposed to replace all the seats in the National Assembly for the first time since 1950, the DPP’s platform underscored its policy of establishing a new nation-state.41 The fact that only members elected in Taiwan would constitute the “national” congress made the notion of Taiwanese independence even more plausible. Although the Committee for National Unification (Guojia tongyi weiyuanhui ) was established in 1991 under Li’s authorization, many mainlander elites still questioned Li’s stand on the Taiwanese independence issue when he failed to take tough measures against the DPP’s bold stance. On August 10, 1993, just before the GMD’s party convention, an elite group of younger GMD belonging to the New GMD Alliance, mostly second-generation mainlanders, left the GMD and established the CNP. They were protesting Li Denghui’s discrimination against mainlanders and his “covert” intention of pursuing Taiwanese independence. The three goals the CNP proposed in its inauguration ceremony were: (1) non-corrupt politics; (2) opposition to Taiwanese independence; and (3) building a new party by destroying an old one (fan jinquan, fan Taidu, huidang zaodong ).42 As the GMD’s power structure gradually became more “Taiwanized” under Li Denghui’s leadership, mainlanders needed a new political representative to act on their behalf in the new political environment. The timely emergence of the CNP provided an attractive alternative for them. The CNP was able to mobilize popular support rather quickly because it responded to the anxiety felt by mainlanders about issues of ethnic oppression. In 1994, Zhao Shaokang , CNP candidate in the Taipei mayoral election, openly appealed to mainlanders’ anxiety about ethnic oppression by Taiwanese.43 Although Zhao did not win the election, the CNP was able to attract nearly 70 percent of mainlanders’ support in Taipei and became their new political voice until 1998 when Ma Yingjiu , also a second-generation mainlander, ran for the position of mayor of Taipei on the GMD’s ballot and attracted

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nearly 80 percent of mainlanders’ votes (see table 2.5 for more details). Ma was able to defeat the very popular incumbent Chen Shuibian of the DPP in 1998 because most mainlander voters in Taipei believed that Chen was a beneficiary of their votes being split between the GMD and CNP candidates in the 1994 election. Near the end of the 1994 campaign, CNP mainlander politicians began to spread the rumor that a top GMD Taiwanese leader (i.e., Li Denghui) had decided to abandon support for one of their own candidates, Huang Dazhou , a Taiwanese, in order to support the DPP’s Chen Shuibian and so prevent the renegade mainlander Zhao Shaokang from winning the election. They called the strategy “abandon Huang to save Chen” (qi Huang bao Chen ). Although there was no evidence to substantiate the accusation behind the rumor, mainlander voters disappointed about the result considered themselves “victims” of strategic ethnic voting by their Taiwanese counterparts. They did not want to Table 2.5 Voting for Different Candidates by Ethnic Background: Voters in the Taipei City Mayoral Elections, 1994 and 1998 Ethnic background of the voters (%)

1994 Huang Dazhou (G, T) Chen Shuibian (D, T) Zhao Shaokang (C, M) 1998 Ma Yingjiu (G, M) Chen Shuibian (D, T) Wang Jianxuan (C, M)

Hoklo

Hakka

Waishengren

22.9 58.9 18.2

27.9 47.5 24.6

20.9 10.0 69.1

43.6 55.3 1.1

51.8 42.7 5.6

79.7 11.8 8.3

Source: The 1994 data are taken from Wang Fuchang , “Taiwan zuqun zhengzhi de xingcheng yu biaoxian: 1994 nian Taibei shi xuanju jieguo zhi fenxi ” (The Formation and Manifestation of Ethnic Politics in Taiwan: An Analysis of the 1994 Taipei Mayor Election), in Yin Haiguang Xiansheng xueshu jijinhui (ed.), Minzhu, zhuanxing? Taiwan xianxiang (Democracy, Transformation? The Taiwan Phenomenon), Taipei: Guiguan, 1998. The data were originally collected by the Center for Electoral Studies, National Cheng-chi University, 1994. The 1998 data are taken from Wang Fuchang, “Zuqun jiechu jihui? Haishi zuqun jingzheng? Bensheng Minnanren zuqun neihan yu diqu chayi moshi zhi jieshi ” (Ethnic Contact or Ethnic Competition? Explaining Regional Differences in Ethnic Consciousness Among Hoklos in Taiwan,” Taiwan shehuixue, 4 (2002): Table 2. The data were originally collected by the Research Center for Changes in Political Systems and Electoral Behaviors, Department of Political Science, National Taiwan University, 1999. Notes: Aborigines and those who responded “Don’t Know,” “Did not Vote,” or “Ineligible to Vote” were deleted in calculating the percentages. “G”: GMD; “D”: DPP; “C”: CNP; “T”: Taiwanese; “M”: Mainlander.

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repeat the same mistake the second time around and were able to combine their votes across party lines to put Ma in charge of City Hall in 1998.44 Similar accusations of strategic ethnic voting by the Taiwanese were repeatedly brought forth by the CNP and mainlander elites in various elections to substantiate the conviction that they were victims of a Taiwanese conspiracy. For example, most mainlanders were led to believe that in the 1996 presidential election, a large proportion of the DPP’s supporters shifted their support to the GMD’s Li Denghui in reciprocation for his alleged support of the DPP’s Chen Shuibian in 1994, and to “ensure” that mainlander independent candidates did not stand a chance.45 The voting behavior of mainlanders in the 1990s clearly reveals ethnic considerations. It is little wonder that the DPP deemed the CNP to be a mainlander party despite the CNP’s strong objection to the label. Although it is difficult and perhaps even pointless to determine whether the DPP or CNP were ethnic parties, it is nevertheless important to determine the degree and the nature of ethnic politics as compared to nationalistic politics in Taiwan. Let us briefly distinguish the two types of politics first. Ethnic politics, according to Wolfinger, refers to the “situations in which ethnicity is an important consideration in the decisions made by voters and politicians.”46 Nationalistic politics, on the other hand, revolves around the nationalist ideology that “proclaims the distinctiveness of a particular people and their right to self-rule in their homeland.”47 While nationalistic politics usually implies struggles over the definition of the boundary of a nation (people) and recognition of the people’s rights for self-determination or forming a sovereign political community, ethnic politics is typically played out among different ethnic groups or communities over conflicting ethnic interests within a given political community. CNP leaders usually denied that they were fighting for ethnic causes and claimed that their struggles were intended to achieve nationalistic goals. The strong stand of the CNP in protesting against Taiwanese independence, a typical nationalistic goal, seems to justify such a claim. As political reforms during Li Denghui’s presidency appeared to be following a program that would lead to Taiwan’s becoming a fully independent nation, the CNP’s objections to Li Denghui’s “dictatorship” might have been motivated by nationalistic rather than ethnic sentiments. The nationalistic implications of political reforms during the Li Denghui era were most clearly shown in the six constitutional amendments he initiated in less than ten years. Table 2.6 lists some amendments to the Constitution of the Republic of China in the

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Table 2.6 Taiwan’s Constitutional Amendments Relating to National Imagination during the Li Denghui Era, 1991–1997 Date

Selected contents

April 22, 1991

1. All seats in the three national congresses opened to election. 2. Termination of national emergency state.

May 27, 1992

1. Reduction of the presidential term from six to four years. 2. The right to elect the president directly extended to all citizens (not just by of members of the National Assembly). The method of election, however, had yet to be determined. 3. A new position of Taiwan provincial governor was created and was to be elected by popular vote.

July 28, 1994

The president should be elected directly by popular vote.

July 18, 1997

Elections for provincial officials, including the governor, to be suspended.

Source: Taken from Lin Bozhou , “Guomin dang zhengquan de Taiwanhua: Guojia tixi zhuanhuan de neihan yu qiyuan zhi fenxi : ” (The Taiwanization of the Nationalist Party: An Analysis of the Inherent Significance and Origin of Changes to the State System), unpublished Masters thesis, Department of Political Science, Su-chow University, Table 4-1, 2003.

Li Denghui era that were particularly relevant to the changing national imagination of Taiwan from being part of China to a politically independent nation. Specifically, the reforms included: the national congress to represent only constituents in Taiwan, the president to be elected only by people under Taiwan’s current sovereignty, and the virtual abolition of provinces as an administrative unit. Taiwan’s constitution connections with China, real or otherwise, were gradually being severed. All these reforms were implemented to reduce the gap between de jure and de facto sovereignty of Taiwan and to overcome the obstacles that arose from the gap. Since the debate over these changes was fueled by different nationalistic doctrines, the resulting conflicts might be seen as national struggles without any ethnic basis. That, however, was not the case. A careful examination of the nature of nationalistic strife in Taiwan may lead to a very different interpretation and explanation of its dynamics. We need to take a closer look at the nationalistic nature of the conflicts. Although nationalistic politics in contemporary Taiwan was typically framed in the mass media and the popular consciousness as a choice between an independent Taiwan or unification with China— the so-called tong-du debate—the reality is much more complex. Rather than an independence/unification dichotomy, the core

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of the debate is in fact a choice between pro- or anti-Taiwanese independence. Very few people in Taiwan now seriously consider the option of being unified with China to be realistic, at least in the shortterm. A few factors may contribute to this situation. First, lengthy separation has resulted in different paths of development creating obstacles for political unification. Taiwan and China were completely separated for almost 40 years prior to the re-opening of cross-Strait exchanges in 1987. When Taiwan’s émigré mainlanders were allowed to visit China again after four decades, most of them felt that they were no longer treated as one of their own in their supposed “homeland”— China, and instead felt more at home in Taiwan. Even though they had no familial ties in Taiwan, very few senior and single mainlander veterans moved back to China to settle when they were allowed to do so. Rather, many of them went to China, married younger Chinese women (who are treated as “foreign brides”) in their late years, and came back to start families in Taiwan. Likewise, Taiwanese investors and businessmen were given the legal status of “semi-foreigner” in China even though they were referred to as “Taiwanese compatriots” (Taibao ). Taiwanese were constantly reminded of their distinctive status when interacting with Chinese nationals. Second, the Chinese government’s responses to the emerging Taiwanese independence movement and its efforts to limit Taiwan’s activities in the international diplomatic arena have had the counter-effect of pushing Taiwanese people further away from China. Most Taiwanese reacted angrily to China’s military threats, diplomatic humiliation, and continuing efforts to prevent Taiwan from participating in international organizations. Thus, an immediate unification with China is hardly an option for most Taiwanese. According to surveys routinely commissioned by the Mainland Affairs Council, those who favor “unification as soon as possible” dropped to less than 5 percent after 1996. The majority indicated that they preferred “maintaining the status quo,” despite the fact that their interpretation of what the status quo may have been varied significantly. The real issue in the current tong-du debate in Taiwan, therefore, is the antagonism between partisans of pro-Taiwanese independence and partisans of anti-Taiwanese independence. Instead of fighting against the external threat of the CCP regime, the DPP’s demand for Taiwanese independence in the mid-1980s was principally aimed at its domestic rival, the GMD. This is related to the circumstances in which Taiwanese nationalist discourse arose in Taiwan’s political arena. Because Taiwan was in a state of de facto independence since the GMD retreated to Taiwan after it lost the Chinese

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civil war in 1949, the Taiwanese nationalist movement’s demand to form an “independent Taiwan nation” was not, in the strict sense, a “separatist” movement.48 Rather, the political opposition proposed it as an alternative way to identify Taiwan and the Taiwanese people’s place in the world. It projected a national imagination that was different from the dominant China-centered one to serve as the underlying ideology for constructing or reconstructing political institutions within the current national boundaries. An immediate goal was to highlight the absurdity of the congressional structure that still claimed to “represent” constituencies in all Chinese provinces 30 years after their relocation to Taiwan (See table 2.1). As stated earlier, the DPP’s adoption of Taiwanese nationalism started out as a political strategy. The DPP was forced to adopt the nationalist discourse to be effective in their pursuit of democratic goals. A true representative democracy in Taiwan, however, would mean that Taiwanese would become the majority ethnic group. The DPP’s promotion of independence in the mid-1980s was principally aimed at realizing a democracy. It tried to persuade the Taiwanese people to abandon the ideology of a “great China” that had been utilized by the GMD government to justify its discriminatory policies against the Taiwanese for almost 40 years. Given that the DPP’s Taiwanese nationalist discourse was developed to counteract the domination of the GMD’s Chinese nationalist claim, and drew heavily on the historical experiences of the Taiwanese people, from the outset it had a strong anti-GMD flavor. This strategy, however, had the unintended consequence of arousing further political competition between the Taiwanese and mainlanders. Because most mainlanders identified with the GMD as their political voice, they resented the advocates of Taiwanese nationalism. They felt rejected or even humiliated by the Taiwanese nationalist discourse that portrayed the GMD as a foreign regime and implied that mainlanders were “accomplices” of a repressive government. They feared that their collective memory and cultural identity would not be respected in an independent Taiwan that treated them as “outsiders.” They were also afraid that their worthiness and rightful place in Taiwan were challenged and their loyalty to Taiwan was questioned in the process of the bentuhua transformation. Mainlanders were fighting for their social dignity and rightful place in Taiwan when they engaged in antiTaiwanese independence activities. Matters became more complicated when the Chinese government became impatient with Taiwan’s bentuhua development in the 1990s, especially after Li Denghui assumed power. The Chinese government

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did not play an active role in Taiwan’s nationalistic politics before the 1990s because the GMD under Jiang Jingguo’s leadership maintained strong opposition to Taiwanese independence. When Li Denghui did not censure the DPP for its open promotion of Taiwanese independence in the 1991 campaign, however, the Chinese government considered it a sign that Li favored independence. Also, the CCP regime was very upset about Li’s attempt to make Taiwan more visible in the international community by personally engaging in diplomatic affairs. As a means of ending Taiwan’s international political isolation, Li visited a number of countries as the president of the Republic of China under protest from China. In particular, Li’s 1995 visit to Cornell University in the United States as an alumnus was interpreted as an act to pursue Taiwanese independence and caused great tension between Taiwan and China. The Chinese government began to intimidate Taiwan by making military threats and hostile remarks in international organizations, provoking strong emotional reactions from the Taiwanese people. It was quite evident that whenever the CCP regime made an unfriendly move, the popular support for independence increased whereas support for unification declined. Although most people expected the external threats from the Chinese government to create a favorable condition for social integration in Taiwan, the reality seems to be the opposite. Since the reestablishment of cross-Strait exchanges in 1987, many mainlanders have visited China either for family reunion or for business and cultural exchange. The experience of Chinese nationalist education under the GMD regime had kept the mainlanders in touch with their “homeland” in China. These experiences resulted in a difference between the Taiwanese and the mainlanders after 1987. China became a popular tourist destination and a favorite subject for television shows. Cultural exchanges with China were encouraged by the GMD regime as a measure to counteract the bentuhua movement in Taiwan. Government officials with strong Chinese nationalist sentiments drafted policies and laws to facilitate these exchanges. The National Science Council of Taiwan, for instance, enacted a regulation in 1992 to sponsor cross-Strait academic and cultural exchanges.49 Although the law did not favor applicants on the basis of ethnic background, mainlander scholars and cultural workers nevertheless were the main beneficiaries of these new policies because of their familiarity with and interest in China. Mainlanders’ new relations with China became targets of suspicion when the Chinese government made military threats against Taiwan in

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the early 1990s. The most famous incident was the Chinese missile exercise off Taiwan’s coast in 1995 before the first presidential election. The Chinese hostility toward Taiwan not only enhanced the development of the Taiwan independence movement, but also increased ethnic distrust in Taiwan. Out of frustration against the Chinese threat, angry Taiwanese nationalists suspected that mainlanders with good connections to the Chinese authorities would sell out Taiwan’s interest to the “enemy.”50 They were especially critical of the highly visible younger political elites who openly embraced Chinese nationalist sentiments.51 The New GMD Alliance’s and later the CNP’s well-known position of anti-Taiwanese independence and their close relations with China were easy targets. On September 25, 1994, during the election campaigns for the Taipei and Kaohsiung mayors and the Taiwan provincial governor, a severe conflict broke out between CNP and DPP supporters when the former held a public speech to mobilize support in Kaohsiung. Agitated DPP supporters shouted “Go Back! You Chinese Pig!” (Zhongguo zhu gunhuiqu ) at the CNP members. Most mainlanders reacted furiously to this slogan and saw it as evidence of discrimination against them, even though the slogan was not initially directed at mainlanders.52 Mainlanders were annoyed that their loyalty to Taiwan was questioned because of their ethnic background and their personal, familial, or business connections with China. At a 1993 press conference, the New Tide faction (xin chaoliu ) of the DPP openly accused the New GMD Alliance of being a group that would “sell out Taiwan to the enemy” (mai Tai jituan ). Some DPP members even demanded that the New GMD Alliance members should draw a clear line between themselves and CCP regime in China before they formed the new party.53 Accusations about the CNP’s relationship with the CCP regime have haunted it since its establishment. Due to the military threat posed by the CCP, political distrust of the mainlanders constituted a major element of Taiwan’s ethnic politics during the 1990s.54 On the other hand, due to the new political developments, the CNP became a major agent of resistance to the bentuhua movement in Taiwan. As a result of the CNP’s efforts in mobilizing consensus among the populace through collective action, most mainlanders began to develop a sense of being in a disadvantaged position as an ethnic minority in Taiwan. They felt that the majority Taiwanese conspired politically against them.55 The sense of injustice felt by mainlanders arising from the perception of ethnic discrimination against them was a major motivation behind their political behavior.

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As such, there was an ethnic basis to the nationalist disputes between pro- and anti-Taiwanese independence partisans. The intermixing of ethnic and nationalistic politics involving Taiwanese and mainlanders, along with the involvement of the GMD, DPP, and CNP, provided the political context for the Renshi Taiwan textbook dispute in 1997. Specifically, the dispute occurred when the CNP refused to cooperate with the GMD and DPP in passing a constitutional amendment to reduce the capacity of the Taiwan Provincial government—a major step in political indigenization. The Renshi Taiwan textbooks became such a hot topic of debate because they confirmed the CNP’s suspicions about the direction that Taiwan’s bentuhua movement was taking. The writings on history in the textbooks symbolized a change in the official position on how to interpret Taiwan’s past and to project its future. This aroused such a high degree of conflict because mainlanders still had some dominance in the cultural domain as their ranks included professional historians, high school teachers, government civil servants, and media workers. Compared with other ethnic minorities in Taiwan, such as the Hakkas or the aborigines, mainlanders had more resources at their disposal to launch an organized opposition to the new Taiwanese dominance, at least in the cultural domain. More importantly, the recently formed CNP played a key role in sustaining this effort by rallying mainlanders from different domains. Although the CNP did not engage in the dispute directly, it was an important actor because of its past role as a political voice for the mainlanders.56 While the mainlander elites in the CNP were fighting to maintain their political influence, the mass were attracted to these political movements because they were concerned about being marginalized by the rising Taiwanese nationalism in their only homeland. However they phrased it, their strong emotional reactions to the high school history textbook may be attributed to their feelings of being rejected in their own homeland.

Concluding Remarks Despite the visibility of the conflict, the Renshi Taiwan dispute ended suddenly and peacefully after the committee in charge made a number of minor revisions before publication.57 There seems to be little further development on the issue. Yet there are several lessons we can learn from this dispute. First, the paradigm shift in high school textbooks from being Chinacentered to being Taiwan-centered seems to be mainly a result of a parallel change that occurred earlier in the broader political environment.

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Our preliminary sketch of the processes suggests that the government institution responsible for editing the textbooks was rather passive in adjusting to new social developments. The committee in charge of writing the new textbooks consisted mostly of adherents of the new paradigm. They were able to gain access to the textbook writings because the success of the new paradigm had spilled over from the political into the cultural arena. As such, the content of the textbooks typically reflected the ideologies of those in control of the state’s administrative apparatus. In this case, it was the newly emerged Taiwanese faction within the GMD under Li Denghui’s leadership. The dispute over the Renshi Taiwan textbooks as a manifestation of a cultural battle in Taiwan’s indigenization process needs to be examined as a spillover of similar developments in the political domain. Second, while it may seem that the radically different responses to the indigenization process in the realm of textbook writing in different periods can be explained by the development of nationalistic politics, I argue that the influence of ethnic politics should not be overlooked. As shown in my analysis of the development of nationalistic politics in Taiwan, it is evident that the generally overlooked ethnic factor played a key role in determining the timing and the trajectory of these developments. For instance, the Chinese Cultural Renaissance Movement launched by the GMD regime in 1966 was typically seen as a nationalizing process to enhance solidarity among all stakeholders. There was, however, more to it. Why did a cultural project designed to enhance national unity end up creating an internal challenge that eventually lead to its own demise? The answer lies in the dynamics of Taiwanese– mainlander ethnic politics during the 1960s and 1970s. Similarly, why did the Renshi Taiwan textbooks, which are supposed to be an element in the new bentuhua-oriented nationalizing project of the 1980s and 1990s, create internal conflict? Again, the analysis of the nature and dynamics of ethnic politics provides more fruitful explanations than nationalist politics.

Appendix Renshi Taiwan (Social Studies volume) Contents Chapter 1 Our land and people Section 1 Our stage Section 2 Our identity

Why Bother about School Textbooks? Section 3 We are all Taiwanese Chapter 2 We are not alone Section 1 Who are we? (traditional social affiliations) Section 2 Walk with me (modern voluntary associations) Chapter 3 The rhythm of life Section 1 Our life course Section 2 Unforgettable dates (Han and Aboriginal festivals) Chapter 4 The world of religions Section 1 Temples of the many gods Section 2 The essence of religious beliefs Chapter 5 Growing from learning Section 1 The family as a classroom Section 2 Life long education Chapter 6 An energetic culture Section 1 Cultural assets Section 2 The Taiwanese spirit Chapter 7 Poverty and affluence Section 1 Economic development Section 2 Beyond affluence Chapter 8 A taste of democracy Section 1 We can be our own masters Section 2 We can reform our society Chapter 9 A sound society Section 1 Let the home become heaven Section 2 Let prisons becomes less crowded Section 3 Let the environment become clean again Section 4 Let learning become a hobby Chapter 10 Building a new Taiwan Section 1 Our roles Section 2 Our blueprint

Renshi Taiwan (History volume) Chapter 1 Introduction Chapter 2 Pre-history era Section 1 Cultural evolution Section 2 Aboriginal societies Chapter 3 The era of international competition Section 1 Activities of the Han and the Japanese Section 2 Dutch and Spanish rule Chapter 4 Koxinga’s rule of Taiwan Section 1 Politics, culture, and education Section 2 Settlement and trading Chapter 5 The first part of the Qing era Section 1 Political change Section 2 Economic activity Section 3 Social and cultural development

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Chapter 6 The latter part of the Qing era Section 1 The opening of ports and international trade Section 2 Japanese military invasion and the Qing court’s change in policy regarding rule of Taiwan Section 3 Active construction after the establishment of the province Chapter 7 Politics and the economy during the era of Japanese colonial rule Section 1 The Republic of Taiwan and the military resistance against the Japanese Section 2 Political and social control Section 3 The development of the colonial economy Chapter 8 Education, scholarship, and society during the era of Japanese colonial rule Section 1 Educational and academic development Section 2 Social change Section 3 Social movements Chapter 9 Political changes during the period of the Republic of China on Taiwan Section 1 Politics in the early stage Section 2 Political development after the government’s retreat to Taiwan Section 3 Diplomatic and cross–Strait relations Chapter 10 Economy, culture, and society during the period of the Republic of China on Taiwan Section 1 Economic development Section 2 Education and culture Section 3 Social change Chapter 11 Future prospects

Notes 1. For example, the government’s severe Broadcasting and Television Law enacted in 1976 reduced broadcasting time in Taiwanese regionalects to less than 10% in the case of television. In the 1978 election for the “supplementary” congressional seats-postponed due to the United States’ breaking off diplomatic ties with Taiwan––as part of its platform the opposition (dangwai ) movement “opposed ethnic and language discrimination against Taiwanese; and opposed regulations that restricted the time of TV programs broadcast in regionalects” (fandui shengji he yuyan qishi, fandui xianzhi dianshi fangyan jiemu shijian , ). See Li Xiaofeng , Taiwan minzhu yundong sishi nian (Forty Years of Democratic Movements in Taiwan), Taipei: Zili wanbao chubanshe, 1987, 129. Dissident magazines, as well as mainstream media, followed discussion of this topic in the early 1980s. According to my calculation, of the 30 essays collected in the first Chinese-language book dealing with Taiwan’s language issues, 5 were published before 1975, 3 were published between 1976 and 1979, 22 (over 70%) were published after 1980; see Lin Jinhui (ed.), Taiwan yuyan wenti lunji (Collection of Essays on Taiwan’s Language Issues), Taipei: Taiwan wenyi zazhishe, 1983. Six essays in this book

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also talked about the preservation of local culture in drama, pop music, and even classical literature. Also, as I discuss later in this chapter, many critics began to demand that more pages should be devoted to Taiwan in school textbooks in the early 1980s. Hsiao and Sullivan argue that both the GMD and the Chinese communist leaders did not consider Taiwan to be part of China prior to 1943, when a consensus about Taiwan’s future was reached among the Allied leaders at the Cairo meeting. See Frank T. S. Hsiao and Lawrence R. Sullivan, “The Chinese Communist Party and the Status of Taiwan, 1928–1943,”Pacific Affairs, 52.3 (1979): 446–467. See Chen Cuilian , “Qu zhimin yu zai zhimin de duikang: Yi 1946 nian ‘Taiwaren nuhua’ lun wei jiaodian : ‘ ’ ” (Decolonization vs. Recolonization: The Debate over Tairen nuhua of 1946 in Taiwan), Taiwanshi yanjiu, 9.2 (2002): 145–201. It was estimated that at least 10,000 Taiwanese were killed or selectively murdered by the GMD government in the so-called the March Massacre following the uprising, even though many of them had nothing to do with the uprising. For more details on the incident, see George H. Kerr, Formosa Betrayed, Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1965 and Lai Tse-han, Raymond H. Myers, and Wei Wou, A Tragic Beginning: The Taiwan Uprising of February 28, 1947, Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1991. This incident led to mutual distrust between the mainlanders and Taiwanese, and had a profound influence on Taiwanese politics for the next 40 years. See Lai et al., A Tragic Beginning, 4–5. It was very similar to Robert E. Park’s description of the “accommodation” of new immigrants by their hosts in the American cities in the Midwest during the nineteenth century. See Robert E. Park, Race and Culture, Glencoe, II: Free Press, 1950. Yin Haiguang , a mainlander liberal philosophy professor at the National Taiwan University, wrote an article entitled “Fangong dalu wenti ” (The Problem of Recovering the Mainland) in the July 1957 issue of Free China as the first article of a series discussing contemporary problems in Taiwan. See Warren Tozer, “Taiwan’s ‘Cultural Renaissance’: A Preliminary View,” The China Quarterly, 43 (July–September 1970): 81–99; Allen Chun, “From Nationalism to Nationalizing: Cultural Imagination and State Formation in Postwar Taiwan,” The Australian Journal of Chinese Affairs, 31 (1994): 49–69; and Yang Congrong , “Wenhua jiangou yu guomin rentong: Zhanhou Taiwan de Zhongguohua : ” (Cultural Construction and National Identity: Sinicization of Taiwan in the Postwar Era), unpublished M.A. Thesis, Institute of Sociology and Anthropology, National Tsing-hua University, Taipei, 1992. According to Tozer, “Cultural Renaissance,” 90–91, domestic targets of the Chinese Cultural Renaissance Movement were liberal scholars such as Hu Shi and Li Ao who, in the spirit of the May Fourth Movement, had promoted “wholesale westernization” as a means to national salvation.

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10. The movement to promote the national language (Mandarin) in Taiwan started in 1946 when GMD first took control of Taiwan. Although the government regulated against speaking Taiwanese regionalects in school, it was much more lenient before 1970, at least in the degree of strictness in enforcing regulations against the offenders. The main target of the national language movement in the 1940s and 1950s was Japanese, and not the Taiwanese regionalects. In fact, the GMD government even proposed restoring the Taiwanese regionalects in its language policy when the movement was launched in 1946. See Taiwan Jianshe, Volume 1 , (The Construction in Taiwan, volume 1), Taipei: Minzhi chubanshe, 1950, 145. Under the changed circumstance of the 1970s, the Ministry of Education enacted the Regulations on Promoting the National Language (Guoyu tuixing banfa in January 1973, requesting all government agencies to use Mandarin on all occasions. Although the regulations did not single out any language to repress, it was nevertheless generally understood that Taiwanese regionalects were the main targets. 11. The Broadcasting and Television Law (guangbo dianshi fa ) enacted in 1976 required that the proportion of programs in Mandarin should be not less than 55% for AM radio, 70% for FM radio and television (Section 19 of Implementation Details), and that the proportion of Taiwanese regionalects should be gradually reduced annually (Section 20). See Zhang Jinhua , “Duoyuan wenhua zhengce yu woguo guangbo zhengce: Yi Taiwan yuanzhumin yu kejiazuqun wei li ” (Multiculturalism and Taiwan’s Broadcasting Policies: The Cases of Aborigines and Hakka), Guangbo yu dianshi, 3.1 (1997): 1–23. By comparison, the previous regulations dating from 1963 specifying that Mandarin should be the main language used in radio and television broadcasting and that the proportion of programs broadcast in Taiwanese regionalects should not exceed 50% was more tolerant. According to Li Jinquan , the percentage of TV programs broadcast in Taiwanese regionalects was around 50% in the early 1970s before the government’s new intervention; it was reduced to around 12–13% after 1976, and to 7–9% in 1985. See Li Jinquan, “Dianshi wenhua he chu qu? Chu zai Zhongguo jie yu Taiwan jie de jiafengzhong ” (Where Is TV Culture Heading? Caught between the China Complex and the Taiwan Complex, Zhongguo luntan, 25.1 (1987): 148–58. 12. The editors of the textbooks stated: “The purpose of these textbooks is to inspire students’ national spirit and to make them become acquainted with their fatherland.” 13. Supposedly during the Warring States Period (476–221 BC), Tian Dan, a warlord of Qi , who lost most of his country to the state of Yan , except for two small townships (Jimo and Ju ), was able to recover his lost homeland after reorganizing his people to pursue the common goal. Jiang Jieshi even wrote down the famous motto “wu wang zai Ju ” (Don’t forget about the days in Ju!)and had it carved on a mountain in Quemoy when he visited the island in 1952 as a symbol of inspiration to remind people of this task. The portrait of the motto carved on the rock in Quemoy was one

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of the most popular images on the postage stamps during the 1950s and 1960s. The military even launched a wu wang zai ju movement in 1964 to reaffirm their intention of recovering the mainland. See Liu Xiaofen , “Woguo zhongxue lishi jiaokeshuzhong Taiwanshi jiaocai de fenxi ” (An Analysis of the Materials on Taiwanese History in High School History Textbooks), unpublished M.A. thesis, Graduate Institute of Education, National Chengchi University, 1991. See Jian Nan “Guangfang shuofa de misi: Cong buding jiaokeshu tan Taiwanshi yishi ” (The Myth of the Official Version: Taiwan Historical Consciousness and Officially Edited Textbooks), Nanfang, 6 (1987): 8–13. Liu Mingchuan (1836–1896) first came to Taiwan after the 1884 Sino–France War as the governor of Fukien Province when Taiwan was still part of Fukien. Liu became the first governor of Taiwan Province when the Qing authorities decided to grant Taiwan status as a separate province in 1885. In his six-year tenure as governor of Taiwan (1885–1891), Liu initiated a series of modernizing projects, including building railways, establishing new Western-style schools, acculturating and protecting the aborigines, reforming taxation, promoting agriculture, and so on. Taiwan became China’s most modernized province under Liu’s administration. See Shi Jisheng et al., Yishi xingtai yu Taiwan jiaokeshu (Ideology and Taiwan’s Textbooks), Taipei: Qianwei chubanshe, 1993. With the signing of the Sino-American Mutual Defense Treaty in 1954, Taiwan was incorporated into the union against the communist bloc. Hence, Taiwan and Japan were on the same side in the Cold War even though they do not have a formal diplomatic relationship after Japan recognized the PRC regime in 1972. There were always some challenges to this “myth of recovering the mainland” in Taiwan even in the 1950s and 1960s by mainlanders as well as Taiwanese. The Free China magazine, whose contributors were mostly liberal intellectuals of mainlander background, raised the issue in 1958. Peng Mingmin , a Taiwanese who was the chair of the Political Science Department at the National Taiwan University and his two students also propagandized the idea in 1964 and were arrested. Before 1971, while still a member of the United Nations, Taiwan had more formal diplomatic relationships with other countries than did the PRC. The situation completely reversed after 1971. See the publisher’s notes by Huang Xinjie , “Gongtong lai tuidong xin shidai zhengzhi yundong !” (Let Us Promote a Political Movement for a New Era), appeared in the first issue of Meilidao, published in August 1979. See Wang Fuchang , “Taiwan fandui yundong de gongshi dongyuan: 1979–1989 nian liang ci tiaozhan gaofeng de bijiao : ” (Consensus Mobilization of the Political Opposition in Taiwan: Comparing Two Waves of Challenges, 1979–1989), Taiwan zhengzhi xuekan, 1 (1996): 129–210.

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23. Wu argues that reactionary rhetoric, similar to that proposed by Charles Hirschman, was used by social scientists close to the GMD regime to provide a “theoretical” rationale to explain why Taiwan was not ready to practice a Western-style democracy and to show that a “careless” move in the name of democratic reform might jeopardize Taiwan’s hard won achievements. See Wu Naide , “Fandong lunshu he shehui kexue: Taiwan weiquanzhuyi shiqi de fan minzhulun : ” (Social Sciences and Rhetoric of Reaction: Defending Taiwan’s Authoritarianism), Taiwanshi yanjiu, 8.1 (2001): 125–161, and Albert O. Hirschman, The Rhetoric of Reaction: Perversity, Futility, Jeopardy, Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press, 1991. 24. See Ministry of Education, Guozhong kecheng biaozhun (Course Standards for Junior High School), Taipei: Ministry of Education, 1990. 25. Shi Ming was the author of the famous Taiwanjin yonhakunen shi (The Four-Hundred Year History of the Taiwanese), Tokyo: Onha shobh, 1962; (Chinese translation) Taiwanren sibainian shi, San Jose, CA: Paradise Culture Associates. 26. A case in point here is the heated debate on the issue of reevaluating the legacy of Japanese colonial rule in Taiwan. In 1983, the pro-dangwai movement Shengen magazine published an article calling the Japanese colonial official Goth Shinpei the “founder of Taiwan’s modernization.” It was immediately criticized by its Chinese-nationalist leftist counterpart, Xiachao , as “treating a thief as one’s father” (ren zei zuo fu ). For more detailed discussion of this debate see Wang Fuchang , “Minzu xiangxiang, zuqun yishi yu lishi: Renshi Taiwan jiaokeshu zhengyi fengbo de neirong yu mailuo fenxi ” (National Imagination, Ethnic Consciousness, and History: Content and Context Analyses of the Getting to Know Taiwan Textbook Disputes), Taiwanshi yanjiu, 8.2 (2001): 145–208. 27. See Wang Fuchang, “Taiwan fandui yundong de gongshi dongyuan: 1979–1989 nian liang ci tiaozhan gaofeng de bijiao,” for more details. 28. Quoting figures provided in a study by Peng Minghui, Q. Edward Wang (“Taiwan’s Search for National History: A Trend in Historiography,” East Asian History, 24 [2002]: 99, 103) writes: “Prior to 1970 over 93% of history majors selected topics in Chinese history for their MA and PhD theses. During the 1970s and the 1980s, over 80% of students still chose the field of Chinese history, whereas those focusing on the history of Taiwan numbered less that 10%.” Based on this same source, Wang further notes “between 1991 and 2000, the percentage of those choosing Taiwan history rose to 23.17%. The increasing popularity of Taiwan history among students was achieved at the cost of the interest in Chinese history (down from over 90% pre-1970 to 66% in the 1990s).” 29. For more references, see Wang Fuchang, “Minzu xiangxiang, zuqun yishi yu lishi: Renshi Taiwan jiaokeshu zhengyi fengbo de neirong yu mailuo fenxi,” 173. 30. See Long Yingtai, Yehuo ji wai ji (The Wildfire Collection, Volume 2), Taipei: Yuanshen, 1987, 44.

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31. See Ministry of Education, Guozhong kecheng biaozhun, 869. 32. See Ministry of Education, Guozhong kecheng biaozhun. 33. There were, of course, exceptions to this rule. Both Wang Xiaobo and Yin Zhangyi , for instance, study Taiwan’s history from a Chinese point of view. Wang Xiaobo published a number of books on the Taiwanese people’s rebellion against the Japanese colonial government and Yin Zhangyi studied the settlement of Chinese immigrants during the Qing period. The number of such works, however, was far fewer than those works inspired by the Taiwanese nationalist view. 34. Of the 23 committee members in charge of editing the Renshi Taiwan: History, 10 were professional historians holding teaching or researching positions at universities (others were mostly high school teachers). Their devotion to studying Taiwan’s history may be evaluated by their supervision of history department Masters theses. According to my calculations, the 8 Taiwanese historians had in total supervised a total of 61 Masters theses on Taiwan’s history, 12 on Chinese history, and 1 on Western history. The two mainlander historians combined, on the other hand, had supervised 16 Masters theses on Taiwan’s history and 43 on Chinese history. 35. The four major newspapers I surveyed are: Zhongguo shibao , Lianhe bao , Ziyou shibao Minzhong ribao . Each one of them contains a large section of letters to the editor (duzhe toushulan ), which occupy up to a full page in each day’s edition. This section provides a good indicator for identifying popular current topics. 36. Li Qinghua and his colleagues considered the Geography volume to be basically accurate. Therefore they focused their criticism on the History and Social Studies volumes. A list of the chapter titles in these two volumes is included as an appendix to this chapter. 37. The “evidence” for this accusation was a clear misprint in the additional information in the trial edition of the Instructor’s Manual for Renshi Taiwan: Social Studies, which stated that Li Denghui lifted martial law in 1987 (page 91). It was Jiang Jingguo who ordered the lifting of martial law. 38. The extensions of their power included: longer terms (from six to nine years), mandatory annual meetings, and the right to veto and to write new laws. 39. Most mainlander elites in the GMD still favored the notion of allowing some representatives of mainland provinces in 1989. For instance, Li Huan , the secretary general of the GMD, considered an election of all congressional seats as “unconstitutional” (see Zhongyang ribao, January 1, 1989). After the student protest in March 1990, however, DPP and GMD delegates were able to reach a consensus of no mainland representatives in the future congress when they met in July 1990 to discuss critical national affairs as demanded by the student protesters. 40. For instance, Liang Surong , speaker of the Legislative Yuan and a high-ranking mainlander official, complained that mainlanders were being pushed aside by Taiwanese comrades in the GMD on the issue of congressional reform. See Ziyou shibao, July 17, 1990. 41. Before 1990, only a small proportion (less than 20%) of congressional seats were subject to routine elections held in Taiwan. The GMD regime called them “elections for supplementary seats (zeng’e xuanju ).”

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42. See Lianhe bao, August 11, 1993. Presumably, the first goal was intended for Li Denghui, who was considered to be affiliated with Taiwanese capitalists and rich merchants. The second goal also targeted Li for his tolerance toward the Taiwanese independence issue. 43. In a nationally televised debate among the candidates held in October 2, 1994, Zhao Shaokang openly complained that mainlanders were treated as outsiders even after four decades of settlement in Taiwan and their numerous contributions to the development of Taiwan (see Zhongguo shibao, October 3, 1994). Zhao was referring to a slogan shouted by DPP supporters at CNP members and supporters when the latter held a public gathering in Kaohsiung a week earlier. 44. A few days before the election, the CNP candidate Wang Jianxuan openly announced his support for GMD candidate Ma Yingjiu, who was leading in all polls, and asked the CNP supporters to vote for Ma to ensure that Chen Shuibian be defeated. 45. Again, in the 2000 presidential election, Song Chuyu (James Soong) , another former GMD mainlander leader who parted with Li Denghui after serving as Taiwan’s provincial governor, was regarded by mainlanders as a victim of Li’s alleged intention of supporting DPP Chen Shuibian across party lines at the expense of the GMD’s Lian Zhan . Song, running as an independent candidate, eventually lost the 2000 election by a narrow margin (less than 3%). 46. See Raymond E. Wolfinger, “Some Consequences of Ethnic Politics,” in M. Kent Jennings and L. Hermon Zeigler (eds.), The Electoral Process, Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, Inc., 1966, 43. Esman, in a similar way, defines ethnic politics as the result of ethnic mobilization: “the process by which an ethnic community becomes politicized on behalf of its collective interests and aspirations.” See Milton J. Esman, Ethnic Politics, Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1994, 28. 47. See Esman, Ethnic Politics, 28. Gellner’s classic definition of nationalism is very similar to that of Esman: “Nationalism is primarily a political principle, which holds that the political and the national unit should be congruent.” See Ernest Gellner, Nations and Nationalism, Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1983, 1. 48. Most separatist movements entail some form of sovereignty change in the national boundary of people or/and territory. Despite its sovereignty claim over Taiwan, the PRC never ruled Taiwan after its establishment in 1949. Taiwan was under the ROC sovereignty, which in reality included only Taiwan and some small surrounding islands, since 1949. The GMD government nevertheless continued to claim sovereignty over the Chinese mainland, and even Outer Mongolia (now the Mongolian Republic), until May 1, 1991, when President Li Denghui announced the official termination of the state of national emergency. As such, Taiwan was in a state of de facto independence, except in official ideology, when the movement for Taiwanese independence arose in the mid-1980s. To the degree that there will be no real change of sovereignty should Taiwan become independent, the Taiwanese independence movement is not, in the strict sense, a “separatist” movement.

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See Wang Horng-luen, “Rethinking the Global and the National: Reflections on National Imaginations in Taiwan,” Theory, Culture & Society, 17.4 (2000): 93–117, for a similar argument. The 1992 regulation allows the National Science Council to provide grants for scholars in Taiwan to visit China on a short-term basis. To deal with the new situation, several other related laws regulating cross-Strait exchanges were enacted in the early 1990s: “Regulations on the Relations between People in Taiwan and Mainland China” (Taiwan diqu yu dalu diqu renmin guanxi tiaoli ) in 1992, and “Regulation on Taiwanese Entering Chinese Mainland” (Taiwan diqu renmin jinru dalu diqu xuke banfa ) in 1993. For example, Li Qinghua, then a member of the New GMD Alliance famous for arranging the Qin dynasty terracotta warriors (Qin yong ) to be exhibited in Taiwan, was severely criticized by some DPP members for his close relationship with China. Some readers may wonder about the substance of the Chinese nationalist sentiment among the young mainlander political elites given that they, like most people in Taiwan, do not anticipate that Taiwan will be unified with China in the short term. It is really difficult to position them in this matter because they never clearly spelled out their political agenda in public (except their strong objection to Taiwanese independence). Nevertheless, it is fair to say that they are pursuing an eventual unification between Taiwan and China despite the lack of consensus on a specific timetable or format. At present, their Chinese nationalist sentiment is clearly revealed in two areas. First, their efforts to preserve Chineseness against the overwhelming cultural and political trend of bentuhua development in Taiwan. And, second, their efforts to promote all kinds of exchanges across the Taiwan Strait, including business, cultural, academic, scientific, and so forth. In this sense, the politics of bentuhua has a strong ethnic flavor despite its nationalistic banner. The often quoted slogan was originally directed at Zhu Gaozheng , a former DPP legislator who parted with the DPP and later became the CNP’s candidate for Taiwan Provincial Governor in 1994. The pronunciation of his surname “Zhu” is the same as for “pig” in Mandarin Chinese. His Chinese nationalist ideology, perceived as ethnic betrayal, was the target of the protest. His critics wanted him to “go back” because Kaohsiung was deemed a sacred place for the Taiwanese democratic and independence movements that was not to be “disgraced” by Zhu’s and the new GMD Alliance’s anti-Taiwanese independence slogans. Given the tense circumstances and the sensitive timing of its first appearance, the slogan could of course also be extended to mainlander elites who were more friendly to the CCP regime in China than to the GMD’s Li Denghui. Also, as DPP supporters were very upset over the New GMD Alliance’s slogan of “Get Rid of Taiwanese independence” (quzhu Taidu ); some might have used it in retaliation. This turned out to be the case judging from what happened later. The issue got out of hand when it was quoted out of context by the mainlander elites. Zhu left the DPP mainly because he was a Chinese nationalist. Ironically, Zhu was 1 of the 11 DPP

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Fu-chang Wang legislators during the period 1986–1989, and was largely responsible for storming the Legislative Yuan and making it a focus of national attention. Most people still remember his televised stunt of using symbolic physical violence during the congressional sessions to protest the absurdity of the congressional structure dominated by the senile mainlander delegates. Obviously Zhu’s radical measures were tactics for pursuing democracy rather than Taiwanese independence. Many die-hard DPP supporters felt betrayed by Zhu’s association with the CNP as Zhu was one of the most popular political stars when the DPP widely used the strategy of mass demonstrations to mobilize popular support. Zhu’s performance in the Legislative Yuan won him the nickname of “Taiwan’s No. 1 Battleship” (Taiwan diyi zhanjian ) among the DPP’s grassroots supporters. Many of his supporters even presented him with honorary gold medals, a ritual gesture in Taiwan’s folk religion of thanking gods for making wishes come true. See Minzhong ribao, August 2, 1993. See Wu Naide, “Rentong chongtu yu zhengzhi xinren: Xian jieduan Taiwan zuqun zhengzhi de hexin nanti : ” (Identity Conflict and Political Trust: Ethnic Politics in Contemporary Taiwan) Taiwan shehuixue, 4 (2000): 75–118. It was Zhao Shaokang who openly proposed in a press conference in 1990 that Taiwanese were collaborating across party lines to politically dominate mainlanders. Zhao was accusing president Li Denghui of appealing to the ethnic sentiment of his Taiwanese comrades by stating that their Taiwanese President was being coerced by the mainlander elites within the GMD. Zhao also reminded his Taiwanese counterparts, “Today’s majority may become a minority tomorrow,” referring to the possible scenario of Taiwanese ethnic status in a unified China in the future. See Ziyou shibao, September 17, 1990. Other than Liang Surong’s remarks as cited in note 40, this was among the first public remarks that clearly revealed the anxiety of mainlander political elites concerning their minority status in Taiwan’s political arena after democratization. This anxiety was gradually conveyed to the general public in the following years through sympathetic mass media and the mass rallies organized by the New GMD Alliance and eventually set the stage for CNP’s emergence in 1993. Other than Li Qinghua, very few CNP leaders had direct involvement with the dispute. The CNP leadership was not involved in the beginning because they were preoccupied with the battle over constitutional amendments and because Li Qinghua had quarreled with CNP party leader Yu Muming earlier that year. More importantly, the CNP was also somewhat divided internally over the issue. After years of being accused by the DPP as identifying more with China than with Taiwan and losing popularity over it, some CNP members began to reconsider their strong position of antiTaiwanese independence and proposed paying more attention to Taiwan. Some CNP members even disagreed with Li Qinghua and openly criticized him for his role in this dispute.

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57. Several factors contributed to the peaceful conclusion of the dispute. First, most of the issues concerning wording and historical fact identified by the professional Chinese historians were addressed in the final revision before the textbooks were published. There was no ground for further criticism from them. Second, it was decided that there would be no more standard official textbooks after 1997. And third, the counterresponses by older Taiwanese educated under Japanese colonial rule had taken the issue further than most mainlanders would have liked to have seen. It not only started a trend of nostalgia about the Japanese era among the older Taiwanese, but also brought back the suppressed memory of their initial contact with mainlanders in the period 1945–1947. In the letters to the editor sections in the newspapers many older Taiwanese spoke of Taiwanese being more “modernized” and “civilized” than their new rulers from mainland China after the war.

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II

Identity in Literature

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3 Being/Not Being at Home in the Writing of Zhu Tianxin Rosemary Haddon

Constructing home is a nostalgic, postmodern endeavor associated with the waning of colonialism. With decolonization, the passing of the old order of colonialism and/or neocolonialism brought into being new nationhoods that present varying degrees of the accommodation of difference. New Zealand is an example of a postcolonial nation in which the political representation of white males, women, Maoris, other ethnic minorities, homosexuals, and transsexuals represents a relatively balanced articulation between universality and particularity.1 Such a nation approaches Laclau’s and Mouffe’s conception of a radical democracy that is defined by pluralism and the acceptance of the constitutive character of antagonisms.2 Elsewhere, statehoods are less accommodating, and, because of a lingering authoritarianism or the rise of nationalism, result in displacement or the migration of nationals overseas. In present-day Taiwan, the nationhood that is defined by Hoklo ethnicity is an example of a postcolonial state that is relatively unaccommodating of ethnic difference. On the contrary, the upsurge of Taiwanese nationalism puts to the test the claims of democratic representation alleged by the Democratic Progressive Party (Minzhu jinbu dang; DPP).3 The question of what constitutes home in such a place is an issue for, among others, the mainland Chinese (waishengren ) who are excluded through ethnicity and their association with the former regime of the Chinese Nationalist Party (Zhongguo guomin dang; GMD).4 The Chinese “other” includes not only exiles-at-home but also those who, having departed the GMD manorial house for

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whatever reason, discover that there is no fixed abode to return to and that the desert in which they find themselves does not tolerate their difference. The realization of their exclusion and the fact that they can never go back to the forgotten moment of their authenticity triggers a sense of “not being at home.” The Heidegger experience of unheimlichkeit, or “to-not-be-at-home,” is analogous to that experienced by the Chinese communities in Southeast Asia or the Kurds in Iraq. Their othering begs the question of the nature of the monolith that has emerged with the new state. Gudu (Ancient Capital; 1997) is an account of an exile-athome who, suffering displacement, engages in a homecoming in the place where she does not feel at home. The exile, who is the persona of Zhu Tianxin (b. 1958), the author of the text, resides in postmartial law (1947–1987) Taipei. Zhu Tianxin was once a loyal follower of the Chinese Nationalist Party, parted company with it, and then found herself excluded in the new social and political order. In Gudu, the exilic persona seeks reconciliation with the new order and relinquishes her hope of “going home” in favor of a way of “being at home” by recalling myths and stories and by rewriting the local cultural heritage into the physical environment of the present. Such an endeavor entails the creation of a framework in which, in the words of Iain Chambers, the “bonds and traditions, the myths we know to be myths yet continue to cling to, cherish and dream, exist alongside other stories, other fragments of memory and traces of time.”5 In scanning the landscape before her, the exile-at-home clings to her memory, pondering the question of reconciling with a place that she had hitherto not dreamed of as home. The homecoming that takes place in Gudu is at odds with the ideology of independence spearheaded by the DPP and, moreover, with the discourse of indigenization (bentuhua ) that came into being in the 1990s. The pro-local (bentu ) discourse questions the loyalty of those who profess few roots in the geopolitical space labeled “home” and excludes those who, for reasons of ethnicity, it deems unfit for membership in it. The narrator complains that there are “always those who question your love for this place and suggest that, if you don’t love it, you leave.”6 In the face of the suggestion that she leave permanently, the narrator decides to remain and aspires to become culturally assimilated into the here-and-now. In Taiwan, indigenization has played a key role in the formation of a national identity, DPP nation building, and the emergence of the de facto independent state. Taiwan’s national identity came into being

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through reclaiming its literary heritage, its linguistic traditions, and its historical development.7 The desire to forget, that is, to de-sinicize the past and to suppress Taiwan’s Chinese cultural legacy, drives the nationalistic impulse that lies at the heart of indigenization.8 Homi K. Bhabha argues that nationhood requires an impossible homogeneous unity and a singular linear history or master narrative.9 Such a narrative rests on the will to forget, which is a core factor in the development of amnesia.10 The nationhood that is currently ascendant in Taiwan is similarly amnesiac and, like the multitudinous configurations of homeland that have struggled for supremacy in Taiwan, lays claim to a genealogy whose origins are inconceivably transcendent, impossibly ideal, and irredeemably essentialist.11 Indigenization is the latest phase in a process of “de-centering and decolonizing” that commenced under Japanese colonialism (1895–1945).12 The process reemerged in the oppositionist nativist literary movement (xiangtu wenxue yundong ) of the 1970s, then gathered momentum and peaked in the 1990s. More recently, indigenization has merged with the political wing, or the “democracy movement,” that is spearheaded by the DPP. Despite the claims of indigenization to represent the “four great ethnic groups” (si da zuqun ), its play of difference is reminiscent of all politics of identity that tend toward exclusionism and a singular homogeneity.13 Such homogeneity presupposes an opposition between exteriority and interiority and requires an other that is left outside in order to consolidate the process.14 The hegemonic qualities of indigenization endow it with the potential to replicate the monolithic features of the previous regime. This tendency has led Zhu Tianxin to satirize it as little more than “new wine in old bottles.”15 Along with well-known Taiwan writers, Zhang Dachun and Li Yongping , Zhu has found herself on the outside, despite her desire for reconciliation that reflects her homebound loyalty.16 The predicament of “not being at home” leads Zhu to ponder her position and to ask, “What is home for me?” and “How do I belong in the new nation-state?” From the sidelines, she watches with dismay the emergence of the Taiwanese nation-state and asks, “Where would I belong in such a state?” and “Where is home for me?”

The Will to Remember Like the narrator of her texts, Zhu Tianxin is a second-generation Chinese émigré who was born in Taiwan after the end of the Chinese

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civil war. She spent her childhood and her formative years in a military community (juancun ), that is, one of the villages of the dependents of the Nationalist army that were built when the GMD withdrew to Taiwan in 1949. Zhu’s father was the well-known émigré writer Zhu Xining (1927–1998) and her mother was a Taiwanese Hakka. At a young age, Zhu identified primarily with her Chinese ancestry and referred to herself as a Tangshanren .17 More recently, the author has revisited this identity after she experienced an epiphany engendered by an identity crisis that took place in the 1980s. Like her fellow émigrés, Zhu was socialized as a child to think of mainland China as home. Home was the imagined “old home” (guxiang )—the mythologized point of origins and the site of the ancestral graves—from which they were expelled and to which they hoped to return with the collapse of Chinese communism. From a young age, she embraced the cultural symbols of the old home, including China’s invincible cultural tradition, or wenhua daotong , and a set of beliefs in the possibility of return.18 In the isolated environment of the village, which was shutoff from the world, Zhu was inculcated with these beliefs through her father, a founding member of the Sansan jikan (Three Three Magazine), and her private tutor, Hu Lancheng (1906–1980), a former teacher in the Chinese College of Culture.19 Hu exemplified the chauvinistic pride in the cultural tradition and rigorously trained Tianxin and her sister, Tianwen, in classical poetry and thought.20 The attitudes and beliefs exercised a formative influence on the young Tianxin and influenced her subsequent growth and artistic and intellectual development. The unshakable belief in the Chinese cultural tradition is the subject of “Weiliao ” (Everlasting; 1982), a story about a family by the name of Xia, who resides in a military village from 1965 to 1973. The story follows the life of the second daughter, Xia Jinyun, from the time when she is eight years of age to her graduation from university at which point she returns to the village. Jinyun is aware that the village will soon be torn down, but denies that there is a crisis and stubbornly persists in her belief that the traditions will never die.21 Zhao Gang comments that the source for such a belief lies in the categories of ethnicity and class. He claims that these categories account for the stereotypical representation in the author’s early works of the “bad” Taiwanese (benshengren ) who are portrayed as rapists and as incapable of passing the university entrance exams. In contrast to them are the “good” waishengren, who are capable of passing the exams and are morally above reproach.22 Within the villages, attitudes of cultural

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superiority account for the posing of the waishengren and their reference to the benshengren as laobaixing (the ordinary people; literally “the old one hundred surnames,”) a term that reflects a benign social and cultural superiority.23 This attitude was a symptom of the divide that, since 1949, empowered the waishengren with political and cultural supremacy. In the 1980s, Zhu’s writing underwent a change in tandem with the political turn of events. The events that generated the change include the gradual dismantling of the GMD’s hegemonic power structure, the dwindling belief in a bygone, mythic age, and the diminished possibility of return. More important was the prominence of the bentuhua political movement that was at odds with Zhu’s cultural worldview.24 With these changes, the representational paradigms in her early works underwent a reversal and a tone of bitterness and resentment, reminiscent of the style of Lu Xun (1881–1936), emerged.25 Ultimately, with the ascendancy of the bentuhua political movement, many mainlanders found themselves banished to the fringes of the political and social world. These events triggered a crisis within the émigré community and forced a paradigmatic shift from the view of China as the “old home” to a perception of it as the “old country” (yuanxiang ), that is, the place from which one comes and to which it was no longer possible to return.26 Zhu’s stories that were previously concerned with the “old home” were superseded by fiction that cautioned readers to relinquish their nostalgia and to adapt to contemporary social life.27 Wo jide (I Remember; 1989) is a collection about politics that reflects the author’s bitterness and resentment about the political movement. The collection is known primarily for four stories that critique the movement and portray it as little other than a lobby driven by opportunism and self-interest.28 The collection builds on the theme of memory to foreground the problems of history, the truth about politics, and the angst felt by those who are positioned on the shifting borders of changing subjectivities. Above and beyond the critique, the work’s exploration into memory, gender, and politics signals a shift toward artistic experimentation and a stylistic maturation. Lü Zhenghui comments that the volume’s insight into contemporary society, which includes a gendered awareness, breaks new ground in the genre of political fiction.29 Memory is the central motif in “I Remember,” a story in which the protagonist, ta (he), suffers a motorcycle accident and, in a state of semiconsciousness, recalls his former activities in the opposition movement, including his role as a campaign worker for an opposition

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(DPP) candidate. Ultimately, ta comes to a realization that political idealism is a form of escapism from the truth of the real world.30 Gendered subjectivities is a subtext of “Xin dang shijiu ri ” (19 Days in the New Party; 1989), a story about a housewife driven by boredom to venture outside the home in order to play the stock market. The woman’s excursions into the world of stocks enrich a life previously bound by mundane domesticity. In the course of events, she becomes swept up in a demonstration and ponders excitedly about how she would love to hold high the little green flag and shout slogans on behalf of the victims of social injustice.31 The victims include the farmers and those who have experienced hardship because of industrial pollution. The narrator adds that she feels “particular empathy for the aged veteran soldiers who were petitioning everywhere.”32 The experiences have an impact on her subjectivity as a hausfrau; nonetheless, she maintains her housewifely role and rushes home in the evening in order to serve up dinner to her family. More important, the housewife is the mouthpiece for the implied author of the text, who criticizes the movement for its failure to live up to popular expectations. The housewife naively believes, for instance, that Taiwan’s political situation will improve with the emergence of a democratic vote.33 When it does not improve, disappointment follows together with a question about the integrity of the new government. The question centers on the nature of the new rule and the meaning of the sacrifices that took place during the transition to it. Inscribed with memory, time, and loss, Xiang wo juancun de xiongdimen (Remembering my Brothers in the Military Village; 1992) is a collection about subjectivity and the reconfiguration of identity that takes place through change. The theme of “not being at home” is foregrounded in the collection through a gallery of misfits, all of whom experience angst in the inhospitable present. Positioned at the periphery of contemporary social life, the misfits find themselves “not at home” not so much for reasons of gender, ethnicity, and class, but rather, because of their dysfunctionalism and their lingering nostalgia for the past. The characters include a second-generation mainlander from a military village; a suicidal yuppie; housewives who have little sense of identity; a married woman with pseudo-lesbian feelings for a childhood friend; and a political dissident in a story about the White Terror (baise kongbu )34—the cultural icon that lies at the heart of indigenization. Wang Dewei refers to these characters as “old souls” (lao linghun ) because they are old before their time.35 As for Zhu’s work, Huang Jinshu classes it as an ethnography

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of society’s dross.36 The dross includes those who have given up on life and await death, such as the suicidal yuppie; the weak, such as the wife who dies from neglect; and the outcast or forgotten, which include the second-generation villager, the political prisoner and the closet lesbian. One and all fall into the category of “information garbage” that are trashed from memory, their dis-ease accentuated by consumerism and the information technology that shrinks the human soul.37 The title story of the collection, “Remembering my Brothers in the Military Village,” narrates a solipsistic monologue about bygone village life. The story is articulated by a second-generation “old soul” who is one and the same as the narrator; the implied author of the text; a female character ta (she); and a second-person ni (you) who is either the narrator or the anonymous reader of the text. The unnamed “you” is an extension of the self and plays the role of the other in the dialogues between “you” and “her.” As ni interacts with ta, an image emerges of a self that discourses with itself about problems, values, decisions, and fears. The split style of narration locates “Remembering my Brothers in the Military Village” on the border that separates monologue from dialogue and self-address from audience-address. This type of narration exemplifies both the diagnosis and the symptom of the identity crisis.38 It foreshadows, moreover, the artistic development of Zhu’s fiction into postmodernism. The confessional narration centers on why “you” has rejected a mainlander (waishengren) as her future spouse, choosing to marry a Taiwanese instead. There are several reasons for the narrator’s decision to marry a benshengren, despite her former preference for mainland village men. The reasons include the diminishing number of eligible mainlander men and the narrator’s desire to escape claustrophobic village life. In contrast to Zhu’s earlier stories, in “Remembering” the mainlanders are either morally flawed or are unable to pass the exams. The benshengren, on the other hand, are poor, yet also sincere and capable of passing the exams. Most important, they represent an escape-route out of the confines of village life.39 In the story, the narrator complains that the waishengren sit around in the village playing cards all day. Even the “old soldiers” (laobing ) are the target of her disdain. The aging army recruits who withdrew to Taiwan in 1949 are sentenced to live out their days in the lonely village life. The vets are compelled to remain single and because they are uneducated are unable to read their own names let alone the slogans, Sha Zhu ba Mao (Kill Zhu [De] and uproot Mao [Zedong]) and Fan gong kang E (Overthrow the communists and defeat

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Russia) that are tattooed into their arms.40 These old bachelors live in broken-down huts and spend their days recounting tales about anticommunist campaigns in the period prior to 1949, cooking mysterious Chinese foods, playing chess, and initiating the young village virgins into the delights of illicit sex.41 In ways that are universally typical of the exilic condition, the aging vets are driven by memory to seek validation for their lot; that is, they fear being forgotten in much the same way that the dead are forgotten and left to rot.42 Left alone with their dreams, these men would give their eyeteeth to pay a visit home. A further reason for the narrator to forego a mainlander spouse lies in the problematic history of the waisheng identity itself. In the late 1980s, the identity held little value other than as a token of an empty, bygone dream. Moreover, it exacerbated the existing exilic condition through the claim that only China could be home. It contains the proscription, for instance, against calling the island home. “A place with no ancestral graves cannot be called home,” explains the narrator, and then adds that the anxiety that dogs her “does not come from the restlessness of youth, but rather, from the dilemma that is generated by the inexplicable feeling that one cannot put down roots.”43 The feeling that Taiwan is not home is a reason, the narrator adds, that Chinese girls marry American GIs and are content to remain abroad.44 The proscription is reinforced through stories, that is, the telling of fantastical tales about the glories of the past. In the village, a set of stories transforms the first-generation émigrés into former big landholders, or capitalists, who possessed large estates and gold bullion that s/he was forced to jettison during the big escape. “How could one expect to put down roots in such a tiny island in view of this glorious past?” the narrator queries rhetorically.45 Indeed, in the eyes of the émigrés, how could one ever call such a place home? Finally, there is the political stigma attached to the GMD. As a political force the party possesses a history of gross political abuse, and the narrator resents the implications of being tarred with the same brush.46 Despite the legacy that she shares with it, she confesses that she loathes the GMD because of its treacherous breach of faith. The narrator reminds herself, “You hate them more than does your [bensheng] spouse,” and adds that you are envious of the freedom of the benshengren to curse the party for its lies and political abuse. The narrator concludes that, like the benshengren, she, too, would love to “loudly curse the f*****g b**** of a Chinese Nationalist Party for tricking them into withdrawing to this island where they have lived for forty years.”47

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The narrator is reminded, nonetheless, that despite her fate, the mainland is not home. During a visit across the Strait, she discerns that, in the eyes of her Chinese kin, she is little more than a Taibao (Taiwanese compatriot).48 Her estrangement is made all the more profound when she recalls that when she returns to Taiwan she will continue to be displaced. Such a feeling engenders her nostalgia for the past, for her lost youth and, most important, for her brethren in the villages who have dwindled and dispersed. Those imagined young men have disappeared with time from a mythical life that is as insubstantial as a rainbow in a cloud. “Where have all the flowers gone?” the narrator laments with regret, then sighs, “Ahhh! Xiang wo juancun de xiongdimen ” (Ohh! How I think of my brothers in the military village).49

Poetics of Homecoming “Remembering My Brothers in the Military Village” centers on a mindset of denial and a misbegotten belief in an outmoded identity. Rethinking the identity and, more important, releasing oneself from it, is the first step in fostering true relations with the place called home. This aspect of “Remembering” is therapeutic and renders it a self-help manual that counsels the waishengren to, literally, shape-up or ship out. For any exile-at-home, the desire to “be at home” is the sine qua non in the will to belong. This desire is the point-of-departure in Gudu, Zhu’s novella that contains a quest for home and, through its exploration of a city, narrates alternative identifications and routes of homecoming.50 In the text, the persona journeys through time and space to find and acknowledge home, her memory providing the ballast that keeps her on course in her quest. In the novella, the home is one and the same as the long-lost home of the narrator’s childhood past; a colonial city memorialized by Matayoshi Morikiyo , the maker of a map; and the Ihle Formosa of Taiwan tongshi (Complete History of Taiwan; 1921), the historical text by Lian Heng (1878–1936) about the island’s distant past.51 Driven by nostalgia, the narrator is prompted to repetitively retrieve her home, in the process creating a dissonance between the place that one inherits and the home that one is impelled to invent.52 The process gives rise to the question of why one does not feel at home when one is physically at home, the answer to which is the same for any exile who is driven beyond the borders or for those who, like Zhu, are motivated to come to terms with a place they wish to call “home.”

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Zhu relates that Gudu was conceived during a crisis in which, overnight, her world became “so unfamiliar that it seemed about to disappear.”53 Marked by alterities based on ethnicity, the author was banished to the periphery where she challenged the nationalism that questioned her home-based loyalty. In present-day Taiwan, the inability of those such as Zhu to take the politically correct decision to embrace the homeland unconditionally is considered a betrayal in an environment in which the “homebound gesture . . . is the only valid option.”54 Zhu’s novella challenges this consideration and subverts the hegemonic suturing that accompanies the DPP ownership of “home.” The novella’s inventory of home questions the criteria of betrayal and establishes the fact that the text is, in its own way, as nativist as is indigenization’s discourse about home. Stylistically, the narrative proceeds on the basis of confessionalism, or self-reflexivity, and the narration of geographic spaces that is interspersed with images that are photo-realist in the clarity of their recitation. These elements intercept the motifs of exile and diaspora of the genre of travel writing.55 The text itself is scripted from a literary montage of cross-cultural allusions that cross the boundaries that separate West from East. In the text, I. V. Foscarini, D. H. Lawrence, and Robert Frost are interwoven with passages from Lian Heng’s Complete History of Taiwan. Kawabata Yusunari’s (1899–1972)56 Koto (The Old Capital), on the other hand, which comprises a tale about twin sisters, is similarly present and provides the prototype for the story in the text: the tale from Old Capital, which is embedded in the text, is the model for a parallel story about the narrator and her friend. The allusions, quotations, and images render Gudu a pastiche with the characteristic features of “a postmodern aesthetic.”57 Finally, as is the case elsewhere in Zhu’s oeuvre, the novella’s verbosity or wordy “white noise” is a symptom of the empty signification of the postmodern condition. The preference for “words over silence, imagination over experience” is typical of Fokkema’s description of the code of postmodernism.58 In the narrative, the journey commences on the day when the narrator receives a fax: out of the blue, “you” receives a fax from a former classmate and childhood friend who currently resides in the United States. The friend, named A, informs you that she plans to travel from the United States and, on the way, will pass through Kyoto where she hopes to meet with you. Accordingly, the narrator travels to Kyoto, but after getting there and staying for a while, she finds no sign of her friend. At that point, she commences a walkabout in Kyoto,

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the city that is as serene and unspoiled as it was in the past. Inserted philosophically into the storyline of the text, Kyoto signifies a tranquility that remains undisturbed throughout time. The city’s shrines, for instance, persist unchanged from the time of Genji monogatari (Tale of Genji).59 The narrator retains memories from a previous visit there in the past and, in yielding to these memories, she inscribes the city with her desire for an appropriate historicity. In investing Kyoto with her desires, she is more like a resident than a tourist and, ultimately, claims the city as hers.60 Kyoto is the physical setting for the embedded tale in the text. In the tale, Chieko searches through the city in quest of Naoko, her adult twin sister from whom she was separated 20 years before at the time of their birth. When the narrator, in turn, searches for her friend, she mirrors Chieko in her search for her lost twin. Chieko and Naoko meet, but then part in sadness, their decision based on an inexplicable understanding about the difference in their fates. In contrast to Chieko, the narrator is relieved when she fails to find her friend. She reflects that, by not meeting her, she is freed from the uncomfortable reminder about the passing of her youth, a reality that would be forced upon her if they had met.61 A second reason for her relief lies in the difficulty she experiences in confronting her fears. She relates that, unlike her friend, she was offered and turned down opportunities to emigrate overseas, flying in the face of suggestions that she leave.62 The narrator confesses that she remained in Taipei because of laziness and fear and adds that, only by mentally rewriting Taipei into the exotic places of elsewhere is she able to continue to live on in the inhospitable present.63 As the narrator roams through Kyoto, she misses Taipei and returns there earlier than she had planned. On the way, she is mistaken for a tourist and embarks on a tour of the city masquerading as a Japanese. In submitting to this identity, she engages in activities that, as a waishengren, would have compromised her identity. On her tour, the narrator makes use of a map that, designed by Matayoshi Morikiyo, provides her with a blueprint of Taipei’s physical environment during the Japanese colonial period. According to hearsay, Matayoshi Morikiyo was an Okinawan and made more than 50 trips to Taipei in order to complete the map.64 With the map in hand, the narrator gazes on Taipei as though through a lens, her nostalgia refracted by the vanishing colonial legacy and her feelings rendered ambivalent by her true identity as a resident who is seeking to come to terms with her home. In contrast to Kyoto, Taipei is the new “ancient city” and provides the physical context for the journey in the text. Taipei’s urban environment

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is the setting for the geographical journey and for the travel through historical consciousness in search of the ideal, unspoiled city of the past.65 Time and memory merge in the quest for beauty and for political and social meaning, the ultimate theme of the work. The search is conducted with few clear-cut parameters but as the narrator brings forward into consciousness the vanished things of the past, the fragments of memory ensure that her recherche is no longer drifting free like a traveler with no roots.66 As the subject of the text, the city possesses allegorical implications about the critique of the text. In contrast to Kyoto, Taipei has suffered degradation under successive political regimes. As the narrator journeys, she critiques the degradation and the destruction of the physical legacy under the engines of change. At the same time, she reconstructs the hybrid descent that was erased by martial law, in the process, foregrounding Taipei’s alterities that, ironically, are one and the same as those of the bentu discourse and the DPP’s agenda of home. Taipei’s hybrid descent traces to pioneerism, European colonialism, Ming loyalism, Japanese colonialism, and, finally, the neocolonialism under the GMD. It contains traces that are Chinese, Spanish, Portuguese, Dutch, French, and Japanese, all of which are inscribed onto the map and are set forth in Lian Heng’s text. According to Lian Heng, Ihle Formosa was actually far from beautiful. On the contrary, the “beautiful sea-girt isle” (posuo zhi yang, meili zhi dao , ) was a miasma (cao fu zhang nong ) during the time of the Spanish and Portuguese.67 Yu Yonghe (seventeenth century), who came looking for brimstone in 1697, assigned the word “uninhabitable” (fei ren suo ju ) to it in his Baihai jiyou .68 The Jia’nan plain that was crisscrossed by cart amounted to a “hell-hole” and, after the suppression of the rebellion of Zhu Yigui (d. 1722),69 Lan Dingyuan (d. 1732)70 noted that the nature of the people was irascible and that they were not easily tamed.71 As was the case for other areas in the Chinese periphery, the island was the object of disrepute by Confucian officialdom. Li Hongzhang (1823–1901)72 reflects the Confucian disdain for a place in which, “the birds don’t sing, the flowers have no scent, the men lack feeling and the women are without virtue.”73 As a metaphor, Ihle Formosa resonates with the exotic and the profane and symbolizes a utopian desire for an imagined sublime past. The question that closes the text, “What is this place? . . . you loudly cry.” (Zhe shi nali? . . . ni fangsheng daku ... ) opens up space for an inquiry into the true meaning of this past.74

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The narrator’s steps lead from Ximending, formerly an entertainment center for the Japanese, to Shilin; that is, she journeys from the downtown city core out to the suburbs that lie beyond. On the way, she passes through sites that range from the political and the commercial to the cultural and the historic.75 Flaneur-like, she parades down big streets and small as she crisscrosses the heart and soul of the city.76 In cultural studies, the freedom conferred through walking is a cultural strategy that is exercised for the purpose of political resistance. Through the physical mobility of walking, the pedestrian transforms the fixed, spatial text of the city into a writerly practice that disrupts the city layout and its urban stagnation. By carving alternative routes, the walker thereby reconstitutes the face of the city.77 “Walking,” according to Michel de Certeau, “affirms, suspects, tries out . . . the trajectories it ‘speaks.’ ”78 As such, it comprises a strategy for social transformation. As the narrator walks, she subverts and reconfigures the ruinous urban space, resisting the destruction that is the price exacted in the pursuit of crass commercial gain. The resistance is a reason Peng Xiaoyan claims that Gudu is a narrative about travel and the political censure that derives from the experience of travel.79 Taipei is the narrator’s hometown but it seems unfamiliar and strange. As the narrator walks she notes the places that are unchanged as well as those that have changed and have ruined the face of the city. Under the Democratic Progressive Party (DPP) Taipei has become a showcase that exhibits futuristic spaces and the wealth generated by change. The transformation, however, has resulted in environmental degradation and the annihilation of the city’s natural and horticultural life. To all intents and purposes the “new age government” (xinchao zhengfu ) has little incentive to preserve this aspect of the city.80 On the contrary, in the name of efficiency, it has absconded with ownership rights, and, by cutting corners, has carried out rampant construction that has ruined the heart of the city. The narrator grumbles that the government has created places where you would never go even if there were no other way to go and you had no memory on which to rely.81 Liao Chaoyang claims that Taipei suffers a “persistent cultural impoverishment” and that it has been “rendered uninhabitable by amnesiac modernization.”82 Allegorically, the narrator merges Taipei’s vanishing cultural remains with that of Kyoto, the city of enduring antiquity, thereby historicizing Taipei’s dire need for preservation. Like a videotape, the narrator records streets, trees, buildings, houses, and the inhabitants who live or have lived in the alleyways, now and in the past. Throughout it all she speaks Japanese and presents

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the identity of a visitor who comes from somewhere else. The first port-of-call is a heritage site—the Mingzhi Bridge. But the bridge is gone now, thanks to a government that behaves as though it, too, were from somewhere else.83 In the days when the bridge remained, a fortune-teller set up a stall with a sign in English and they were the first English words you learned when you were a student in middle school. As a young girl, you fantasized that the fortune-teller was a gypsy and that, when you were grown up, you would ask her to explain the universe with the aid of her magic crystal ball.84 The narrator grieves that her village, or juancun, has similarly gone, forced to give way to a development on the northern part of the city.85 You grieve that you are unable to take your daughter there and show her the place where you grew up; the mound where you buried your dog; and the bookstore, the coffee shop, and the movie theater that you frequented with your friends.86 The narrator reminds herself that even her memories attached to these sites are incompatible with the city’s relentless forward momentum in the quest for economic gain.87 There are places where you don’t dare set foot because of the disappearing trees. You pray that, if the government expenditure is low, the camphor and coconut will remain.88 In locations elsewhere an effort has been made to preserve the horticultural legacy intact. This includes the preservation of trees, such as the cherry, the southern fir, and the pine, that stand outside Nos. 7 and 9, Lane 91, Section 2, Ren’ai St., and No. 4, Lane 62, Section 2, Jinan Street.89 The baked roof tiles and the pines that stand near the black wooden fir walls at No. 34, Lane 97, Section 1, Xinsheng South Road, resemble a traditional flower arrangement and remind you of the houses in Japan. If the arrangements were constructed on a larger scale they would transform the microenvironment of these places into subtropical conservatories.90 Elsewhere, the government has planted betel nut, coconut, and fan palm, making use of the trees as a smokescreen in order to mitigate the shame of ugly new concrete sites. The trees are made use of as a camouflage in the same way, the narrator comments, that “the Taiwanese were at one time made wide political use of [as puppets and spies] during the time of President Jiang Jingguo.”91 The narrator relates that from the camphor and coconut trees at No. 1, Lane 222, Puchengjie, to the banyan tree at No. 249, Changchun St., the physical environment seeps history and age.92 At No. 3 Lane 26, Taishun Street, the Showa architecture remains, while a few streets over is the central propaganda institute of the Chinese Nationalist Party.93 No. 59, Lane 212, Section 1, Jianguo South Road,

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boasts a family of dogs; No. 49 houses a family of ghosts; No. 53 has a family of people; and No. 37 houses a household of kids. The gardenias, the pomelo, and the loquat that grace the yard of yet another home are a signpost indicating that the inhabitants within are none other than “mainlander foxes” (waishengren hu ).94 You recall that when you were young you stood outside the entrance to the city’s old-fashioned amusement park. Then, summoning up your courage, you crept inside and discovered a commemorative stone tablet under a tangle of banyan, creeping vines and Ficus pumila.95 The tablet belonged to Chen Weiying (1811–1869), a classical scholar of the rank of juren (provincial candidate), who had been appointed to several official posts before he went into retirement. It is said that the words “ruins of Taiguchao” (Taiguchao jiuzhi ) engraved on the tablet referred to the birthplace of a local indigenous tribe. What was more likely, however, was that the place was a former leper colony that dated to the Jiaqing-Daoguang reign (1796–1821). After Chen’s death the tablet decayed, and, in 1906, its destruction was inevitable under the incoming Japanese.96 Here is the New Park with the 228 Memorial Hall; there, the Presidential Palace built in 1919. The latter reminds you of your classmates; more particularly, it reminds you of the envy you feel because, unlike you, they remained immune to the brainwashing of the GMD.97 In the bookstore district, Dengying Academy has a separate historical past: transformed into a theatre in 1898 it was subsequently bombed by the United States Airforce during World War II.98 Nearby is a spreading breadfruit tree of the type admired by Darwin.99 Like your maternal grandfather, the planter of the tree was sent to the South Pacific during the 1930s Pacific War. Like a canopy the broad glossy leaves cover the beautiful tiles of the roof and put you in mind of a similar tree in the yard of your grandfather’s house. You recall that you stitched together shoes from the leaves of the tree, which kept away the ants when you went fishing in the pond. You never ate the fruit, but a neighbor routinely added it to the cooking pot when she made meat stews.100 From the lecture hall of the Taiwan Cultural Association to the Daoist temples in the city’s old districts, Gudu provides an inch-byinch inventory of Taipei’s physical legacy.101 The inventory highlights the role played by memory in reconstructing history, the urban genealogy, and the hybrid descent of the pioneering past. The recitation retrieves from the past not only the ghosts of the physical legacy but also the memory of the urban residents that has similarly been lost.

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Like the dwellers of Peach Blossom Spring, Taipei’s citizens suffer from a forgetfulness that extends to the memory of their hybrid colonial descent and their near past under recent political regimes.102 Through the impact of amnesia, the memory cells of the denizens have erased knowledge both of their genealogy and the events that took place during the transition to the present.103 In the remembrance of things past, memory plays a subjective role in the narration of history. Memory is a determining factor in the recording of the past; that is, the question of whose memory counts determines the view that is ascendant in the official writing of history.104 Indigenization privileges the Hoklo experience in the interpretation of events and casts into oblivion the other whose experience is deemed suspect in the political scheme of things. In the current ethnic and political configuration, the waishengren and their worldview are branded as politically incorrect, just as the Hoklo in the past were similarly once cast out and disdained. In the text, the narrator asks a strangled, bitter question, “Can it be that your memory counts for nothing?” (Nandao, ni de jiyi dou bu suanshu ).105 The question requests confirmation that her memory does indeed count for something. In contrast to the bentu perspective, the narrator’s memory embraces a positive view about the events of the past. The narrator maintains that in the past the sky was bluer, the people were artless and simple, and the quality of life was better.106 This version of history is none other than what the “politically correct” writers and commentators wish to edit and revise.107 These writers, historians, and pundits demand a pro-local template in writing about the past that includes, among other things, the inclusion of the political movements that came into being with Taiwan’s expulsion from the United Nations.108 Alternatively, they suggest that your record must include a profile of a father or a grandfather who was a victim of past events.109 The narrator laments that, like the majority, she knows little about these things because the glories and bitterness of any age are the purview of only a few.110 The implication that her memory is irrelevant because it centers on something other than the politically prescribed and culturally-mandated version of the past reflects the restrictive parameters decreed by the pro-local discourse. Zhu Tianxin’s challenge to these parameters stems from her sense of loss, her outrage at the claims of betrayal, and her deep-rooted anxiety about her place in the current order. The nativist parameters of Gudu bring into relief the author’s right to her memory and her request for the accommodation of her minority ethnicity.

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From the time of martial law to the post-law period, Zhu Tianxin’s writing narrates the author’s exilic worldview as a Chinese émigré. Recently, the writer’s work entails a homecoming for the purpose of reconciliation with the cultural here-and-now. The homecoming ends with the question, “Where is this place?” and a lament for the Ihle Formosa of the imaginary past. This ending suggests that the nature of the quest is tautological and implies that the quest has transpired within the realm of the imaginary, the cultural ideal or the mind of the narrator alone. In the text, the process of self-discovery is inconclusive, but through it the narrator experiences a subjective reconfiguration that brings her nearer to the meaning of home. As she draws near her home the narrator presents a case for the protection of the environment, for the preservation of Taipei’s physical legacy, and for a harmonious accommodation of ethnic and political difference. Such an accommodation is indispensable in the construction of a political order that embraces a polyphony of voices, the autonomy of struggles, and the full diversity of minority subject positions.

Notes 1. In New Zealand, the electoral system is referred to as Mixed Member Proportional (MMP). 2. See Ernesto Laclau and Chantal Mouffe, Hegemony & Socialist Strategy: Toward a Radical Democratic Politics, 2nd edition, London: Verso Books, 2001, for a discussion of the critical thinking that emerged in the wake of the crisis of left-wing thought. 3. The DPP was elected into power in March 2000. 4. The GMD ruled Taiwan from 1945 to 2000. 5. Iain Chambers, Border Dialogues: Journeys in Postmodernity, London and New York: Routledge, 1990, 104. 6. Zhu Tianxin, Gudu, in Wang Dewei (David Der-Wei Wang) (ed.), Gudu (Ancient Capital), Taipei: Maitian chuban, 1997, 169. 7. A-chin Hsiau, Contemporary Taiwanese Cultural Nationalism, London and New York: Routledge, 2000, 178. 8. Ibid., 152. 9. Homi K Bhabha (ed.), Nation and Narration, London and New York: Routledge, 1990, 1, 5. 10. Ernest Renan, “What is a Nation?” in Bhabha, Nation and Narration, 11. 11. The national configurations that have struggled for supremacy during the past half a century include the models of reunification, such as the One China models of China, the GMD and the One-Country-Two-Systems model, and the current model of independence.

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12. Chen Fangming , “Bainian lai de Taiwan wenxue yu Taiwan fengge: Taiwan xinwenxue yundongshi daolun : ” (One Hundred Years of Taiwan Literature and the Taiwan Style: An Introductory Discussion of the Taiwan New Literature Movement), Zhongwai wenxue, 23.9 (1995): 112. Taiwan was ceded as a colony to Japan after China’s defeat in the First Sino–Japanese War (1894–1895). 13. The “four great ethnic groups” are the Hoklo Taiwanese, mainlanders, the Hakka Taiwanese, and the aborigines. See A-chin Hsiau’s chapter (chapter 4) in this volume. 14. Stuart Hall and Paul de Gay (eds.), Questions of Cultural Identity, London, Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage, 1996, 3. 15. Quoted in Qiu Guifen , “Taiwan (nüxing) xiaoshuo shixue fangfa chutan ” (An Initial Exploration of Historiographical Method in Taiwan [Women’s] Novels), Zhongwai wenxue, 27.9 (1999): 17. 16. Zhang is mainland Chinese in ethnicity and Li Yongping is Malaysian Chinese. 17. Zhu Tianxin, “ ‘Da hejie’? Huiying zhi er ‘ ’ ” (Response to “The Great Reconciliation?” No. 2), Taiwan shehui yanjiu jikan, 43 (2001): 118. Tangshanren is a traditional term that Chinese living overseas sometimes use to refer to themselves. 18. Huang Jinshu , “Cong Daguanyuan dao kafeiguan—yuedu/shuxie Zhu Tianxin — ” (From Daguanyuan to the Coffee House—Reading and Writing about Zhu Tianxin), in Gudu, 239. 19. The Sansan jikan was run by a conservative group that advocated political warfare through literature. 20. Huang Jinshu, “Cong Daguanyuan,” 239. 21. The military villages were dismantled through government decree in 1980. 22. Zhao Gang, “Zhu Tianxin de qianshi jinsheng—tan Zhu Tianxin de liangpian ‘juancun xiaoshuo’ li de zuqun, xingbie yu jieji ” (Zhu Tianxin Reincarnated: Ethnicity, Sex, and Class in Two “Military Village Stories” by Zhu Tianxin), in Xiaoxin guojiazu: Pipan de sheyun yu sheyun de pipan : (Watch out for the State and the Nation: Critical Social Movements and the Critique of Social Movements), Taipei: Tangshan chubanshe, 1994, 142. Passing the civil examinations was traditionally viewed as an indicator of the intellectual and moral worth of an individual. 23. Hu Yannan , “Sheqi yuanxiang xiangchou de liangge moshi—tan Zhu Tianxin, Zhang Dachun de xiaoshuo chuangzuo — ” (Two Models for Abandoning Homesickness: Creativity in the Novels of Zhu Tianxin and Zhang Dachun), Taiwan wenxue guancha zazhi, 6.7 (1993): 119; Zhao Gang, “Zhu Tianxin de qianshi jinsheng,” 142. 24. Other events include the lifting of martial law in 1987, the gradual empowerment of the DPP through the mayoral elections of 1994, and the presidential election of 1996.

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25. Wang Dewei, “Xulun: Laolinghun qianshi jinsheng—Zhu Tianxin de xiaoshuo : ” (Prefatory Remarks: Old Souls Reincarnated—The Novels of Zhu Tianxin), in Gudu, 20. Lu Xun is one of twentieth-century China’s greatest fiction writers. 26. Hu Yannan, “Sheqi Yuanxiang Xiangchou,” 120. 27. Ibid., 129. 28. Lü Zhenghui , Zhanhou Taiwan wenxue jingyan (Taiwan’s Post-war Literary Experience), Taipei: Xindi wenxue chubanshe, 1992, 273. 29. Ibid., 281. 30. Zhan Hongzhi , “Xu: Shi buyi shi buwang: Du Zhu Tianxin de xinshu Wo jide : ” (Preface: Time Does Not Move and Things Don’t Go Forward—Zhu Tianxin’s New Book, I Remember), in Wo jide (I Remember), Taipei: Yuanliu chuban gongsi, 1989, 7. 31. The unofficial green flag, which symbolizes Taiwanese nationhood and autonomy, came into being with the rise of the opposition movement. 32. Zhu Tianxin, “Xin dang shijiu ri,” in Wo jide, 159. 33. Peng Xiaoyan , “Zhu Tianxin de Taibei—dili kongjian yu lishi yishi ” (Zhu Tianxin’s Taipei: Geographical Space and Historical Consciousness), in Li Fengmao and Liu Yuanru (eds.), Kongjian, diyu yu wenhua: Zhongguo wenhua kongjian de shuxie yu chanshi (Space, Locality, and Culture: The Interpretation and Writing of Chinese Cultural Space), Taipei: Zhongyang yanjiuyuan Zhongguo wenzhe yanjiusuo, 2002, 422. 34. This refers to the government’s repression after the February 28 Incident. 35. Wang Dewei, “Xulun,” 10. 36. Huang Jinshu, “Cong Daguanyan,” 261. 37. Ibid., 250, 255. 38. Shu-li Chang, “Zhu Tianxin’s Eros of Home/Land: Nostalgia as a Literary Strategy,” Tamkang Review, 29.2 (1998): 58, 62, 64. 39. Zhu Tianxin, “Remembering My Brothers in the Military Village,” in Xiang wo juancun de xiongdimen (Remembering My Brothers in the Military Village), Taipei: Maitian chuban, 1992, 83. 40. Ibid., 77. 41. Ibid., 77, 79. 42. Huang Jinshu, “Cong Daguanyan,” 261. 43. Zhu Tianxin Zhu, Xiang wo juancun de xiongdimen, 72–73. 44. Ibid., 72. 45. Ibid., 73. 46. Ibid., 72. 47. Ibid., 86. 48. Ibid. 49. Ibid., 90. 50. Shu-li Chang, “Eros of Land,” 51. 51. Peng Xiaoyan, “Zhu Tianxin de Taibei,” 415.

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52. Shu-li Chang, “Eros of Land,” 49, 73. 53. Zhu Tianxin, “ ‘Da hejie?’ Huiying zhi er,” 120. Here Zhu refers to the changes that took place as a result of the mayoral elections of 1994 and the presidential election of 1996. 54. Shu-li Chang, “Eros of Land,” 75. 55. See Caren Kaplan, Questions of Travel: Postmodern Discourses of Displacement, Durham and London: Duke University Press, 1996, for a study of postmodern travel writing. 56. Kawabata was a major Japanese novelist of the modern period. In 1968, he became the first Japanese Nobel laureate in literature. 57. Peng Xiaoyan, “Zhu Tianxin de Taibei,” 423–424. 58. Douwe W. Fokkema, Literary History, Modernism and Postmodernism, Amsterdam and Philadelphia: John Benjamins Publishing Company, 1984, 55. 59. Peng Xiaoyan, “Zhu Tianxin de Taibei,” 427. 60. Shu-li Chang, “Eros of Land,” 72. 61. Zhu Tianxin, Gudu, 173. 62. Ibid., 167–169. 63. Ibid., 169. 64. Peng Xiaoyan, “Zhu Tianxin de Taibei,” 434. 65. Ibid., 414–415. 66. Ibid., 415. 67. Zhu Tianxin, Gudu, 177. 68. Ibid. 69. During the Kangxi reign period, there was widespread dissatisfaction about the graft committed by prefect Wang Zhen. Zhu Yigui led an insurrection against the authorities that was eventually put down by Qing forces. 70. Lan accompanied the Qing forces that were sent to Taiwan to put down the Zhu Yigui insurrection. 71. Zhu Tianxin, Gudu, 177. 72. A prime minister in the late Qing. 73. Zhu Tianxin, Gudu, 177. The events referred to in these lines date to the early period of the Qing dynasty (1644–1911). 74. Zhu Tianxin, ibid., 233. 75. Wang Dewei, “Xulun,” 26. 76. The flaneur is the protagonist of Walter Benjamin’s Arcade Project, which Benjamin commenced writing in 1927. The flaneur is the man of the crowd who saunters through the streets of nineteenth-century Paris. 77. Shu-li Chang, “Eros of Land,” 74. 78. Michel de Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life, trans. Steven Rendall, Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984, 99. 79. Peng Xiaoyan, “Zhu Tianxin de Taibei,” 429. 80. Zhu Tianxin, Gudu, 187. 81. Ibid. 82. Chaoyang Liao, “Catastrophe and Hope: The Politics of ‘The Ancient Capital’ and The City Where the Blood-Red Bat Descended,” Journal of Modern Literature in Chinese, 4.1 (2000): 14. 83. Zhu Tianxin, Gudu, 177.

Being/Not Being at Home 84. 85. 86. 87. 88. 89. 90. 91. 92. 93. 94. 95. 96. 97. 98. 99. 100. 101. 102. 103. 104. 105. 106. 107. 108. 109. 110.

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Ibid., 178. Ibid. Ibid., 181. Ibid., 181–182. Ibid., 183–184. Ibid., 186. Ibid., 186–187. Ibid., 219. Wang Dewei, “Xulun,” 26. Zhu Tianxin, Gudu, 185. Ibid. Ibid., 189. Ibid. Ibid., 212–214. Ibid., 215. Ibid. 222. Ibid., 218, 222. Ibid., 230. The Taiwan Cultural Association was established in 1921 and promoted native culture through lecture tours. Peach Blossom Spring is a Daoist-inspired utopia in a story by poet and essayist Tao Qian (Tao Yuanming [365–427]). Zhu Tianxin, Gudu, 233. Peng Xiaoyan, “Zhu Tianxin de Taibei,” 418. Zhu Tianxin, Gudu, 151. Ibid. Peng Xiaoyan, “Zhu Tianxin de Taibei,” 419–420. This event took place in 1971. Zhu Tianxin, Gudu, 157–158. Ibid., 158.

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4 The Indigenization of Taiwanese Literature: Historical Narrative, Strategic Essentialism, and State Violence A-chin Hsiau

Introduction “Indigenization” (bentuhua )—a generalized notion that the uniqueness of Taiwanese society/culture/history must be appreciated and interpreted from the viewpoint of the Taiwanese people per se— has been a powerful paradigm directing and informing discourse on Taiwanese literature and history since the 1980s in Taiwan, or the Republic of China (ROC). The development of the paradigm over the past two decades is closely related to Taiwan’s identity politics of ethnicity and nationalism. As a significant element in national identity conflicts, the debates provoked by the paradigm have been violent in the two fields of literature and history. (The paradigm started within fields of knowledge and cultural production other than literature and history in the late 1970s when “back to xiangtu” [huigui xiangtu ]1 became a prevailing canon of knowledge construction and cultural production.) Debate surrounding bentuhua in other fields, however, has been much less heated than in literature and history and, moreover, has had little connection with the identity politics of ethnicity and nationalism. I aim to explain why the literary indigenization paradigm has come to provoke fiercer debates and be more closely connected with the identity politics of ethnicity and nationalism than it has in other areas

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(except history). There are two interlinked paths that this inquiry could take: the historical, empirical context of the creation and rise of an indigenization paradigm that is rooted in the rise of cultural nationalist politics on Taiwan; and the theoretical, analytical functions that indigenization plays in nationalistic discourse on Taiwanese literature and history, in particular, and in Taiwanese society/culture/nation in general. In regard to the historical, empirical context, the 1970s idea of back to xiangtu was the earliest version of the indigenization paradigm. Literature was the field in which the idea was ardently pursued during this decade. The back to xiangtu cultural trend also involved rediscovering Taiwan’s repressed history, in particular, and the history of Japanese colonialism. With the rise of a Taiwanese political nationalist movement in the 1980s, literature and history have become the two primary fields in which Taiwanese nationalists have sought to construct a national identity. In fashioning a Taiwanese nationalist identity, literary writers and critics, as well as amateur and professional historians, have reappropriated the back to xiangtu rhetoric of the 1970s to construct a paradigm of indigenization that forms the principal, sometimes singular, frame of reference for representing Taiwan and for constructing knowledge of Taiwan. As a result, indigenization has become a flash point in the various debates in the fields of Taiwanese literature and history since the 1980s. Following the first path of inquiry, some studies have contributed to our understanding of the historical, empirical context of the creation and rise of the indigenization paradigm in the fields of literature and history.2 This essay takes the second path of inquiry, to focus on the theoretical, analytical dimension. The indigenization paradigm is central to the fields of Taiwanese literature and history not only because of its link to nationalistic politics, but also because it serves as an essential device in the creation of nationalistic discourse on Taiwanese literature and history, in particular, and Taiwanese society/culture/nation in general. First, I point out that the kernel of the indigenization paradigm in literature and history is a historical narrative, or “emplotted” discourse, that places events in a sequential order with a clear beginning, middle, and end. In the historical narrative involved in this form of indigenization paradigm, the identity, interests, and actions of the narrator, and the interpretation of literary works and historical experience, are mutually constitutive and conditioning. “Emplotment” serves to tie the texts, events, and experience into a whole. The indigenization paradigm, with its totalizing narrative of a unique Taiwanese society/ culture/nation created by the historical immigration and adaptation of

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various peoples (Han Chinese and Malayo-Polynesian “aborigines”) to the island, serves as the device for creating nationalistic discourse on literature. The fierce debates in the fields of literature and history over indigenization typically revolve around a conflict between different totalizing historical narratives, or different “capsule views of reality,” that are difficult to reconcile with one other. Second, I argue that the narrativized indigenization paradigm in literature, which authenticated a specific form of Taiwanese identity through constructing a pattern of “de-Sinicized” and “nationalized (Taiwanese)” historical narrative, possesses the feature of “strategic essentialism” in identity politics. Based on the recognition that for specific political and practical purposes in identity politics, marginalized social groups cannot act without stabilized identities, strategic essentialism expresses a positive attitude toward and/or refers to the very act of essentializing the identities of such groups as a means to these ends. Strategic essentialism, however, can rarely remain just “strategic.” In practice, any essentialist claim of identity strategically constructed for its practical effects typically turns out to be a form of de facto essentialism, which in turn causes essentialist reactions. This is, I argue, a key reason why the indigenization paradigm in literature has provoked violent debates and constituted a significant element in Taiwan’s nationalistic politics. Third, I point to the fact that advocates of the idea of literary indigenization believe that the problems in literature must be settled politically and that the solutions to them depend on state power. I further show that their opponents, who embrace a strong China consciousness and highlight the “Chineseness” of Taiwanese literature, shared this view with the advocates. Both sides maintain that the sort of identity established by a historically narratived literary paradigm can be secured only by state power. In summary, this essay offers three theoretical, analytical explanations as to why the literary indigenization paradigm has come to cause fiercer debates and have closer connection with the identity politics of ethnicity and nationalism than the indigenization idea in other areas: (1) the literary indigenization paradigm engenders a kind of antagonism between different historical narratives that is difficult to ameliorate; (2) in identity politics strategic essentialism is ready to slide from a mere strategy to a form of de facto essentialism that provokes an essentialist backlash; and (3) the literary indigenization paradigm and the conflict caused by it involve state violence. The following discussion of these three factors centers on the essence of the indigenization paradigm in the area of literature, that is, a narrativized view of reality

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or a meaningful configuration that identifies the narrator in an exclusive way.

The Two Types of Indigenization Paradigm and Narrative Identity As far as the development of the general indigenization paradigm is concerned, the 1970s was the “Axial Period” in the sense that a variety of disciplines and fields of cultural activity began to pursue the principle of indigenizing understanding of Taiwan as a unique Chinese society.3 This new intellectual development was contingent upon the convergence of several factors, including Taiwan’s dramatic diplomatic failures; the limited political reform initiated by the ruling party, the Chinese Nationalist Party (Zhongguo Guomin dang ; GMD); rapid socioeconomic changes; the postwar generation’s growing into a significant social force committed to political/cultural innovation; the reflection upon conventional approaches to local society/culture/ history within disciplines and fields of cultural activity; and so on. In this decade, the general indigenization paradigm had different manifestations in various fields of knowledge and cultural production and thus created different effects within them. In spite of the differences, in general the paradigm exercised far-reaching influences on Taiwanese society. For the analytical purpose of this paper, I categorize the different versions of the indigenization paradigm that have developed since the 1970s into two ideal types: “narrativized” and “non-narrativized.” Take the fine arts as an example of the latter. Hong Tong’s paintings and Zhu Ming’s sculptures won the admiration of the public in the 1970s as a result of the back to xiangtu cultural trend. Both were lay artists. The prevailing discourse in the field of fine arts at the time consisted mainly of criticizing the Westernization of artistic work, eulogizing folk art, and calling on artists to draw subjects from the rural and the folk traditions that had been relatively immune to industrialization and Westernization. In general, however, calls for the indigenization of fine arts remained largely slogans.4 Other than the fine arts, a small group of psychologists, sociologists, and anthropologists began to address the problem of overdependency on Western theories in their respective disciplines in the second half of the 1970s.5 Given that Taiwan was treated as China in miniature at that time, and that, in general, these scholars maintained a strong sense of Chinese identity,

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they promoted the “Sinicization of social and behavioral science research.” They aimed to create concepts, theories, and research methods that were more compatible with local society/culture/history than those of Western origin in order to accurately analyze local experience and behavior.6 The indigenization paradigm formulated in such fields as fine arts, psychology, sociology, and anthropology is “non-narrativized,” in the sense that it was not grounded primarily and explicitly on a historical narrative of Taiwan. One may argue that even the pursuit of the principle of indigenization in these fields inevitably involves some specific understanding of history in one way or the other and that their idea of indigenization entails narration. However, as analyzed below, historical narrative has dominated the idea of indigenization in the field of literature (as well as history) and constitutes the essence of the literary indigenization paradigm. Comparatively speaking, the relationship between an underlying historical narrative and the indigenization paradigm formulated in such areas as the fine arts, psychology, sociology, and anthropology is relatively indirect and remote. Besides, unlike the literary indigenization paradigm, the indigenization idea in these areas hardly involves the difficult problems of strategic essentialism and state power. By contrast, a narrativized version of the indigenization paradigm prevailed mainly in the fields of literature and history since the 1970s and its tenets and practice differ from those of the non-narrativized one. Before I address the issue of the narrativized indigenization paradigm, however, the key conception of narrative and its intriguing relationship to identity and action must be briefly examined. My discussion draws largely on the recent development of the theory of “narrative identity.” Although narrative, or story, is defined in many different ways, theorists agree that it is a form of discourse that “place[s] events in a sequential order with a clear beginning, middle and end.”7 The organization of events in this way—that is, bestowing them with a “plot”—constitutes the decisive element of narratives. The act of emplotment transforms events that may even be scattered into successive episodes of a story with a particular directedness and thus constructs a meaningful totality, a configuration, out of them.8 As Margaret R. Somers and Gloria D. Gibson note, “narrativity precludes sense-making of a singular isolated phenomenon.” In narrative, any single event is turned into a part of a larger whole and its meaning is discerned only in its relationship to other events.9 By bringing out order, direction, and meaning through emplotment, narrative does not simply reflect reality but inevitably involves selection, redescription, simplification, rearrangement, and the like.10

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Theorists have long recognized the omnipresence and fundamental significance of narrative in human society. In an oft-cited essay, Roland Barthes asserts that “there nowhere is nor has been a people without narrative” and that “narrative is international, transhistorical, transcultural: it is simply there, like life itself.”11 In the first volume of Time and Narrative—regarded as “the most important synthesis of literary and historical theory” produced in the twentieth century12— Paul Ricoeur examines the close relationship between narrative and the inevitable temporal dimension of human existence. He argues succinctly that “time becomes human to the extent that it is articulated through a narrative mode, and narrative attains its full meaning when it becomes a condition of temporal existence.”13 As Ricoeur points out, the element most relevant to the temporal implications of narrativity is the plot, defined as “the intelligible whole that governs a succession of events in any story.”14 A narrative, via emplotment, becomes a major cognitive process that integrates human experiences into temporally meaningful episodes. Because of the power of narratives to express what is true about the world in a totalized way, theorists have described them as “paradigms,” “interpretive devices,” “world views,” or “capsule views of reality.”15 The capacity of the plot for encapsulating the story as a whole and creating a sense of integrity and coherence for the people who participate in it is due to its problématique, a fundamental tension or conflict, which demands actions on the part of the actors involved.16 Focusing on the centrality of the plot to the directedness of the story, Erik Ringmar provides an incisive account of the relationship between narrative, identity, and action. From the perspective of the story’s participants, the directedness of narrative can be understood in terms of the intentional aspect of action. To be a conscious human being is to have intentions and plans—to be trying to bring about certain effects—and the link between intention and execution is always rendered in narrative form. In this way storytelling becomes a prerequisite of action. . . . We tell ourselves what kind of a person we were/are/will be; what kind of situation we were/are/will be in; and what such people as ourselves are likely to do under these particular circumstances.17

A narrative identity approach such as Ringmar’s, that interlinks narrative, identity, and action in conception, makes it possible to go beyond the text and depart from the analysis of the formal structures of stories or narratives that has prevailed in literary criticism and

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cultural studies. This approach moves to examining the role that stories or narratives play in the formation of group relations, social order, and political process.18 The focus of this essay are ethnic and nationalistic political/cultural conflicts that typically involve confrontations between different historical claims, or different collective narratives of the past. Historical narrative has typically played a major role in identity construction and collective action based on ethnicity and nationalism. Since historical narrative constitutes the essence of the literary indigenization paradigm, which in turn forms a significant part of Taiwan’s nationalistic politics, the “narrative identity” theoretical approach is helpful in analyzing its nature and cultural/political function. An important reason why, since the 1970s, the indigenization paradigm has caused more heated debates in the fields of literature and history than in other areas is because its proponents and critics have addressed the questions, “What is the literature developed in Taiwan? What should it be?” in a “historicized” way. By historicization I mean that both proponents and critics of the indigenization paradigm have relied on narrative modes that embrace the past, the present, and the future of the Taiwanese people in addressing these questions. As mentioned above, narrative inevitably involves how one as a narrator identifies or “positions” himself or herself and thus implies an intention of action. The indigenization paradigm promoted in the areas of literature and history since the 1970s is of a narrativized type, while opponents have challenged it with an alternative historical narrative. This is precisely why it has been argued intensely in the spheres of literature and history and why it has had an affinity for the identity politics of ethnicity and nationalism. In this essay, I limit the scope of discussion to the field of literature, although my following arguments presumably apply also to that of history.

The Narrativized Indigenization Paradigm in Literature and the Closure of Meaning (Explanation I) From the later 1970s until the beginning of the new millennium, Ye Shitao and Chen Yingzhen have been the leading proponent and critic, respectively, of the narrativized indigenization paradigm in the field of literature. When the idea of indigenizing literary creation was initiated in the 1970s, Ye and Chen published their pioneering essays right before the outbreak of the well-known “Debate

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on Xiangtu Literature” (xiangtu wenxue lunzhan ), setting the basic tone for the many ensuing arguments over the paradigm.19 Based on Ye’s and Chen’s contentions, the remainder of the essay is devoted to discussion of the nature of the narrativized indigenization paradigm in the field of literature and the problems it has caused. During the period from the mid-1960s to the first half of the 1970s, Ye, who began his career as a fiction writer in the closing years of Japanese colonialism, was the sole prominent fiction critic of local origin 20 (benshengren ) in the literary circles dominated by “mainlanders” (waishengren ; the diaspora from mainland China who immigrated to Taiwan mainly after 1945).21 Ye devoted himself to critiquing and promoting the works by pre- and postwar generations of Taiwanese writers, which he termed “our province’s xiangtu literature” (bensheng xiangtu wenxue ) or “Taiwanese xiangtu literature” (Taiwan xiangtu wenxue ).22 He interpreted the political/cultural significance of these works in the context of the historical change from Japanese colonialism to GMD rule, especially in terms of national identity. By providing answers to such questions as “For ‘us,’ what is the significance of the works by pre- and post-war generations of Taiwanese writers?”, “What is their relationship to the past, the present, and the future development of Chinese literature, or even to the past, the present, and the future of the Chinese nation/state?”, and the like.23 Ye played a major role in constructing a narrative of pre- and postwar Taiwanese literary activities that evolved into a form of collective memory embraced by Taiwanese nationalists in the ensuing two decades. It should be noted, however, that in contrast to Ye’s recent conception of Taiwanese literature, at that time it was Chinese nationalism that constituted the frame of reference for Ye’s construction of a collective memory of “our province’s xiangtu literature.” In fact, the members of the groups associated with the two literary journals, Taiwan wenyi (Taiwan Literature) and Li shikan (Li Poetry Magazine)—who since the early 1980s have constituted the vanguard promoting the “de-Sinicization” of Taiwanese literature—framed their discourse on Taiwanese literary activities upon Chinese nationalism in the 1970s (Ye could be counted as a member of the Taiwan wenyi group).24 As with Ye’s discourse, the discourse of this vanguard turned Taiwanese literary activities into parts of an emplotted configuration of a Chinese nationalist narrative that placed Taiwan within the history of China. The political/cultural significance of these and related activities is derived exclusively from their relationship to other elements of the narrative configuration.

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In this sort of historical narrative, xiangtu literature, including the works of young novelists writing during the 1970s such as Chen Yingzhen, Huang Chunming , Wang Zhenhe , Yang Qingchu , and Wang Tuo , was represented not only as being “(Taiwanese) xiangtu” but also as being “(Chinese) national.” The pursuit of a balance between Taiwanese local identity and Chinese national identity in literary expression corresponded to the spirit of political reformism and to the cry for a realistic literature of both local and national character that marked the 1970s. In terms of the general format of narrative discussed above, the historical narrative of “our province’s or Taiwanese xiangtu literature” represented by Ye’s discourse can be summarized as in table 4.1.25 Ye Shitao first gave a complete presentation of this mode of narrative in his well-known article “Taiwan xiangtu wenxueshi daolun Table 4.1 Chinese Nationalist Narrative of (Our Province’s or Taiwanese) Xiangtu Literature Narrator

The Chinese or the Chinese nation

Evolution of time

Since the period of Japanese colonialism

Theme or problématique

Xiangtu literature: advancing from the (Taiwanese) local to the (Chinese) national From xiangtu color to national character From local particularity to national universality From tradition to modernity

Plot

Beginning: Our province’s xiangtu literature first developed as part of the anti-Japanese resistance movement under colonial rule, radiating intense Chinese national consciousness Middle: Thanks to the recovery of lost Taiwan, our province’s xiangtu literature was reinstated as part of Chinese literature. Young writers of local origin as enthusiastic Chinese nationalists created a new version of xiangtu literature in the 1970s End: (The future will be shaped by the following conclusion or resolution)

Conclusion or resolution

Writers should pursue a balance between and the integration of the (Taiwanese) local and the (Chinese) national in literary expression, making contribution to the advancement of our province’s xiangtu literature from the level of Chinese literature to the level of world literature

Source: Based on Xiao Aqin, “Minzuzhuyi yu Taiwan 1970 niandai de ‘xiangtu wenxue,’ ” 112.

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” (An Introduction to the History of Taiwan’s Xiangtu Literature), published several months before the outbreak of the Debate on Xiangtu Literature. Responding in an essay entitled “ ‘Xiangtu wenxue’ de mangdian ” (The Blind Spot of “Xiangtu Literature”), Chen Yingzhen (writing under his penname, Xu Nancun ) criticized Ye for exaggerating the individuality of xiangtu literature that had developed since the colonial period and for downplaying its Chinese character. “Taiwan consciousness” demonstrated by the anti-Japanese political and literary movements, he argued, was precisely “China consciousness” or “China-oriented nationalism.”26 Chen’s narrative of “Chinese literature in Taiwan” (Zai Taiwan de Zhongguo wenxue ) is displayed in table 4.2.27 A comparison of tables 4.1 and 4.2 indicates that as far as Table 4.2 The Chinese Nationalist Narrative of “Chinese Literature in Taiwan” Narrator

The Chinese or the Chinese nation

Evolution of time

Since the period of Japanese colonialism

Theme or problématique

Chinese literature in Taiwan: Anti-imperialist and anti-feudalistic Identifying with the Chinese nation and demonstrating Chinese nationality Realist and written in an engagé spirit

Plot

Beginning: Taiwan’s new literature under the Japanese rule, which focused mainly on the rural life and the peasantry as the locus of China consciousness, constituted an integral part of modern Chinese literature that featured anti-imperialism and anti-feudalism Middle: In the postwar decades Taiwan’s Westernized literary circles had divorced themselves from reality and from the tradition of new literature promoted in China’s May Fourth Movement of 1918. In the 1970s the young generation of anti-Westernization writers developed realist xiangtu literature in their pursuit of social-mindedness and Chinese nationality End: (The future will be shaped by the following conclusion or resolution)

Conclusion or resolution

Writers should draw subjects from the Chinese way of life in Taiwan and write in a national and realist spirit, contributing to the progress of Chinese literature in its entirety

Source: Summarized by the author of this chapter.

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national identity was concerned, the self-identification of the narrators did not differ radically. A master storyteller, Ye remained a Taiwanese member of the Chinese nation. In terms of Ye’s identity positioning, Chen’s suggestion that his historical narrative was a form of “elaborate, separatist discourse,” or “Taiwanese cultural nationalism” that advocated divorcing the island from China, was an overreaction.28 In answering the questions, “What is the literature developed in Taiwan? What should it be?” by constructing their respective narratives, Ye and Chen established a historical framework that has been used to address the indigenization paradigm in the field of literature from the late 1970s to the present. Chen’s overreaction to Ye’s position also ushered in unending arguments about the indigenization paradigm in literature. These arguments have typically involved contention between rival historical narratives of Taiwan and have thus formed part of an emerging cultural nationalist political conflict. It should, however, be pointed out that this description is made with the benefit of hindsight. The development of cultural nationalist politics from the late 1970s to the present cannot be explained in a crude teleological way.29 Without the impact of the 1979 Meilidao (or Kaohsiung ) Incident ,30 it is doubtful whether the reformist challenge to the GMD issued by the Taiwanese opposition (dangwai ) in the 1970s would have swiftly radicalized in the first half of the 1980s. It is also doubtful whether a Taiwanese nationalist narrative of history— that is, a “Taiwan-centric conception of history” (Taiwan shiguan ) advocated as an alternative to the “China-centric conception of history” Zhongguo shiguan ) by anti-GMD political and cultural activists of Taiwan origin—would have developed so rapidly if this stirring event had not occurred. The Kaohsiung Incident and the ensuing radical opposition movement, which involved promoting a nationalistic Taiwan consciousness (Taiwan yishi ), mobilized to action members of the Taiwan wenyi and Li shikan groups. In the first half of the 1980s these groups of literary writers and critics built up close connections with the dangwai and devoted themselves to anti-GMD activities. During these years, together with the members of Wenxuejie (Literary Taiwan; founded 1982), they began to zealously advocate “de-Sinicizing” Taiwanese literature. The tradition of modern literature produced since the colonial period was gradually constructed by them as one of particular, indigenous character that had little connection with the modern literature of post–May Fourth China. Increasingly, they replaced the term “xiangtu literature” with “indigenous literature” (bentu wenxue ) and then with

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“Taiwanese literature” (Taiwan wenxue ) to demonstrate their growing identification with Taiwan. The second half of the 1980s saw the rapid development of Taiwanese nationalism, partially as a result of the establishment of the Democratic Progressive Party (Minzhu jinbu dang ; DPP), Taiwan’s first postwar opposition party, in 1986. During this same period, literary writers and critics became further involved in opposition politics and have since played a major role in constructing Taiwanese cultural nationalist and literary discourse. Their literary and other activities thus form a significant part of the cultural politics of Taiwanese nationalism.31 Ye Shitao’s Taiwan wenxue shigang (A Brief History of Taiwanese History; 1987) and Peng Ruijin’s Taiwan xinwenxue yundong 40 nian 40 (Taiwanese New Literature Movement over the Last Four Decades; 1991), both published around the end of the 1980s , marked a transition of the literary indigenization paradigm from the “de-Sinicized” type to the “nationalized (Taiwanese)” type.32 The two books not only epitomize the general effects of the indigenization paradigm that had held sway over the field of literature from the 1970s to the end of the 1980s but also established a Taiwanese nationalist narrative in literature. A somewhat long passage from Ye’s comments in praise of Peng’s book typifies how the revised literary indigenization paradigm differed quite markedly from the version popularized in the 1970s. The reason we reckon that pre-war new literature and post-war Taiwanese literature form an undivided, complete literary whole is that we regard Taiwanese literature to be part of world literature, rather than a dependent literature attached to a particular alien ruling nation. . . . The factor determining that Taiwanese literature is a form of autonomous literature, rather than a dependency of a particular alien ruling nation is Taiwan’s historical destiny over the past four hundred years. As everybody knows, alien rulers dominated every stage of Taiwanese history. They are all birds of a feather in that they set themselves the major task of eliminating Taiwanese historical memory and phasing out Taiwanese culture. They attempted to root out Taiwan consciousness and turn the Taiwanese people into a mass of lifeless spirits who would docilely obey. . . . Taiwanese literature is a literature of the oppressed, that is, a protestant literature that a weak and small nation created in order to resist alien rulers. This kind of literature must fight on behalf of the oppressed and struggle for the “political, economic, and social liberation” of the Taiwanese people. Taiwanese literature is grounded in the essential fertile soil of Taiwanese culture and is rooted in the desire of the

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Taiwanese people for democracy and freedom. It must resist any crushing oppression. The most important index to this sort of resistance consciousness is precisely a strong and steadfast Taiwanese consciousness. What, then, is Taiwan consciousness? We believe that it is a consciousness that involves identifying with the Taiwanese land and people, recognizing Taiwan as an independent and autonomous community of fate, deeply loving Taiwan’s natural scenery and essential spiritual civilization, and being ready to make a devotion to and a sacrifice for her. During the past seventy-odd years Taiwanese literature has been a literature that is rooted precisely in this kind of Taiwan consciousness, identifying itself with the Taiwanese people, and recording the lifehistory of the Taiwanese people’s arduously surviving their oppression by alien nations.33

It is easy to see that the narrator positioned in this form of narration of Taiwanese literary history is no longer a member of the Chinese nation but one of the would-be Taiwanese nation. The narrativized indigenization paradigm advocated mainly by the Taiwan wenyi, Li shikan, and Wenxue Taiwan (Literary Taiwan) groups,34 underwent further radicalization during the 1990s. The de-Sinicized literary discourse paved the way for a “nationalized” memory of the past. Taiwanese literature has been constructed as a tradition with multiethnic sources whose starting point is ancient aboriginal mythology, legend, and folk songs. Moreover, the progress of post-1920s modern literature in Taiwan has been characterized as a history of Taiwanese writers’ search for a distinct Taiwanese national identity. Thus Taiwanese literature is represented as the literary tradition of a would-be “Taiwanese nation,” producing a conception of “Taiwanese national literature” (Taiwan minzu wenxue ).35 At the end of the1990s, Ye, by then a full-fledged Taiwanese nationalist, scathingly criticized proponents of 1970s xiangtu literature, such as Chen Yingzhen, Wang Tuo, Wei Tiancong , and the like, for being “Chinese nationalists” and for “not identifying themselves with Taiwan as the country of a weak, small, and newlyemerging nation.” For Ye, the framework of xiangtu literature was Chinese nationalism and this literary genre did not mirror faithfully local realities nor was it really founded on the local history, the land, and its people. The Debate on Xiangtu Literature, he believed, consisted merely of a conflict between GMD “old Chinese nationalists” and “new Chinese nationalists” such as Chen, Wang, and Wei.36 The Taiwanese nationalist narrative of Taiwanese literature developed during the 1990s, and exemplified by Ye’s construction, can be displayed as table 4.3.37 This mode of historical narrative represents the evolution

138 Table 4.3 Taiwanese Nationalist Narrative of “Taiwanese Literature” Narrator

The Taiwanese or the Taiwanese nation

Evolution of time

Since the beginning of Taiwan’s recorded history, especially since the 1920s under Japanese colonialism

Theme or problématique

Taiwanese literature: a realist literature that mirrors the historical experience of the Taiwanese people Multiethnic origins Depicting the historical experience of the Taiwanese in their resistance to the oppression of alien ruler Giving voice to the cry of the Taiwanese for freedom, liberation, and the establishment of a sovereign state A distinct tradition that is not a dependency of the literary heritage of any alien ruler (especially Chinese literature)

Plot

Beginning: Ancient literary creation of the aborigines is the cradle of Taiwanese literature. Modern Taiwanese literature first developed as part of anti-Japanese resistance under colonial rule, demonstrating independent Taiwan consciousness Middle: In the early postwar period Taiwanese writers devoted themselves to creative writing in spite of all the hardships they faced. They thus renewed the fine tradition of Taiwanese literature in the name of xiangtu literature. In the 1960s the establishment of Taiwan wenyi and Li shikan represented the postwar formation stage of Taiwan consciousness The 1970s saw the outbreak of the Debate on Xiangtu Literature caused by internal conflicts among Chinese nationalists. Genuine indigenous (bentu) writers distanced themselves from the contention and concentrated on writing. They rallied round and rediscovered their colonial literary heritage In the 1980s, conceptions of xiangtu literature and indigenous (bentu) literature were revised and renamed Taiwanese literature Since the 1990s the subjectivity (zhutixing ) of Taiwanese literature has been maturing End: (The future will be shaped by the following conclusion or resolution)

Conclusion or resolution

Taiwanese literature must facilitate the founding of an independent and autonomous country. It must establish itself as a “sovereign” literature and become part of world literature

Source: Based on Xiao Aqin, “Minzuzhuyi yu Taiwan 1970 niandai de ‘xiangtu wenxue,’” 122–123.

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of the narrativized indigenization paradigm in the field of literature into a full-blown nationalistic discourse that differed radically from its early version emerging in the 1970s. Partially as a result of the increasing general indigenization or “Taiwanization” of politics/culture after the 1980s, it seems that the Taiwanese nationalist literary narrative has prevailed over the Chinese nationalist narrative of “Chinese literature in Taiwan” as represented in Chen Yingzhen’s articulation. Chen remains a committed Chinese nationalist, while the national identification of Ye Shitao and most members of Taiwan wenyi, Li shikan, and Wenxue Taiwan underwent marked change. Embracing strong China consciousness, Chen has been constant in framing his interpretation of Taiwan’s history and literature upon a form of anti-imperialist and anti-feudalist Chinese nationalism. His literary discourse has changed little. Since the Debate on Taiwan Consciousness (Taiwan yishi lunzhan ) of 1983–1984,38 there has been bitter antagonism between Chen, on the one side, and Ye Shitao, Chen Fangming , Peng Ruijin, and the like, on the other. By the end of the 1990s, Chen Yingzhen’s literary discourse was increasingly endorsed by scholars in the People’s Republic of China (PRC) and thus he began to work together with these scholars to criticize the Taiwanese nationalist literary indigenization paradigm and its supporters. A book entitled “Wenxue Taidu” mianmian guan (Aspects of the “Literary Discourse of Taiwanese Independence”) was published in Beijing in 2001. The two authors claim that its purpose is “to crush completely the scheme supported in the ‘literary discourse of Taiwan independence,’ cultural discourse of Taiwan independence (wenhua Taidu ), and even the entire idea of Taiwan independence, so as to secure the unification of literature and culture on both sides of the Taiwan Strait, and to defend the integrity of our territory and sovereignty and the unification of our nation and country.” They criticized Ye Shitao’s article, “Taiwan xiangtu wenxueshi daolun,” for heralding a “literary discourse of Taiwan independence.” For the authors, Ye and such followers as Chen Fangming, Peng Ruijin, and Zhang Liangze constituted a clique promoting the idea of Taiwanese independence in the field of literature.39 In his preface to this book, Chen Yingzhen claimed: “the fight against the literary discourse of Taiwan independence is part of the great, unfinished national struggle for the liberation and unity of our nation and for the independence and unification of our country, that has been carried on since the Opium War [of 1840–1842].”40 Attacking the literary discourse of Taiwan independence on the

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grounds that it amounted to promoting a version of “the two-statesin-one-nation theory” (liangguo lun ) in the field of literature,41 the two authors also threatened that this kind of discourse “will be definitely buried along with the forces of those who advocate the independence of Taiwan!”42 Chen’s and the authors’ threatening claims bear witness to the bitter hatred caused by the conflict of narrative identity. In particular, the book published in Beijing represents the PRC’s rising hostility to Taiwanese nationalism after the DPP’s Chen Shuibian (Chen Shui-bian) was elected president of the ROC in 2000. Stuart Hall has pointed out that the “fictional” or narrative status of identity inevitably involves a temporary, partial, and arbitrary “closure” of meaning. The creation of such communities of identification as families, sexualities, nations, ethnic groups, and so on, he argues, relies on this closure, that is, “the arbitrary interposition of power in language, the cut of ideology, the positioning, the crossing of lines, the rupture.”43 The establishment of identity through the construction of historical narrative is, so to speak, the effect of the contingent and arbitrary closure of meaning, which, in turn, is made possible by the constructed meaningful totality of narrative. The narrative configuration precludes any alternative interpretation of events or experiences and stops the potential for the unlimited proliferation of meaning. It thus positions or identifies the narrator in a specific, exclusive way. The antagonism engendered by the literary indigenization paradigm has involved conflict between different narrative configurations as interpretive devices, or between different “capsule views of reality.” This is a major reason the literary indigenization paradigm has provoked violent debates and formed a significant part of Taiwan’s nationalist politics.

Is “Strategic Essentialism” Just Strategic? (Explanation II) When viewed retrospectively, the “de-Japanized” rule, education policies, and propaganda that the GMD carried out in postwar Taiwan constituted a form of official decolonization enforced from above. As far as its powerful influence on the first postwar generation is concerned, the GMD political/cultural project of “Sinicizing” Taiwanese society was successful. In the 1970s—the Axial Period when the general indigenization paradigm was emerging—the first postwar generation,

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as a major social force that cried for back to xiangtu, devoted itself to rediscovering the “Taiwaneseness” suppressed in the postwar public sphere by developing xiangtu literature and exploring colonial literature, in particular, and Taiwanese history in general. Like Ye Shitao as a storyteller, the narrator positioned in that young generation’s historical narrative remained, by and large, a Taiwanese member of the Chinese nation.44 The development of Taiwan consciousness or Taiwanese nationalism since the 1980s, however, represents a process of “re-decolonization,” as it were, in the sense that it not only rebels against Sinicization under the GMD but it also resists the PRC’s claim to sovereignty over Taiwan. The formation of an indigenization paradigm structured on a Taiwanese nationalist historical narrative, especially that prevailing in the fields of literature and history, is part and parcel of this process of re-decolonization. In almost all postcolonial political/cultural struggles, a conception of identity based on a form of “essentialism” has played a central role. For those who embrace such a conception of identity, their collective identity comes from a shared history, culture, and ancestry and represents a sort of collective essence, or collective “true self,” that provides them with a stable frame of reference and meaning. Such a collective essence, they believe, is constant and can be rediscovered if it was ever eclipsed by minor differences between them or by historical change. Postcolonial societies are typified by the rediscovery of this identity, enabling them to move beyond the misery and humiliation caused by colonization.45 In fact, for those who are socially marginalized, such an essentialist conception of identity has always been a constant source of creativity in representing and asserting themselves. It is an act of empowerment.46 The Taiwanese identity constructed in the literary indigenization paradigm based on a Taiwanese nationalist historical narrative obviously bears the character of postcolonial essentialism. In the narrativized paradigm, literature is an important vehicle for recording the historical experiences of the long-oppressed Taiwanese people and for expressing their steadfast spirit of resistance and determination to win independence and autonomy. For the proponents, Taiwanese literature, like the Taiwanese people who, historically, have sustained an unflagging Taiwan consciousness, is unique. It did not belong to Japanese literature in the colonial era any more than it has belonged to Chinese literature in the postwar period. The real indigenization of Taiwanese literature, it is believed, consists in conveying such a Taiwanese identification, or rediscovering the suppressed, collective true self of the Taiwanese, as authenticated by history. Ye Shitao’s above-cited passage in praise of

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Peng Ruijin exemplifies this conception of literary indigenizaton and the essentialist claim of Taiwanese identity.47 As far as the contemporary study of identity is concerned, especially in the field of cultural studies, it is evident that an anti-essentialist conception of identity has been prevalent. Such a conception is informed by the idea that words do not have referents with essential or universal qualities because the function of language is “making” instead of “finding.” Identity is thus regarded not as a thing, but a description in language, or a discursive construct, the meanings of which vary with time and space.48 In terms of the theoretical approach of narrative identity, this anti-essentialist notion is well-articulated in Hall’s discussion of the cultural identity of Caribbean or black diasporas. For Hall, “identities are the names we give to the different ways we are positioned by, and position ourselves within, the narratives of the past.” The past is essentialized in such a historical narrative to secure our sense of identity.49 It seems that anti-essentialist arguments about identity have little practical value in postcolonial political/cultural struggles and in the resistances of marginalized social groups. Critics have maintained that a more positive and constructive account of identity politics calls for a “strategic essentialism,” which allows for the fact that people “act as if identities were stable entities for specific political and practical purposes.”50 In fact, quite a few theorists who deconstruct identity admit the necessity of strategic essentialism for the sake of practical action. As Hall points out, without the contingent and arbitrary closure of meaning, neither identity construction nor political action— especially for the social movements that try to transform society partially by establishing new subjectivities—would be possible. As far as identity and politics are concerned, this arbitrary closure, or the positioning that makes meaning possible, is “strategically” necessary.51 In criticizing the prevailing form of African identity that is based on essentialized racial origins, religious beliefs, and ancient history, Black philosopher Kwame A. Appiah, a native Ghanaian, points to the fact that in the real world of politics alliances cannot be made without mystifications and mythologies. It seems that the agency required for collective action typically entails “a misrecognization of its genesis” (Appiah’s emphasis). Expressing his disapproval of the essentialist conception of African identity, Appiah sets himself the task of finding justifiable ways in which intellectuals who insist on seeking the truth can identify themselves with Africa. The political meanings and practical uses of identities, he argues, are all historically and geographically

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relative and they should be supported or opposed case by case. In view of the current state of affairs in Africa, he believes that a Pan-Africanism based on a continental fellowship rather than any essentialist tenet is progressive, useful, and necessary, “however false or muddled its theoretical roots.”52 Prominent deconstructionist Gayatri C. Spivak provides another example. Talking about women’s discursive strategies in fighting against patriarchy, she believes that it is right to take a position against essentialism. However, she also argues that “strategically we cannot” (Spivak’s emphasis). Spivak makes it clear that “since as a deconstructionist . . . I cannot in fact clean my hands and say, ‘I am specific.’ In fact, I must say I am an essentialist from time to time.” For Spivak, whose research is not intended as “a search for coherence,” choosing a strategic essentialism that serves a practical purpose requires the abandonment of “theoretical purity.”53 As an act of re-decolonization, the post-1980s narrativized indegenization paradigm of Taiwanese literature may well be justified as a strategic essentialism, whatever distorted history, crude conceptions, arbitrary categorizations, and dubious arguments it seems to involve. The idea of strategic essentialism, however, has to meet challenges either in conception or in practice. It poses the problem: “How is it possible for strategic essentialism to be just strategic?” Conceptually, if an essentialist claim of identity is strategic, it presupposes individuals with a marked degree of instrumental rationality. Such a group of individuals can always understand where the real interests of their community of identification lie and clearly distinguish between means and ends without confusion. Strategic essentialism suggests that given clear practical purposes, people are able to adopt effective means and act “as if” the identities they appropriate were stable entities. It postulates that people as actors fully understand and can always draw a distinction between identification as means and identification as ends. As Appiah promotes the ideal of Pan-Africanism and recognizes that Africa remains “a usable identity,” he also argues that “there are times when Africa is not the banner we need.”54 However, identity involves an individual’s reflections upon and answers to such self-realization questions as “Who am I?,” “Who do I want to be?,” “What is a meaningful life and how can I have such a life?,” “Where does the end of my life and my interest lie?,” and the like. The construction and maintenance of any identity requires long-term dedicated commitment. A strategic essentialism in which the self has great reflexive power to exercise rational choice is at odds with a conception of identity that entails constant commitment. It deprives identity of its conceptual

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uniqueness and weakens its analytical power to explain action. How can a mere strategic choice of means, rather than a reflexive project of the self with commitment,55 still be understood and analyzed in terms of identity as normally conceptualized? Perhaps the assumption that an actor who adapts means to ends can always make a distinction between identification as temporary means and identification as true ends, and that his or her rational self can always know its distance from the openly claimed identity, is why some have suspected that a strategic essentialism may become an excuse: “my essentialism is strategic and therefore virtuous; your’s however is fundamentalist and vicious.”56 In practice, even a category of identification originally constructed out of consideration for its strategic effects usually turns out to be a framework within which social interaction proceeds. Once such a categorization is increasingly accepted by the public, it usually becomes an object of social action per se and will not remain a mere means. The development of the conception of “four great ethnic groups” (si da zuqun ) that has brought significant consequences to Taiwan in the past decade provides an apt example. As the leading opposition party, the DPP took a more pragmatic approach to problems at the turn of the 1980s. To downplay dominance by Taiwanese of Hoklo origin in the DPP, and enlist the support of other ethnic groups, the party leaders created the concept of “four great ethnic groups” as an alternative to the prevailing dichotomy of Taiwanese and mainlanders. The new categorization juxtaposes the two ethnic groups previously marginalized, the Hakka Taiwanese and the aborigines of Malay-Polynesian origin, with the Hoklo Taiwanese and the mainlanders. Over the last decade, this conception has been widely accepted in society to the degree that it has become a dominant frame of reference for dealing with ethnic and nationalist issues. Democratic elections and social movements facilitate the collapse of the strategy/purpose or ends/ means dichotomy, when candidates and activists appeal to collective identities for support. In Taiwan’s recent politics of identity, to defend the presumed integrity of Hoklo, Hakka, mainlander, and aboriginal identities is usually an object of social action per se, not just a means. A major effect of the collective mobilization of essentialized identities is that such a process as the “ethnicization” of politics—as in the case of Taiwan57—can rarely be reversed. Strategic essentialism, if any, will not remain just strategic, and essentialism will cause essentialist backlashes. In Taiwan’s case, the ethnicization of politics is precisely the essentialization of constructed identities. By the same token, the

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collective mobilization of essentialized identities in the field of literature—the promotion of the Taiwanese nationalist narrative of “Taiwanese literature” and the Chinese nationalist narrative of “Chinese literature in Taiwan”—has, since the 1980s, provoked an increasingly serious discursive confrontation that is difficult to weaken. Either in conception or in practice, the distinction is one with little difference. Once a Pandora’s box is opened, it is hard to close. This precisely is a major feature of the identity politics of ethnicity and nationalism. It is also why the narrativized indigenization paradigm has aroused such deep antagonism between its supporters and critics.

Knowledge for Whom and of What? (Explanation III and Concluding Remarks) The intellectual questions posed by indigenization as a guiding principle of knowledge construction and cultural production, ranging from “knowledge for whom” to “knowledge of what,” are certainly difficult to answer. In the process of political/cultural struggle for re-decolonization in Taiwan as a postcolonial society, the indigenization paradigm in the field of literature as a guiding principle of knowledge for empowerment inevitably involves the complex problem of the knowledge/power or science/politics relationship. One obvious difficulty is that the researchers who wittingly or unwittingly embrace the narrativized indigenization paradigm have usually been constrained by empiricism. By empiricism I mean, in this context, a view of social facts as the object of study in which concepts and theories, and thus social facts, are treated as being self-evident. Such an empiricist researcher typically lacks epistemological vigilance and fails to recognize the assumption-laden and the constructed character of concepts, theories, and even social facts. Because an empiricist study does not break with ordinary language and everyday notions that provide the illusion of immediate knowledge of social facts, it is unable to go beyond the limits of the categories with which historical actors (in this context, literary writers, critics, and other related actors) under study made sense of the world.58 As a result, an empiricist study informed by the narrativized indigenization paradigm typically fails to achieve an analytical understanding of the phenomena of literature in Taiwan. Presumably a variety of factors contribute to this narrowness and failure. Although I am unable to dwell here on these factors due to the limited scope of

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this essay, one important reason may be that in order to tell a moving story that can be appreciated by as many people as possible, especially by those who are supposed to be members of the teller’s community of identification, the concepts and statements employed in a historical narrative cannot be divorced from the way in which listeners make sense of the world and so must be made familiar to them. That is to say, the under-theorization of studies of Taiwanese literature informed by the narrativized indigenization paradigm may be due to the needs of a community of identification to maintain internal communication and to strengthen its solidarity. Although the questions posed by the indigenizaton paradigm such as “knowledge for whom” and “knowledge of what” are by no means easy to answer intellectually, it seems that in the real world of politics the replies are clear and definite, at least for the supporters and critics of the paradigm. Dealing with the controversy over literature written in Taiwan’s local languages (mainly with some experimental writing systems of Hoklo language) that has developed since the 1990s,59 Ye Shitao argues that the controversy will not end “until [Taiwanese] national sovereignty is established.” For him, Taiwanese literature in general—which has long been treated merely as part of an alien nations’ literature—will not see the light at the end of the tunnel until that time.60 Chen Yingzhen, who works together with PRC scholars to criticize the “literary discourse of Taiwan independence,” regards the controversy as part of a national (Chinese) political struggle. As the leading antagonists in this controversy, Ye and Chen believe that the problems in literature must be tackled politically and that the solutions to them depend on state power. The closure of meaning that both the literary indigenization paradigm and its opposite paradigm have achieved by virtue of nationalist historical narration can be secured only by state violence. It is believed that political power is the last—if not the best—means by which to close the Pandora’s box. It may be true that the anti-essentialist deconstruction of identity is of little practical value in social action, especially in postcolonial political/cultural struggles and in the resistance actions of marginalized social groups. The intellectual will to truth also seems to pale before the state and political power. As Appiah recognizes, reason has almost no role to play in the construction of identities. In the struggle against the inequality and violence caused by the identity issue, the actual study of identity is typically marginal, as the real battle is not fought in the academy.61 Although Appiah follows strategic essentialism in view of the current situation in Africa, he insists that intellectuals

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continue to tell the truth: “We cannot change the world simply by evidence and reasoning, but we surely cannot change it without them either.” For him, intellectuals in the academy can contribute a “disruption” of the discourse of essentialized identities, however slowly and marginally.62 Strategic essentialism cannot remain merely strategic and there is little distinction between strategic essentialism and essentialism. There is also state political violence underlying the adoption of the literary indigenization paradigm and its opposite paradigm as governing principles for knowledge construction and cultural production. This is precisely why the discourse formulated by the political and cultural elite is of great significance. This kind of discourse, such as that of Ye Shitao and Chen Yingzhen, is usually a main source of public narrative. Such public narrative typically becomes an important frame of reference in which members of society construct their collective identity. With a view to seeking after truth, let us revisit the 1970s, the Axial Period of the indigenization paradigm, when the identity politics of ethnicity and nationalism was still embryonic. Better still, let us return to the 1960s, an even more “innocent” period than the ensuing decades. In 1966, after he frankly criticized the fiction writings of Wu Zhuoliu (1900–1976)—since the 1980s Wu has been revered as an enduring writer by Taiwanese nationalists—Ye Shitao pinned his hopes for the future on Taiwanese writers and gave the following advice: To treat the destiny of the Taiwanese as part of the life of humankind and to follow the idealist tendency of humankind will help Taiwanese writers find a smooth and wide road and open the doors of world literature. This is precisely what every writer dreams of. Having started out from what s/he uncovers in a particular local/indigenous (xiangtu) [culture] to enhance the splendor of human nature, [a writer] then proceeds to sublimate this nature so that it becomes a universal, common human nature. No doubt this is the approach most Taiwanese writers adopt and is also the right path. However, the fact that Taiwanese writers have become mired in an exaggerated conception of xiangtu and have long been unable to free themselves from it also confines them to a small, sealed cage, turning them into parochial and arrogant persons. Although almost all great works of fiction in the world are rooted in xiangtu and show strong national character and the vivid spirit of xiangtu, they also display the humanity and the destiny common to humankind.63

As for Chen Yingzhen, in 1976, when he admitted that he had never been interested in films made in Taiwan and was unconcerned with the

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efforts of Taiwan’s filmmakers, he humbly made a self-criticism that he was a stubborn man liable to go to extremes. Chen confessed that he was highly vulnerable to “the shallowest dogmatism.” He also criticized intellectuals such as himself. From my point of view, intellectuals are typically those who can make the most effective contribution to the eradication of conventional prejudices, but it is very difficult for them to avoid a kind of so-called intellectuals’ bias. Moreover, putting it simply, intellectuals are the sort of people who have a bias in favor of specific knowledge. Intellectuals explain the world and judge everything according to their education, knowledge, and propensity. There is no such education, knowledge, and propensity that is not imbued with strong partisanship. Therefore, a great many factions emerge in the realm of knowledge; they have different concepts of value and speak different languages. When these different factions are in conflict, the so-called partisanship, or the so-called intellectuals’ consciousness, is intensified. I am afraid the intensified partisanship and intellectuals’ consciousness is precisely the root reason why intellectuals degenerate into a variety of dogmatists.64

Obviously, Ye’s caution against indulgence in parochialism and Chen’s self-criticism of dogmatism are a far cry from their current literary discourse. Rediscovering their early views constitutes, at best, a very marginal disruption of the narrativized literary indigenization paradigm and its opposite paradigm. Nevertheless, this is one small effect that the study of history—which takes telling the truth as an imperative— tries to realize.

Notes 1. Xiang literally means “village,” “rural area,” or “hometown,” and tu means “soil,” “local,” or “native.” 2. For example, You Shengguan , Taiwan wenxue bentulun de xingqi yu fazhan (The Origin and Development of the Theory of Indigenization of Taiwanese Literature), Taipei: Qianwei, 1996; Xiao Aqin (A-chin Hsiau) , “1980 niandai yilai Taiwan wenhua minzuzhuyi de fazhan: Yi ‘Taiwan (minzu) wenxue’ wei zhu de fenxi 1980 : ( ) ” (The Development of Taiwanese Cultural Nationalism since the Early 1980s: A Study of “Taiwanese [National] Literature”), Taiwan shehuixue yanjiu, 3 (1999): 1–51; A-chin Hsiau, Contemporary Taiwanese Cultural Nationalism, London: Routledge, 2000. 3. I borrow the term, the Axial Period, from the German philosopher Karl T. Jaspers (1883–1969). Jaspers used it to describe the crucial period in human

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history from 800 to 200 BC, especially the period around 500 BC. “During these centuries people in China, India, and the West began to ponder various fundamental problems about life, leading to the simultaneous development of culturally specific systems of thought and religion in these three areas.” He points out: “In this age were born the fundamental categories within which we still think today, and the beginnings of the world religions, by which human beings still live, were created. . . . As a result of this process, hitherto unconsciously accepted ideas, customs and conditions were subjected to examination, questioned, and liquidated. Everything was swept into the vortex. In so far as the traditional substance still possessed vitality and reality, its manifestations were clarified and thereby transmuted.” See Karl T. Jaspers, The Origin and Goal of History, New Haven, CT: Yale University Press (1949) 1953, 1–2. The 1970s saw dramatic political/social/cultural changes in Taiwan that have had far-reaching influences on society in the ensuing decades. Therefore, I compare the important place the 1970s occupies in Taiwan’s postwar history to the place the 800–200 BC period holds in the history of humankind. 4. Lin Xingyu , Taiwan meishu fengyun 40 nian 40 (The Vicissitudes of Taiwan’s Fine Arts over the Past Four Decades), Taipei: Zili wanbao, 1987, 201–228. 5. Yang Guoshu , “Women weishenme yao jianli Zhongguoren de bentu xinlixue? ?” (Why Must We Establish an Indigenous Psychology of the Chinese People?), Bentu xinlixue yanjiu, 1 (1993): 8, 63–64. 6. See Yang Guoshu and Wen Chongyi (eds.), Shehui ji xingwei kexue yanjiu de Zhongguohua (The Sinicization of Social and Behavioral Science Research in China), Taipei: Institute of Ethnology, Academia Sinica, 1982; Li Yiyuan et al. (eds.), Xiandaihua yu Zhongguohua lunji (Symposium on Modernization and Sinicization), Taipei: Guiguan, 1985; Cai Yongmei and Xiao Xinhuang (eds.), Shehuixue Zhongguohua (The Sinicization of Sociology), Taipe: Jiuliu Chubanshe, 1985; Fu Dawei , “Lishi jiangou, biancui celüe, yu ‘Zhongguohua’: Dui Taiwan ‘xingwei ji shehui kexue Zhongguohua’ tifa de sixiangshi yanjiu : ” (Historical Construction, Marginal Strategy, and “Sinicization”: An Intellectual Historical Study of the “Sinicization of Behavioral and Social Science Research” in Taiwan), Daoyu bianyuan, 1.1 (1991): 103–125; Wen Chongyi, “Zhongguo de shehuixue: Guojihua huo guojiahua : ” (Sociology in China: Internationalization or Nationalization), Zhongguo shehuixue kan, 15 (1991): 1–28. By the end of the 1980s the momentum of Sinicization in sociology and anthropology had gradually diminished. By contrast, a group of psychologists has long been committed to this approach, although the conception of Sinicization was replaced by that of indigenization around 1987, with the latter requiring the undertaking of “indigenous psychological research in Chinese societies.” See Yang Guoshu, “Women weishenmo yao jianli Zhongguoren de bentu xinlixue?” 9, 64–65.

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7. Lewis P. Hinchman and Sandra K. Hinchman, “Introduction,” in Lewis P. Hinchman and Sandra K. Hinchman (eds.), Memory, Identity, Community: The Idea of Narrative in the Human Sciences, New York: State University of New York Press, 1997, xv. The concepts of narrative and story are used interchangeably in the discussion that follows. 8. Paul Ricoeur, “The Narrative Function,” in John B. Thompson (ed. and trans.), Hermeneutics and the Human Sciences: Essays on Language, Action and Interpretation, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981, 277–279. 9. Margaret R. Somers and Gloria D. Gibson, “Reclaiming the Epistemological ‘Other’: Narrative and the Social Construction of Identity,” in Craig Calhoun (ed.), Social Theory and the Politics of Identity, Oxford, UK: Blackwell, 1994, 59. 10. Hinchman and Hinchman, Memory, Identity, Community, xvi. 11. Roland Barthes, “Introduction to the Structural Analysis of Narratives,” in Stephen Heath (ed. and trans.), Image, Music, Text, New York: Hill and Wang, 1977 (1966), 79. 12. These words of praise for the book are those of historian–philosopher Hayden White. See Hayden White, “The Metaphysics of Narrativity: Time and Symbol in Ricoeur’s Philosophy of History,” in The Content of the Form: Narrative Discourse and Historical Representation, Baltimore, MD: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1987, 170. 13. Paul Ricoeur, Time and Narrative, vol. 1, Kathleen McLaughlin and David Pellauer (trans.), Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1984, 52; see also Paul Ricoeur, “Narrative Time,” in W. J. T. Mitchell (ed.), On Narrative, Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1981 (1980), 165. 14. Ricoeur, “Narrative Time,” 167. 15. Hinchman and Hinchman, Memory, Identity, Community, xvi; Donald E. Polkinghorne, Narrative Knowing and the Human Sciences, Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1988, 1. It should be noted that people’s attempts to make sense of the world through narrative are not necessarily successful and constant. See Alasdair MacIntyre, After Virtue: A Study in Moral Theory, Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1984, 218–219. In addition, theorists have different views on the relationship between narrative and real life. Some argue that narrative prefigures human action into narrative form (stories are lived before they are told), while others assert that narrative is a reflective experience (stories are not lived but told). For instance, see MacIntyre, After Virtue, 212, 214; David Carr, Time, Narrative, and History, Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 1986, Introduction, especially pp. 15–17; Polkinghorne, Narrative Knowing and the Human Sciences, 188, n.10; Charles Taylor, Sources of the Self: The Making of the Modern Identity, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989, 49. Although fuller discussion of this issue goes beyond the scope of this chapter, for our present purposes what is of significance is the existence of the narrativized type of indigenization paradigm, which has had a great influence on Taiwan’s politics/culture. 16. Eric Ringmar, Identity, Interest and Action: A Cultural Explanation of Sweden’s Intervention in the Thirty Years War, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996, 72–73.

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17. Ibid., 73. Ringmar’s conception of action is clearly derived from Max Weber’s distinction between “behavior” and “action.” For Weber, a behavior can be seen as an action only in so far as an acting individual attaches a subjective meaning to it, be it overt or covert, by omission or by acquiescence. See Ringmar, Identity, Interest and Action, 66; Max Weber, Economy and Society: An Outline of Interpretive Sociology, Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1978, 4. 18. Ken Plummer, Telling Sexual Stories: Power, Change and Social Words, London: Routledge, 1995, 19; David R. Maines, The Faultline of Consciousness: A View of Interactionism in Sociology, New York: Aldine de Gruyter, 2001, 168–171. Ken Plummer gives the name, a “sociology of stories,” to the approach that attempts to go beyond analyzing the structural properties of the text (Plummer, Telling Sexual Stories, 19), while David R. Maines calls the approach “sociological narrative sociology,” which he distinguishes from “literary narrative sociology” (Maines, The Faultline of Consciousness, 168–171). 19. Ye Shitao , “Taiwan xiangtu wenxueshi daolun ” (An Introduction to the History of Taiwan’s Xiangtu Literature), Xiachao, 14 (1977): 68–75; Xu Nancun (penname of Chen Yingzhen), “ ‘Xiangtu wenxue’ de mangdian ” (The Blind Spot of “Xiangtu Literature”), Taiwan wenyi, 55 (1977): 107–112. 20. The term includes Hoklo Taiwanese and Hakka Taiwanese. 21. The discussion on Ye in this paragraph is based on my essay, “Minzuzhuyi yu Taiwan 1970 niandai de ‘xiangtu wenxue’: Yige wenhua (jiti) jiyi bianqian de tantao : ( ) ” (Nationalism and “Xiangtu Literature” of 1970s Taiwan: A Study of Change, Identity, and Collective Memory), Taiwanshi yanjiu, 6.2 (2000): 77–138. 22. Under postwar GMD rule, Taiwan was made a province of the Republic of China. 23. I use these questions to summarize Ye’s concerns. They are not exactly the way Ye himself posed questions about these issues. 24. Similarly, as mentioned above, in the 1970s such fields as the fine arts, psychology, sociology, and anthropology displayed a prevalent Chinese nationalism in their cultural representation and knowledge construction of Taiwan. 25. For this kind of historical narrative, see, e.g. Ye’s following essays: “Taiwan de xiangtu wenxue ” (Taiwan’s Xiangtu Literature), Wenxing, 97 (1965): 70–73; “Wu Zhuoliu lun ” (On Wu Zhuoliu), Taiwan wenyi 12 (1966): 25–30; “Liangnian lai de shengji zuojia ji qi xiaoshuo ” (Writers of this Province and Their Works over the Past Two Years), Taiwan wenyi, 19 (1968): 37–45; “Taiwan xiangtu wenxueshi daolun”; “Riju shidai xinwenxue de huigu ” (A Review of the New Literature during the Japanese Colonial Period), in his Taiwan xiangtu zuojia lunji (A Collection of Essays on Taiwan’s Xiangtu Writers), Taipei: Yuanjing, 1979, 41–43; “Xiandaizhuyi xiaoshuo de moluo ” (The Decline of Modernist Fiction), in his Taiwan

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26. 27.

28.

29.

30. 31.

32. 33.

34. 35.

A-chin Hsiau xiangtu zuojia lunji, 49–50; “Zuojia de shidai ” (The Generations of Writers), in his Taiwan xiangtu zuojia lunji, 41–43; “Liushi niandai de Taiwan xiangtu wenxue ” (Taiwan’s Xiangtu Literature in the 1960s), Wenxun, 13 (1984): 137–146. Chen Yingzhen, “ ‘Xiangtu wenxue’ de mangdian,” 98. For this type of historical narrative, see Chen Yingzhen, “ ‘Xiangtu wenxue’ de mangdian”; “Wenxue laizi shehui, fanying shehui , ” (Literature Arises Out of Society and Reflects Society), Xianrenzhang zazhi, 5 (1977): 65–78. Chen Yingzhen, “ ‘Xiangtu wenxue’ de mangdian,” 97. One may argue that in spite of the fact that the narrators in table 4.1 and table 4.2 are very similar in national identity, Ye’s ideal Chineseness might differ from Chen’s. For one thing, Chen’s had a certain socialist coloring, while Ye’s did not. However, as far as the problématique of this chapter is concerned, what is of significance is the fact that Chen was a committed Chinese nationalist and Ye still identified himself as a Taiwanese member of the Chinese nation. John Breuilly argues that the “narrative” approach to nationalism explains nothing. As he points out, although nationalists themselves play a leading role in elaborating the stories of the rise of nationalism, academic historians without any direct political interests may also follow this approach. The approach takes the rise of nationalism for granted and accepts the narrative as the proper historical account of nationalism. Breuilly argues that narrative, with its assumption of a beginning, middle, and end, typically ignores the contingency of outcomes. However, he also emphasizes that he sees “nothing wrong with a ‘teleological’ approach in history, provided it is clear that the teleology furnishes only the questions (What, earlier in the process, contributed to what came later in the process?) and not the answers.” See John Breuilly, “Approaches to Nationalism,” in Gopal Kalakrishnan (ed.), Mapping the Nation, London: Verso, 1996 (1994), 156–158, 173. See the discussion of this incident in chapters 1 and 2. For the above-mentioned development of Taiwanese nationalism among humanist intellectuals, including literary writers and critics, see Xiao Aqin, “1980 niandai yilai Taiwan wenhua minzu zhuyi de fazhan”; A-chin Hsiau, Contemporary Taiwanese Cultural Nationalism, 96–110. Xiao Aqin, “Minzuzhuyi yu Taiwan 1970 niandai de ‘xiangtu wenxue,’ ” 113–116. Ye Shitao , “Zhuanxie Taiwan wenxueshi ying zou de fangxiang ” (The Direction that Should Be Followed in Writing the History of Taiwanese Literature), in his Taiwan wenxue de kunjing (The Predicament of Taiwanese Literature), Kaohsiung: Paise wenhua, 1992, 13–15. A journal started in 1991 as a successor to Wenxuejie (Literary Taiwan). Both use the same English title. A-chin Hsiau, Contemporary Taiwanese Cultural Nationalism, 113–114; Xiao Aqin, “Minzuzhuyi yu Taiwan 1970 niandai de ‘xiangtu wenxue,’ ” 116.

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36. Ye Shitao, Taiwan wenxue rumen: Taiwan wenxue wushiqi wen : (An Introduction to Taiwanese Literature: 57 Questions about Taiwanese Literature), Kaohsiung: Chunhui, 1997, 42–43, 46–47, 143–145. 37. For this kind of historical narrative, see, e.g., Peng Ruijin , Taiwan xinwenxue yundong 40 nian 40 (Taiwanese New Literature Movement in the Last Four Decades), Taipei: Zili wanbao, 1991; Peng Ruijin, “Xiangtu wenxue yu qiling niandai de Taiwan wenxue ” (Xiangtu Literature and Taiwanese Literature in the 1970s), in his Taiwan wenxue tansuo (An Exploration of Taiwanese Literature), Taipei: Qianwei, 1995 (1991); Lin Ruiming , “Xian jieduan Taiyu wenxue zhi fazhan ji qi yiyi ” (The Present Development and Significance of the Literature Written in Hoklo Language), Wenxue Taiwan, 3 (1992): 12–31; Ye Shitao, Taiwan wenxue rumen: Taiwan wenxue wushiqi wen. 38. For the debate, see Shi Minhui (Chen Fangming’s penname) (ed.), Taiwan yishi lunzhan xuanji (Selected Articles on the Debate on Taiwanese Consciousness), Taipei: Qianwei, 1988 (1985). 39. Zhao Xiaqiu and Zeng Qingrui , “Wenxue Taidu” mianmian guan, Beijing: Jiuzhou, 2001, ii (Preface), 2, 273. 40. Chen Yingzhen, “Xu ” (Preface), in Zhao Xiaqiu and Zeng Qingrui, “Wenxue Taidu,” 3. 41. In the summer of 1999, Taiwan’s former president Li Denghui (Lee Teng-hui) described the current confrontation between the ROC and the PRC as a kind of special relationship between two states in one nation when he gave an interview to German journalists. Since then Li’s description has been called the “two-states-in-one-nation theory” and vigorously attacked by the PRC and by those in Taiwan who have a strong sense of Chinese identity and support the union of Taiwan with the PRC. 42. Zhao Xiaqiu and Zeng Qingrui, “Wenxue Taidu,” 6. 43. Stuart Hall, “Minimal Selves,” in Ann Gray and Jim McGuigan (eds.), Studying Culture: An Introductory Reader, second edition, London: Arnold, 1997 (1987), 136–137; Stuart Hall, “Cultural Identity and Diaspora,” in Jonathan Rutherford (ed.), Identity: Community, Culture, Difference, London: Lawrence & Wishart, 1990, 230. 44. Xiao Aqin, “Kangri jiti jiyi de minzuhua: Taiwan yijiu qiling niandai de zhanhou shidai yu Riju shiqi Taiwan xinwenxue : ” (Nationalizing Collective Memory in 1970s Taiwan: The Postwar Generation and Its “Rediscovery” of Taiwanese Colonial Literature as Anti-Japanese Resistance), Taiwanshi yanjiu, 9.1 (2002): 181–239; Xiao Aqin, “Rentong, xushi, yu , , xingdong: Taiwan yijiu qiling niandai dangwai de lishi jiangou : ” (Identity, Narrative, and Action: The Anti-GMD Dissident Construction of History in 1970s Taiwan), Taiwan shehuixue, 5 (2003): 195–250.

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45. Frantz Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth, Constance Farrington (trans.), New York: Grove Press, 1966 (1963), 170; Hall, “Cultural Identity and Diaspora,” 223–224. 46. Hall, “Cultural Identity and Diaspora,” 223; Kathryn Woodward, “Motherhood: Identities, Meanings and Myths,” in Kathryn Woodward (ed.), Identity and Difference, London: Sage, 1997, 242. 47. In the preface to his Taiwan wenxue rumen, 1, Ye Shitao mentions: “I have cherished a dream since I was young. It is the dream of finishing writing a history of Taiwanese literature that will record the literary activities of the Taiwanese on the land in the past centuries and will thus show how literature epitomizes the unyielding spirit of the weak and small Taiwanese nation to win freedom and democracy.” 48. Chris Barker, Cultural Studies: Theory and Practice, London: Sage, 2000, 166, 190. 49. Hall, “Cultural Identity and Diaspora,” 225. 50. Barker, Cultural Studies, 190. 51. Hall, “Minimal Selves,” 136–137; Hall, “Cultural Identity and Diaspora,” 230. 52. Kwame Anthony Appiah, In My Father’s House: Africa in the Philosophy of Culture, Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press, 1992, 175–177, 178–180; “African Identity,” in Linda Nicholson and Steven Seidman (eds.), Social Postmodernism: Beyond Identity Politics, Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1995, 106–108, 110–113. 53. Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, The Post-Colonial Critic: Interviews, Strategies, Dialogues, London: Routledge, 1990: 10–12. 54. Appiah, In My Father’s House, 180; “African Identity,” 113. 55. The term “reflexive project of the self” is Anthony Giddens’s. He uses it to describe “the process whereby self-identity is constituted by the reflexive ordering of self-narratives.” See Anthony Giddens, Modernity and Self-Identity: Self and Society in the Late Modern Age, Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1991, 52–53, 75–77, 244. 56. Sonya Andermahr et al., A Glossary of Feminist Theory, London: Arnold, 1997, 82. 57. Mau-kuei Michael Chang, “Political Transformation and Ethnization [sic] of Politics in Taiwan,” in Guter Schubert and Axel Schneider (eds.), Taiwanan der Schwelle Zum 21 Jahrhumdert—Gesellschalflicher Wendel, Problem und Perspektiven eines Asiatischen Schwellenlandes, Hamburg, Germany: Institute fuer Asienkunde, 1996, 135–152; Zhang Maogui (Maukuei Chang), “Taiwan de zhengzhi zhuanxing yu zhengzhi de ‘zuqunhua’ guocheng ” (Political Transformation and Ethnicization of Politics in Taiwan), in Shi Zhengfeng (ed.), Zuqun zhengzhi yu zhengce (Ethnic Politics and Policy), Taipei: Qianwei, 1997, 37–71. 58. My discussion of empiricism here draws much on Pierre Bourdieu et al., The Craft of Sociology: Epistemological Preliminaries, Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1991 (1968), 13–18.

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59. For the controversy over the literature written in local languages and the relationship between the promotion of Hoklo writing systems and Hoklo literature, on the one hand, and the development of Taiwanese nationalism after the 1980s on the other, see Hsiau, Contemporary Taiwanese Cultural Nationalism, chapter 5. 60. Ye Shitao, Taiwan wenxue rumen, 45. 61. Appiah, In My Father’s House, 178–179; “African Identity,” 110–111. 62. Ibid., 111. 63. Ye Shitao, “Wu Zhuoliu lun,” 28. 64. Xu Nancun (Chen Yingzhen), Zhishi ren de pianzhi (The Stubborn Bias of Intellectuals), Taipei: Yuanxing, 1976, 111–112.

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III

Memory and the Built Environment

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5 Reading History Through the Built Environment in Taiwan Jeremy E.Taylor

Over the last decade or more, many societies throughout the industrialized world have witnessed concerns for the preservation of the built environment. As urban topographies have increasingly become the focus of people’s ideas about the past, historiographical debates have been taken out of textbooks and transferred onto the streets of cities and towns. Urban landscapes have themselves come to be seen as historical texts, or as some theorists have argued, forms of “public history” in their own right.1 In this chapter, I explore some of the ways in which the built environment in Taiwan has been codified and inscribed with certain, often conflicting, historical meanings. I shall start by looking at the terminology used in the world of Taiwanese preservation and restoration. Thereafter, I shall turn my attention to the changes that have been occurring in Taiwanese preservationist circles over the last decade and consider how these correspond with nativist-inflected readings of the past emerging in tandem with the discipline of Taiwanshi , or Taiwan history. As we shall see, the rise of Taiwanshi, as well as the reinterpretations of Taiwan’s colonial past that this discipline has brought with it, have significantly impacted on what is now considered by government and academe as “historic” in Taiwan’s built environment.

The Vocabulary of Preservation When examining texts about the urban landscape, or talking to people in Taiwan about the historic built environment, the single most

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commonly heard term is “guji .” The authoritative Cihai dictionary defines this term as “the vestiges of ancient times,” and classifies three uses of the term in the Chinese literary tradition. The first category is made up of “natural” relics such as rivers and mountains, while the second and third categories consist of architectural relics and “vestiges” (tombs, ruined cities, and so on) respectively.2 Prior to the 1980s, when associated with architectural relics, the term guji had a somewhat limited usage, being restricted mainly to monuments of civilizational note on the Chinese mainland. This was also the case when the Chinese Nationalist Party (Zhongguo guomin dang; GMD) ruled Taiwan, when the term came to be associated with sites in the “motherland.”3 Indeed, when the term was officially employed in the 1946 Constitution of the Republic of China (Zhonghua minguo xianfa ), the war-torn Republic was probably more concerned with the protection of threatened guji on the mainland than with those in the newly appended province of Taiwan.4 In the Republican Chinese codification of historic relics on the mainland, the GMD had used the term guji in an official capacity, and often in combination with the term mingsheng or “scenic spots.” In the early Republican period, these two terms were combined to produce the four-character phrase mingsheng guji or “scenic spots and relics.” In this usage, the word guji referred to an extremely wide array of architecture, as well as other types of site that bore little connection to the historic built environment. Take, for example, the liberal use of the term guji in the Regulations for the Preservation of Relics, Scenic Spots, and Artifacts (Mingsheng guji guwu baocun tiaoli ) formulated by the Nanking-based Republican government in 1928. In these regulations, the Republican government’s Ministry of the Interior (Neizheng Bu ) listed no fewer than 17 types of building and natural site.5 One could just as well be referring to mountain caves as to mausolea when talking of guji. Indeed, the only prerequisite appears to have been that such structures predated the founding of the Chinese Republic and that all guji existed “within the territory of the Republic of China” (zai Zhonghua minguo lingtu nei ).6 More recently, the term guji has been sanctified through the 1982 Cultural Property Preservation Ordinance (Wenhua zichan baocun fa ), and the Cultural Property Preservation Executive Act (Wenhua zichan baocun fa shixing xize ).7 These laws embodied the spirit of Chinese national histories that had been a mainstay of GMD nation-building in Taiwan and which had

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been celebrated through the Chinese Cultural Renaissance Movement (Zhonghua wenhua fuxing yundong ) of the 1960s and 1970s. However, they also came in the wake of what the architectural theorist Xia Zhujiu argued were changing attitudes amongst the Taiwanese intellectual elite toward the built environment, driven foremost by economic development and a growing concern for the vernacular side of history.8 This argument is supported through a similar study conducted by Ye Naiqi , who identified “indigenization”—the phenomenon that serves as the central theme of this volume—as one of the main forces behind a growing interest in historic sites more generally.9 In the context of these 1980s regulations, the term guji came to relate to those buildings codified and protected as historic sites by one or more government agencies in Taiwan. Whether it be the 1928 regulations, the 1946 constitution, or the laws of the early 1980s, there has always been a strong connection between the term guji and the Republican Chinese nation-state. The purpose of the above-mentioned Cultural Property Preservation Executive Act, for example, was said to be “to preserve cultural property, to embody the spirit of the nation’s citizens, and to promote Chinese culture.”10 In keeping with these sentiments, cultural property (wenhua zichan ) was described broadly as those places or things “that have historic, cultural, or artistic value.” Such “value” was generally determined by how these sites could aid in the promotion of nationalist visions of the past. Thus the very idea of the guji was heavily infused with Republican Chinese patriotism. Consider the language and sentiments inherent in the following passage taken from a guide to guji management published soon after the introduction of the 1980s laws. [The sight of] grand mountains and rivers (zhuangkuo de shan he ) can arouse in the patriot a feeling of integrity of purpose (zhijie ) like a fervent song; paying homage at an ancient battle field will invariably cause us to reminisce about the martyrdom of the heroes of old. . . . [Thus] when we visit relics, apart from admiring them for their beauty, we can also be encouraged morally; historic relics don’t simply move us personally, but can also help consolidate a sense of belonging to the [Chinese] nation (minzu ). . . . The project to protect relics symbolizes our patriotism. Our goal [in protecting relics] is to strengthen a sense of unity and pride.11

As references to “nationality,” “martyrdom,” “patriotism,” and even to “grand mountains and rivers” or “ancient battle fields” might

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suggest, the value that cultural property represented was one situated unequivocally within the framework of the Chinese nation and its historiography. It embodied a set of sites that were of national importance and which validated national histories.

Antiquity The term guji has often been employed interchangeably with the word shiji . This second term was, in fact, far more common for much of the postwar era in Taiwan and it has only been since the 1980s that it has been replaced by guji. The current wider use of guji suggests an important shift in the way in which “relics” were codified in the 1980s, and is linked to Republican notions of the nation and its histories. The two words guji and shiji differ only slightly. Both words contain the character ji , with the shi (literally “history”) of shiji referring to the “historic” nature of a site, and the gu (literally “old” or “ancient”) of guji referring to a site’s age. I would suggest, however, that it is precisely the inference of antiquity inherent in the word “guji” that has been responsible for this term’s dominance. This semantic difference, and the question of what it means for the way in which sites are registered or studied, has been explored by a number of Taiwanese scholars. In an article published only a short time after the introduction of the 1980s legislation, one theorist attempted a differentiation of the two terms as follows: “Marks left [on the landscape] are, of course, referred to as shiji; but after long periods of time have passed, these take on an ‘ancient feel’ (guwei ). In other words, guji are basically just one type of shiji; but shiji are not always guji. This [distinction between shiji and guji] comes as a result of the alteration, dilapidation, and the passing of the years [that these structures experience].”12 For this writer, guji are to be distinguished from other sites in the landscape by their antiquity, or the sense of their being ancient. Any type of site with a vaguely historical significance could ostensibly be counted as a shiji but only those that have survived the passage of time are authentic guji. This question of time and vintage was a criterion of guji codification as set out in the 1980s legislation. Indeed, it was stipulated in these same laws that only structures “more than a century old” would be listed as guji.13 One can find a precedent for this in the earlier uses of the term guji, such as in the 1920s legislation that stressed a GMD preference for pre-Republican sites when formulating lists of guji. Yet, this also alludes to a far broader veneration of old things that was part

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of an entire discourse of antiquity present in the ideology of ROC nation-building on Taiwan and its claims to the inheritance of “five thousand years” of Chinese civilization. It may, of course, have been impossible to find a single structure or monument of Chinese origin on Taiwan that could be dated one millennium, to say nothing of five; but, at the very least, a relic built over a century ago would suffice in the absence of any sites temporally closer to the grand history of China. This glorification of the antique can be illustrated through reference to the controversy surrounding the restoration of particular sites. An example is the Bao’an Temple (Bao’an gong ), a listed guji in Taipei city, where restoration work was first undertaken in 1996. As this structure was found to have fallen into a state of disrepair, a series of conferences was organized by municipal officials and architectural academics to suggest ways in which appropriate restoration work could be undertaken. The consequent decision of the Taipei City Government to hire a group of heritage restoration specialists from Australia, however, was met with consternation from certain quarters of the academic elite in Taiwan. The architectural critic and head of the National Tainan College of the Arts (Guoli Tainan yishu xueyuan ), Han Baode , argued that such a decision reflected “how childish our [i.e., Taiwan’s] own restoration efforts are.”14 The crux of the argument was that experts from a nation “with only a century of history” such as Australia could never possibly understand relics in the same way that people from “ancient European countries” could.15 Surely specialists from a suitably “old” country could be invited instead?

Changing Notions of the Historic Built Environment A predicament facing scholars who work on modern Taiwan is that they are dealing with a society that has been the recipient of significant cultural influences from various parts of the world over the last century or more. In Taiwan’s intellectual sphere, gravitational pulls come from various angles: from a Chinese Republican tradition of scholarship, a colonial system of knowledge inherited from Japan, and from Cold-War U.S. thought, to name only a few. The inconsistencies among these various influences become clear when we examine the ructions that have developed between the pre-1990s concepts of guji

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and shiji, and the Anglophone tradition of “heritage” more recently imported into Taiwan. With increasing numbers of Taiwanese students pursuing heritage-related studies in North America, Japan, and Europe, the differences between a Euro–American tradition of heritage and the concepts of guji and shiji reached something of a climax in the 1990s. Raphael Samuel’s study of historic preservation in Britain suggests that the lineage of the idea of heritage is anything but unified. In an essay entitled “Semantics,” Samuel traces the multiple roots of this term, and in the process suggests that there are in fact many “heritages,” ranging from the excavation of English folk tradition in the 1960s to the grand country mansions celebrated by the National Trust. He also suggests that heritage has become a thoroughly cosmopolitan idea, with British heritage practices being informed, at least since the 1970s, by Francophone concepts such as patrimoine.16 The point is that when we talk about heritage it is almost impossible to clarify exactly what we mean. Indeed, it is a genuine challenge to identify a coherent definition of the word, for as Brenda Yeoh and Lily Kong have noted, “what constitutes heritage is differently interpreted in different quarters with different sectoral and communal interests.”17 Yet it is precisely this ambiguity and breadth of meaning within the English-language tradition of heritage that has made this concept such an attractive proposition to many groups in Taiwan. Heritage offers relief from the restrictions of earlier categorizations. The breadth of the word’s definition means that almost everything can be taken seriously, from seventeenth-century temples to twentieth-century apartment blocks. Entire landscapes that were ignored by earlier generations of scholars and bureaucrats can, within the elastic boundaries of the word heritage, now be reappraised, and in some cases, protected. And the veneration of antiquity that typified earlier codification systems can be questioned. The Graduate Institute of Building and Planning (Jianzhu yu chengxiang yanjiusuo ) at the National Taiwan University (Guoli Taiwan daxue ) in Taipei has been a notable institutional backer for the introduction of the Euro–American discourse of heritage in Taiwan. There, North American and European ideas about heritage and patrimony have been actively studied, and the lessons learned on foreign ground by Taiwanese theorists have been imported into the local context. The concept of guji has been reassessed, rewritten, and, at times, openly challenged.18 The study of the built environment has been widened so as to understand guji within a broader context of city planning and urban space.

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Outside of universities, too, historic preservation has been influenced by the activities of nongovernmental organizations that are part of a wider “heritage movement.” For example, the Penang-based Asia and West Pacific Network for Urban Conservation (AWPNUC) organized a series of workshops in Taiwan in 1997 that involved various local groups from Taipei, Kaohsiung, and Quemoy (Jinmen ), and has continued to maintain links with Taiwanese heritage groups since then.19 This shift toward the adoption of heritage—and the associated movement to have Taiwan made part of a broader international “heritage community”—has been echoed in the introduction of disciplines such as museology (bowuguanxue ) in Taiwanese universities, and the professionalization of the management of historic sites along Western (and Japanese) lines.20 Examples can be found right across Taiwan: the glossy interior of the Beitou Hot-springs Museum (Beitou wenquan bowuguan ), opened in Taipei in 1998, is one example;21 the Kaohsiung Museum of History (Gaoxiong shili lishi bowuguan ) is another. These two institutions, and dozens more like them, are housed within city-registered guji (the former in a 1930s bathhouse; the latter in what were once the chambers of a colonial municipal administration), and, through exhibitions, endeavor to exploit the architectural setting in which they are located. In doing so, they have frequently rejected earlier interpretations of what could be deemed historic in the landscape. The single most noticeable influence that the introduction of a discourse of heritage has had in Taiwan is the widening of the field of preservation itself. In the 1980s, guji often referred to buildings that had once claimed a military, administrative, or spiritual (e.g., temples, shrines, and churches) origin. Coinciding with the evolution of a discourse of heritage, however, the last decade has witnessed a growing concern for the preservation of industrial and commercial landscapes and their relics—from the deserted gold and copper mines of the northeast coast, to the wharves of Kaohsiung and Keelung (Jilong ) harbors.22 Heritage has also altered the boundaries that were set around relic codification over the issues of vintage. Antiquity had been a central theme in the histories of official GMD ideology and its veneration of the Chinese nation’s “five thousand years.” In treating seriously even the most recent additions to the landscape as valid guji, at least in the registers of city- and county-listed sites, such veneration of “the old” is being challenged. A century of history is no longer seen as a prerequisite for historical significance.

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“Pro-colonial” Historiography Changing notions of the historic built environment have also been influenced by newly emerging interpretations of the past itself in Taiwan. One of the most noticeable of these has been the rise of Taiwanshi, or “Taiwan history.” As an institutionalized field of study, Taiwanshi developed during Li Denghui’s presidency (1988–2000). Yet, much of the impetus for its development can be found in the “Taiwan consciousness” (Taiwan yishi ) politics of earlier decades. Like much else that evolved out of nativist Taiwanese nationalism, Taiwanshi has set itself against earlier interpretations of the past aligned to Republican Chinese thought. Indeed, as the name “Taiwanshi” suggests, this field was in many ways a conscious effort to create a history opposed to the earlier tradition of “Guoshi ” or “National [i.e., Chinese] history.”23 Thus, what was perceived as a period of “occupation” and national shame at the hands of invaders (i.e., the Japanese colonization of Taiwan) by earlier generations of historians who studied or taught Guoshi, is now, for many scholars working within the field of Taiwanshi, being redefined as an era in which Taiwan achieved modernity and prosperity. In criticizing Marxian interpretations of Japanese colonialism in Taiwan, for instance, the historical sociologist Ke Zhiming argues that such scholarship “only looks at how colonies are oppressed and exploited by colonizers, and ignores the progress, in terms of productivity and technology, that Japanese capitalism brought with it.”24 Within Taiwanshi it has been the period of Japanese colonial rule that has inspired the historiographical imagination like no other. In a conscious effort to distance themselves from the anticolonial elements of GMD historiography of earlier decades, scholars have seen the reevaluation of Japanese colonialism to be one of this field’s most pressing questions.25 Indeed, Japanese colonialism has come to be the focus of this field precisely because it is believed to represent an experience that differentiates Taiwan from China.26 “It is common knowledge,” argues the expatriate Taiwanese author Huang Wenxiong , “that if it wasn’t for the Japanese empire, Taiwan would today be an uncivilized piece of land, even more destitute than Hainan.”27 “Pro-colonial” historiography has sparked numerous debates about the positive and negative aspects of Japanese rule on the island.28 It has also prompted a number of Taiwanese scholars to depict the colonial period in a wistfully nostalgic fashion. In the more extreme examples,

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some have even gone so far as to claim that the island’s climate was more pleasant under Japanese colonialism.29 This pro-colonial lineament has been noted, and criticized, by a number of commentators, among them the historian Qi Jialin of Tamkang University (Danjiang daxue ). Qi examined the works of many intellectuals involved in the Taiwanshi movement— ranging from academic historians such as Dai Baocun , Xu Xueji , and Zhang Shouzhen , to bureaucrat-scholars such as the current head of Academia Historica (Guoshi guan ), Zhang Yanxian . In doing so, Qi noted the inclination for these and other historians to “embellish” (meihua ) their depictions of Japanese colonialism in Taiwan, and to concentrate on the functional side of the colonial past at the expense of a more socially oriented history.30 The concentration on the theme of modernization that has become prevalent in much of the academic studies of Japanese imperialism conducted at some of the institutions most closely linked to the field of Taiwanshi, such as Academia Sinica’s Institute of Taiwan History (Zhongyang yanjiuyuan, Taiwanshi yanjiusuo ), would seem to support such arguments.31 Although pro-colonial historiography has seldom been recognized (let alone critically examined) in Taiwan, the legacy of Japanese imperialism is a popular topic of informal discussion at Taiwanese university departments and in living rooms. Mention of the extent to which Japanese colonial rule helped to build modern Taiwan fills post-seminar and coffee-break conversations. And talk of Taiwan as Japan’s “fifth island,” or of the efficiency of Japanese-run post offices and schools, is so common as to border on cliché. In any case, it is not only in written history or conversation that such pro-colonial interpretations of the past have become prevalent in Taiwan. As we see later, one might well argue that it is in the field of historic preservation and conservation that such a trend has become most manifest.32

Preserving the Japanese Past The art historian Pierre Ryckmans has noted a preference for the written word, as opposed to monuments, as markers of antiquity in Chinese societies. Ryckmans argues that in Chinese perceptions of the past, physical remainders of that past matter little—a point at which one finds a major cultural divergence between East and West. History in the Chinese world does not reside in ancient relics, but in calligraphy,

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toponyms and other word-based expression; all one has to do is glance at a Chinese train timetable to find “long lists of city names to which are still attached the vivid glories of past dynasties.”33 This argument is echoed in the work of Stephen Owen, who has identified a distinction in the Chinese artistic and literary tradition between “the work as object and what is in the work”—essentially between form and content.34 Similarly, the Vietnam-specialist William Logan has argued, “a sharp contrast exists between the Western and East Asian . . . approaches” to the historic built environment, claiming that the latter places far less emphasis on tangible remainders of the past.35 The consequence of this concentration on intangible heritage is that East Asian societies pay little attention to old buildings, instead venerating the “sites” on which buildings stand, or the stories associated with them. “Famed old Soochow has no ancient ruins,” states David Lowenthal; yet, so the argument goes, “no ancient ruins” does not translate into “no historical significance.”36 Yet, Taiwan appears to represent either a radical break from, or else a clear contradiction of, this model. Much of Taiwan’s past is today remembered through relics rather than words. As an historical text in its own right, the built environment is now one of the central features of many people’s understanding of the past—particularly the colonial past—in Taiwan. Although theorists such as Ryckmans, Logan, and Lowenthal may argue that East Asian societies are more concerned with preserving intangible heritage than old buildings, recent trends in Taiwan suggest something different. In contemporary Taiwan, the physical relics of Japanese imperialism have become decidedly fashionable, and many Taiwanese intellectuals have taken to reassessing Japanese colonialism through the protection of historic buildings (rather than simply sites) associated with that portion of the island’s past. The literal “bricks and mortar” of the Japanese empire have, in many respects, come to outweigh the intangible significance of the historic landscape. In any context, the conservation or renovation of historic relics is linked closely to the field of history and Taiwan is no different in this regard. However, although there is now some broad agreement amongst preservation professionals, scholars, and officials in Taiwan on the use of the built environment as “historical text,” incongruities have arisen as to what histories such texts should speak of. The notion that relics should “promote Chinese culture” as they did in the early 1980s, for instance, has been undermined by the introduction of ideas such as heritage and the rediscovery of Taiwan’s colonial past. Yet, if

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relics no longer “advance Chinese culture,” then what purpose do they serve? As the frequent references to Chinese things and culture might suggest, the 1980s legislation examined above aimed to protect historic sites associated with Chinese settlement in Taiwan. Almost all relics listed as first-grade sites by the Ministry of the Interior were, and still are, sites that claim an association with Han Chinese settlement in Taiwan, or that can be traced back to Chinese architectural traditions.37 In this regard, it can be seen that relics aided in the GMD’s “ethnic cleansing”38 of Taiwan’s past in the postwar era. The converse of this was that sites associated with other cultures—and most especially with the Japanese colonial presence on the island—were, for many years, barred from the guji category, being most often referred to simply as “historic buildings” (lishi jianzhu ). This was not always explicitly stated in the legislation, but was achieved by other means, such as via the “one century old” rule. Until recently, a reference to anything more than a 100 years old meant anything erected prior to Japanese colonialism. This recourse to time and period erased any hope of Japanese-built structures gaining official legitimacy as guji. The words of a tour guide at the Crown Prince’s Lodgings (Taizi Bin’guan ), in the town of Jinguashi , summed up the situation succinctly when explaining a lack of government interest in preserving that particular colonial-era building: “It was constructed by the Japanese and therefore doesn’t count as a guji.”39 Strolling through the streets of many major Taiwanese cities today, one cannot help but notice significant numbers of individual buildings, in a multitude of architectural styles, that date from the colonial era or that continue to betray signs of their colonial origins, despite extensive Allied bombing toward the end of World War II, and the vociferously anti-Japanese xenophobia of the GMD leadership in the decades after “retrocession.” This is to say nothing of the actual layout and design of these cities, or their topography, substantial portions of which hark back to a Japanese colonial obsession with modernity and rationality. Remarkably, however, it has only been since the mid-1990s—and with the rise of Taiwanshi—that structures associated with Japanese colonialism have been taken seriously as “guji” and have been viewed as integral parts of the historic built environment in Taiwan. To be sure, much of this interest has been led by architectural professionals rather than historians. Yet, the debates and arguments that have come forth as a result of this architectural interest have led straight to

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the discipline of history, and in particular, to questions about Taiwan’s role within the Japanese empire. One clear example of this trend has been the fascination with which Taiwan’s surviving Shinto shrines (jinja )—structures that were either defaced under the GMD or else converted into martyrs’ shrines (zhonglie ci ) to the heroes of the Republican Chinese revolution or other suitably patriotic sites40—are now held by a large section of the island’s scholarly elite. Since the mid-1990s, local government bodies throughout Taiwan have been busy excavating (literally) local Shinto shrines,41 or else protecting the stone lanterns, torii (traditional gateways to Shinto shrines), and the other architectural residua of these structures that survived postwar spoliation.42 The work of government agencies has been encouraged by a number of books and theses on the topic by architectural historians and geographers, such as Lai Zhizhang (significantly, a graduate of the aforementioned National Taiwan University’s Graduate Institute of Building and Planning), who has examined the shrines themselves, as well as the processes by which these structures have come to be reevaluated in recent years. As Lai notes, this interest is a relatively recent academic phenomenon, and despite the role of some historians, it has been led primarily by scholars from the fields of geography and architecture.43 For instance, in the case of a surviving Shinto shrine in Taoyuan — a building which, despite being renamed as a martyrs’ shrine immediately after “retrocession,” survived in its original form until the 1980s (ironically, due to a lack of funding, which would have enabled earlier county administrations to replace the building with a new structure)44—it was local architectural professionals who oversaw restoration work.45 Although the Taoyuan shrine and others like it have yet to be officially designated as guji, interest in them as historical texts demonstrates how the priorities of relic preservation and restoration have changed considerably in Taiwan over the last decade. Prior to the 1990s, it would have been inconceivable that these most potent architectural reminders of Japanese imperialism could have been registered as guji, let alone restored with support and funding from county and municipal governments. In a similar fashion, there has been a noticeable increase in the study of so-called crown-style architecture (diguanshi jianzhu ), associated with the Greater East Asianist ideologies of the Japanese empire during the late 1930s and early 1940s.46 Crownstyle architecture is called thus, as one of its defining features is the use

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of pseudo-Tang-dynasty-style roofing that gives the tops of buildings a crown-like appearance.47 A number of banks and public buildings designed in this style survive throughout Taiwan. Yet interest in the colonial built environment of Taiwan’s cities is not limited to religious sites or public buildings. Indeed, even the more mundane aspects of Japanese heritage are now viewed with fascination by much of the island’s scholarly elite. When a Pacific War–era water-retaining tank was unearthed during road construction work in Taipei in early 2002, the first reaction of the Taipei city government was to halt work until the fate of these remains could be decided upon.48 The case has been similar for sites as obscure as abattoirs49 and railway signal-boxes.50 Virtually any aspect of the built environment that can be traced to the era of Japanese administration is now viewed as being of the highest historical importance.

“Community Construction” It has been predominantly at the local level of relic administration, in the offices of city and county governments, that this interest in preserving the local remnants of the Japanese past has gained momentum. Indeed, it has found its strongest expression in the rise of a new concept in Taiwanese preservationist circles—“community construction” (shequ yingzao ) or “comprehensive community construction” (shequ zongti yingzao ). This is a phrase for what has been identified as a quite disparate set of phenomena in historic preservation, including “historical research activities, tours of ancient sites, and festivals” in various localities across Taiwan.51 The one thing that holds such activities together is their common link to the local level of historiography, and the primacy of the built environment as historic text rather than a collection of lapidary monuments. As the phrase community construction suggests, this is a concept that is extremely local in its focus, and one that aims at building a sense of community in which scholars work with local residents to conserve traditional lifestyles together with old buildings. The argument behind this movement is simple—relics cannot stand alone in time or space; they should have a relevance for the community around them rather than simply a relevance for “the nation.” The recent adoption of this idea reflects wider sociopolitical changes: until the end of martial law in 1987, any kind of civic movement that involved the unofficial gathering of communities may well have been seen as a source of opposition to government control.52

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Taiwan’s de facto ministry of culture, the Council for Cultural Affairs (Wenhua jianshe weiyuanhui ), began supporting community construction as a central building block for Taiwan’s overall cultural development in 1994, encouraging a move “from the central to the local in administration” of the historic built environment.53 City and county governments also began to formulate cultural policies around this idea in the mid-1990s. At the center of the community construction movement has been an entire class of “local cultural–historical workers” (difang wenshi gongzuozhe ) and so-called lay scholars (minjian xuezhe ). These are the generic titles given to nonacademic scholars who are active in recording and promoting the history, geography, and culture of local areas, doing so through local “cultural– historical workshops” (wenshi gongzuoshi ). Community construction groups and their cultural–historical workshops find their closest model in Japanese “streetscapes” (machinami ). Indeed, the community construction model was largely derived from the Japanese notion of machizukuri (literally, “town construction”), the Japanese movement explored by Jennifer Robertson in her seminal study, Native and Newcomer.54 The machinami model combines preservation of the built environment with protection of other forms of cultural property.55 In Taiwan, the Taipei-based Yaoshan Foundation (Yaoshan wenjiao jijinhui ) is one group that has actively promoted this holistic model of preservation, and encouraged exchange between machinami groups in Japan and preservation professionals in Taiwan. As proof of the faith that Taiwanese preservation professionals have placed in the machinami template, one could point to the aftermath of the September 21 earthquake of 1999, when the Taipei city government’s Bureau of Civil Affairs (Minzhengju ), together with private and academic groups, invited a number of Japanese machinami experts—including the head of the Machinami Preservation Alliance (Machinami hozon renmei )—to tour the island and offer their thoughts on post-disaster community (re-)construction.56 The community construction model represents an open attempt at inventing history. It shares little of the concern that many Western theorists have had for deconstructing “invented traditions.” The geographer, Hong Fufeng , himself an active promoter of the community construction model in Kaohsiung, has openly claimed that this concept is a method of “creating history.” Indeed, in an affront to the sensibilities of many Anglo-American heritage intellectuals, Hong

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suggests that the “construction of history” can be used positively in localities previously omitted from Taiwan’s historiographical map, or where sites that have little to do with national histories are abundant.57 In doing so, it has undermined many elements within the discourse of guji. Community construction is about making it right rather than getting it right. And the history of the constructed community is invariably a polished and happy one in which the less attractive elements of the past are ignored or forgotten. In many localities, the emergence of community construction has also interacted, to intriguing effect, with broader pro-colonial trends. When residents of Fengtian village in Hualian county established a “cultural–historical hall” (wenshiguan ) in 1999,58 for instance, their intentions were focused firmly upon listing, protecting, and promoting the village’s colonial landscape along community construction lines. Yet in celebrating their local history, they were also delving into sensitive historiographical domains. In this village, community construction translated into listing, protecting, and promoting an almost entirely colonial landscape. Fengtian was one of many villages established by the Japanese colonial authorities in the late Meiji years for the purpose of housing Japanese emigrant families conscripted to help open the empire’s southern frontier.59 By mapping the relics that these rural migrants left in this village after their postwar eviction (e.g., a Shinto shrine, Japanese migrant housing, and so on), the cultural–historical hall in Fengtian was educating the community about the village’s past as a site of relevance for Japanese colonial migration to Taiwan. In so doing, Fengtian’s history was being brought back into a wider history of organized Japanese colonial migration—one that stretches geographically from Borneo to Manchuria. At the same time, however, local history was succeeding in presenting a picture of the colonial past that was idyllic, cleansed of the more unsavory elements of colonial policy.

The Wider Context of Pro-colonial Preservation This rediscovery of a colonial Japanese architectural heritage in Taiwan over the last ten years, and the codification of colonial-era relics by county and city governments and local community construction groups, has had a number of ramifications. It is not simply a case, as some have suggested, of Japanese relics being rehabilitated once colonialism

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is “no longer perceived as a threat.”60 Rather, I would suggest that this trend is linked to the rise of pro-colonial tendencies in Taiwanese historiography that have come to the fore over the last decade. The rediscovery of a Japanese architectural heritage and the procolonial readings of history that have risen in tandem with this also alludes to more general trends in Taiwanese society, connected in particular with a contemporary Taiwanese fascination with Japanese exotica—a trend that, in its more popular form, has come to be termed “ha Ri” or “Japanophilia.”61 It is no coincidence that an interest has developed around structures associated with the more exotic and aesthetically novel side of Japanese imperialism. At the heart of this trend are the Shinto shrines and the “crown-style” public buildings. Shinto shrines radiate an aura of mystery and the foreign, with architectural features that are rare elsewhere in Taiwan. Former Shinto shrines are sites of relative serenity (something much sought after in overcrowded Taiwanese cities), due to their placement on higher ground, and usually being located on the outskirts of towns and cities. Crownstyle architecture, in displaying references to an imagined pan-Asian civilization, provides Taiwan’s streetscapes with landmarks seemingly from another place (Shina ) and time (the Tang dynasty via World War II), while the general size of these public buildings means that they remain important landmarks in numerous localities throughout Taiwan.62 Through relics such as these, Japanese colonial history has become exotic and aesthetically pleasant. Few attempts have been made to contextualize the role that such structures played in the maintenance of Japanese rule or in the promotion of colonial ideologies, or in the violence and exploitation that are inherent in the colonial experience. This heritage-inspired pro-colonial historiography has also had much to do with the general commodification of the past prevalent in Taiwan over the last decade. There has been a noticeable rise in the inclusion of colonial-era public buildings—such as the quaintly named Museum of Drinking Water (Zilaishui Bowuguan ) in Taipei63— in television and print advertising. Taiwan’s lucrative bridal photography (hunsha sheying ) industry has also found that colonial mansions and public buildings provide the perfect backdrop for romantic pseudo-historical period shots. When compared to many other “postcolonial” societies, the trend throughout the 1990s to list, protect, or restore Japanese colonial relics places Taiwan in an interesting position. It is in this rediscovery of a colonial built environment that the “pro-colonial” strain of Taiwanese historiography becomes most evident. By restoring colonial sites as

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historical texts, local government agencies and community construction groups are actually taking the lead in encouraging a re-assessment of Taiwan’s colonial history. Local governments are, in general, not demolishing the remnants of Japanese colonialism, but instead distributing funds for their refurbishment. A number of relic-preservation studies in other postcolonial societies throughout the world have noted how the residue of colonial rule is commonly not given high priority when it comes to preservation. This is especially so when such architecture played a symbolic role in the colonial context, such as reinforcing the power of the metropôle or ideologies associated with colonial rule or occupation. The cultural historian Michel Jantzen, for instance, has noted French governmental efforts to dismount monuments of German rule in the Alsace region following the end of World War I, and the subsequent change of sovereignty in that region.64 One could well identify similar dynamics in GMD attempts to discredit architectural symbols of Japanese colonial rule in Taiwan by refusing to officially acknowledge such sites as relics worth protection.65 Likewise, Stephen Royle has examined the examples of Georgian architecture in urban Ireland, as well as buildings related to a history of indentured labor in Mauritius, in his study of colonial-era architecture and its place in newly independent societies.66 In both cases, the relics of colonialism are seen more as architectural reminders of a shameful past than relevant parts of a contemporary heritage, much as had been the attitude of Taiwanese officialdom prior to the 1990s. Perhaps an even more relevant comparison can be made with South Korea, one of the few other societies in the world in which a similar amount of the historic built environment was the product of Japanese colonial rule in the early years of the twentieth century. Over the last decade similar debates have been taking place about what role Japanese colonial architecture should play in contemporary Korea. It is clear that the case of Korea, and specific events there—such as the 1993 decision to remove the former Korean governor general’s building (Chhsen shtokufu ) in Seoul—have been closely observed in Taiwan. Take, for example, this plea for the protection of historic railway stations that date to the era of Japanese colonial rule offered by the lay Taiwanese scholars Hong Zhiwen and Li Qinxian : “As far as our forebears were concerned, we ought to have followed the example of the Koreans who removed the old Korean governor general’s building so as to erase the memory of Japanese rule. But if we look at things from a broader angle, aren’t they [i.e., these

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buildings] remnants of the history that Taiwan has experienced; and looking to the future, we will never have the chance to see such architecture again.”67 In Taiwan, the rediscovery of Japanese architectural heritage, and the ever-growing number of colonial-era buildings being listed as relics by city and county governments, suggests that the experience of colonialism may be read as a source of historical novelty and pride, instead of a source of shame. One need look no further than the former Taiwan shtokufu (now Taiwan’s presidential palace, or zongtongfu ). Unlike its Korean counterpart, this building seems to be undergoing almost perpetual restoration rather than destruction.68

Concluding Remarks The emergence of Taiwanshi as an academic discipline has involved the evolution of new interpretations of the past in Taiwan. In particular, Taiwanese scholars and public servants have displayed a marked fascination with the history of Japanese colonial rule. One of the results of this has been a concerted effort to rediscover, study, and eventually protect the architectural residue that Japanese colonialism left all over the island. On the one hand, this trend has helped to challenge many of the former (and highly restrictive) categorizations that dominated the study of the built environment and which sought to link “historic sites” with Republican Chinese nationalism in postwar Taiwan. Furthermore, the influence of “Western” notions such as heritage have aided in this project to reorganize the field of historic preservation and conservation, enabling the Taiwanese polity to acknowledge that Taiwan was, once, a pivotal part of the Japanese empire. Yet, in trying to distance current reinterpretations of the past from earlier historiographical traditions, many scholars associated with the discipline of Taiwanshi have consciously sought to focus on those sections of Taiwan’s history that set the island’s past apart from China. This has translated into a trend that I have chosen to term pro-colonial historiography: a study of the past in which the modernity that Japanese rule brought to Taiwan is praised, and through which less attractive elements of the colonial administration of the island are ignored, trivialized, and denied. This new Taiwanese historiography has found in the island’s built environment a fecund source of scholarly data. The architectural splendor that many public buildings dating from the colonial era retain has ensured that the colonial past can continually be presented as

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attractive, exotic, and well planned. Pro-colonial historiography is a school of thought in which Japanese colonialism is presented to be as pleasant as the porticos and palmed gardens of an old bank, Shinto shrine, or emigrant hamlet. The question of what is now counted as historic or “ahistoric” in Taiwan’s built environment—and what actually constitutes the “historic built environment”—tells us a good deal about how the interpretation of the past has changed so much over the last decade or more. More importantly, it also reminds us that the built environment, as much as any other realm of intellectual inquiry, is at the forefront of debates about the politics of history and the significance of the past in today’s Taiwan.

Notes 1. Dolores Hayden, The Power of Place: Urban Landscapes as Public History, Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 1995. 2. Cihai: shang : (Sea of Words: Volume I), Taipei: Taiwan Zhonghua shuju, 1981, 827. 3. For a typical example, see Qian Yue , Guji yu mingsheng (Relics and Scenic Spots), Taipei: Guangwen shuju, 1965. 4. Article 166 of the 1946 constitution stipulates thus: “The state shall encourage scientific discoveries and inventions, and shall protect ancient sites (guji) and articles of historical, cultural, or artistic value.” See Constitution of the Republic of China, Taipei: Government Information Office, 1997, 34. 5. Neizhengbu (Ministry of the Interior), Mingsheng guji guwu baocun tiaoli, Guomin zhengfu (Nationalist Government), 200000000A; 0121; 2779.01-01; 323/1157–1170; Taipei: Academia Historica. 6. Ibid., 1165. 7. Much of the content of these laws was based on colonial Japanese legislation. For more on the colonial codification of the built environment in Taiwan (and the survival of the Japanese system of codification in postwar Taiwan), see Wu Yonghua , Taiwan lishi jinianwu: Rizhi shiqi Taiwan shiji mingsheng yu tianran jinianwu de gushi : (Taiwanese Historic Monuments: The Story of Historic Relics, Scenic Spots, and Natural Monuments in Japanese Colonial-Era Taiwan), Taichung: Zhenxing chuban gongsi, 2000. One might also mention that the governments of other societies that had been part of the prewar Japanese empire, such as that of South Korea, similarly made liberal references to colonial Japanese legislation when drawing up postcolonial preservation laws. For more on this topic, see Hyung Il Pai, “The Creation of National Treasures and Monuments: The 1916 Japanese Laws on the Preservation of Korean Remains and Relics, and Their Colonial Legacies,” Journal of Korean Studies, 25.1 (2001): 72–95. 8. He also lists the growth of nativist nationalism and changes in the nature of tourism as factors. See Xia Zhujiu, “Taiwan de guji baocun: Yige pipanxing

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9.

10. 11. 12.

13. 14. 15. 16.

17.

18.

19. 20.

21. 22.

23.

Jeremy E.Taylor de huigu : ” (Historic Conservation in Taiwan: A Critical Retrospective), Jianzhu yu chengxiang xuebao, 9 (1998.12): 1–9. Ye Naiqi, “Taiwan guji baocun yundong de guoqu yu weilai ” (The Past and Future of Taiwan’s Relic Preservation Movement), Taiwan shiliao yanjiu, 6 (1996.11): 169–185. For the full text of Wenhua zichan baocun fa, see Taiwan fengwu, 23.3 (1982.9), 79–87. Zhuang Fangrong , Guji guanli yu weihu (The Management and Protection of Relics), Taipei: Taiwan xuesheng shuju, 1983, 7. He Peifu , “Guji weihu ji qi wenti zhi pouxi ” (An Analysis of Relic Protection and Questions Related Thereto), Gaoxiong wenxian, 26–27 (1985.11): 43–64. Han Baode , Guji de weihu (The Protection of Relics), Taipei: Wenhua jianshe weiyuanhui, 1999, 10. Claire Liu, “Renovating an Old Temple,” Jonathan Barnard (trans.), Sinorama, 21.8 (1996.8): 117–128. Ibid., 127. Raphael Samuel, Theatres of Memory, Volume 1: Past and Present in Contemporary Culture, London and New York: Verso, 1994, 205–226. Brenda Yeoh and Lily Kong, “The Notion of Place in the Construction of History, Nostalgia and Heritage,” in Kwok Kian-Woon et al. (eds.), Our Place in Time: Exploring Heritage and Memory in Singapore, Singapore: Singapore Heritage Society, 1999, 143. Academics from the Institute have been involved in drawing up plans for the restoration and/or preservation of a number of Taiwan’s best-known historic relics. The Sixth AWPNUC International Symposium was held in Taipei on November 23–24, 1997. See, for instance, the academic journal Bowuguanxue jikan (Museology Quarterly) published by the National Taiwan Museum (Guoli Taiwan Bowuguan ). Zhang Liling , “Beitou Wenquan Bowuguan ” (The Beitou Hot-Springs Museum), Lishi yuekan, 145 (2000.2): 19–24. For an example of the codification of industrial and harbor heritage by local government agencies, see Chen Chengzhang , Jilong shi gangqu lishi jianzhu diaocha (An Investigation of Historic Architecture in the Harbor District of Keelung), Keelung: Jilong shili wenhua zhongxin, 1999. This practice of replacing the ubiquitous “guo ” (nation) of Republican thought with the “Tai ” (Taiwan ) of bentu thought is not confined to the field of history. The designation of “Southern Hokkiens” (or Hoklo, Minnanyu ) as “the Taiwanese language” (Taiyu )—as a kind of counterpoint to “Guoyu” or the “National language” (itself based on Nanking Mandarin, or Nanjing Guanhua )—is another example.

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24. Bianjizu (Editorial Unit), “Rizhi shidai Taiwanshi yanjiu de huigu yu zhanwang zuotanhui jishi ” (Notes from a Seminar on Retrospective and Prospective Dimensions of Studies in the History of Japanese Colonial-Era Taiwan) Taiwanshi tianye yanjiu tongxun, 26 (1993.3): 23. 25. It may also be the case that, due to the highly efficient way in which the Japanese colonial administration documented the evidence of its rule on the island, research in colonial archives now represents an extremely simple task to undertake, and thus attracts many more historians than do other areas of research. 26. An argument that is questionable, as parts of what is now the People’s Republic of China were also subject to direct or indirect rule by Japan in the prewar era—most noticeably the three Chinese provinces that once constituted Manchukuo . 27. Huang Wenxiong, Dizao Taiwan de Ribenren (The Japanese Who Created Taiwan), Yang Bichuan (trans.), , Taipei: Yiqiao chubanshe, 2001, 11. 28. One of the most recent examples of this was the debate that emerged following the publication in 2001 of the Chinese edition of the book Taiwan lun (On Taiwan), Lai Qingsong and Xiao Zhiqiang (trans.) , Taipei: Qianwei chubanshe, 2001, by Japanese cartoonist Kobayashi Yoshinori . For an example of some of the reactions to the procolonial elements expressed in this book, and indeed, the pro-colonial sentiments that were expressed in support of the book’s publication, see Lin Biyao , “Taiwan lun de lishi shanghen ” (The Historical Scars of Taiwan lun), Ziyou shibao, February 26, 2001; Xie Hemin , “Taiwan lun bu ying zuowei zhengjing gongju ” (Taiwan lun Should Not Be Used as a Political Tool), Taiwan ribao, February 26, 2001. 29. See, e.g., Lin Hengdao , “Dazheng shinian Taibei jietou hao re’nao ” (How Lively the Streets of Taipei Were in 1921), Jinzhoukan, 66 (1998.3.1), ⬍www.winwin.com.tw/win66.wing_9.htm⬎. 30. Qi Jialin, Taiwan xin shiguan (A New Historical Outlook for Taiwan), Taipei County: Nongxue gufen youxian gongsi, 1999. 31. Indeed, an entire conference in which Japanese colonialism was examined from the point of view of its contributions to modernization was held at the Institute in December 2002. For more on the Zhiminzhuyi yu xiandaixing de zai jiantao guoji xueshu yantaohui (International conference for the review of colonialism and modernity), see Cao Mingzong , “Taiwan xiandaihua yu Riben zhimin you guan? ?” (Is Taiwan’s Modernization Related to Japanese Colonialism?) Lianhe bao, December 23, 2002. 32. It is worth noting that, at the time of writing this paper, pro-colonial and proimperial historiography are also flourishing in other contexts. In particular, the rise of post–September 11 American military power and influence throughout the world has inspired favorable comparisons between the United States

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33. 34.

35. 36.

37.

38. 39.

40. 41.

Jeremy E.Taylor today and late-nineteenth-century British imperialism on the part of some intellectuals in Britain and North America. Some examples are Michael Ignatieff, Empire Lite: Nation Building in Bosnia, Kosovo and Afghanistan, London: Minerva, 2003; Winston S. Churchill, “My Grandfather Invented Iraq,” The Wall Street Journal, March 16, 2003; and Razeen Sally, “There Is Simply No Alternative to US Might,” The Financial Times, March 20, 2003. The lauding of U.S. “liberal imperialism,” and the wistful comparisons that are drawn between current U.S. strength and British mercantile imperialism of an earlier era, bear a striking resemblance to pro-colonial depictions of the past so popular in Taiwan in recent years. The relationship between pro-colonial historiography in Taiwan, and pro-imperial historiography that has emerged in Britain and the United States in recent times, would make for a fascinating future study. Pierre Ryckmans, “The Chinese Attitude towards the Past,” Papers on Far Eastern History, 39 (1989.3): 2. Stephen Owen, Remembrances: The Experience of the Past in Classical Chinese Literature, Cambridge, MA and London: Harvard University Press, 1986, 91. William Logan, “Heritage Significance and the Intangible in Hanoi, Vietnam,” Historic Environment, 15.3 (2001): 46–55. David Lowenthal, The Heritage Crusade and the Spoils of History, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998, 20. It might be noted that many of the examples raised in support of this argument refer to societies in which large-scale iconoclasm (e.g., the PRC) or war (e.g., Vietnam) resulted in irreparable damage to the historic built environment at different points throughout the twentieth century. This raises the question as to whether a focus on intangible heritage is linked to some inherent cultural trait, or whether, with so much destroyed, there is simply little tangible heritage left to preserve in some countries. Some exceptions are European-built forts in Tainan and Tamsui (Danshui ), as well as former consulates and other buildings with a diplomatic history. By this I am referring to the removal of those elements of Taiwan’s past linked to the presence of Japanese people on the island. “Zhe dong jianzhu shi Ribenren gai de; suoyi bu suanshi guji ; ,” personal communication, May 25, 2001. The Taizi Bin’guan is a wooden structure that was built as temporary lodgings for the visit of Crown Prince Hirohito to Taiwan in 1920. It is now owned by the Taiwan Power Company (Taiwan Dianli Gongsi ). Such as Confucius temples, as was the case in the town of Qishan in Kaohsiung County. Such as was the case in Yilan , where a construction project was postponed so that the recently rediscovered vestiges of a Shinto shrine could be assessed. See “Yuanshan Zhonglie Ci faxian Ri shenshe jizuo ” (Foundations of a Japanese Shinto Shrine Discovered at the Yuanshan Martyrs’ Shrine), Zhongyang ribao, June 15, 1999.

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42. On the construction of Shinto shrines in Taiwan under colonialism, see Sakamoto Koremaru, “The Structure of State Shinto: Its Creation, Development and Demise,” in John Breen and Mark Teeuwen (eds.), Shinto in History, Richmond: Curzon Press, 2000, 272–294. 43. Lai Zhizhang, “Taiwan zhimindi shenshe de yanjiu: Cong da huanjing peizhi jianzhu tanqi : ” (The Study of Colonial Taiwan’s Shinto Shrines: On the Siting of Architecture in the Environment) Yilan wenxian, 50 (2001.3): 33–79. There has also been some interesting research conducted by Cai Jintang of Tamkang University on the transformation of Shinto shrines into martyrs’ shrines. See Cai Jintang, “Zhonglie ci yanjiu: ‘Guoshang shengyu’ jianli de lishi yange : ” (A Study of Martyrs’ Shrines: The History of the Establishment of “Sacred Spaces for the Nation’s Martyrs”), paper presented at Guokehui Taiwanshi zhuanti yanjiu jihua chengguo fabiao yantaohui (Conference for the presentation of the results of the National Science Council’s research plans in Taiwan History), Institute of Taiwan History Preparatory Office, Academia Sinica, Taipei, June 28–29, 2001. 44. As Dario Gamboni reminds us, “Destructions are expensive, and the impact of cost and equipment . . . should not be underestimated.” See his The Destruction of Art: Iconoclasm and Vandalism since the French Revolution, New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1997, 72. 45. For details of this project, see Fu Chaoqing , Taiwan jianzhu: Rizhi shiqi, 1895–1945 : , 1895–1945 (Taiwan Architecture: The Era of Japanese Colonial Rule, 1895–1945), Taipei: Dadi dili chuban gongsi, 1999. 46. “Diguanshi jianzhu: Zhuanjia cu baoliu : ” (CrownStyle Architecture: Experts Urge Preservation), Lianhe bao (Kaohsiung edition), June 30, 2000. 47. For more on this style of architecture, see Fu Chaoqing, Taiwan jianzhu, 41–71. There is, furthermore, a permanent exhibition in the Kaohsiung Museum of History on the Yokohama-born architect Kiyomizu Kinosuke who designed many buildings in this style throughout Taiwan during the late 1930s and early 1940s. 48. Cai Huiping , “Jiancheng yuanhuan shigong wachu er zhan zhanbei xushuichi ” (WWII-era Water-retaining Tank Excavated During Construction of Jiancheng Roundabout), Lianhe bao , April 13, 2002. 49. Cai Huiping, “Zhaohe nianjian chuhunbei cangshen Zhinan Lu ” (Shhwa-era Memorial for Animal Spirits Hidden on Zhinan Road), Lianhe bao, April 24, 2003. 50. Ding Rongsheng , “Bainian haozhilou zai jie nantao ” (Hundred-Year Old Signal-box Doomed) Zhongguoshibao, December 11, 2002. 51. Fu Chaoqing, “Cong diqu wenhua zichan zhanlanhui kan shequ yingzao yu guji baocun ” (Looking at

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52.

53.

54. 55.

56.

57.

58.

59.

60. 61.

Jeremy E.Taylor Community Construction and Relic Preservation from the Point of View of Cultural Property Exhibitions), Wenhua shenghuo, 2.4 (1999.3): 10. Zeng Xuzheng , “Fansi chengshi: Shequ yingzao zongti jian : ” (Reflecting on the City: An Overview of Community Construction), public lecture presented as part of the Dushi, kongjian yu jianzhu , (City, Space, and Architecture) public lecture series, Eslite Bookstore (Chengpin shudian ), Taipei, August 14, 2001. Su Zhaoying and Cai Jixun , Taiwan shequ zongti yingzao de guiji (The Trajectory of Taiwan’s Comprehensive Community Construction), Taipei: Wenhua jianshe weiyuanhui, 1999, 26. Jennifer Robertson, Native and Newcomer: Making and Remaking a Japanese City, Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1991. This is not to suggest that shequ yingzao is simply a wholesale adoption of the machinami model. It also owes something to a Taiwanese interest in preserving the façades of “old streets” (laojie ) throughout the island. The lure of tourist-generated income has driven many local governments to promote pleasing elements of the urban landscape of “old Taiwan,” a trend that can be traced back at least to the early 1990s. Better-known examples of such laojie include Dihua Jie in Taipei city and Sanxia in Taipei county. “Machinami baocun lianmeng zhenzai fangshituan xinde baogao ” (Report on the Findings of the Machinami Preservation Alliance Delegation after Touring Disasterstricken Areas), workshop held at Taibei Shi Kejia Wenhua Huiguan (The Taipei City Hakka Cultural Association Hall), Taipei, December 5, 1999. Hong Fufeng , “Lun shequ zongti yingzao yu difang yishi de xiazhaihua: Yi Gaoxiong Hamaxing diqu wei li : ” (On Comprehensive Community Construction and the Narrowing of Provincialism: The Example of the Hamaxing District in Kaohsiung), Shilian zazhi, 29 (1996.11): 15–40. Fengtian Wenshi Gongzuoshi (The Fengtian cultural workshop), Shoufeng xiang wenshiguan (The Shoufeng Township Cultural–Historical Hall), Fengtian: Fengtian wenshi gongzuoshi, ca. 2001. The name of this village in Mandarin is Fengtian . However, the same characters are pronounced “Toyota” in Japanese. This village was originally given the Japanese name Toyota in the late Meiji period, at which time it was designed as a village for farming families from metropolitan Japan. Yuan Lin , Lianlian Fengtian: Hualian Fengtian shequ zongti yingzao : (Emotionally Attached to Fengtian: Comprehensive Community Construction in Hualian’s Fengtian Village), Taipei: Wenhua jianshe weiyuanhui, 1999. An argument made in J. E. Tunbridge and G. J. Ashworth, The Tourist–Historic City, London and New York: Belhaven Press, 1990, 29. The expression ha Ri is derived from a Hoklo word (“ha” ) meaning “to be fond of,” and “Ri,” which is the first character in the Mandarin word for Japan (i.e., Riben ). The term ha Ri is used to refer to a contemporary Taiwanese fascination with Japanese popular and material culture.

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63. 64.

65.

66.

67. 68.

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The phrase originated in reference to youth culture but is now employed in a much wider context. When used with regard to intellectuals or academics, it is generally considered pejorative. For more on the use of this term, and on Japanophilia in Taiwan more generally, see Chen Miaoling, “On the Cutting Edge of Fashion: The Japanophiles,” Sinorama, 24 (1999.8): 38–47; Shao Yujuan , “Kuaguo wenhua/shangpin xianxing ji: Cong Cunshang Chunshu yu ‘ha Ri zu’ tan shangpin lianwu yu zhuti jiushu / : ” (Transnational Culture/ Commodities Revealed: On Commodity Fetishism and Redemption of the Subject in Murakami Haruki and Japanophilia), Zhongwai wenxue, 29.7 (2000.12): 41–65. Moreover, this has surfaced just as the aesthetics of imperial Japan—tatami, sliding doors, and hinoki cedar furniture—have reached a peak in Taiwanese interior design. In this regard, the rehabilitation of colonial sites in Taiwan borrows heavily from an international trend toward colonialism as a style (e.g., for interior design and clothing) rather than as a period of the past. In Taiwan today, Japanese imperialism is not just a part of history—it is also a fashion. A similar point is made in Judith Williamson, “Woman Is an Island: Femininity and Colonization,” in Tania Modleski (ed.), Studies in Entertainment: Critical Approaches to Mass Culture, Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1986, 99–118. A colonial-era water treatment plant. Michel Jantzen, “Alsaciens et monuments germaniques,” in Jacques Le Goff (ed.), Patrimoine et Passions Identitaires, Paris: Librarie Arthème Fayard, 1998, 237–242. There were, of course, exceptions. As Huang Shimeng has noted, the Republican government’s desire to do away with the ephemera of Japanese colonialism had to be balanced against the more pressing needs of housing an entire government bureaucracy that had fled to Taiwan following defeat in the Chinese civil war. See Huang Shimeng, “Rizhi shiqi Taiwan dushi fazhan ji fenxi, ” (An Analysis of Urban Development during the Era of Japanese Rule), in Chen Meirong and Zhang Yanxian (eds.), Taiwanshi yu Taiwan shiliao (Taiwan History and Taiwanese Historical Materials), Taipei: Zili wanbao chubanbu, 1993, 221–243. Stephen A. Royle, “The Urban Heritage of Island Colonial Cities in the Indian Ocean: Conservation and Contestation,” in Brian J. Shaw and Roy Jones (eds.), Contested Urban Heritage: Voices from the Periphery, Aldershot: Ashgate, 1997, 62–84. Hong Zhiwen and Li Qinxian, Taiwan gulao huoche zhan (Old Railway Stations of Taiwan), Taipei: Yushanshe, 1996, 74. A “Transformation Plan for the Presidential Palace Plaza” (Zongtongfu Guangchang Gaizao Jihua ) is currently being instigated by the central government, with the aim of transforming the area around the presidential palace in Taipei into a public recreational space. All indications are that the building itself will not only remain, but will become this space’s primary attraction in years to come. For more on this plan, see Jianzhu shi, 27.9 (2001.9).

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IV

The “China-centered” Paradigm and Indigenization

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6 Indigenization Discourse in Taiwanese Confucian Revivalism John Makeham

From the 1960s to the late 1980s it was not uncommon for commentators both within and outside Taiwan to contrast Taiwan (“Free China”) with China (“Communist China”), describing Taiwan as a bastion of traditional Chinese culture, as a society that respected and preserved many traditional Chinese values and customs. Evidence of this was to be found in the official support that the ruling Chinese Nationalist Party (Zhongguo guomin dang; hereafter GMD) gave to fostering programs of “cultural” renaissance and reconstruction, orthography, active publication of premodern texts (both by government agencies and private commercial publishers), the real and symbolic functions of the National Palace Museum, the influential academic and social roles occupied by senior scholars who had been trained in prewar China, school curricula and textbooks, university courses, as well as community and social events.1 Taiwan was often also portrayed as preserving certain values, traditions, and institutions that we in the West conventionally (and collectively) identify as Confucian: deference to elders, the valorization of selected ethical precepts, respect for teachers and authority figures, the preservation of Confucian temples and associated ritual performance, the celebration of Confucius’s birthday (marked by the national Teachers Day holiday), the compulsory study of such classics as the Four Books (Analects, Mencius, Daxue, and Zhongyong) in the secondary school curriculum, as well as vibrant research on and research training in various aspects of China’s “Confucian” past. In 1988, the Taiwanese liberal intellectual,

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Wei Zhengtong , described it as a matter of fact that “over the past forty years, Taiwan is the only place amongst the several overseas Chinese regions that has promoted Confucian thought, enabling this tradition to be passed on uninterrupted.”2 By the early 1990s, however, as the GMD’s commitment to a program of cultural reconstruction modeled on “traditional Chinese cultural values” waned, and as the “Confucian” content of secondary textbooks ceased to be promulgated by force of government fiat, institutional support for Taiwan’s putative Confucian identity become increasingly attenuated, contributing to a deepening crisis of relevance for Confucianism in modern Taiwanese society.3 Related to these developments, the past two decades have also witnessed the intensification of a body of discourse termed bentuhua (indigenization; Taiwanization). Many proponents of indigenization in Taiwan regard it quite specifically as a project of de-Sinicization: an attempt to remove the yoke of “Chinese” colonial hegemony so that Taiwan’s putative native (bentu) identity can be recognized and further nurtured. For these proponents the role of the Other in the indigenization paradigm is identified with a monolithic conception of China and Chineseness that is typically portrayed as inimical to the integrity of Taiwanese identity. Other proponents of indigenization (much fewer in number) are more concerned about the threat to Taiwanese identity posed by Western cultural imperialism and American economic hegemony. For them, indigenization is more an expression of a localism opposed to the forces of globalization and/or Westernization.4 Where, then, does Confucianism figure in the identity politics of cultural distinctiveness that has characterized indigenization discourse over the last two decades? How have modern day supporters and interpreters of Confucianism positioned themselves in the cultural politics of indigenization discourse? Insofar as proponents of the once influential “Confucian capitalism” thesis have argued that Confucian values have been an essential cultural factor in the growth of “industrial East Asia”—rather than being unique to Taiwan—it is understandable why this thesis has not been embraced by those committed to articulating a distinct Taiwanese identity. Leading representatives of Confucian philosophy in the academy—in particular, scholars such as Liu Shuxian , Li Minghui , and Cai Renhou , who are identified with the contemporary New Confucian movement (dangdai xin ruxue )5—have largely avoided any foray into debates over Taiwanese identity, being more concerned with the retrospective creation of a distinct philosophical school—New Confucianism—and, more

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recently, with such constructs as “East Asian Confucianism.”6 As critics such as Arif Dirlik have argued, however, these interlinked developments (i.e., the Confucian capitalism thesis and the broader push for a pan-Asian Confucianism) are ineluctably drawn into larger global developments: “what makes something like the East Asian Confucian revival plausible is not its offer of alternative values to those of EuroAmerican origin, but its articulation of native cultures into a capitalist narrative.”7 There remains, however, one prominent group of Confucian revivalists that has actively sought to argue that Confucianism is inextricably linked to issues of Taiwanese identity while disassociating themselves from the Confucian capitalism thesis. Although loosely affiliated with the New Confucian movement, Huang Junjie , Chen Zhaoying , and Lin Anwu have each distanced themselves from the abstract philosophical theorizing associated with New Confucian philosophy, instead promoting the renewal of “Confucian”8 thought and values as resources for social engagement and cultural identity. This emphasis on social engagement, as well as their views on culture as identity, has led to their participation in indigenization discourse. The significance of their participation is enhanced by their standing as public intellectuals affiliated with Taiwan’s two most prestigious universities, Taiwan National University and Taiwan Normal University. Unlike the more fundamentalist Taiwanese cultural nationalists and ethnic nationalists who seek to pit an essentialized “Taiwanese identity” against a monolithic “Chinese identity,”9 however, Chen, Huang, and Lin insist that “Taiwanese culture” is a part of “Chinese culture.” Their engagement of indigenization discourse thus poses them with a unique challenge: the reconciliation of Taiwanese cultural identity with Confucian identity. On the one hand, they seek to champion Taiwanese cultural identity, yet, on the other hand, they also seek to promote a body of philosophical teachings, intellectual and moral values, and cultural practices—“Confucianism”—that many other Taiwanese cultural nationalists claim is alien to that cultural identity. Consequently, these Taiwanese Confucian revivalists have adopted a seemingly ambivalent attitude toward indigenization discourse, being at once critical of those who would portray Confucianism as a vehicle of colonial cultural assimilation—and hence anathema to the integrity of Taiwanese cultural identity—while also claiming for Confucianism a foundational and inalienable role in indigenization discourse. My aim is to analyze how successful the Taiwanese Confucian revivialists have been in developing strategies to reconcile this perceived ambivalence.

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All three Confucian revivalists introduced in this chapter are proponents of what I term “Taiwanese Confucian culturalism”: a commitment to an all-embracing vision of Chinese history and civilization—Chinese culture—the essence of which they characterize as Confucian, coupled with the belief that Confucian values and cultural norms are an integral component of Taiwanese identity. I argue that the Confucian revivalists have failed to mount a convincing case to support their conviction that Confucianism has a foundational and inalienable role to play in the identity debates of indigenization discourse. Chen Zhaoying fails to establish that, historically, there was a culturally hybrid form of Taiwanese Confucianism (Taiwan ruxue)—even as it retained a vital organic connection with Chinese culture—underpinning the character of Taiwanese culture. Although Huang Junjie is able to show that a small minority of the mainland Confucian scholars who sojourned in Taiwan during the 1950s and 1960s did seek to defend a nativist consciousness in the face of a rising tide of Westernization, none was committed to developing this consciousness into an indigenized or Taiwanese Confucianism. Huang’s own Confucian vision bears further testament to this claim. Lin Anwu also upholds a belief in the organic interconnectedness of Chinese culture asserting that local culture provides a seedbed necessary for specific forms of “cultural China” to take root in Taiwan’s native soil. Despite Lin’s emphasis on the need to recognize the unique contextual role of local culture, he provides few prescriptions for how cultural China might be indigenized to develop distinctly Taiwanese forms of Confucianism. And even though Lin’s own idiosyncratic philosophical vision might well be considered to be a genuine expression of an indigenized Confucianism, its piecemeal and iconoclastic formulation render that vision unacceptable even to fellow Confucian revivalists.

Chen Zhaoying In I995, Chen Zhaoying, a professor of Chinese literature at National Taiwan University, published an essay entitled “Dangdai ruxue yu Taiwan bentuhua yundong ” (Contemporary Confucianism and Taiwan’s Indigenization Movement).10 The opening pages of the essay reveal that for Chen the single largest threat both to Confucianism and to the indigenization movement is the Taiwan independence movement. In order to overthrow the Taiwanese people’s original national identity (guozu rentong ), the first call of this movement [the Taiwan

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independence movement] is to alter the Taiwanese people’s cultural history. The Taiwan independence movement willingly promotes the indigenization movement so that it might steer the whole movement in an “anti-China” direction, and so realize its own political aims. Chinese culture has always been the principal content of Taiwan’s native culture. Today, because the Taiwan independence movement has created the unnecessary polarization of Taiwan’s native culture and Chinese culture, this has led some of the people who are concerned about Chinese culture to develop misgivings about the indigenization movement. As such, I am afraid that this will lead to suffering both for Chinese culture and for the indigenization movement.

Chen’s more immediate goal, however, is not to defend Chinese culture against the onslaught of the pro-independence movement but to link Confucianism with the indigenization movement. Indigenization is an intense issue today, having virtually become the basic tenet of all cultural and educational activities. If, however, we think about Taiwan’s localist movement using the opposing concepts of “native” vs. “foreign” or “nativism” (bentuzhuyi ) vs. “colonialism,” then we will discover that Taiwan’s indigenization movement can be traced back to the period of Japanese occupation and be divided broadly into three phases: the anti-Japanese phase during the period of Japanese occupation; the post-war anti-westernization phase; and today’s anti-China phase. During the anti-Japanese and anti-westernization phases, Confucianism—as native culture—fully exhibited its critical spirit to become the banner of anti-colonialism. By the anti-China phase, however, Confucianism had ludicrously come to be [portrayed as] the culture of a foreign colonizer and the target of opposition for the indigenization movement. This is the crisis that faces Confucianism in the current phase. Nevertheless, this crisis can also become a turning point. That is, a new way of thinking which links Confucianism and indigenization may well introduce new content into the topic of “Confucian modernization.”

According to Chen, this third phase in Taiwan’s indigenization movement—in which Confucianism is portrayed as representative of a foreign colonial culture—also coincides with the third anti-Confucian movement of the last 100 years. The first anti-Confucian movement was the “wholesale Westernization” championed by the New Culture Movement and associated with Hu Shi and Chen Xujing in the early Republican era in China, later resurrected in Taiwan during the late 1950s and early 1960s in debates on Chinese culture versus

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Western culture, and associated with figures such as Yin Haiguang and Li Ao . The second anti-Confucian movement was during the Cultural Revolution in China in the early seventies,11 and the third is the contemporary movement in Taiwan conducted under the name of Taiwan independence. Chen argues that unlike the two earlier movements, the pro-independence movement portrays Confucianism as part of a foreign culture, as part of the culture of an enemy state, and as a vehicle of colonial cultural assimilation. She regards this third anti-Confucian movement as the most damaging because it aims to “bring about the subversion of cultural identity [i.e., identity with Chinese culture] by subverting nationalist (guojia minzu) identity [i.e., promoting Taiwanese identity while rejecting Chinese identity].”12 The reductionist strategy of identifying Taiwan’s native culture with Confucianism serves to recast the pro-independence movement as an ultimately anti-Taiwan movement. Drawing on Hegel’s notion of alienation or estrangement, Chen portrays the Taiwan independence movement as forming a self-consciousness that splits off from an original “Chinese-style Taiwan consciousness.” Because Taiwanese people take China to be the country of their parents [forebears], Taiwan consciousness naturally begins with China consciousness. Chinese culture and the expression of the particular life style of the Han people in Taiwan have formed the cultural foundation of “Chinese-style Taiwan consciousness.” Now, as Taiwan consciousness searches for the path to the formation of original self-consciousness, it has developed into an alienating power that, contrary to expectations, is actually opposed to its own self. That is, insofar as it opposes the China consciousness inherent in Taiwan consciousness, then Taiwan independence consciousness is the estrangement (yihua ) of China consciousness. Insofar as it opposes love for the ancestral country that is a characteristic of Taiwan consciousness, Taiwan independence consciousness is self estrangement (ziwo yihua).13

Taiwanese Confucianism Chen’s strategy for establishing that Confucianism is integral to Taiwan’s native culture and to Taiwanese cultural identity is to argue that Confucianism has a 300-year history in Taiwan. This thesis is most fully developed in her book, Taiwan ruxue: Qiyuan, fazhan yu zhuanhua , (Taiwanese Confucianism: Origins, Development, and Transformation).14 Chen’s notion of “Taiwanese Confucianism” is formulated on the basis of two convictions. The first

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is that “Confucianism” is a generalized (pubianxing) phenomenon and not restricted to one particular geographical domain. The second is that situating Confucian history within localized contexts such as Qi-Lu culture, Chu culture, Jiang-Zhe culture, and MinYue culture, will yield new insights into how Confucianism might be developed in the future.15 One of the primary impetuses for Chen’s writing her book was to argue for the ongoing relevance of Confucianism in Taiwan’s future. As expressed in the following comments from inside the dust-jacket: “The book explores the circumstances concerning the introduction of Confucianism into Taiwan during the MingZheng period [1662–1683]; issues relating to Zhu Xi Learning (Zhuzixue ) during the Qing dynasty in Taiwan; and how Taiwanese Confucianism experienced the courses of nativization and modernization while facing the suppression of colonialism and the challenges of the New Culture Movement during the period of the Japanese Occupation. The phenomenon of ‘Taiwanese Confucianism’s’ becoming the new leader of Chinese Confucianism and East Asian Confucianism, is something that we should be able to anticipate.” In the preface, Chen further explains that “Taiwan and Confucianism complement one another—this has been so in the past, and will be so in the future. Each should be able to create a further point of development for the other’s intellectual– spiritual culture.” Although these remarks posit a role for Confucianism in Taiwan’s past and, perhaps even more significantly, in Taiwan’s future, the substance of Chen’s scholarship is the historical recovery of Taiwan’s Confucian past. The book leaves undeveloped the issue of Confucianism in Taiwan’s future because Chen’s most pressing task is to establish that Confucianism (ruxue) is an integral part of Taiwan’s native history.16 In the following analysis, my main aim is to submit to scrutiny the examples provided in Chen’s historical reconstruction of “Taiwanese Confucianism.” The periodization that Chen proposes for Taiwanese Confucianism follows the now standard divisions widely adopted for the history of Taiwan: Ming-Zheng (1662–1683); early to late Qing (1683–1895); Japanese occupation (1895–1945); and post–World War II. Ming-Zheng Period (1662–1683) Chen identifies three origins of Confucianism in Taiwan during this period: (1) Zheng Chenggong (1624–1662), the first Chinese “ruler” of Taiwan;17 (2) various Southern Ming literati-classical scholars; and (3) proponents of statecraft (jingshi ) theories variously

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associated with the Fushe (Return to Antiquity Society), the Jishe (Incipience Society; which was eventually incorporated into the Fushe), and the Donglin Academy. During this brief early period, “Confucianism” is represented by these necessarily piecemeal and rudimentary developments transplanted by mainlanders from mainland institutions and practices.18 Qing Period (1683–1895) Chen identifies several sources as evidencing the development of Taiwanese Confucianism during the Qing period. It is, however, discussion of the stele inscriptions that dominates her analysis. She maintains that there is ample evidence in stele inscriptions to confirm the central role of Zhu Xi19 Learning (Zhuzixue ) in the formation of Taiwanese Confucianism: The spirit of Zhu Xi Learning—with its high regard for practical learning (shixue) and its disdain for reputation sought from success in the examination system—became a common theme in Taiwan’s education stelae. . . . The great majority of the [authors whose texts were inscribed on the] educational stelae had mastered the dual nature of practical learning: to examine comprehensively the patterns of things (qiong li ) and to apply learning to practical matters (jian shi ). These two aspects are inseparable. Furthermore, most of the authors whose texts were inscribed on these stelae were able to criticize the notion of seeking fame from success in the examination system—a notion antipathetic to practical learning. In this respect, these authors were not only inheritors to Zhu Xi but also to the entire Song-Ming Confucian tradition.

Chen further claims that the high regard in which Zhu Xi was held during the Qing period by the promoters and practitioners of Confucian education should be seen not only as a response to the directives of the Qing government, but also as having been genuinely motivated by a respect for Zhu’s character.20 The implication being drawn is that official ideology and the desire for office were not the only motivating factors in the early development of Taiwanese Confucianism. Much of this research is pioneering and great effort has been made to marshal evidence culled from hitherto little used sources. Despite this, the sort of Confucianism that emerges from the study of Qing sources is one fundamentally shaped by the twin institutions of bureaucracy and the examination system transplanted directly from the mainland.21 The fact that many of the prominent historical figures that

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Chen discusses are mainlanders posted to Taiwan does little to alter this impression.22 Taiwanese Confucianism (as described earlier) during the Qing dynasty amounted to little more than “Confucianism [read: institutionalized classical learning and the civil examination system] in Taiwan.” It is a very long bow to draw to claim that during the Qing dynasty, “due to official promotion and the efforts of men of education and social standing (shiren ), Confucianism gradually penetrated into all levels of society to become the principal constituent of the people’s psycho-spiritual life (jingshen shenghuo).”23 Period of Japanese Occupation (1895–1945) Chen describes the 51 years of Japanese occupation as a period when “the unique colonial conditions led men of education and social standing to preserve Taiwanese Confucianism and traditional Han culture in a quite self-conscious manner.” She even describes Lian Yatang’s (1878–1936) Taiwan tongshi (General History of Taiwan) as being the most distinguished work of Taiwanese Confucianism of the occupation period, and devotes two chapters of her Taiwan ruxue: Qiyuan, fazhan yu zhuanhu to this work. Yet, the evidence of Confucian historiography presented in the first of these two chapters is almost nonexistent. Indeed, much of the analysis is little more than an apologetic on Lian’s racist attitudes to Taiwanese aboriginal groups. As for the chapter devoted to “Confucian poetry,” it does little to establish that the poetry produced in this period was particularly Confucian (much less “Taiwanese Confucian”), as distinct from being a more general expression of elite cultural conservatism in the face of Japanese occupation and the cultural iconoclasm of the New Culture Movement.24 Elsewhere, Chen maintains that it was during the period of Japanese occupation that Taiwan consciousness first developed.25 She describes this consciousness as having been formulated on the basis of a strong anti-Japanese sentiment, yet was not in conflict with the preexistent sense of China consciousness. “From the cultural perspective, in contrast to Japanese culture, bentu had the sense of the legacy of traditional Chinese culture.”26 For Chen, it is then only a short extrapolation to the claim that during the period of Japanese occupation, “Taiwan’s native culture (bentu wenhua) was Confucianism (ruxue).”27 Using the force of her own argument—in which Taiwan’s native culture is effectively indistinguishable from the legacy of “traditional Chinese culture”—it thus seems that the notion of a unique or distinctive Taiwanese Confucianism is, in fact, difficult to sustain.

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Postwar Period Although the post–World War II period is not discussed in either Taiwan ruxue—Qiyuan, fazhan yu zhuanhua or Taiwan yu chuantong wenhua there is some coverage in Chen’s other writings. For Chen, the most important development during this period was the activities of unofficial Confucianism (minjian ruxue ). The term minjian ruxue is a rhetorical construction designed to draw a clear-cut distinction between “official Confucianism” (associated with the ideology of the then ruling Nationalist [GMD] party) and what was later retrospectively identified as “New Confucianism.” The choice of the term minjian ruxue was presumably motived by a desire to infer an affinity with “folk Confucianism,” but, despite this, the term clearly does not refer to the Confucian practices/beliefs of the common people. (Chen’s understanding of the content of “unofficial Confucianism” may well have been based upon the views of Huang Junjie, as we will see later.) Chen describes unofficial Confucianism as being the most powerful native cultural (bentu wenhua) force to oppose Westernization and Americanization during the post–World War II period in Taiwan.28 To all intents and purposes, for Chen, unofficial Confucianism is identical to New Confucianism. Although there are several scholars who are widely recognized as second generation New Confucians, Chen selects Xu Fuguan (1903–1982) as the representative second generation New Confucian in Taiwan during this period, and describes the stance that Xu took in the East–West culture debates of the mid-to-late 1950s as the first New Confucian contribution to the Taiwan localist movement after the war (despite the fact that Xu—a mainlander who lived in Taiwan between 1952 and 1969—made no appeal to Confucian models indigenous to Taiwan.) The goal of Chen’s historical reconstruction is to argue that Confucianism is integral to Taiwan’s native culture and to Taiwanese cultural identity. This reconstruction, however, fails on two accounts. The first and more general failure concerns a particular form of reductionism that is shared by many Confucian apologists, both in China and elsewhere.29 This reductionism takes the form of a metonymic legerdemain by means of which Confucianism (however understood) comes to stand for Chinese culture. The second and more critical failure concerns the viability of the notion of Taiwanese Confucianism. My analysis reveals a failure to establish that Taiwanese Confucianism did, in fact, develop salient and distinctive features such that it was something other than “Confucianism in Taiwan.” The evidence

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provided for the historical existence of a “Taiwanized/indigenized” (bentuhua) Confucianism is unpersuasive.

Huang Junjie In support of the claim that Confucianism functioned as a form of nativism (bentuzhuyi) in Taiwan’s historical past, Huang Junjie, professor of History at National Taiwan University, appeals to the framework of Chen Zhaoying’s reconstructed history of Taiwanese Confucianism (Taiwan ruxue).30 He is, however, primarily concerned with the history of Confucianism in postwar Taiwan, in particular its “strongly conservative” intellectual orientation and its connection with the indigenization movement. Huang identifies two broad types of Confucianism in the postwar period: official (zhengshi ; guanfang ) and unofficial (fei zhengshi ; minjian ). He describes official Confucianism as having functioned largely as a state-controlled ideological apparatus that was promulgated institutionally through primary and secondary textbooks, university entrance examinations, and civil service entry examinations. Unofficial Confucianism, by contrast, was an “academic–intellectual or cultural movement” that bolstered Chinese cultural identity, resisted modern Western cultural hegemony, and was given expression in folk beliefs, “phoenix temples,”31 community organizations, journals, morality books, lectures, novels, plays, private lectures, and Confucian organizations. It is fundamentally a type of cultural conservatism.32 He pays particular attention to three vehicles by which official Confucianism was propagated in the 1960s to the 1980s: the activities of the “Zhongguo wenhua fuxing yundong weiyuanhui ” (Chinese Cultural Renaissance Movement Council); primary and secondary textbooks; and the publishing activities of semigovernment organizations.33 The Chinese Cultural Renaissance Movement Council was established in 1967 to oversee the activities of the Cultural Renaissance Movement launched the previous year. According to Huang, this was “principally in response to the mainland’s Cultural Revolution, and to promote a ‘Confucian values’-centered traditional culture.”34 It is, of course, incontrovertible that party state ideology manipulated the moral content of state prescribed primary and secondary textbooks used from the 1970s to early 1990s, for its own political ends. Huang singles out the Zhongguo wenhua jiben jiaocai (Basic Resources for Chinese Culture) as an egregious example of this manipulation. Basic Resources

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was a compulsory text for senior high school students in the eighties. Huang is particularly concerned that the interpretations of passages selected from the Analects, Mencius, Zhongyong, and Daxue as part of the content of Basic Resources were based on Chen Lifu’s (1900–2001) Sishu daoguan . (The Interconnecting Thread of the Way in the Four Books.) Chen Lifu was a founding member, leading functionary, propagandist, and ideologue of the GMD. Huang argues that the party state’s real purpose in promoting Confucianism was political: to lead students to understand the Three Principles of the People and thus participate in opposing communism so as to take back the mainland. He cites several examples to show how passages from the Four Books were distorted to produce interpretations suited to the GMD’s political agenda.35 In selecting the journal Kong Meng yuekan (established in 1962) as an example of how the publishing activities of semi-government organizations were manipulated by the GMD, Huang’s analysis reveals that prior to the lifting of martial law in 1987 most of the journal’s editorials praised father and son, presidents of the ROC, Jiang Jieshi (Chiang Kai-shek) (1887–1975) and Jiang Jingguo (1909–1988), and the GMD. He cites one editorial that clearly outlines a new daotong (interconnecting thread of the way) from the sages of antiquity to Jiang Jieshi. Another example links the daotong with the GMD’s zhengtong (unified system of political authority): “The Three Principles of the People are the daotong. . . . The power of the daotong—which serves to ‘drive the rejuvenation of our people’s (minzu) vitality’—is founded on the successively transmitted spirit of Confucius’s and Mencius’s thought—the very culture of our people—as represented by the Three Principles of the People.”36 Huang sums up his criticisms of official Confucianism as follows: In the official education system of post-war Taiwan, Confucianism played the role of “supporter of state political ends.” Accordingly, to a certain degree it became a tool and lost its subjectivity. In other words, in the historical situation of post-war Taiwan, Confucian thought was not valued and promoted for the sake of the Confucian thought system itself, but rather for the sake of other forces external to Confucianism (for example, political ends, economic development, or social harmony, etc.). Because of this, Confucianism gradually became divorced from itself, becoming a means by which to achieve goals external to Confucianism. . . . In order to render Confucian thought fully into a tool to serve “state political ends” the authorities subjected the rich content of Confucian thought to a high level of selective interpretation.37

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Whereas Chen Zhaoying singled out the Taiwan independence movement as posing the largest threat to Confucianism in the 1990s and beyond, for Huang, the threat to Confucianism in the immediately preceding decades came from the opposite side of the political divide: the GMD. Yet, rather than dwelling on the negative implications of this predicament, as with Chen, Huang’s strategy is to focus on the putative connection between indigenization and Confucianism.

Confucianism’s Native Identity For Huang, although the postwar period may have witnessed the development of a politically inflected Taiwan consciousness that was galvanized around anti-mainland (communist) sentiments, and stimulated by the forces of globalization,38 Confucianism’s humanist concerns guaranteed it a native identity. “Owing to its strong ‘statecraft’ (jingshi) character, it was inevitable that this island of Taiwan—where Chinese and western, new and the old, and all manner of thought and culture have surged forth, one after the other—would produce strong interaction between Confucianism, real-life politics, and cultural circumstances.”39 Here Confucianism refers to what Huang elsewhere distinguishes as “unofficial Confucianism.” He maintains that unofficial Confucianism has given rise to two main effects in Taiwan: (1) indigenization in the form of resistance to externally imposed colonialism and to the rising tide of Westernization; and (2) criticism by “unofficial Confucian scholars” of official Confucianism from the perspective of the people. He cites examples such as Xu Fuguan’s criticisms of Jiang Jieshi in the mid-1950s; Mou Zongsan’s criticism of Sun Zhongshan and the GMD in 1988; and the criticisms made by figures associated with the journal Ehu (including Lin Anwu) of the revised version of the Basic Resources adopted in the 1980s.40 On the one hand, Huang seeks to demonstrate that unofficial Confucianism has strong native allegiances, thereby lending it an uncorrupted authority and legitimacy. On the other hand, the fact remains that none of the key Confucian revivalists in the postwar period was Taiwanese. Huang himself is well aware of this, as the following comments confirm. “[I]n philosophy, many Taiwanese intellectuals are growing dissatisfied with the postwar Taiwan contributions to Chinese philosophy made by such figures as Fang Thomé, Hsü Fu-kuan, T’ang Chün-yi, Mou Tsung-san, etc., because these thinkers are Mainland oriented and have completely ignored Taiwan. Young thinkers, such as Yang Ju-pin, now insist that Confucian scholars in Taiwan ought to develop a ‘Taiwan Confucianism’ that fully takes

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into account their own cultural environment.”41 “Young Confucians complain that, in the forty-three years since the old scholars came from the mainland, a Taiwanese Confucianism worthy of its name has yet to appear.” He quotes the following remarks of Yang Rubin (Yang Ju-pin) as representing the sentiments of “today’s young Confucians in Taiwan”: “Confucians in Taiwan have never tapped the rich Confucian resources dormant in Taiwan to make significant contributions.”42 Although such thinkers as Xu Fuguan may have contributed to a “native consciousness” in Taiwan that continues to be a source of inspiration for the Confucian revivalists, this amounts to something less than a “Taiwanized” form of Confucianism. Significantly, neither Xu nor the other New Confucian sojourners of the 1950s or 1960s championed the indigenization or Taiwanization of Confucian philosophy. Instead, Xu promoted a Reformation-like return to the scriptures of classical Confucianism: the teachings of Confucius and, especially, Mencius.

Back to the Future This same call for a return to the teachings of Confucius and Mencius43 is echoed by Huang, so that Confucianism might become independent of political manipulation.44 He presents the appeal of “classical vibrant Confucianism” in the following terms: Instead of individual and society being in conflict, classical Confucianism envisions an interdependence between individual and society, each existing within the other. To return to this classical Confucian vision is to go home to our cultural root at which all of us are nourished. . . . [T]he classical Confucianism at our cultural root offers us radical symbiotic interpenetration between individual integrity and societal concord, the one constituting and thriving [sic] the other. . . . [W]e must reject comfortable Confucian scholasticism and positivism that merely repeat worn-out clichés of Confucian imperialism. Standing at the new vantage point gained by Taiwan’s industrial–economic revolution, we must dare to demythologize Confucian institutionalism to bring out the vibrant but repeatedly expurgated implications of classical Confucianism.45

Although Huang endorses Chen Zhaoying’s claim that Confucianism functioned as a native force in Taiwan’s past, the legacy of Taiwanese Confucianism features nowhere in Huang’s appeal for a return to the classical teachings. Only by assuming a Confucian culturalism—in which, by default, Confucian identity is posited as an essential

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feature of Taiwanese cultural identity—can the connection between Confucian identity and Taiwanese cultural identity be sustained. Moreover and importantly, while Huang provides evidence that a small minority of the mainland Confucian scholars who had sojourned in Taiwan during the 1950s and 1960s did seek to articulate a nativist consciousness in the face of a rising tide of Westernization, none was committed to developing this consciousness into a indigenized or Taiwanese Confucianism. In the next section, we examine another “young Confucian” (although well into his forties) and native Taiwanese. As discussed later, even he has failed to deliver “a Taiwanese Confucianism worthy of its name.”

Lin Anwu Lin Anwu, a philosopher by training, is professor of Chinese (guowen) at Taiwan Normal University. As with Chen Zhaoying and Huang Junjie, much of Lin Anwu’s writing stresses the connection between Confucianism and Chinese cultural identity. Whereas Chen and Huang have developed empirically documented historical analyses Lin addresses and formulates more abstract and theoretically nuanced issues. Much of his writing might be described as a combination of philosophy of history and philosophy of culture in which he attempts to diagnose an historically conditioned cultural crisis. Even more than either Chen or Huang, his writings give prominence to what he regards as the pernicious and lingering influence of “imperial style Confucianism.” Lin identifies three main types of Confucianism in imperial China: real life Confucianism (shenghuohua de ruxue ), which has its roots in “local folk traditions” (minjian xiangtu chuantong ); critical Confucianism (pipanxing de ruxue ), which is associated with a system of ethics based on certain qualities derived from human behavior, and also the transmission of the “unified cultural system” (wenhua daotong ); and imperial style Confucianism (dizhishi de ruxue ), which is associated with an autocratic monarchy. Historically, imperial style Confucianism supported forms of political and social domination (zaizhi ) that had become institutionalized in the “emperor system,” whereas “critical Confucianism” and “real life Confucianism” were opposed to these forms of domination.46 Lin further contends that imperial style Confucianism has continued to be dominant in postwar Taiwan while the other two have largely been neglected by the intellectual community.

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In the contemporary context, Lin has two targets in mind when he employs the term imperial style Confucianism: the Confucianism promoted by GMD political ideology and New Confucianism, particularly the philosophy of Mou Zongsan. Before dealing with each of these in turn, I first present Lin’s account of “magic-type causal logic,” which he identifies as endemic in traditional political ideology, NeoConfucian philosophy, and Mou Zongsan’s philosophy.

Magic Lin characterizes magic-type causal logic (zhoushuxing de yinguo luoji ) as the belief that humans can become mystically bonded to a transcendent absolute (chaoyue jueduizhe ), which in turn can directly control individual human lives, such that the relationship is one of complete dependence. Liberation from this magic-type causal logic is premised on the denial that such a mystical bonding is possible and that causality must be explained without appeal to a transcendent absolute.47 According to Lin, in traditional China, magic-type causal logic was an “alienated and degenerate expression” of what he terms the “continuum-type rationality” (lianxuxing de lixing ) that is encapsulated in such constructs as the unity of heaven and humans (tian ren he yi ); the unity of things and self (wu wo he yi ); and the unity of other and self (ren ji he yi ). The proper type of rationality that is given expression through these constructs—a “practical rationality” (shijian de lixing )—is formed in concrete historical and social matrices; it is not an abstract concept of rationality, and as such there is no need to appeal to a magic-type causal logic.48 He further argues that although the prevailing ideology in Taiwan (and China) remains the magic-type causal logic, Taiwan, unlike China, is in a position to turn away from the hold of magic-type causal logic—because it is no longer a one-party state—and that only Taiwan has the potential to help China construct a new culture.49 Although lacking in the details of how this might be possible, the theme of Taiwan’s fate being linked to that of China runs throughout Lin’s writings.

Attacks on New Confucians Lin is critical of key aspects of Mou Zongsan’s moral metaphysics for displaying the character of magic-type causal logic. In particular, Lin expresses concerns about the nature of the relationship that Mou posits between the experiential subject (zhuti ), objective entities

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(keti ), and “ontological reality” (shiti ; or “ontological reality of the way” [daoti ]), asserting that, in Mou’s prescription, both the subject of experiential action (shijian zhuti ) and objective entities lose their independence and are “sealed within” the domain of ontological reality.50 The effect of this is that the subject of experiential action defers his/her subjectivity to an imagined higher authority, rather than taking responsibility for his/her own actions, as is typified in superstition and fatalism. Mou promoted the idea of a unified cultural system (wenhua daotong ) in which meaning/value was vouchsafed by the ethico-religious core of that culture. This meaning or value or truth was made accessible through an apprehension of our moral nature. Lin is highly critical of this thesis, and refers to it as a type of “monistic domination” (yiyuan de zaizhi ). “Now we are able to point out unequivocably that Mr. Mou’s system is a system of monistic domination. One aspect of this system of monistic domination brings together in summary form China’s cultural tradition by taking the essence of the three ‘schools’ of Confucianism, Buddhism, and Daoism, gathering them together as a totality that is centered on a core of limitless freedom. The other aspect of this system is that Mou employs this totality to bring about the collapse of China’s emperor system.”51 Thus, while not complicit in the type of the monistic domination perpetuated in certain traditional political and social institutions, Mou subscribed to an alternative magic-type causal logic that was given expression in his moral metaphysics in the form of monistic domination.

Separation of Daotong from Zhengtong Lin’s objection is not to the notion of daotong, but to its overly metaphysical formulation (evident in Neo-Confucian philosophy and Mou Zongsan’s philosophy) and to the distortion of the continuumtype rationality by Confucian patriarchal modes of thought. In this connection, Lin identifies a mutually reinforcing relationship between Confucianism, as a system of ethics based on certain qualities derived from human behavior,52 and the imperial system of rulership based on absolute authority and control in the hands of the emperor. As the political role of the ruler became more absolute, the need for the counterbalancing role of Confucian moralism was increased accordingly, so as to sustain an equilibrium. He characterizes this as a relationship between daotong and zhengtong (unified system of political authority).53 To counterbalance the monopoly of power wielded by the autocratic

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monarchy, Confucians exercised monopoly over “meaning” (yiyi) and “root ethics” (genyuan lunli) in the form of the daotong construct. Yet, “this also embodied the character of magic . . . and was moreover monistic in orientation. . . . On the one hand, it had the character of resisting autocracy; on the other hand, it also had an autocratic character.”54 For Lin, the proper relationship between the daotong (understand as a unified cultural system) and the zhengtong is one in which the daotong “overrides” the zhengtong. This claim is premised on the primacy of “cultural China” (wenhua Zhongguo ), a concrete reality that makes no appeal to metaphysical support for its existence: In theory, “cultural China” takes precedence over “political China” and “economic China.” . . . This idealized “cultural China” transcends any actual “political China.” . . . “cultural China” belongs to the level of daotong (unified cultural system) whereas “political China” belongs to the level of zhengtong (unified system of governance). In theory, the daotong overrides the zhengtong. That is, the zhengtong must accept the norms of the daotong. It is unacceptable for it to turn around and control the daotong. . . . Generally speaking, in theory, intellectuals continue to emphasize the absolute precedence that the daotong has over the zhengtong, with the daotong serving as a norm and guide for the whole of the zhengtong. In reality, the opposite holds true: those in possession of the zhengtong declare themselves to be acting in accord with the daotong, and even declare themselves to be protectors of the daotong.55

Here, Lin’s target is not China’s imperial past, but the legacy of the GMD in postwar Taiwan. In promoting Confucian culture, what the GMD actually promoted was but a “new form of imperial-style Confucianism. They turned Jiang Jieshi into a sacred figure and made him into the transmitter of the daotong, thereby obfuscating the demarcation between daotong and zhengtong. . . . When the day comes that the tension between the daotong and the zhengtong ceases to be maintained, it becomes even more difficult to highlight the critical nature of Confucianism.”56 The consequence of this in contemporary Taiwan is that Confucianism has become intimately associated with the GMD legacy. As with Chen Zhaoying and Huang Junjie, Lin Anwu aims to show that “true” Confucianism (in Lin’s case, critical Confucianism) should not be deemed to be part of this association. Like Huang Junjie, Lin is critical of the role of GMD’s role in the Basic Resources for Chinese Culture debacle of the 1980s.

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He also identifies Jiang Jieshi’s Kexue de Xue Yong (The Scientific Daxue and Zhongyong), as a representative work of politicized Confucianism. In his critique, Lin describes Jiang as having portrayed himself as the embodiment of the daoti (ontological reality of the way) and the transmitter of the daotong, and charges Jiang with having appropriated the Confucian daotong to consolidate his political power.57 Lin contends that there is a direct connection between the ideological hijacking of these core [Neo-]Confucian scriptures—Daxue and Zhongyong—and the failure of China’s daotong to have achieved due realization as a concrete expression of practical rationality: “The inability of China’s unified cultural system to become a concrete expression of rationality—remaining as an abstract expression of rationality58—is intimately related to the GMD’s monopoly of rule whereby the unified cultural system and GMD ideology became interconnected as one. On the one hand, this led to the GMD’s ideology blocking off the power of the unified cultural system and, on the other hand, also sealing off the possibility for the native culture (bentu wenhua) of our people here in Taiwan’s being able to ascend to the unified cultural system. This has led to the fragmentation of Taiwan’s indigenous culture and Chinese culture.”59

Master–Slave and World History According to Lin, this situation is symptomatic of an even more complex predicament, in which Taiwan stands in a slave relationship to two masters: one external (Western colonialism) and one internal (Chinese patriarchy), which he calls a “double master–slave consciousness” (shuangchong zhunu yishi ).60 The external type of master–slave consciousness is the product of a “Euro-America-centric” account of world history, in which “Taiwan continues to be a cultural colony, an intellectual colony, and a philosophical colony.” Citing Huntington’s “Clash of Civilizations” thesis as evidence that the development of civilizations is about to undergo a global transformation, Lin predicts that Taiwan will move from its present “passive” role to play an active role in its own destiny. The internal type of master–slave consciousness is the product of a complex interaction of two factors: the “lofty and high-handed nature of patriarchy” and “the warmth and succor of the mother figure.”61 “The most obvious expression of the longing for the mother figure’s warmth and succor is consciousness of the land (tudi yishi). The land is the symbol of the mother figure. The land is mother to the nurturing

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of subjective consciousness, and culture is father to the nurturing of subjective consciousness.”62 In terms of Lin’s daotong/zhengtong dichotomy, rightfully Chinese culture should belong to the realm of the daotong, but it was appropriated and made subservient to the GMD’s zhengtong ideology. Because the GMD—in its role as surrogate father figure—failed to give concrete embodiment to the unified cultural system (wenhua daotong),63 consequently “the constraining principles of rationality”64 necessary for subjective consciousness to take form, ceased to exist. “At that juncture, all that remained was a mother figure which took the form of consciousness of the land (tudi yishi). Moreover, this mother figure was not a concrete and actual mother figure, but a mother figure that seemed, in an indistinct way, to lie on the other side of the sea.65 This kind of mother figure is abstract and empty.” One consequence of this longing for a distant mother figure was that “the peoples who live on this land of Taiwan long overlooked the mother earth of the place where they live. This, in turn, led to a situation where for a long time Taiwan has fallen into the trap of [identifying with] the subjective consciousness latent within the concrete embodiment of a mother figure.”66 He explains that the Democratic Progressive Party (DPP) is a manifestation of this “concrete embodiment of a mother figure.” Thus, rather than identifying exclusively with the mother figure represented by Taiwan, Lin is advocating the need to identify with the larger concrete embodiment of the complete mother figure—that of China and Taiwan combined (“cultural China”). The displaced father figure (formerly represented by the GMD) now urgently needs to be replaced by a type of “selfgoverning consciousness” which aims to establish a new culture by drawing upon many other cultures in addition to Chinese culture.67 Lin is optimistic about the possibility for such a development, as is revealed in his characterization of “Taiwanese subjectivity” as an “ocean type” subjectivity, which he contrasts with the continental character of “mainland subjectivity.”68 Because the difference is one of type (leixing) rather than of substance (zhi), Taiwan is still a part of the “Chinese cultural atmosphere,” yet, like a nodal point, Taiwan has the potential to open up a new path of development for all of China (rather than pursuing a radical break with China). Only by forging connections with China and the world community “will Taiwan be able to achieve real subjectivity” and also enable China’s mode of subjectivity to move from the continental type to the ocean type.69 Asking how Taiwan can act as a connecting point or intermediary for Chinese (Hua Xia) civilization to enter the world stage, Lin outlines a

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revisionist version of the Hegel’s theory of the development of world history, the unfolding of Spirit in time, in a procession from East to West: “Unlike Hegel’s conclusion that its ultimate destination lies in the West, clearly it has continued to proceed to develop. Having crossed the Atlantic Ocean to America, now it has crossed the Pacific again and has returned once more to the East.”70 Lin describes the movement of world history as seemingly circular because it has returned to the point that Hegel identified as the starting point of history, the East. However, it is really a spiral rather than a return to a point of origin. What role is there for Taiwan’s indigenous culture in this larger global–historical process? Lin remarks: Besides sorting out and understanding elite [philosophical] concepts, it is even more important that we pay attention to a culture’s localist character (xiangtuxing ), that we adopt a cordial and amicable attitude toward the so-called “culture of the local people” (that is, folk religion and other levels of culture), that we seek to understand it, to interpret it, and to expound its deep cultural significance. It is essential for it to be able to become united and fused with elite culture. . . . Chinese culture is not some empty, abstract phenomenon. It relies on the context of specific actual circumstances for its growth. Hence each region has its own unique regional characteristics. Only from the composition of specific phenomena with unique characteristics is the development of an abstract generalized phenomenon possible. . . . I am resolutely of the opinion that localism (xiangtuxing) is not only of no harm to so-called “orthodox culture,” moreover it is the “seedbed” of orthodox culture.71

Although both here and in other statements Lin emphasizes the need to recognize the unique contextual role of folk or popular culture at the local or regional level, he has demonstrated little initiative in developing distinctly Taiwanese forms of Confucianism. Presumably this is because, for Lin, the integrity of China’s “unified cultural system” is ontologically prior to and greater than the sum of its parts, even though it depends on those parts for its actualization. At most, Taiwan can provide a seedbed for the actualization of this overarching cultural identity: “‘Cultural China’ cannot simply be an ideal. It urgently awaits actualization. Moreover, only by being actualized can this ontologically true [form of] existence avoid being an empty construct. In other words, this ontologically true [form of] existence must become something [that is encountered] in ordinary everyday life. Only then can a cultural soil (wenhua turang ) be created,

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which in turn can become the foundation for a reconstructed new China.”72 Unfortunately, Lin provides few prescriptions for how this actualization might be brought about. Examples of “grassroots” activity might include his occasional public lectures on Confucian scriptures (given in Hoklo) or his editorial work with the journal, Ehu, but, as John H. Berthrong asks, will self-styled New Confucians and post–New Confucians such as Lin “be able to move out from their academic posts in order to provide a Confucian interpretation of modern life that will have real appeal to modern and East Asian peoples?”73 If there is to be a future for a socially relevant Confucianism in Taiwan— such as Tu Wei-ming’s vision of “a new Confucian humanism predicated on the communal critical self-consciousness of the intelligentsia [and which] may become a de facto civil religion”74—surely the real task is to revitalize an enthusiasm for Confucianism (however that term is to be construed) at the grassroots level.75 Yet, without an organized church structure (as in Buddhism) or state support in the form of cultural and educational policies, it remains difficult to see how any form of intellectualized Confucianism can survive outside of the academy in Taiwan.76 Lin fails to establish how a distinctly Taiwanese form of Confucianism might grow from the seedbed of Taiwanese culture.

Epilogue For much of the postwar period, Confucianism and cultural identity in Taiwan were closely allied. Over the past decade or so, this connection has been seriously eroded due to the lack of a sustained, politically enforced program of “Confucian enculturation.” The significance of attempts by Confucian revivalists to find a voice for Confucianism in indigenization discourse should be understood as a reaction to this situation. Unlike in other areas of academic discourse, proponents of “Taiwanese Confucianism” embrace the Chinese cultural connection, rather than deny or exclude it. This is what gives them a unique voice in the indigenization debates. Even though the Confucian revivalists have sought to mount a case for the existence of various expressions of a Taiwanese Confucianism variously predating Manchu, Japanese, and GMD rule, they have not been successful in their efforts. Although Joseph Levenson’s thesis that the early part of the twentieth century marked a transition among Chinese intellectuals from the idea of culture as identity (culturalism) to nation-state as identity (nationalism) might be overly reductionist,77 the conviction that cultural

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identity transcends political identity has been persistent among culturally conservative (and neo-traditionalist) Chinese intellectuals throughout the twentieth century and remains a core tenet of the New Confucians and Confucian revivalists alike. This is why all three Confucian revivalists introduced in this chapter find it unproblematic to assume that because the essence of Chinese cultural identity is Confucian and that because Chinese culture has always been the principal content of Taiwan’s native culture, therefore Confucian values and cultural norms are an integral component of Taiwanese identity. This attitude might be termed “Taiwanese Confucian culturalism.” If we define culturalism as the belief that culture, rather than polity, ethnicity, or religion is the principal source of group identity consciousness or “subjectivity,” then Confucian culturalism would be the belief that it is Confucian cultural values (however construed) that constitute the core of the Chinese people’s (typically understood in an unproblematized, broadly inclusive sense) identity. Witness, for example, Lin Anwu’s account of the wenhua daotong (unified cultural system) and cultural China; Chen Zhaoying’s claim that popular Confucianism was “the main force binding the Han people’s cultural identity”; or Huang Junjie’s description of Confucianism as “the common spiritual foundation of the intellectual elite,” the “value system of the ordinary people” (minjian jiazhi xitong ),78 and “the historical soil in which Taiwan culture was fostered and nourished.”79 In discussing the difficulties of using the term “culturalism,” James Townsend notes some problems in distinguishing between “culturalism as identity” and “culturalism as movement” because “culturalism as identity easily slides into culturalism as movement”: “In one context, loyalty to the culture and belief in its superiority is so profound that bearers of the culture recognize no competition. This is culturalism as identity, an unquestioned worldview that cannot conceivably be lost or proven wrong. The other context involves awareness of competition, hence the prospect of choice among alternatives and the need for some defense and legitimation of the culture, even by those—especially by those—who believe most intensely in its superiority. This is ‘culturalism as movement,’ in which conscious argument and action become necessary to defend a culture under threat.”80 Taiwanese Confucian culturalism exhibits both sets of characteristics. On the one hand, there is a strong sense of the unique and superior qualities of Confucianism as a source of values identity. A cogent expression of what we might term “Confucian culturalism as identity” is the following passage by the New Confucian, Li Minghui: “For us [culturally aware Chinese intellectuals],

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the Confucian tradition and even Chinese culture are not matters which can be merely objectivized and even museum-ized (bowuguanhua ) as objects of research, but rather they are a part of our concrete lives. To objectivize the cultural tradition in which one’s own self is situated and to start to ask questions about the future of that tradition is the first step in self-alienation (ziwo shuli ). If one then further places this now objectivized tradition on an equal footing with other traditions (such as the Christian tradition) and glibly talks about ‘fusion’ and pluralism, then this is the second step in self-alienation.”81 On the other hand, modernity, postmodernity, westernization, positivism, liberal democracy, globalization, and the like, have prompted various defensive and legitimating responses from the Confucian culturalists, the self-styled guardians of Chinese culture. Huang Junjie, for example, writes: “Confucianism is not so much a collection of objects to be investigated than it is an existential value system within which an investigator cultivates his personality and cultural enrichment to meet the challenge of modernity.”82 From the perspectives of the three Confucian revivalists introduced in this chapter, these challenges have been further compounded by such factors as the metaphysical agenda of the New Confucians (especially Mou Zongsan); the Taiwan independence movement; and the GMD’s appropriation and manipulation of the daotong construct. Yet, precisely because the Confucian revivalists hold such strong views on the primacy of Chinese culture, they have been unable to escape the unwanted but inevitable lingering associations with former GMD policies in which culture was deployed for the purposes of defining a particular sort of political identity.83 In both cases, Taiwanese identity is subordinated to Chinese identity—despite the fact that for Confucian revivalists Chinese identity is to be construed on cultural rather than political/ethnic/religious grounds. As Allen Chun argues, however: “What is significant about the construction of ‘traditional Chinese culture’ in postwar Taiwan was that it suppressed, in the short term, the existence of local (Taiwanese) culture [cultures?] in order to subordinate it, in the long run, to an all embracing vision of Chinese history and civilization.”84 Although the Confucian culturalists have endeavored to distinguish between different types of Confucianism, and to repudiate the official Confucianism and “imperial style Confucianism” of the GMD,85 they remain committed to an all embracing vision of Chinese history and civilization—“Chinese culture”—the essence of which they characterize as Confucian. Consequently, for them, Taiwanese identity remains subordinated not only to Chinese identity, but also to

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Confucian identity. This conviction is held despite the lack of evidence that Confucianism (ruxue) in Taiwan adapted to, or is able to adapt to, local conditions and contexts such that it makes sense to talk of a Taiwanized or Taiwanese Confucianism. In sum, despite the participation of Confucian revivalists in indigenization discourse, they have failed to establish that there is a culturally hybrid form of Confucianism that can be identified as Taiwanese Confucianism. As such, they have been unable to demonstrate that Confucianism does have a foundational and inalienable role to play in the articulation of a distinct Taiwanese identity. It should be noted that the recent development of Taiwanese Confucian culturalism may well be indebted to an ideological platform to which it is fundamentally opposed.86 On the one hand, Chen, Huang, and Lin are opposed to the dominance of Western ideologies for their promotion of rampant capitalism, their colonization of Taiwan’s native intellectual cultures, and their role in the intensification of environmental destruction; yet, on the other hand, the contemporary revival of Confucian culturalism can be tied to the former successes of the “Confucian capitalism” thesis popularized in the 1980s and early 1990s (and still winning friends today). In referring to “a resurgence in recent years of fundamentalistic nationalisms or culturalisms” that are opposed to “EuroAmerican ideological domination of the world,” Arif Dirlik relates how “the Confucian revival among Chinese populations points to Chinese success in capitalist development to argue that the Confucian ethic is equal, if not superior to, the ‘Protestant ethic’ which Max Weber had credited with causative power in the emergence of capitalism in Europe. A ‘Weberized’ Confucianism in turn appears as a marker of Chineseness regardless of time or place.”87 Despite attempts by Taiwanese Confucian revivalists to distance themselves from the claims made by proponents of the “Confucian capitalist” thesis, they share a common underlying commitment to a vision of Confucian culturalism, a vision that is fundamentally at odds with the more circumscribed aspirations of those committed to a project of seeking to fashion a distinct Taiwanese identity.

Postscript Paul R. Katz, scholar of popular religion, has noted: “Some papers presented at academic conferences over the past few years have been noteworthy in their attempts to define Taiwanese popular religion as a cultural phenomenon unique to Taiwan. These papers also view

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popular religion in Taiwan as being based on a sense of identity that excludes China as a source of cultural tradition.” Katz’s essay explores these developments by means of a case study of the cult of Royal Lords (wangye ). He emphasizes that his goal is not to determine whether the cult “actually ‘indigenized’ after it took root in Taiwan,” but to “determine the impact of identity politics on postwar scholarship about Taiwanese popular religion.”88 Similarly, in this chapter, my goal has not been to determine whether Confucianism (however understood) actually became Taiwanized or indigenized, or to plot its unique configurations at particular historical moments, but rather to examine critically the evidence provided by Taiwanese Confucian revivalists for the existence of a putative “Taiwanese Confucianism” (Taiwan ruxue), past and present. I should also point out that indigenized teachings based on syncretistic appropriations of traditional ru moral values have taken root in Taiwan. Perhaps, the best examples of this are certain spirit-writing sects or “harmonizing sects” such as Yiguandao (Way of Single Interconnectedness) that even takes it name from a famous passage in the Analects. (Despite being banned by the GMD government until the late 1980s, Yiguandao remained very active as a popular religious sect in postwar Taiwan after being transplanted from the mainland.)89 It should also be noted that the social influence of these sects is now far more significant than more intellectualized forms of Confucianism. Ironically, although some figures associated with the more intellectualized forms of Confucianism display a dismissive attitude toward sects such as Yiguandao (labeling them as “heterodox” and vulgar), it may well turn out that the institutional framework provided by these groups will continue to provide Confucian teachings with a viable means of maintaining a degree of social relevance in the future.

Notes 1. Allen Chun, “Democracy as Hegemony, Globalization as Indigenization, or the ‘Culture’ in Taiwanese National Politics,” Journal of Asian and African Studies, 35.1 (2000): 11–12, identifies three phases of postwar cultural policy in Taiwan: the era of cultural reunification (1945–1967); the era of cultural renaissance (1967–1977); and the era of cultural reconstruction (1977– mid-1990s). He describes the second phase, that of the cultural renaissance movement, as “a systematic effort to redefine the content of [traditional culture and values], to cultivate a large-scale societal consciousness through existing institutional means and to use the vehicle of social expression as the motor for national development in other domains, economic and political.”

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, “Rujia yu Taiwan de minzhu yundong ” (Confucianism and Taiwan’s Democracy Movement), in Du Weiming (ed.), Ruxue fazhang de hongguan toushi (Macro-perspectives on the Development of Confucianism), Taipei: Zhengzhong shuju, 1997, 426. Commenting on the “erosion of Confucianism,” in 1985 Lucian Pye noted “Taiwan has become a society so energized by economics that politics has yielded up its pretensions of importance. Moreover, to the degree that the status of officialdom has been redefined, Taiwan has tended toward a pluralistic society and away from a dutiful, disciplined society which defer to government authority.” See Lucian Pye, Asian Power and Politics: The Cultural Dynamics of Authority, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1985, 246. Although I agree with the thrust of these observations, in the 20 years that have passed since they were made, it is difficult to find evidence for the claim that “politics has yielded up its pretensions of importance.” As Ambrose Y. C. King has argued, the “burgeoning social movements of the 1980s are probably better interpreted as the result of the democratic transformation of the authoritarian state than that of a weakened party-state.” See Ambrose Y. C. King, “State Confucianism and Its Transformation: The Restructuring of the State-Society Relation in Taiwan,” in Tu Wei-ming (ed.), Confucian Traditions in East Asian Modernity: Moral Education and Economic Culture in Japan and the Four Mini-Dragons, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1996, 239. See Maukuei Chang’s essay in chapter 7 in this volume for examples of this in the social sciences. See John Makeham (ed.), New Confucianism: A Critical Examination, New York: Palgrave, 2003, chapters one and two. One noteworthy recent exception to this is Li Minghui’s essay, “Yi ge Kejiaren de bentuguan ” (The Indigenous Perspective of a Hakkanese), in Long Yingtai (ed.), Miandui dahai de shihou (When Facing the Big Sea), Taipei: Shibao wenhua, 2003, 129–139. In the essay, Li speaks from a Hakka rather than a “Confucian” perspective. Arif Dirlik, “The Global in the Local,” The Postcolonial Aura: Third World Criticism in the Age of Global Capitalism, Boulder: Westview Press, 1997, 92. In English, the meaning of the terms Confucian and Confucianism continues to be contested. In this chapter I use the term Confucianism as the translation equivalent of ruxue (and occasionally rujia), a term that the three scholars discussed in this chapter use to refer to an idealized tradition of cultural and ethical values and prescriptions that constitutes the core of Chinese culture. Although well aware that each of the categories such as ru , rushi , ruzhe , rusheng , rujia , rushu , rujiao , ruxue , kongjiao , Zhou Kong zhi jiao , and Kong Meng zhi jiao has various connotations that need to be historically (and geographically) contextualized for their import to be discerned, the compass of my enquiry is limited to ruxue as understood by a select group of Taiwanese thinkers. It should be further noted that Chen, Huang, and Lin would not regard themselves as constituting a group, nor have they previously been identified as such. Although Chen and Huang regularly cite each other’s writings, they only rarely cite Lin’s

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John Makeham writings and vice versa. Their ambivalent connection to the New Confucian movement, their concern about issues of Taiwanese identity, and the priority they give to issues of social engagement over abstract philosophical matters, is why I have chosen to group them together. A prominent example is Zhuang Wanshou (who, like Lin Anwu, is also a professor at Taiwan Normal University). See, e.g., his Taiwan lun (Essays on Taiwan), Taipei: Yushanshe, 1996; and Zhongguo lun (Essays on China), Taipei: Yushanshe, 1996. The article is included as a chapter in her book, Taiwan wenxue yu bentuhua yundong , Taipei: Zhengzhong shuju, 1998. On the 1973–1974 anti-Confucius movement, see Kam Louie, Critiques of Confucius in Contemporary China, New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1980. Chen Zhaoying, Taiwan wenxue yu bentuhua yundong, 265–269 passim. Ibid., 141. Chen Zhaoying, Taiwan ruxue: Qiyuan, fazhan yu zhuanhua, Taipei: Zhengzhong shuju, 2000. Ibid., introduction (unpaginated). Another explanation for this reticence is that Chen herself is ambivalent about this future. Thus, in the preface to her book, Taiwan wenxue yu bentuhua yundong, she writes: “Sometimes when friends have brought up the subject of the future of Confucianism, I have sadly exclaimed, ‘Are we to become the loyalists for Chinese culture in Taiwan?’ ” The analogy being drawn is with the ill-fated Ming loyalists; some of whom were active in Taiwan’s history in the mid–late seventeenth century, as discussed later. In ibid., 32, Chen claims that Zheng Chenggong championed “people as the foundation” (minben ) thought, which she describes as Confucian. Moreover, as noted by Pan Chaoyang , Ming Qing Taiwan ruxue lun (Essays on Taiwanese Confucianism during the Ming and Qing Dynasties), Taipei: Xuesheng shuju, 2003, 148, n. 67, the legacy of these literati figures was exceedingly short-lived in Taiwan. Zhu Xi (1130–1200) was a leading “Neo-Confucian” philosopher whose commentaries on the Four Books (Analects, Mencius, Daxue, and Zhongyong) came to serve as the officially sanctioned interpretations of these writings in the civil examination system. Chen Zhaoying, Taiwan ruxue: Qiyuan, fazhan yu zhuanhua, 65, 68, 50, 51–61. Pan Chaoyang, Ming Qing Taiwan ruxue lun, 13, 20, 24, 26, 30, also argues that the cultural activities promoted and practiced by the Confucian literati in the wider community in Taiwan (such as establishing academies and Wenchang temples) were identical with practices in the mainland during the Qing period. See also similar comments he makes about Confucianism from the Ming-Zheng period to the early twentieth century, 58–59; and about Zhu Xi Learning in Taiwan during the Qing period, 141–142. It is thus ironical that Qiu Fengjia (1864–1912), a native Taiwanese, is known for his travels to Singapore and Malaya to promote Confucianism (Kongjiao ) as a religion at the turn of the twentieth century but is not known for his promotion of ruxue in Taiwan. (See Liang Yuansheng ,

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“Xuanni fu hai dao Nanzhou—Shijiu shijimo Xinjiapo de ruxue yundong” — [Confucius Crosses the Seas to the Southern Land: The Singapore Confucian Movement in the Late Nineteen Century], in Du Weiming, Ruxue fazhan de hongguan toushi, 206–212.) After being awarded the jinshi degree in 1889, and serving for a short time as an official on the mainland, he returned to Taiwan to teach in several academies. Qiu later played a leading role in resisting the Japanese occupation of Taiwan and was even “appointed” as the vice president of the first and short-lived Republic of Taiwan declared in 1895. Thus, although it is unclear of the extent to which Qiu may have promoted ruxue teachings in Taiwan, he might seem to fit the bill as a genuine Taiwanese nationalist. In fact, there is reason to suspect that he was a genuine Taiwanese nationalist at all, given that the establishment of the Republic of Taiwan was a temporary expedient. According to Kuo Ting-yee: “When the news [of the cession of Taiwan] reached Taiwan, the island was in an uproar. On May 25, 1895, Tang Ching-sung proclaimed Taiwan an independent republic. . . . He pleaded with the court at Peking for forgiveness, pledged that Taiwan would remain loyal to China, and claimed that independence was intended only to be temporary and solely for the purpose of defending the island against a Japanese takeover.” See his “History of Taiwan,” in Hungdah Chiu (ed.), China and the Question of Taiwan, New York: Praeger, 1973, 17–18. See also the account in Andrew Morris, “The Taiwan Republic of 1895 and the Failure of the Qing Modernization Project,” in Stéphane Corcuff, “Taiwan’s ‘Mainlanders,’ New Taiwanese?” in Stéphane Corcuff (ed.), Memories of the Future: National Identity Issues and the Search for a New Taiwan, Armonk and London: M.E. Sharpe, 2002, 16. Shortly before the Japanese troops landed, Feng is reported to have fled to the mainland taking with him large sums of cash from the public coffers. See Pan Chaoyang, Ming Qing Taiwan ruxue lun, 209. 23. These comments are made in her more recent publication, Taiwan yu chuantong wenhua , Taipei: Taiwan shudian, 1999, 31. 24. These comments apply equally to Chen’s discussion of this same period in Taiwan yu chuantong wenhua, 176–187. The material collected in Lin Qingzhang’s edited two-volume publication, Riju shiqi Taiwan ruxue cankao ziliao (Reference Materials on Taiwanese Confucianism during the Period of Japanese Occupation), Taipei: Xuesheng shuju, 2000, strengthens the impression that the sort of ruxue undertaken during this period (limited though it was) was predominantly focused on traditional classical learning (broadly understood) rather than on “an idealized tradition of cultural and ethical values and prescriptions that constitutes the core of Chinese culture.” The writings of the 13 “ruxuejia ” (here perhaps best rendered as “scholars of classical learning”) selected for inclusion in Lin’s anthology principally address such topics as classical texts (displaying many of the hallmarks of mid–late Qing dynasty evidential scholarship); anti-Mohist polemic; the introduction of new approaches to thought and intellectual history (derived from Japan and the West); historical biographies; and Confucius. Of the 90 essays in the anthology, one is clearly an apologist tract on the superiority of “the teachings of Confucius”

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26. 27. 28. 29.

30.

31. 32.

33.

34. 35.

36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44.

John Makeham (Kongjiao ). These scholarly concerns differed little from those of contemporary scholars of classical learning on the mainland except that the standard of scholarship was considerably weaker and the volume of such scholarship was exceedingly limited in Taiwan. This view is supported by sociologist Maukuei Chang (a contributor to this volume) who has argued “since the 1920s people had already begun to define Taiwanese people as a collectivity, as a distinct nation ruled by the Japanese colonial government. Taiwan, as a signifier for the place and the people as a whole, had been widely adopted.” See his “On the Origins and Transformation of Taiwanese National Identity,” China Perspectives, 28 (2000): 62. Chen Zhaoying, Taiwan wenxue yu bentuhua yundong, 107, 116. Ibid., 267. Ibid. Lionel Jensen, Manufacturing Confucianism, Durham: Duke University Press, 1997, 79, has argued that since the sixteenth century, Confucianism has become a metonym of “ ‘real’ Chineseness” in the West. Huang Junjie, Taiwan yishi yu Taiwan wenhua (Taiwan Consciousness and Taiwanese Culture), Taipei: Zhengzhong shuju, 2000, 221. Reading luantang as luantang . Huang Junjie, ibid., 175–176, 188–189, 200. On the “popular Confucian” element in morality books in Taiwan, see Philip Clart, “Chinese Tradition and Taiwanese Modernity,” in Philip Clart and Charles B. Jones (eds.), Religion in Modern China: Tradition and Innovation in a Changing Society, Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 2003, 84–97. Huang Junjie, Ruxue yu xiandai Taiwan (Confucianism and Modern Taiwan), Beijing: Zhongguo shehui kexue chubanshe, 2001, 283–289; Chün-chieh Huang (Huang Junjie), “Confucianism in Postwar Taiwan,” Proceedings of the National Science Council, ROC. Part C: Humanities and Social Sciences, 2.2 (1992): 228–229; Taiwan yishi yu Taiwan wenhua, 200–201. Huang Junjie, Ruxue yu xiandai Taiwan, 285. Huang Junjie, Taiwan yishi yu Taiwan wenhua, 177–182. In one passage, Chen Lifu clearly equates the way of Confucius with Sun Zhongshan’s (1866–1925) “three principles” (The Principle of Nationalism, The Principle of the People’s Rights, and The Principle of the People’s Livelihood.). Ibid., 231–232 , 233. Huang Junjie, Ruxue yu xiandai Taiwan, 286–287. Huang Junjie, Taiwan yishi yu Taiwan wenhua, 87–88. Ibid., 221. Ibid. 206–211. Stevan Harrell and Huang Chün-chieh (eds.), Cultural Change in Postwar Taiwan, Boulder: Westview Press, 1994, 17. Chün-chieh Huang, “Confucianism in Postwar Taiwan,” 220. Huang Junjie, Ruxue yu xiandai Taiwan, 290. Ibid., 289.

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45. Huang Chün-chieh and Wu Kuang-ming, “Taiwan and the Confucian Aspiration: Toward the Twenty-First Century,” in Harrell and Huang, Cultural Change, 81, 85. 46. Lin Anwu, Zhongguo zongjiao yu yiyi zhiliao (Chinese Religion and Logotherapy), Taipei: Mingwen shuju, 1996, 278. 47. Lin Anwu, Taiwan, Zhongguo maixiang shijieshi (Taiwan and China Advancing Toward World History), Taipei: Tangshan chubanshe, 1992, 90, 91. Lin relates that the two concepts of “magic-type causal logic” and “liberation from magic-type causal logic” are derived from Max Weber, presumably Weber’s concept of Entzauberungt (elimination of magic). According to Weber: “The great historic process in the development of religions, the elimination of magic from the world which had begun with the old Hebrew prophets and, in conjunction with Hellenistic scientific thought, had repudiated all magical means to salvation as superstition and sin, came here to its logical conclusion. The genuine Puritan even rejected all signs of religious ceremony at the grave and buried his nearest and dearest without song or ritual in order that no superstition, no trust in the effects of magical and sacramental forces on salvation, should creep in.” Max Weber, The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism, translated by Talcott Parsons. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1930, 105. 48. Ibid., 92–98. 49. Ibid., 103–106, 109–110. 50. Ibid., 100–102; See also, Lin Anwu, Zhongguo zongjiao yi yiyizhiliao, 266–269. 51. Lin Anwu, Zhongguo zongjiao yi yiyizhiliao, 278–279, 278. 52. Such as filial piety and respect for elder males. 53. Lin Anwu, Ruxue yu Zhongguo chuantong shehui zhi zhexue de xingcha (Confucianism and the Investigation of Philosophy in Traditional Chinese Society), Taipei: Youshi wenhua shiye gongsi, 1996, 130–145. 54. Ibid., 189, 190. 55. Lin Anwu, Ruxue geminglun—Hou xin ruxue de wenti xiangdu — (Essays on the Revolution of Confucianism: Problematical Aspects of Post-New Confucian Philosophy), Taipei: Xuesheng shuju, 1998, 231, 237, 238. 56. Ibid., 8–9. 57. Ibid., 105, 104. 58. Rationality here refers to Lin’s notion of “practical rationality” (shijian de lixing), a rationality formed in concrete historical and social matrices. Not being an abstract concept of rationality, it had no need to appeal to a magic-type causal logic. 59. Ibid., 76. 60. Although the master–slave concept is derived from Hegel’s Phenomenology of Spirit, Lin’s particular deployment is not intended to engage Hegel’s understanding of the concept. See his Taiwan, Zhongguo maixiang shijieshi, 80, n. 5. 61. Lin Anwu, Ruxue geminglun, 65–74, passim. 62. Ibid., 77.

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63. That is, the GMD was only able to manipulate the wenhua daotong at an abstract level, the purpose being to employ it for instrumentalist political ends. 64. Presumably this refers to Lin’s concept of a “practical rationality” (shijian de lixing ), mentioned above. It should be noted that even for Lin, this entire passage is particularly opaque. 65. This is the mother figure the GMD’s “motherland” China. 66. This sentence is difficult to understand. I take it to mean that the DPP is a surrogate or token expression of the mother figure that should properly be represented by the land of Taiwan. “Subjective consciousness” presumably refers to the type of “Taiwanese consciousness” championed by the DPP. For Lin, it is a false consciousness because it seeks to forge a Taiwanese identity independent of Chinese identity, thereby severing the “unified cultural system.” 67. Lin Anwu, Ruxue geminglun, 77–78, 79. 68. The ocean metaphor is used to imply the outward-looking nature of Taiwanese society, a society poised to engage with the rest of the world. On the ocean– mainland/hinterland distinction, see the preface by Yu Yingshi to Faxian Taiwan (Discovering Taiwan), edited and published by Tianxia chubanshe , Taipei: 1992, I–VII. 69. Lin Anwu, Ruxue geminglun, 80, 81. 70. Ibid., 194. 71. Lin Anwu, Lunyu—Zouxiang shenghuo shijie de ruxue (The Analects: Confucianism Advancing to the LifeWorld), Taipei: Wenhai xueshu sixiangyanjiu fazhan wenjiao jijinhui, 1995, 164. 72. Lin Anwu, Ruxue geminglun, 240. 73. John H. Berthrong, Transformations of the Confucian Way, Boulder: Westview Press, 1998, 205. 74. Tu Wei-ming, “South Korea and Taiwan,” in Tu Wei-ming (ed.), Confucian Traditions in East Asian Modernity, 189. 75. More than a decade ago, sociologist Eddie C.Y. Kuo gave a similar prognosis about the future of the Confucian movement in Singapore, after the failed “revitalization movement” was aborted in the late 1980s: “As a social movement, its future status and development depend eventually on the spontaneous support it can generate from concerned organizations, communities and the masses.” See his “Confucianism as Political Discourse in Singapore: The Case of An Incomplete Revitalization Movement,” Department of Sociology Working Papers, No. 113, National University of Singapore, 1992, 21. 76. This is not, of course, to claim that the lack of institutional support is the sole factor inhibiting survival outside the academy. Obviously there are many aspects of cultural politics and social change that bear on the situation. Nevertheless, if the core scriptures of Confucianism are a key to the identity of Confucianism—what Mark Elvin refers to as “scriptural Confucianism”— then institutional support of some kind would seem to be crucial. The reality is that any broad-based institutional support for the Confucian scriptures is an unlikely development. As Benjamin Elman observed in the closing pages of his study of civil examinations in late imperial China: “Classical texts in premodern China depended for their intellectual authority in practice on the orthodox

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78. 79. 80. 81. 82. 83.

84. 85.

86.

87.

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status of the Classics and the social, political, economic, and cultural enhancements that accrued when they were properly mastered. When that status changed, so was its authority, and the classical canon no longer provided a reliable haven for those seeking ancient knowledge, which the society and the dynasty, working in partnership, together had prioritized and rewarded.” See Benjamin A. Elman, A Cultural History of Civil Examinations in Late Imperial China, Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000, 620. More generally, see 569–625. Moreover, even if some form of intellectualized ruxue were able to receive institutional support to enable it to survive outside the academy, this would not necessarily resolve the problem of politicized ruxue that the New Confucians and Confucian revivalists alike find anathema. Prasenjit Duara, e.g. argues that Levenson was mistaken “in distinguishing culturalism as a radically different mode of identification from ethnic or national identification.” See Duara, Rescuing History from the Nation: Questioning Modern Narratives of Modern China, Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1995, 57. Huang Junjie, Ruxue yu xiandai Taiwan, preface, 7. Huang Chün-chieh and Wu Kuang-ming, “Taiwan and the Confucian Aspiration: Toward the Twenty-First Century,” 70. James Townsend, “Cultural Nationalism,” in Jonathan Unger (ed.), Chinese Nationalism, Armonk: M.E. Sharpe, 1996, 8–9. Huang Junjie, Taiwan yishi yu Taiwan wenhua, 192, cites this passage from one of Li’s editorials in the journal, Ehu. Chün-chieh Huang (Huang Junjie), “Confucianism in Postwar Taiwan,” 218–219. In Allen Chun words: “through his synthesis of a Nationalist Taiwan, Chiang [ Jiang Jieshi] constructed a homogenous nation-state in the classic sense, where cultural consciousness defined the basis for defining national identity.” See Allen Chun, “From Nationalism to Nationalizing: Cultural Imagination and State Formation in Postwar Taiwan,” in Jonathon Unger (ed.), Chinese Nationalism, 16. Allen Chun, “Democracy as Hegemony, Globalization as Indigenization, or the ‘Culture’ in Taiwanese National Politics,” 11. As such they would be loath to concur with Ambrose Y. C. King’s assessment that “Institutional Confucianism has become what may be called intellectual Confucianism, by which I mean Confucianism in Taiwan today is nothing more than a philosophical–cultural system, like Hegelism [sic], liberalism, and so on.” See King’s “State Confucianism and Its Transformation: The Restructuring of the State–Society Relation in Taiwan,” 242. This is not, of course, to claim that Taiwanese Confucian culturalism is indebted solely to this ideological platform; as I have stated earlier: “the conviction that cultural identity transcends political identity has been persistent among culturally conservative (and neo-traditionalist) Chinese intellectuals throughout the twentieth century.” Arif Dirlik, “The Past as Legacy and Project: Postcolonial Criticism in the Perspective of Indigenous Historicism” in The Postcolonial Aura: Third World Criticism in the Age of Global Captitalism, Boulder: Westview Press, 1997, 226.

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88. Paul R. Katz, “Identity Politics and the Study of Popular Religion,” in Paul R. Katz and Murray A. Rubinstein (eds.), Religion and the Formation of Taiwanese Identities, New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2003, 157, 158. 89. On the ru dimension of these sects (some of which even adopt the term ru in identifying themselves), see Philip Clart, “Confucius and the Mediums: Is there a ‘Popular Confucianism’?” T’oung Pao, 89 (2004): 1–38; and Christian Jochim, “Carrying Confucianism into the Modern World: The Taiwan Case,” in Clart and Jones, Religion in Modern China, 72–74. Clart’s study of the development of phoenix hall liturgy and doctrine (“Confucius and the Mediums,” 6) shows how “elements perceived as Confucian within popular religion” were appropriated “for the purpose of inventing a tradition for a new religious movement and carving out a distinctive niche in the highly diversified religious marketplace in Taiwan.” Clart dates the origins of the phoenix hall tradition in Taiwan to the mid-nineteenth century.

7 The Movement to Indigenize the Social Sciences in Taiwan: Origin and Predicaments Maukuei Chang

Toward the end of the 1920s, sociology began to be institutionalized as an academic discipline. The first national sociological association in China, the Chinese Sociology Association (Zhongguo shehui xuehui ; CSA), was formed in Shanghai in 1930. The development of sociology in China was interrupted first by the Japanese invasion in the late 1930s, and then by a prohibition in 1952, after the Chinese Communist Party (CCP) took control of mainland China. In 1951, some sociologists were exiled to Taiwan with the Guomin dang (Chinese Nationalist Party; GMD) government and started their own version of the CSA in Taipei. With the GMD’s permission, and with resources endowed by the United States, a revival in the teaching of sociology commenced in the late 1950s in Taiwan.1 By the 1980s, sociology courses in Taiwan had gradually overcome the constraints of political ideology and the suspicions of the authorities because of the softening of authoritarianism. Since the 1990s, sociology has been a widely taught and researched subject in Taiwan’s higher education.2 As with other social science disciplines, sociology originated from the Enlightenment, the problems associated with the collapse of feudalism and the transformation of society pushed by the growth of industrialization and capitalism in eighteenth- and nineteenth-century Europe. The formation of its assumptions and problematiques have been heavily influenced by the social and historical trajectories and

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concerns of the evolving worldviews of the European powers and, since the World War II, those of the United States.3 Sociology is conventionally defined as the scientific study of society. As such, one may wonder just what kind of society or which particular society this field of study is all about. Likewise, when preparing to teach sociology, one may wonder just what kinds of knowledge about (which) society(ies) should be taught to students.4 In 1999, a group of Taiwan sociologists published a textbook for undergraduate teaching: Shehuixue yu Taiwan shehui (Sociology and Taiwan Society).5 Drawing its primary sources from the many available sociological studies on Taiwan, the textbook was promoted as the first bentu / bentuhua (indigenous/indigenized) sociology textbook in Taiwan; and in the opening page of the preface the editors proclaimed their “indigenization.” It is most regretful that we have always relied on original textbooks from Europe and the U.S., or their translations, for our elementary sociology teaching materials. Students have learned cases and illustrations, and concepts and theories derived from Europe and the U.S. The end result is that students could not comprehend social realities of “bentu” society, nor could understand those concepts and theories that may seem not to be part of their life experience. . . . The purpose of this textbook is to enforce bentu education. It attempts to use many sociological research findings about Taiwan and, through their incorporation in this book, to lead students not only to understand general concepts and theories in sociology, but also starting from this bentu society, to understand bentu society and the growth and development of Taiwan’s sociology studies.

The publication of this first “indigenous” textbook in the field of sociology in Taiwan represented only a very limited aspect of the practical needs in teaching, not to mention the more abstract and theoretical dimensions that had been discussed regarding the need for indigenization. Moreover, this modest progress and limited achievement took place after at least 20 years of serious thinking and enthusiastic debate. The term “Sinicization” (Zhongguohua ) later qualified or substituted by the term “indigenization” (also “localization”; bentuhua ) is a prominent keyword standing out in the development of sociology in Taiwan.6 For instance, in 1982, the CSA organized a forum titled “Sociology in China: Problems and Prospects” to discuss issues concerning Sinicization.7 In 1991, to commemorate its anniversary, the

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CSA published a special issue on a similar topic. As a key title-word, it has appeared in almost every one of the presidential addressees of the CSA (in 1995, the Association’s name was changed to the Taiwan Sociology Association [TSA]), beginning with Ye Qizheng in 1987, Xu Zhengguang in 1991, Xiao Xinhuang in 1995, Qu Haiyuan in 1998, and Zhang Yinghua in 2001. If we focus on the more recent development of the indigenization of sociology in Taiwan over the past 25 years, we will find that it has really been part of a broader concern for the indigenization of the social sciences, in general, and social psychology and anthropology, in particular. Today, indigenization is commonly used in Taiwan to refer to the process of “Taiwanization” in the cultural and political arenas. Typically, the concept is opposed to “Chinese-ness” or Sincization, premised on the conviction that Chinese culture and national politics are alienating and have been imposed on the land and the people of Taiwan. In this chapter, however, the term indigenization is employed to refer to a process of engaging the putative generality contained explicitly or implicitly in the “theory” of social sciences derived from the West by asserting the importance of, or proposing the total replacement by, the sociocultural specifics or traditions of indigenous (nonWestern) contexts. Indigenization advocates the production and practice of local knowledge and the interrogation of social sciences from the West. It was for this reason that the indigenization process in Taiwan began under the name of “Zhongguohua” (Sinicization) because (in the social sciences) China was regarded as the “local” during the 1980s. Together with the change in imagination of the local from “China” to “Taiwan” that occurred in the 1990s, the terms Sinicization and indigenization have been constructed to qualify each other in order to adjust to changes in the larger environment. The rationale for, and approaches to, the indigenization of the social and behavioral sciences were formally presented at the 1981 conference on Shehui ji xingwei kexue yanjiu de Zhongguohua (The Sinicization of the Social and Behavioral Sciences).8 The conference proceedings, were published in 1982 under the same title.9 Today, this conference and the resulting volume are regularly identified as marking the beginning of the “Sinicization movement” (and later, the “indigenization movement”) among “Sinitic” (Huaren ) communities.10 The conference volume is still widely referred to (although not all readers have understood it properly) in different social science disciplines and in different polities. It is discussed not only by “Chinese” scholars, but also by

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“indigenous” scholars in various corners of the “non-Western” world, and even by Western scholars.11 The primary subject of this chapter is this “Sinicization–indigenization movement,” its origin, diffusion, and predicaments. As Arif Dirlik suggested, the confrontation between theory (that is perceived to be general and Westernized) and culture (that is seen as national, local, and historical) generated by indigenization discourse can never be transparent, and has different meanings at different times.12 I therefore document and explain what this “movement” is all about, what its various standpoints and strategies are, and how and why its meanings evolved over the time. As an exercise in “the sociology of knowledge,” I look into the underlying structures of the various meanings of the multifaceted concept of indigenization, situate them in the larger context of the legitimation and institutionalization of the social sciences, knowledge production, and examine their intricate relations to interest, power, and hierarchical social/political positions. Three disciplines are embraced by this “movement”: social psychology, anthropology, and sociology.13 Because of discipline-specific practices and heritages, the problems each of the three discipline faces are not always similar.14 In this chapter, I restrict my analysis to the movement and its relation to sociology, in particular. My analysis looks at Sinicization–indigenization not just from “within” the discipline of sociology, but also from the discursive and interested relations that the discipline has with the “outside” world. Toward the end, I also elaborate on the general significance of this movement and its implication for our understanding of the notion of indigenization in general.

The Sinicization Movement and Its Original Meaning The 1981 conference initiated a series of conferences on related topics.15 The ensuing discussions went beyond Taiwan, and involved the participation of social scientists belonging to Huaren communities in other parts of the world. The scale and impact of the movement has changed the landscape of the social sciences in Taiwan, and contributed to the development of the “indigenization of anthropology” and the “indigenization of social psychology” in Hong Kong and mainland China. More recently, this movement has also stirred reactions from Western scholars, mainly anthropologists, who have responded both sympathetically and critically.16

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In reflecting on these developments, Yang Guoshu related that he first came up with the idea of Sinicization in discussions with colleagues at the Chinese University of Hong Kong. Yang’s initiative was to propose that Taiwan and Hong Kong—the two “most Westernized” Chinese societies—consider “Sinicizing their social and behavioral science studies.”17 Having reviewed the background to, and aims of, the conference, Yang and Wen then reflected on the accomplishments of the conference in their preface to the conference volume. Some of their main points were: 1. They were deeply dissatisfied with their own (earlier) writings, and that of their contemporaries, for blindly borrowing Western concepts, theories, and methods, while ignoring the social and cultural biases imported with this knowledge from the West. They raised an earnest self-critique: “May we ask ourselves if we have ever made any unique contribution to theory or method? Has there been any unique contribution by our sociologists to international sociology, by anthropologists to international anthropology, and by psychologists to international psychology?”18 2. They passionately called for a goal of “self-recognition”: a return to the culture roots of “being Chinese” in order to be liberated from Western subordination. “Although the subjects of our studies concern Chinese society and Chinese people, the theories and methods we employ are almost exclusively from the West or are Western in style. . . . Today, neither our contributions to the social or behavioral sciences of the world nor our withdrawal from them, matter at all. . . . We are nothing but ‘vassals’ (fuyong ) of the West.”19 3. They also expressed a need for self-assertion and Chinese innovation, suggesting: “After so many years of absorbing (xishou ) and imitating (mofang ) we should be able to overcome this stage of learning. . . . [We should] establish social and behavioral science approaches that belong to the Chinese people themselves (Zhongguoren ziji de ) or Sinicize (Zhongguohua ) such approaches.”

The phrase, still frequently quoted today, “we are nothing but vassals of the West,” and the reflective, passionate calls for attention to the indigenous social/cultural heritage, and hence the call for self-assertion, struck a cord in many people over a considerable period of time. After the three-day conference they summarized the significance of what they had constructed, and laid out future tasks for Sinicization.20 1. To make social and behavioral studies better reflect Chinese history and the unique characteristics of Chinese culture and society.

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2. To emphasize the systematic study of problems that are significant and unique to Chinese societies in order to solve practical issues confronting Chinese societies and people. 3. To rehabilitate the unique and critical abilities of Chinese social and behavioral scientists so that they can regard themselves with self-respect and confidence. 4. To get rid of the “overly-Westernized” inclinations and “vassal” status of Chinese social and behavioral science researchers vis-à-vis the West (the United States in particular) and the world.

They also stipulated some very strong qualifications regarding their call for Sinicization, maintaining that they were not condoning conservatism, ethnocentrism, parochialism, or isolationism. Their attempt was not to construct so-called Chinese anthropology, sociology, psychology, and so on, since all of these disciplines should embrace both what is general to humanity and what is particular to the Chinese. They also warned against the misuse of Sinicization as a “fig leaf” (zhexiubu ) to cover people’s ignorance about Western theories and methods. It is fair to argue that they really held a dialectical view about the implementation of Sinicization: only those who knew the West well, and who possessed maturity and self-awareness could pursue this course. Moreover, only those who had first “entered” (jinru ) the Western stock of knowledge could “come out” (chulai ) to understand the importance of Sinicization. Consequently, those who refused to “enter” the West first were not regarded as being qualified to discuss the matter at all.21 Their experiences and self-reflections in the 1980s can be understood today as an expression of “postcolonial sentiments,” a term that was not yet known to many. In a sense, they are no different from many postcolonial intelectuals, both modernistic—in that they opposed returning to traditionalism—and nationalistic in their calls to resist the West and for self-assertion. For them, the West was perceived as the source of domination, but it could be appropriated for their own interests and self-empowerment. The key instigators of the Conference were Yang Guoshu (social psychologist; b. 1932), Wen Chongyi (sociologist; b. 1925), Li Yiyuan (anthropologist; b. 1931)—all from the Institute of Ethnology, Academia Sinica—as well as Qiao Jian (anthropologist; b. 1935) and Jin Yaoji (Ambrose King, sociologist; b. 1935), from the Chinese University in Hong Kong. They were all born in mainland China from where they were forced to flee in their teens to Taiwan in the 1950s, completing their college degrees in Taiwan before they went abroad

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for postgraduate education. They shared a moderate liberal stand on politics and advocated a moderate approach to reform. Their cooperation can be traced back to their earlier project on the “Chinese character,” carried out between 1970 and 1972. This collective project resulted in the publication of the book, Zhongguoren de xingge (The Chinese Character),22 a landmark work in the development of the social sciences in postwar Taiwan. On the one hand, they believed that they had grasped genuinely “indigenous” research problems: Why is the society/culture of the “Chinese” people different from society/culture in the West?; Why could China not develop democracy? Why did the Chinese “fail” to develop “capitalism?” Although such questions might have already been studied by Western social scientists, they regarded those studies as unsatisfactory. This early experience illustrated their first systematic engagement with both “the local” and “the general.” It provided them with selfconfidence in working collectively (and democratically) to acquire skills in applying Western concepts to the study of Chinese-ness, and also the opportunity for deeper reflection on their own work. Perhaps most importantly, the project also helped them to establish a leading position in the modern development and growth of the social sciences in Taiwan since the 1970s through exemplary research work that attracted a talented younger generation to follow them. They collectively succeeded in setting a new trend in scholarly practices and their ideas about studying Chinese-ness later qualified them to speak of the need for Sinicization.

A Critical Interpretation of the Sinicization Movement One of the most important attributes of the project on “the Chinese character” was its implicit criticism of traditionalism and the lack of a modern outlook among the Chinese people (in Taiwan). Relying on the standards of the West and the dichotomy between the “modern” and the “traditional,” the Chinese character was described in terms of an emphasis on filial piety, kinship networks, and Confucian ideas (leading to feudalistic social relations), collectivism (lacking the ability to think independently and being afraid to take an individual stand), particularism (which despises the value of due process and rule of law), and blind support for authority. And all of these “characteristics” were scrutinized against “objective” data collected from “standardized”

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modernity measurement scales. The underlying political message was that the Chinese people must pursue modernization and this could be achieved by objective (positivist) analysis and through interdisciplinary work. Recently, historian Fu Dawei has offered a critical interpretation of the political import of the Chinese character study, and the later Sinicization campaign. He suggests that what the Sinicization scholars really accomplished was the discursive formation of a hegemony aimed at “modernizing China” by blending positivism (in the name of being “scientific”) with a “watered-down” or moderate (vis-à-vis critical) liberalism (through a compromise between ultratraditionalism and ultra-Westernization).23 This happened at a critical political juncture in the authoritarian rule of Taiwan in the 1970s, when the GMD government was facing a crisis of legitimacy sparked by Taiwan’s loss of international recognition as a sovereign state, as well as by rising patriotism and demands for political reform.24 Challenges to the regime came from two groups. The first was the xiangtu wenxue movement (literally, “literature of the country and soil”), comprised mainly of dissident writers who inclined toward Chinese nationalistic and leftist thinking, and who were critical of the general subordination of society to the rich and the powerful, and other beneficiaries of capitalist expansion and Westernization. The second group was the dangwai democratic movement (dangwai minzhu yundong ), which included dissidents outside of the GMD who were mostly of Taiwanese backgrounds and who sought to promote a “Taiwan consciousness.” In 1979, the authorities cracked down on both groups after street violence that erupted on December 10, in Kaohsing (known as the “Kaohsiung Incident” [Gaoxiong shijian ] or the “Meilidao Incident” [Meilidao shijian ]). Both groups were crushed by the authorities immediately after the Kaohsiung Incident and many individuals were given harsh sentences and, in some instances, were tortured and terrorized. Fu Dawei maintains that this crackdown was the last demonstration of the GMD’s era of “rule with predatory power,” and that a new era of “harsh yet delicate rule” ensued, due to the pressing need to reconsolidate and to win pubic support for regime legitimization.25 It was during this transition from one stage of rule to another in the period immediately after the Kaohsiung Incident that the movement to indigenize the social sciences began. During the decade from 1970 to 1980, Yang Guoshu was a young intellectual and a Western-minded liberal who played a leading role in

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the reform-oriented magazine, Daxue zazhi (Intellectual Magazine), before becoming the chief editor of Zhongguo luntan (China Forum). The latter magazine was associated with the liberal camp event though it received support from the rich Lianhebao (United Daily) newspaper, whose owner was a privileged Chinese nationalist and a client of the GMD ruling party. Fu suggests that Yang, Wen, and Li—the three pioneers of the Chinese character study conducted in the early 1970s—had formed an “iron-triangle” through interpersonal and organizational networks and that their Sinicization push in 1981 was an orchestrated self-proclamation of their collective position in both the academic community and the political sphere. Fu’s main argument is that together with Jin Yaoji (the other important Sinicization movement supporter based in Hong Kong) they began the movement in 1980 in response to earlier criticisms from both the anti-Western ultraconservative nationalistic camp and from the leftist nationalistic camp.26 The Sinicization advocates also took cues from the softening of authoritarianism, namely, the new era of “delicate rule” after the Kaoshiung Incident. Their overall position is illustrated by their methodological stance—the conservative paradigms of positivism and indigenization on the academic front and moderate political intervention on the political and cultural fronts—as the self-proclaimed bearers of the liberal tradition associated with modern Chinese intellectuals such as Yin Haiguang and the May Fourth tradition that originated in 1919 in China. According to Fu, supporters of the movement were, in fact, maneuvering and juggling for a definite political and academic position at the same time, flying their flag in the midst of competitors of emerging academic and political groups, in a particular political era. I agree with Fu’s account that this larger political context was conducive to the ascendancy of the call for Sinicization but believe he may have overstated the strategic aspect of the movement.27 We need to take more seriously the persistent and genuine dissatisfaction that the movement’s supporters expressed about academic practices that relied on utilizing alienating Western theories and concepts, despite the fact that they were also “beneficiaries” of “Western social sciences.”28 It is no coincidence that their research problems were couched in terms of the “people,” the “culture,” and the “society,” a formulation that easily leads to a polarized “us/we/ours” versus “other/others.” Consequently, their interests in social psychology, sociology, and anthropology, and their emphasis on the value of interdisciplinary research, differentiate them from other social science professionals, such as their

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colleagues in experimental psychology and nomological economics.29 Moreover, they did not resemble the majority of Chinese historians in Taiwan who were more like “nationalistic historians” rather than social scientists. There was a genuine desire to innovate and contribute to their respective disciplines, as well as a fear of being made vassals of the West—America in particular.

Diversification and Differentiation: Problems with Positivism It is noted above that positivistic thinking was an integral part of the early Sinicization movement. During the second half of the twentieth century, however, different strands in the philosophy of science became influential, partly in response to the social and political unrest in Europe and the United States during the 1960s. Since the 1960s the positivistic conceptualization of the social sciences (and sociology) and the modernization thesis have often been targeted for criticism because of their conservative political orientation. Newly emerging social thinking included Western Marxism and Structuralism, the critical paradigm of the Frankfurt school, World Systems theory, Development theory, as well as interpretative paradigms from the humanities. So when positivism became the “in” thing in Taiwan during the 1970s and the 1980s, it was actually losing ground to competing paradigms in the West. In this respect, Taiwan was already lagging “behind” core developments in the discipline of sociology. The “methodological fixation” on positivistic thinking needs further explanation. First, the academics promoting Sinicization were scholars of mainland origin and in their late forties and early fifties when the movement started. They believed that they were following in the footsteps of the May Fourth Movement and the liberal tradition of certain Chinese intellectuals. In their 1970s battle against traditionalism and authoritarianism, “Mr. Science” (Sai xiansheng ) and “Mr. Democracy” (De xiansheng ) from the West were still two powerful allies. Also, when they looked to the West, they saw mostly American positivism and structure functionalism; they were not familiar with the European tradition, which was inclined toward interpretive, critical philosophy or Marxist thinking. For all these reasons, if the social sciences were to have a stronger impact on the status quo and to have their legitimacy as “nomological sciences” enhanced, positivistic empiricism seemed to be the default choice. At the same time, even the

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repressive GMD government felt the need to resort to being scientific to legitimize its authority to lead social and economic development projects, and to control society more effectively. Under these circumstances, the noncritical or putatively “objective” standing of “science” was seen to be the best way to advance the social sciences. The academics promoting Sinicization even managed to get the authorities to accept their advice on social and culture issues for policy change, even if this raised the ire of the ultraconservatives. The more senior and leading figures of the Sinicization movement, Yang and Wen, were strong supporters of positivistic research, and lobbied the government to invest in longitudinal studies and quality data collection through survey sampling and the sophisticated use of statistical methods. Two of Yang’s students and later close associates, Qu Haiyuan and Huang Guangguo , contributed essays to the 1982 Sincization conference volume based on the uses of survey and statistical analysis with illustrations of how “scientific techniques” could be applied to the study of China.30 The implicit goal of Sinicization was to assist in rebuilding the motherland and to pursue modernization, a goal that all the key Sinicization scholars regarded as their intellectual responsibility. They conscientiously researched issues relating to social change brought about by industrialization, and the continued national suffering caused by previous (Western and Japanese) powers. The movement’s leaders garnered personal reputations for “leadership” and “authority” through their studies on issues that affected China (Taiwan), such as the impact of industrialization and modernization, pluralization, middle-class politics, contemporary social problems, social movements, and mitigtion measures for rapid social change. Their moderate political stance and their promotion of positivism eventually resulted in even higher levels of support from the authorities and academic administration for “interdisciplinary (and empirical) studies” of social change and social problems. In this sense, Fu Dawei’s arguments concerning the coming of age of the positivistic social sciences in the 1980s and the ascendancy of the discourse on “objectivity” and science to a position of “hegemony”—which has both aided and been aided by the ambitions of state-led modernization—are well taken. The movement contributed directly to the enhancement of the interests of the social sciences, in general, and to sociology, anthropology, and Yang’s (own style of) social psychology, in particular, in Taiwan. Not all of the sociologists, however, agreed with the dominance of empirical sociology. Both the rationale and the strategy for

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Sinicization and indigenization promoted by Yang, Wen, and others, were regularly questioned, especially by more humanistic-oriented sociologists such as Ye Qizheng (b. 1943), Gao Chengshu (b. 1948), and Xiao Xinhuang (b. 1949). These younger scholars were more familiar with the new trends in Euro-American sociology and were forthright in attacking the positivistic sociology of the Sinicization movement. Gao, for example, who studied with Habermas for a short time, was one of the few scholars who employed both Weberian and critical sociology in Taiwan during the 1980s and 1990s. He was skeptical about empiricism and its reproduction in Taiwan, especially in the Sinicization movement. He argued that the assumption of generalizability through empirical analysis was actually “Western sociology biased,” and it should be the very first and primary problem to be tackled in the Sinicization process. Ye was even more critical of the “superficial” and “blind-borrowing” of the natural science analogy, the misuse of sociology in policy making, and the false belief in the “scientifically objective nature” of sociology. He argued that these “unbearable” practices had reduced sociology to a “non-reflective,” instrumentalist discipline, a problem that is very much rooted in Western instrumentalism and is foreign to Chinese culture. Xiao Xinhuang maintained that the peripheral status of Chinese sociologists paralleled the peripheral status of China (meaning Taiwan) in the “World System.” He looked at the problem from a World Systems’ framework in conjunction with “dependent development” arguments borrowed from the newly emerging branch of the discipline, sociology of development. He proposed that China (meaning Taiwan) should tackle this issue in cooperation with other “third world countries” to overcome its peripheral status.31 Despite these differences regarding methodological assumptions, they shared the more general belief in pursuing knowledge about the “uniqueness” of “our” culture and society, about the development process of different civilizations, and about the contrast between the “West,” the “foreign,” out “there,” and the “Chinese” or “ourselves” “here” in this particular society. Perhaps more importantly, in retrospect, they also shared a common interest: to expand the influence of sociology and to legitimize its position in the eyes of skeptical academic administrators, the authorities, and the general public, at a time of social change resulting from rapid industrialization, political crisis, and the rising political demands coming from the emerging

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interests of more educated general public, such as the newly rising middle class.

Encountering the Mainland Chinese: Further Complications In the movement’s initial phase, Yang did not intend to include Chinese scholars from mainland China to join his call for “Western-dependent” Chinese scholars to become self-critical. He did not believe that the “Communist Chinese” were “qualified” to speak about Sinicization because they had insufficient experience of the “West” as yet.32 However this view was challenged when Chinese scholars from the mainland joined the second Sinicization Conference held in Hong Kong in 1983. The conference also marked the first encounter in decades between “Taiwan Chinese” and “mainland Chinese” scholars. As scheduled, Qiao Jian from the Chinese University of Hong Kong was conference organizer. Qiao made two significant modifications to the agenda. First, he warmly invited scholars from the mainland to attend, and second, he dropped the name Sinicization due to its lack of appeal in Hong Kong,33 changing the conference title to “Modernization and Chinese Culture.” As China began to revive the discipline of sociology in 1979, former sociologists were given more freedom in meeting with the outside world. Some organizations and sociology departments were selected for rehabilitation in the 1980s after being banned and persecuted in the 1950s. Against this background, the Sinicization movement that originated in Taiwan and Hong Kong met with its professional counterparts from mainland China for the first time in decades. Among the mainland participants was Fei Xiaotong , the wellknown student of Malinowski and author of the seminal works Peasant Life in China and From the Soil.34 At the time, Fei was also leading the rehabilitation of sociology research in China. In commenting on the significance of the participation of both mainland and Taiwan sociologists, Qiao explained in his opening address that the first conference held in Taipei (1981) attracted wide attention among Chinese (i.e. mainland) social scientists. He said: “Shanghai’s Fudan University abstracted some of the articles from the first conference and published them in Shehuixue congkan (Bulletin of Sociology). Mr. Fei Xiaotong was very interested in the conference, and wished to expand its participation. . . . Hong Kong is a place that people can come to more easily, and therefore is an ideal place to hold this conference.”35

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Even though Qiao suggested that the purpose of the conference was to carry on previous research on issues of Sinicization, Yang Guoshu’s particular dialectical views about “Westernization” being the prerequisite of Sinicization as expressed in the first conference were no longer prominent because of the recent engagement with mainland Chinese scholars. As the conference proceedings show, the mainland scholars were mainly concerned with very practical issues such as aging, social welfare, child rearing practices, kinship change, economic improvement, socialism, and modernization, concerns that Ye Qizheng described as “unbearably shallow.” These studies were generally based on empirical surveys of local communities, made regular reference to the Communist Party’s leadership and its official lines, and proposed suggestions for public policy. Noticeably absent was reference to Western sources and Chinese classics in these papers. In contrast, the Taiwan Chinese scholars were still struggling with the rigid dichotomy of the “West” and the “Chinese,” as they tried to deepen their criticism of Western sociology and psychology, and offer new perspectives from which to pursue Sinicization to construct a more national–cultural specific sociology and psychology. They also expressed the need to promote their professional interests, including calling for government investment in the expansion of sociology institutions and the number of sociologists, in the belief that these measures would benefit the general public and society at large. Moreover, only the presenters from Taiwan and Hong Kong wrote anything about the “grand tradition” or specific characteristics of Chinese culture and society, such as topics on Confucianism and “the Chinese personality.” The mainland scholars, however, demonstrated little to no interest in these matters, being preoccupied with social realities and problems under communism. Ironically, Chinese intellectuals under communist rule in the mainland had advocated the Sinicization of Marxism and the rejection of the West for decades when the entire nation was striving to construct “the Chinese Socialist Road.”36 Shortly before China’s policy change in pursuit of the “Four Modernizations,” the West was officially portrayed as imperialist and dominating, and Western sociology was regarded as of little value in being able to contribute to the welfare of China’s peasant masses and working class. Therefore the opposition between China and the West was a matter of unquestionable truth and reality and so required no scientific research during the entire Cold War era. The call for Sinicization, therefore, was not an academic issue but simply a matter of practicing social knowledge in the real

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world under the rule of the Chinese Communist Party. On the contrary, in Taiwan and Hong Kong, Sinicization served as a vehicle for open self-criticism, soul-searching, or for the long-term development of professional interest of sociology. Having been isolated from Western sociology for more than 30 years, the perspective of the mainland Chinese scholars in the 1980s was that they really needed to “catch up,” and to become more “Westernized” in their sociological outlook (under the watchful guidance of the Communist Party, Marxism, Leninism, and Mao Zedong thought). For them, the term Sinicization did not mean finding the “roots” of Chinese culture or society so as to correct an “overly-Westernized” or “vassal-like” tendency, but to continue to make sociology, now available from the West, serve the official line and Marxist historical materialism. Therefore, we can argue that Chinese participation in the second Sinicization movement may have had two purposes: to gain the confidence and support of Chinese authorities by conforming with the official policy on the use of sociology, and to provide a conduit to the West through more Westernized Chinese scholars as the middleman. The unintended result of this conference was a “dilution” of the original focus on the problems of “over-Westernization” raised by Taiwan scholars, as mainland scholars pursued the goal of fostering the development of “Western” sociology in China. The 1983 Hong Kong conference thus brought to the surface the issue of “what China” and “whose China”: the China the existed historically and culturally, or the China that exists now, under Communism. In the previous Sinicization campaign in Taiwan, the meaning of Chinese culture, society, nation, or Chinese-ness was often glossed over, as attention was focused on contrasts with the West, in such formulations as clannishness versus individualism, Confucianism versus Christianity, or humanism versus instrumentalist rationality. The analysis of real politics, such as government, institutions, economic structures, and hence, communism, were not matters of academic concern. Chinese-ness was treated as a very de-contextualized and highly abstract idea. It was defined or perceived as if it were a lump sum with commonly recognized essential characteristics; and even though these characteristics might require further clarification there was no doubt about its epistemological and essentialized existence. This view would be challenged by mainland scholars. In 1983, soon after the Hong Kong Conference, Taiwan scholars led by Li Yiyuan, Yang Guoshu, and Wen Chongyi decided to promote their own edited volume of the conference papers, Xiandaihua yu Zhongguohua lunji . (Essays on Modernization

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and Sinicization.)37 They selected all of the eight papers written by Taiwanese scholars and the three papers written by Hong Kong scholars, deeming them all to address the topics of modernization and Sinicization. In this edited volume, not only did the editors reintroduce the term Sinicization that was excised at the Hong Kong conference, but they also excluded the ten papers by mainland scholars.38 In the preface, the three editors continued to uphold their interpretation of the original ideals of the movement, such as the goals set at the first conference and how they should be carried out. This 1984 attempt to continue to separate the development of the social sciences in Taiwan (and Hong Kong) from their development in mainland China was obvious even if it was nowhere overtly stated. In what follows, I argue that this separation could not be sustained for long if interest from the outside world in the development of sociology in mainland China continued to grow, and if the Communist government began to welcome sociologists of Chinese background from overseas to the mainland to teach and to do research. As such, the “center” of the movement and the priorities would have to be modified.39

The Differing Perspectives of Chinese-American Sociologists This simplistic notion that Chinese-ness is a quality shared by all Chinese people, regardless of conflicting political views and systems, was also challenged by Chinese-American sociologists, although perhaps not intentionally. In 1984, at Tempe, Arizona, five overseas ChineseAmerican sociologists40 met to exchange views on Sinicization/ indigenization. The meeting was organized by Cai Yongmei ,a sociologist of Taiwanese background.41 Two years later the participants published Shehuixue Zhongguohua (The Sinicization of Sociology)42 with additional papers contributed through post-conference solicitation. Xiao Xinhuang—a key participant in this conference and active participant in the previous two Sinicization conferences—described this gathering and the publication of the book as representing “the third wave” of the Sinicization movement.43 The contributors to the volume were a select group of Chinese academics who had spent at least about 15 years of their adult life in the United States. Although some of them had recently returned to China or Taiwan (as “visiting” sociologists) most of them had spent a great amount of their time either teaching sociology to American

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students (mostly in American state universities), or working for the U.S. government as researchers or administrators. One may argue that their professional interests and primary concerns in their day-to-day life would have been different from their counterparts in Taiwan, Hong Kong, and China. After all, their working environment was in American academic and government institutions. As such they were not in the position—nor was it in their career interests—to critique America’s dominant position in the world of sociology. Being recipients of a reward system prescribed by the sociology profession in the United States there was little incentive for them to oppose American domination, or to introduce their daily work to a Chinese readership. To be successful as “go-between” sociologists, their interests in China would have to coincide with the interests of the sociology profession of the United States, just as their interests in the sociology profession in the United States would have to be recognized and respected by their Chinese counterparts.44 Having explained this background enables us to understand better the attitudes of the Chinese-American sociologists toward Sincization. For instance, in his paper, Nan Lin, one of the leading Chinese-American sociologists in North America, described himself as a sympathetic “outsider” (juwairen ) to the Sinicization movement, and that this enabled him to analyze the movement more “objectively” by offering constructive “advice” and “reminders.”45 He proposed asking appropriate and specific questions about the social systems in both traditional and communist China, and to collect more data and produce more and better-trained sociologists. Because he clearly opposed closed-door or ethnocentric tendencies that might be advanced under the rubric of “Chinese sociology,” he advocated increased contact between Chinese scholars and American-Chinese scholars.46 It was clear that Lin did not think there was anything seriously “wrong” with the discipline of sociology or the main standards of American sociology. If sociology had been overlooking the Chinese people and Chinese society that was because Chinese sociologists had contributed little to the profession. The situation could be remedied through the organized participation of more and better trained Chinese sociologists able to ask the relevant questions. In short, for Lin, Chinese sociological studies could enrich sociology and make sociological theory “more generalizable.” Toward the end of his paper, Lin placed universal professionalism above nationalism, and suggested that the ultimate goal for Sinicization should be to enrich “world” sociology, or “global” sociology rather than seek to provide an alternative to it.47

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This particular view prompted the conference organizer Cai Yongmei to comment that although Chinese Americans in the United States might find Lin’s position on global sociology attractive, scholars from the “motherland” might not necessarily find the proposition so appealing.48 In fact we find at least three major points of difference between Lin as a Chinese-American sociologist and other “native” Sinicization advocates: (1) Lin did not express any views regarding the “subordination” of Chinese sociologists; (2) he did not come forward to support the need for self-assertion or for deep self-reflection other than what was necessary to enhance sociology’s professional interests; and (3) he drew a distinction between the goal to build sociology in China (and Taiwan) and the nationalistic goal to modernize China. On the other hand, he and other Sinicization advocates shared the following views: there was a need to have more and better-trained sociologists, and there was a need to undertake more empirical studies with relevant questions asked in response to particular Chinese social/ cultural settings. Finally, toward the end of book, there is a dialogue between Li Zhefu49 and Xiao Xinhuang concerning the paths by which sociology had developed in mainland China and Taiwan. In describing mainland Chinese sociologists, Xiao related the negative impressions he had formed of them during his first and very recent meeting with them at the Hong Kong Conference. He described the mainland sociologists as “chauvinistic” and completely ignorant about Taiwan’s history, just like “those mainlanders who came to rule Taiwan in the 1950s.”50 After interrupting Xiao on the grounds that he was being too political, Li Zhefu went on to offer an apologetic account of the unfortunate political upheavals in China over the previous 30 years, stressing the need for political correctness and policy practicality as the prerequisites for sociology’s development in China. He even suggested that only in Taiwan (and Hong Kong) might Sinicization be an issue worth pursuing. In mainland China the issue was not about Sinicization, but about the political demands of a socialist government: how to conduct sociology in line with the government’s expectations and official ideology while remaining selectively open to the West. Xiao responded by remarking on the “advanced” state of development of sociology in Taiwan relative to China, suggesting that sociologists from Taiwan were younger, more westernized, pluralistic in outlook, critical minded, and not always obligated to follow the official ideological line.51 In his own chapter in the volume, Xiao outlined the historical development and lineage of Chinese sociology in Taiwan,

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contrasting it with the general concern of Chinese-American sociologists to rebuild the discipline of sociology in mainland China. By now it should be evident that with the “emerging market” of sociology in mainland China and the interest shown by Western scholars, overseas Chinese scholars (as “go-between” sociologists liaising between the core and the periphery), and Hong Kong Chinese scholars, the exclusion of the “majority” of “real” Chinese—those from the Motherland—as the premise of Taiwan’s sinicization movement, became impossible to uphold.

The Self-Assertion of Taiwanese Consciousness By the mid-1980s it became clear that the Sinicization movement, which originated in Taiwan, could not be applied to mainland China and that Taiwan could not represent China even culturally. This realization was compounded by the surging interest in mainland China expressed by Chinese-American and Hong Kong Chinese sociologists, and by the rising tide of Taiwanese consciousness and Taiwanese cultural and political nationalism. National identity issues also gradually became a focal point in domestic politics in Taiwan.52 The immediate reasons for escalating identity conflicts had to do with the power imbalance between mainlanders (waishengren) and Taiwanese (benshengren), the lack of representative government, and the regime’s brutality and lack of justice. Taiwanese dissidents and their supporters confronted the ruling authoritarian regime, attempting to discredit the legitimacy of GMD rule by characterizing it as an “outsider and colonial regime” that must be toppled. From the mid-1970s, the opposition movement started active political mobilization during elections and political campaigns. By 1984, the momentum of the movement had rebounded to a point surpassing that which it had experienced prior to its suppression in 1979. Like all political movements, the expansion of the opposition required effective mobilization of public consciousness. Successful political transformation depended on a growing number of supporters who shared similar views on such matters as Taiwanese historical consciousness, the responsibility that the GMD “outsider regime” had for causing contemporary social and political discontent, and the moral value of working to build a future ideal country for the Taiwanese people. In short, the indigenization of real politics also required the indigenization of the general public’s cultural outlook. Here we find a broader

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indigenization of many areas in the field of culture, including language, literature, arts, movies, popular songs, history, sociology, and anthropology in particular. If sociology is as sociologists define it—the scientific study of society—then its subject of study could not avoid this larger environment in the process of restructuration, or the making of a “homology” in many fields at the same time (following Pierre Bourdieu). Therefore, broader issues relating to nationalistic conflict began to surface in internal power struggles within the field of sociology. The following sorts of questions became the subjects of debate: which society, what kind of society, and, most of all, whose society are you or (we) sociologists studying? Are we Chinese or are we Taiwanese? Should our sociological studies represent Taiwan or China? What does the Sinicization movement in Taiwan mean? Should it be a Taiwanization movement instead?

Replacing Sinicization with Taiwanization? In this section, we examine the changes that took place in the 1990s, when the term bentuhua became more popular and was used to qualify the original meaning(s) of Sinicization as the movement inclined more toward Taiwanization. In 1990, the Chinese Sociology Association (CSA) commemorated its sixtieth anniversary in Taiwan. According to traditional chronological schemes, every 60 years constitutes a completion of one cycle (jiazi ), an auspicious event that calls for a special occasion. But the celebration of the sixtieth anniversary of the CSA in 1990 was a subdued, almost unnoticed, affair. A special issue of this anniversary was eventually published by the Chinese Journal of Sociology (no. 15, December 1991). Two key articles on the evaluation and the future of the Sinicization/indigenization movement stood out in this issue due to their conflicting emphases. One of the articles was written by Wen Chongyi,53 a longtime advocate of Sinicization. Wen’s article addressed the issue of the contradictory tendency inherited in the history of, and the making of, sociology in countries such as Germany, France, Britain, the United States of America, Japan, India, the Soviet Union, and, of course, noncommunist China during the 1930s to the 1940s. The contradictions were illustrated in terms of pairs of oppositions: “generality and particularity,” “universal theoretical models and national or indigenous research,” “global and national,” “empirical and interpretative/critical,” and so on. He tried to present the Sinicization movement as one instance of many national developments of sociology throughout the world.

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The article represented a more sophisticated account of Sinicization than when the idea was first proposed a decade earlier. The basic theme of the movement, however, changed very little in the interim: Chinese social scientists should be self-conscious, self-critical, and independent (i.e., not subordinated to the West) so as to contribute creatively to the world’s social science disciplines with proper acknowledgement being afforded national and cultural particularities. He encouraged scholars to do more cross-cultural and cross-national comparative studies, and continued to caution against potential ultra-traditional, ethnocentric, and anti-global tendencies when supporting the long-term objective of a global discipline. He did, however, make the construction of a national–typical sociology his first priority. He submitted: “according to our current sociological knowledge, as long as it is remains impossible to have one unified structure for the international community, it will be impossible to have one school of sociological theory that is able to account effectively for the global. So far, we have only been able to have American sociology, German sociology, French sociology, or Chinese sociology, but no real internationalized sociology. Therefore, until a global village can be realized, until a successful global social structure has been created, the path of Sinicizing sociology remains the only path; there should be no room for hesitation and waiting.”54 Wen, like earlier participants in the movement, still supported the idea of Chinese sociologists’ developing an appropriate sociological knowledge of Chinese societies that had the potential to contribute to a general global sociology. As early as 1983 he was well aware of the political sensitivity associated with the term “Zhongguohua ” (Sinicization),55 but he never conscientiously distinguished Taiwan from China, and consistently suggested that sociology in Taiwan had its origins in the development of sociology in China in the 1930s, despite the fact that Taiwan was actually ruled by Japan from 1895 until 1945. He emphasized that the call for Sinicization in the 1930s by Chinese sociologists on mainland China paralleled the call for Sinicization in 1970s Taiwan. In a footnote of clarification, he maintained: “internationalization and globalization are synonyms, and so are indigenization (bentuhua ), localization (diquhua ), and nationalization (guojiahua ).” By thus qualifying the complex relation between Sinicization and Taiwanization, he thought he could avoid the thorny issues of political movements and identity politics.56 The next article was written by Xu Zhengguang (b. 1943).57 In comparison to Wen, Xu belongs to a younger generation of sociologists and

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is of Taiwanese–Hakka origin. The article was also his presidential address written to mark the completion of his term as elected president of the CSA between 1988 and 1990. Through commemorating and reexamining Chen Shaoxin’s (1906–1966) last work, especially his hopes for the future of sociology in Taiwan,58 Xu intended to outline a new direction for the sociological study of Taiwan, with an emphasis on the unique “subjectivity of Taiwanese culture and society” (Taiwan wenhua yu shehui de zhutixing ).59 Chen Shaoxing was a native Taiwanese who studied sociology at Tohoku University in Japan during the 1940s. He was perhaps the only Taiwanese sociologist, by origin, of his generation during the Japanese rule of Taiwan. In this particular article, published in his last years, Chen believed that Taiwan was not only rich in cultural diversity but also more modernized than the mainland; therefore, the study of Taiwan could contribute significantly to the study of China. Chen concluded, “Taiwan is a laboratory for the study of Chinese culture and society,” but not a surrogate or a substitute for the study of China. According to Xu’s “reasonable speculation” (Xu’s own words)60 Chen was a Taiwanese native scholar oppressed in his time because of his education and ethnic background. In writing this article, Chen suppressed his anger in the hope of correcting the biases of his mainlander counterparts who looked down on Taiwan and the value of Taiwan Studies.61 Xu praised Chen as a pioneer who had foreseen, although very implicitly, the value of Taiwan studies with a “distinctive Taiwanese identity.” Xu was highly critical of attempts in the past to use Taiwan as a surrogate or substitute for China studies, which in doing so failed to look at the uniqueness and subjectivities of Taiwan. Xu also made the bold suggestion that the Sinicization movement in the 1980s was an extension of Chen’s “laboratory paradigm”62 since it was compatible with Chen’s paradigm and put Chen’s suggestion into practice in many ways. Xu maintained that Chen’s “paradigm” and the movement both agreed that Taiwanese society and culture are a regional part of greater Chinese society and culture, hence the Sinicization movement in Taiwan should carry out studies on China as the general and Taiwan as the local. As a result, the Sinicization process and the Taiwanization (Taiwanhua ) process could develop hand-in-hand.63 In this very ironic manner, Xu was really trying to connect a lesser-known Japanese-educated Taiwanese scholar—alienated and oppressed by Chinese tradition—with the later development of the Sinicization movement by many mainland scholars.64

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Xu then proceeded to criticize the problems associated with Sinicization. He started by raising the epistemological problem of “What is this so-called China?” He put the word “Zhongguo” in brackets,65 and suggested that what was characteristically thought to be Zhongguo was highly problematic, but was never thought of as such by the Sinicization scholars. He believed that Sinicization’s “blind spots” lay in its tendency to look at China without reference to changes and differences in time, places, and situation; and failure to take note of sociological differences in class and institutional structures. He also suggested that despite the claims of Sinicization scholars to be Westernized, in fact, they lacked understanding of the philosophical premises underlying the social sciences as practiced in the West. As such, their works were “superficial” and their criticisms of Western measurements, wording, or other trivial matters focused on the merely “technical.” They had not launched any serious challenge to Western epistemological issues at all. Finally, he charged that although Taiwan Studies was incorporated in the Sinicization movement, many of these studies of Taiwan were “de-contextualized,” giving the impression that Taiwan had no identity or any meaningful existence in itself. From reading the series of studies conducted by Yang Guoshu, one often finds that extremely complicated and dynamic people and events in Taiwan are distorted to fit the shape of a static measurement model. In this kind of analysis, one cannot see anything about such real life (huo sheng sheng ) matters as humiliation, the distortion of people’s personality structures when impacted by real historical influences, the regime, or the international environment, as well as [the effects of] power and strategic domination in interpersonal relations. This kind of study says nothing regarding the strenuous effort and autonomous struggles of ordinary people under the dominant cultural and social system. Advocates of the Sinicization movement refuse to acknowledge that they are conducting realistic “Taiwan Studies” in name and in essence. Floating in the air of traditional China to find their research problems, they face incompatibility in their epistemology. Not only are they undermining the ideal objectives of the Sinicization movement, but they are also forcing the movement to succumb to academic formalism and vanity since the essential problems of Taiwan are overlooked.66

Xu revealed his thoughts on the future development of sociology in Taiwan by proposing that the field move beyond Chen Shaoxin’s paradigm and the Sinicization movement. That is, he proposed

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moving away from critiquing Western cultural imperialism in order to construct a Chinese model of the social sciences, to critiquing the “internal conditions” in Taiwan so that Taiwan would become a valuable research subject in its own right.67 Although Xu did not specify what these internal conditions in Taiwan were, elsewhere in the article he commented on the effects of the GMD’s cultural hegemony on the Taiwanese population,68 and the “naïve” views held by many Sinicization advocates regarding a traditional and idealized China. The Taiwanization trend continued in many fields in Taiwan in the 1990s. Politics, education, and culture all became increasingly ethnicized and nationalized.69 In December 1995, at its annual convention, members of the CSA eventually discussed the issue of changing its title from the Chinese Sociological Association to the Taiwan Sociological Association. The proposal was passed swiftly with almost no objection. Despite this trend, the so-called Taiwanization movement has not replaced the Sinicization movement in the social sciences. Today people prefer the term indigenization to either Taiwanization or Sinicization. This is largely because the “Taiwan versus China” opposition and its political connotations are viewed as politically confrontational, and a threat to the free flow of ideas and scholarly exchange across political boundaries. Moreover, although locally the historical and cultural ties between Taiwan and China might be disregarded for the purposes of self-assertion of Taiwanese consciousness, this goal would be more difficult to achieve in the transnational and global communities of the social sciences in which many non-Chinese, non-Taiwanese, and critical-minded scholars of diverse national backgrounds, participate in the same field of knowledge production. In reality, there are many Western institutions for China Studies in many disciplines which follow their own geopolitical interests and institutional logic, and which still hold on to the idea that places Taiwan Studies as a special part of, or a minor variation of, China Studies.70 The influences of overseas institutions has been much greater in the 1990s than in the 1970s because of increasing scholarly exchange across boundaries, partially due to the invention of new communication technologies and the increasing number of multilingual and transnational scholars.

Three Indigenization Models Beginning from the mid-1990s, the dominant cultural and political discourse in Taiwan has moved toward embracing globalization

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and strengthening competitiveness in the global “market.” The early Sinicization movement has already lost its appeal and dissipated into many strands. As in other countries and regions, however, increasing globalization has not made indigenization or localization disappear; rather, indigenization/localization has become “transformed,” either by including the global into the local context (i.e., localizing the global), or simply by making the local “globalized” (i.e., globalizing the local). In the following paragraphs, I provide three typical “models” of the indigenization movement that have emerged in Taiwan. The first model can be represented as the “transnational indigenization model.” This model can be regarded as a direct continuation of the Sinicization movement led by Yang Guoshu, Li Yiyuan, Qiao Jian, and some of their students, and is now joined by counterparts in mainland China. Although Sinicization has gradually lost favor in Taiwan during the 1990s as a consequence of a changing nationalistic landscape, during the same period it has found support among anthropologists and psychologists in the mainland. It is principally mainland scholars who now use the terms indigenization and Sinicization interchangeably.71 In Taiwan, Yang Guoshu himself now uses the term indigenization more often than Sinicization, and founded the journal titled Bentu xinlixue yanjiu (Indigenous Psychology Journal) in 1993.72 Yang also agreed to substitute use of the term Zhongguoren with the less politicized term Huaren , although he was reluctant to do so at first.73 Despite these changes, Yang’s strategy to achieve indigenization (formerly Sinicization) has changed little, except that he has now linked indigenization to a broader and more general phenomenon evident in many non-Western countries or cultures. He is less committed to building an essentialized Chinese (nation-bounded) psychology—a notion that has come under heavy criticism—preferring to develop a transnational psychology within Huaren communities. He has also abandoned his original goal of developing an “alternative” paradigm to Western psychology (premised on the belief that a deep chasm separates China and the “West”) proposing instead the goal of achieving “local correlation” (bentu qihexing ). This means that the fundamental issue of indigenization is to determine “whether correspondence (xiangyingxing ), compatibility (peihexing ), and reconciliation (tiaohexing ) can be achieved between research activities and findings, and the behavior of local subjects.”74 Yang added strong qualifications to the dichotomy of “the local verses the West” (or the national versus the global) because he began to regard “Western psychology” not as a nomological

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science but just another kind of “indigenous psychology” that may have attained the goal of “local correlation” in the localized context of Western societies. Therefore, he recently clarified that it is not Western psychology he opposes, but the “Westernization of psychological studies in non-Western societies,” or the blind application of Western psychology to non-Western societies.75 Moreover, in advocating the goal of local correlation he maintains that although indigenous scholars may have certain advantages when it comes to determining local relevance, this would not always be the case because some local researchers could still be functioning as vassals of the West. On the other hand, a nonlocal or a foreign scholar can obtain the goal of local correlation as long as local particularity and context are given proper consideration. He is therefore moving further away from his previous advocacy of “a native psychology proposed by native researchers acquiring ‘emic’ views from within.” He is now more open to crosscultural or comparative studies involving researchers of all backgrounds, Western and non-Western, although from time to time his main priority has not changed—that is, native scholars should undertake native study from an emic point of view, first and primarily, since nonnative scholars will not have the same interests as native scholars.76 It is clear that Yang has moved beyond the confinement of the nationstate’s borders, by making indigenization an issue relevant to psychologists from other Asian countries, even though his primary influence has always been in Huaren communities. His flexibility makes him less prone to cultural nationalism and more attuned to regionalization. By doing so he has been able to bring his indigenous psychology to a wider audience as part of the predominant discourse of globalization that surged in the 1990s. At the same time, Li Yiyuan and Qiao Jian have maintained their indigenization movement through a series of “Modernization and Chinese Culture” conferences rotated among Taiwan, Hong Kong, and the mainland, and involving interdisciplinary participation.77 Since the changes of 1979, when China began to revive the discipline of sociology, scholars from the mainland have gradually become more involved with the themes of indigenization along with their deepening “Westernization” and the growing need for professional representation in the domestic environment.78 Analysis of these developments is, however, beyond the scope of this chapter. The second model can be described as the “theoretical-reasoning model.” This model has its origin in the humanistic critique of empirical sociology in the 1980s, of which Ye Qizheng is a representative.

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According to Ye, the fundamental problem with Western sociology is that it is no different from the problem of Western civilization: the expansion and penetration of instrumentalist rationality into every aspect of social life and the prevalence of utilitarian individualism. Since the social sciences in the West have their roots in their mother culture, empirical research is necessarily influenced by this relationship, and so the resulting “sociological knowledge” cannot be applied to other cultures with the same validity. Ye proposes that the indigenization movement should abandon positivism and empirical research in favor of alternative interpretative and critical approaches. What Ye proposes for an indigenized sociology is the kind of knowledge that can grasp the existential meaning and underlying principles of the social actions of ordinary people, and the fundamental social structures of indigenous society. However, much of his writing has been directed at pointing out the “problems” inherited from the West—its basic cultural assumptions. In doing so, he also relies on the critical and humanistic traditions from the West to make his criticisms. Other sociologists have dubbed Ye and his followers as belonging to the “theoretical camp” as distinct from the “research-camp.” In this sense, their indigenization movement is better understood as more concerned with sociocultural critique than engaging in “scientific” data gathering and empirical analysis. This critique is designed to challenge the dominance of empiricism and mainstream sociology in Taiwan, and to oppose the capitalist tendency, in general, and its dominance in Taiwan, in particular. The third model can be termed the “grounded indigenization” model. It emphasizes the importance of grounded research with careful fieldwork, constructing (sometimes, also deconstructing) the “taken-for-granted” and “naturalized” social world. Xie Guoxiong (b. 1957) is a good example of a scholar who has adopted this approach. His 1997 book, Chun laodong: Taiwan laodong tizhi zhulun — (Labor Only: Essays on the Labor Regime in Taiwan), was well received for its thorough fieldwork and observations from the bottom, as well for the author’s use of the theories of Western sociologists from the left tradition, such as Pierre Bourdieu and Michael Burroway. In the final chapter, Xie presented his thoughts on what sociology should be like along with his personal reflections and a passionate call for indigenous sociology. Being a Taiwanese sociologist who studies Taiwan, my ultimate wish is to be able to answer the question: “What kind of society is Taiwanese society?” (and “What are its characteristics?”). . . . A sociologist . . . should

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be able to distinguish three layers of knowledge. First, to know precisely how Taiwan’s social system functions; second, what makes it unique; and third, innovation in sociological theory. . . . Only when we can have the insight to grasp the uniqueness of Taiwanese society we can have innovation in theory. . . . “Taiwan flavor” (Taiwan wei ) and “theoretical innovation” are inseparable.79

Although Xie admitted that he is an admirer of Chen Shaoxin, he also has his own points to make. First, he is not an empiricist in his methodological preferences. He relies on interpretative and critical ethnography as the primary method to collect data. Second, he manages to escape falling into the same trap as his Sinicization predecessors. Influenced by Pierre Bourdieu, he always “engages” the notion of Taiwan (represented as the local) by “bracketing” it and situating it in a larger context so as to avoid “naturalizing” it. Like Ye Qizheng, he also advocates study of the underlying organization and systems or patterns of the “practices” of people. The difference between Xie’s and Ye’s theorizing model is that Xie relies heavily on ethnography data collecting and its interpretation. Indigenous scholars should, and could, develop their own problematiques or research agendas that will be more relevant to indigenous society, rather than just blindly following the West. Unlike Sinicization scholars, his ultimate criterion for “good” sociology is not just its relevance to the local, but the “comingout” of local study, as Yang suggested in the first Sinicization conference but neglected later. Local sociological works should be measured by theoretical innovations (of profession and academic interest) in the discipline grounded in a careful understanding of the local, with meaningful problematiques originating from the local.

Conclusion Recently, Björn Kjellgren lashed out against the Sinicization trend in Chinese anthropology and Yang Guoshu’s early Sinicization movement in Taiwan.80 He suggests that the danger of Sinicization and indigenization discourse—in mainland China today, and in Taiwan since the 1980s—has been the tendency toward “cultural nationalism” and its naïve assumptions concerning the putative chasm between Chinese culture and Western culture.81 He was also concerned about the Chinese bias in favor of “native” scholars over foreign scholars, coming from the false and essentialized dichotomization of the “Western tradition” and the “Grand Chinese tradition,” and the alleged “incomprehensibility”

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that native culture poses to foreign scholars. These narrow-minded and ungrounded methodological assumptions threaten to bring more harm than benefit to the work of Chinese academics if the “native advantage” is defined in primordial or ethno-national terms, not in organizational and resource terms. His criticism of Sinicization psychologist Huang Guangguo’s cultural essentialism, as well as of the more widespread naivety and misconceptions concerning Western culture and Western scholars are also very well taken: claims about the “uniqueness” of Chinese culture or society, or the stereotypes about the tradition of the West are dubious.82 Moreover, the pitfalls of emphasizing “native research” cannot be overemphasized. On the other hand, I think Kjellgren might have unfairly constructed a negative image of many of the critical-minded Sinicization and indigenization scholars already discussed in this chapter. His criticisms completely ignore the diversity and processes of differentiation that can be linked to the distinct historical trajectories, and the differing positions of influence, interest, and conflict in the academic, cultural, and political fields of Taiwan and mainland China, respectively. When Kjellgren marshaled evidence against indigenization advocates by drawing from a mixed bag of discourse taken out of place, time, and context, not only did he decontextualize the movement, but he also failed to differentiate the distinct and various paths of development that individual social science disciplines underwent in different Chinese societies. In short, the Sinicization movement in Taiwan in the 1980s led by Yang and his colleagues and its spread to mainland China after the 1980s, as well as the call for native anthropology at the end of the 1990s in China, vary significantly in significance, aims, and strategies, relating as they do to the perception of individual and professional interests in both the domestic and international spheres. One of the key points Kjellgren makes concerns the alleged advantage associated with being native in doing native research. Yet, in the entirety of indigenization discourse in Taiwan, this matter has remained trivial and unimportant. It was certainly not a “hidden agenda” of the indigenization movement. In Taiwan, indigenization discourse was addressed to a domestic audience, not a foreign one. “Foreign” scholars and their works on China or the Chinese were not the “targets” of the indigenization movement. The targets were mainly the overly Westernized native social scientists who lacked “self-identity,” and who failed to grasp the relevant and meaningful problematiques from a “indigenous-point-of-view” or to achieve “local correlation.”83

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In this chapter I have presented the Sinicization/indigenization movement in the social sciences, with particular reference to sociology, in Taiwan. I have examined its origin and the larger contexts in the 1970s and the 1980s that were conducive to the emergence of the movement; its spread outside of Taiwan; and its evolution as the transnational indigenization model, theoretical-reasoning indigenization model, and the grounded indigenization model. I have argued that the indigenization process in the social sciences is better understood in the light of its intricate relations to the external environment and the historical trajectory of local society. In doing so, I pointed out that this movement has been consistent with the efforts made by social scientists to enhance the social status of their respective profession— be it sociology, psychology, or anthropology—in their own eyes, as well as in the eyes of the authorities, the general public, and, sometimes, their Western counterparts. The movement thus reflects the professional interests of intellectuals, as a group(s) or as individual scholars, to raise their influence nationally and globally, through deciphering the West and the local, so as to construct a dichotomy. As long as competing interests are involved, it will be difficult to find a unified position. When people have different interests because of their relative social position, whether those interests are theoretical or practical, academic or political, it becomes difficult to maintain similar goals, directions, and strategies for the movement. As noted, the competition between the old and the young (seniority difference), theoretical schools and political standings (interest difference), ethnic background differences in relation to nationalism,84 and relative distances from the dominant position at the center (global hierarchy difference), have rendered a “unified” cultural nationalism—which constitutes the basis of Kjellgren’s critique—a secondary issue.85 The maturation and expansion of various social science disciplines and the emerging demands to become “more global” in the late 1990s will continue to affect internal struggles within academic communities. More resources will continue to be allocated to other “practical” sciences than to the humanities and social sciences. As the number of scholars with exposure to the West increases, there will be more diversified interests, more competition for local centers, Huaren centers, and regional centers, and also, the academic hierarchy will be influenced by outside struggles such as those between globalization and antiglobalization. Be it Sinicization, Taiwanization, or indigenization in general, all will have to face new challenges in these emerging realities. Indeed, many assumptions or claims about the uniqueness of indigenous society may prove to be merely rhetorical or even unsustainable

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when subjected even to mild scrutiny. Nor will it be the case that local studies, conducted by so-called native scholars, will naturally or automatically prove to be more valid or truthful. Such studies must be properly recognized within their particular disciplines, which are part of a larger social science community. Although this community was staunchly Euro-America-centric before the 1960s, it has become increasingly pluralistic and self-critical since then, just as national and disciplinary boundaries have become less tenable given the tremendous growth in the transnational flow of ideas and the numbers of multilingual scholars. We must, however, acknowledge the larger significance and social consequences of the indigenization movement, which extends beyond the review we have presented here about the case of Taiwan and other places. Our claims that the Sinicization/indigenization movement in the social sciences in Taiwan is not unique, when compared to other non-Western countries,86 and, moreover, that it has many problems which parallel the development of the social sciences in western Europe and the United States, will come as a surprise to many indigenous scholars and their critics. When “opening” the history of the social sciences, Wallerstein and others87 found that since the late-eighteenth and early-nineteenth centuries there have been problems of assumed “spatiality” (defined by national borders or by groups of “people”); problems of social disruption associated with rapid social–political change; the state’s need for new knowledge to govern and for state expansion, and so on, that led to the differentiation and institutionalization of many disciplines known today as “social sciences.” Historically, sociology, like other social science disciplines, has been an indigenous enterprise almost from its beginning. This indigenized and “border-bound” character was historically important in the legitimating process required to establish the institutional infrastructure of academic departments, journals, national associations, and, above all, national resources. Wallerstein would probably agree that the indigenization of the social sciences in Taiwan and in other non-Western countries is similar. Moreover, it would have been an inevitable process because of the surging skepticism regarding the assumed “universality” of the social sciences since the 1950s among the many who have been excluded or marginalized by previously biased social science research. The demand for Sinicization in Taiwan, after all, was not all that different from the demands for feminization, ethnicization, internationalization, or decolonization, that emerged within the establishment of Western social sciences in the context of social and political change since the 1970s, except that it occurred outside of, even though it was

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“influenced by,” the “West.” In short, as long as issues of “universality” and “particularity” remain unresolved in the social sciences, indigenization movements will continue. In Taiwan, indigenization has become much less of an issue than in the 1980s when the development of the sociology was first considered. Today, it has gradually shifted from the “production” of indigenous knowledge to the “reproduction” of indigenous scholars and knowledge. Strengthening existing sociology institutions and emphasizing the training of the next generation of sociologists have proceeded apace with the “indigenization process.”88 The publication of the first “indigenous sociology textbook” in 1999, mentioned in the beginning of this chapter, is but one sign of this long process. Finally, we need to comment on the general meaning of indigenization. First, it is concerned with the construction of an “us–them” dichotomy. Second, it is concerned with the existing hierarchical relation between “us” and “them,” with them perceived to be dominant. Indigenization has often arisen from calls to overcome that perception of inequality. Contemporary indigenization movements are thus either third world or postcolonial phenomena. Indigenization strives to achieve not only self-recognition, but also other-recognition. The essentializing tendency in the construction of the opposing groups of “peoples,” however, can lead to nationalistic and ethnocentric pitfalls that are harmful to knowledge production even though essentialism may assist indigenous scholars to promote themselves in the shortterm. To avoid this problem, indigenization should not be regarded as a vehicle to construct a unique “national” discipline but should be pursued as “grounded” research rooted in the “local” context, or the “trans-local” in its configuration and formation. Any of the many forms of spatiality involved in the discourse of the indigenization movement should be viewed as a construct and subjected to close scrutiny. And lastly, indigenization of the social sciences should rely on comparative perspectives and multilingual researchers. They are useful in forcing “native” or “spatial-bound” scholars to problematize the limiting ontology of the “native versus foreign” dichotomy.

Notes 1. The government started the first sociology and social welfare department by promoting its training classes for civic administration at Zhongxing University in 1955. Christian missionaries from the United States and the Asia Foundation of the United States helped in promoting the foundation

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of the three major sociology-related undergraduate courses at National Taiwan University and Donghai University. See Xiao Xinhuang , “Sanshi nian lai Taiwan de shehuixue: Lishi yu jiegou de tantao ” (Taiwan’s Sociology over the Past Thirty Years: A Historical and Structural Exploration), in Lai Zehan (ed.), Sanshi nian lai woguo renwen ji shehuikexue zhi huigu yu zhanwang (Human and Social Sciences in Our Country over the Last Thirty Years in Retrospect and Prospect), Taipei: Dongda tushu gongsi, 1987, 341. Zhang Yinghua estimates that about 200 sociologists hold doctoral degrees in Taiwan. See “Shehuixue zai Taiwan: Cong bentuhua de huyu dao ” zhiduhua de suqiu (Sociology in Taiwan: From Calls to Indigenization to Requests for Institutionalization), in Qiao Jian et al. (eds.), 21 shiji de Zhongguo shehuixue yu renleixue (Chinese Sociology and Anthropology in the 21st Century), Kaohsiung: Liwen chubanshe, 2001, 106. See Immaneul Wallerstein et al., Open the Social Sciences: Report of the Gulbehkian Commission on the Restructuring of the Social Sciences, Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1996; Peter Wagner, A History and Theory of the Social Sciences, London: Sage Publications, 2001. For instance, American scholars have also wondered as to what should be taught to undergraduate students and the American Sociological Association began to promote “internationalization” in their undergraduate teachings. See J. M. Armer (ed.), Syllabi and Resources for Internationalizing Courses in Sociology, Washington DC: American Sociological Association Teaching Resources Center, 1983. Wang Zhenhuan and Qu Haiyuan (eds.), Shehuixue yu Taiwan shehui, Taipei: Juliu tushu gongsi, 1999. Each of the two editors served as the president of the Taiwanese Sociological Association (TSA). The book was originally proposed as a collective project by the TSA. Wang Zhenhuan is a professor at Donghai University and Qu Haiyuan teaches at National Taiwan University and is a research fellow at the Institute of Sociology, Academia Sinica. The term Sinicization was the preferred term in the 1980s, while indigenization has gained more prominence in use in the 1990s. The reasons for this, and the respective meanings of the two terms, are explained later in this chapter. The forum was organized and moderated by the then president of the CSA, Wen Chongyi . See Zhongguo shehui xuekan, 7 (1983): 233–321. The conference was held at the Institute of Ethnology, Academia Sinica, Taipei, Taiwan, December 21–24, 1981. Yang Guoshu and Wen Chongyi (eds.), Shehui ji xingwei kexue yanjiu de Zhongguohua, Taipei: Institute of Ethnology, 1981. Both “Zhongguoren ” and “Huaren” are usually translated as “Chinese” in English, but have different connotations and are used in different contexts. “Zhongguoren” has more emphasis on the Chinese motherland, or the Chinese nation-state, whereas “Huaren” has a connotation of the connectedness with Chinese cultural heritage, not necessarily with the political motherland. The group boundary of “Huaren” is thus more flexible, and is often preferred when

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12.

13.

14.

15.

16.

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Maukuei Chang people want to de-emphasize the political connotations, or to avoid political confrontations among many people with “common” Chinese origin. See, for instance, Xu Jieshun (ed.), Bentuhua: Renleixue de da qushi (Indigenization: The Main Trend in Anthropology), Guangxi: Minzu chubanshe, 2001. Also, Yang Guoshu was successful in organizing the third Conference for the Asian Association of Social Psychology in Taipei, 1999, which adopted “indigenization of social psychology” as the plenary theme of the conference. Arif Dirlik, “Theory, History, Culture: Cultural Identity and the Politics of Theory in Twentieth-Century China,” Development and Society, 29.2 (2000): 73–104. I am grateful to John Makeham for this reference. As the most Westernized and the most “natural science”-like of the many social science disciplines, economics has little problem with its legitimation and has never been part of the movement. On the other hand, political science played a small part in this movement initially, and began to reengage with this issue only in 1999, having “lagged behind” for about 20 years. This occurred partly because of the need of Taiwanese Chinese and overseas Chinese scholars to participate in the recent development of the discipline’s “market” in mainland China. See Zhu Yunhan et al. (eds.), Huaren shehui zhengzhixue bentuhua yanjiu de lilun yu shijian (The Theory and Practice of Indigenous Political Science Research in Sinitic Societies), Taipei: Guiguan tushu gongsi, 2000. For instance, anthropology is often practiced as the study of the “other culture” by a nonnative scholar; whereas sociology is often practiced as the study of a particular “society” by a so-called native scholar. Therefore, indigenization for anthropologists and for sociologists can have very different meanings, strategies, as well as problems. The most recent conference was held at Nanhua University, Jiayi, Taiwan, in April 2002. It was the third of a series of three conferences called “Symposia on Social Science Theories and Indigenization.” Recently, Ye Qizheng, one of the most influential sociologists in Taiwan, published Shehuixue yu bentuhua (Sociology and Indigenization), Taipei: Juliu tushu gongsi, 2002. For examples in anthropology, see Frank Pieke, Stephan Feuchtwang, and others in Xu Jieshun, Bentuhua. For a recent example in social psychology, see Björn Kjellgren, “The Predicament of Indigenization: Constructions and Methodological Consequences of Otherness in Chinese Ethnography,” Taiwan Journal of Anthropology, 1.1 (2003): 147–178, and Dirlik, “Theory, History, Culture.” Yang seems to have wanted to include Singaporean Chinese but did not succeed. Possibly this was due to the Singapore government’s sensitivity about Chinese cultural nationalism as well as to political nationalism, thus making Singaporean scholars apprehensive about participating. As a result, Yang suggested that contributions from Singapore should be for “supplementary” purposes. One obvious reason that Yang did not include mainland China in the framework of the Sinicization campaign at this stage was because of the political bans on all exchanges between Taiwan and mainland

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China at that time. It should, however, also be borne in mind that Yang, being a modernist and trained in the West, did not think that mainland Chinese scholars were “Westernized or modernized” enough to grasp the complicated issues, given their long isolation from Western social and behavioral studies. Yang later changed his mind, becoming a strong supporter and participant of mainland China’s own indigenization movement beginning in the early 1990s. Yang and Wen, Shehui ji xingwei . . ., i–ii. Ibid., ii, v. Ibid., v. Ibid., vi. Li Yiyuan and Yang Guoshu (eds.), Zhongguoren de xingge: Keji zonghexing de taolun (The Chinese Character: An Interdisciplinary Discussion), Taipei: Institute of Ethnology, Academia Sinica, 1972. Here my account draws principally on Fu Dawei, “Lishi jiangou, bianchui celüe, yu ‘Zhongguohua’ ” (Historical Construction, Peripheral Strategies, and “Sinicization”), Daoyu bianyuan, 1.1 (1991), 103–127. Fu’s view is a commonly held analysis of the political situation in 1970s Taiwan. See, e.g., Xiao Aqin , “Minzuzhuyi yu Taiwan 1970 niandai de ‘xiangtu wenxue’: Yige wenhua (jiti) jiyi bianqian de tantao ” (Nationalism and Taiwan’s 1970s “Xiangtu Literature”: An Exploration of the Change in Cultural [Collective] Memory), Taiwan shi yanjiu, 6.2 (2000): 77–138. At the time, the Republic of China (ROC) not only lost its seat in the United Nations to the People’s Republic of China in 1971, but also lost most of its diplomatic relations with all major countries except for the United States. There was also a territorial dispute over the Diaoyutai islands (off the northeast coast of Taiwan) with Japan that triggered very strong nationalistic sentiments among students and conscientious intellectuals. Fu did not define these terms specifically in the paper quoted. I interpret “rule with predatory power” (tunshizhe quanli ) to imply the use of brutality and harsh forms of coercion and suppression when confronted by opposition; the second term “harsh yet delicate rule” (yansu er jingzhi tongzhi ) implies the use of more subtle power, such as persuasion, co-optation, and propaganda education. Fu, “Lishi jiangou,” 3. In fact, Fu admitted that he was deliberately preparing to attack this group of liberal-minded positivist scholars in the late 1980s because he wanted to justify his own “radical” movement—a leftist and a deconstructive one by nature—by contrasting it to the position represented by the Sinicization and modernization advocates. See Fu Daiwei, “Wo yu ‘Taishe’ shinian ” (My Involvement with “Taishe” over a Decade), http://sts.nthu.edu.tw/dwfu/ miscellaneous/taiwan_society.pdf, accessed on January 15, 2004. This should not be self-contradictory since one’s own “value” can be increased or redeemed through self-analysis or self-criticism.

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29. Yang has spent most of his career at the Department of Psychology, National Taiwan University. He served as the head of the department, and is now an honorary emeritus professor. Because of Yang’s seemingly incessant attacks on the “blind westernized tendency” that existed within the profession of psychology in Taiwan, his major contributions to the “indigenization of psychology” were not welcomed by the department. The department’s official website has no reference to the indigenization of psychology and Yang, along with several other members of the department, is listed as belonging to a small section called “Social and Personality Psychology” of the department. 30. See Yang and Wen, Shehui ji xingwei . . ., 209–254. 31. Of course, his resolution to this problem drew little response from his peers in Taiwan in the early 1980s because Taiwan had just begun to pride itself for its “economic miracle” and advances in material prosperity. Taiwan, as the model for China, was not to be regarded as a member of the third world. 32. Although Yang Guoshu had this “degree of Westernization” in mind to separate mainland China from Taiwan and Hong Kong, it meant only that mainland China was irrelevant to this movement, not that there were essentially different “kinds” of Chinese. 33. One should be aware that by international standards Hong Kong academics have been generally very well paid, and privileged by their pro-Western attitudes under the rule of British colonialism. Sinicization thus was really not in their best interests even at the Chinese University of Hong Kong which had a stronger tendency to teach Chinese classics and culture. Also, presumably the conference’s American sponsor, the Rockefeller Foundation preferred to see China adopt a more open position toward Western ideas rather than become more “nationalistically” anti-Western. 34. Peasant Life in China: A Field Study of Country Life in the Yangtze Valley, London: Routledge, 1937. The later Chinese translation was titled Jiangcun jingji (The Economy of Jiangcun), Hong Kong: Zhonghua shuju, 1987. From the Soil: The Foundation of Chinese Society, Berkeley: The University of California Press, 1992 (translation of Xiangtu Zhongguo , Hong Kong: Sanlian shudian, 1985). 35. Qiao Jian (ed.), Xiandaihua yu Zhongguo wenhua yantaohui lunwen huibian (Proceedings of the Conference on Modernization and Chinese Culture), Hong Kong: Faculty of Social Science and Institute for Social Research, Chinese University of Hong Kong, 1985, v–vi. 36. See Dirlik, “Theory, History, Culture.” 37. Li Yiyuan et al. (eds.), Xiandaihua yu Zhongguohua lunji, Taipei: Guiguan tushu gongsi, 1984. 38. In any case, in 1984, papers by mainland scholars were not allowed to be published in Taiwan, regardless of quality and suitability. 39. Since the early 1990s, even Yang Guoshu, Huang Guangguo, and Ye Qizheng have felt the obligation and need to travel to China to teach their respective disciplines. Li Yiyuan was also invited to the mainland several times as a leading international promoter of the study of China and pioneer in the Sinicization of Anthropology.

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40. This group also included one Taiwan sociologist, Xiao Xinhuang, who was a visiting scholar at Boston University at the time. 41. Cai was then a professor of sociology at the Texas Technology University at Lubbok, a remote city in Texas. When describing the genesis of the meeting, he recalled how, one evening in March, 1983, he had awakened from a nightmare and could not go back to sleep. He began to have flashbacks of his whole life, from his time in Taiwan until he became a sociologist in the United States. He was startled by the progress of sociology in Taiwan and the revival of sociology in China. He was puzzled by the universality claim of sociology, modernization, and Westernization, and the value or meaning of his own work (or his life?). Inner feelings of doubt became “so vivid, so compelling, just like a long resting volcano that was about to erupt.” Cai Yongmei and Xiao Xinhuang (eds.), Shehuixue Zhongguohua (Sinicization of Sociology), Taipei: Jiuliu chubanshe, 1985, 2. 42. Ibid. 43. Ibid., 330. Because of the small number of Chinese sociologists of Chinese origin, then resident in the United States, and the even smaller number who actually participated, this meeting was conducted as a colloquium of acquaintances and friends, rather than a serious conference. Its English title was somewhat different: “Sinicization of Sociology: A Collective Portrait of Some American Trained Chinese Sociologists,” but its Chinese title was: “Shehuixue Zhongguohua: Lü Mei Zhongguo shehuixuejia de ruogan guandian ” (Sinicizing Sociology: Some Views of Chinese Sociologists Residing in the United States). 44. The volume under discussion was used as the primary source for Arif Dirlik’s analysis of the Sincization movement of sociology in Dirlik, “Theory, History, Culture.” Apparently he failed to recognize the multiple facets of the movement and the significance of this go-between phenomenon for Chinese-American sociologists, a group that should be distinguished from other “native” sociologists working in their “native” country. 45. In fact, the paper he wrote was intended for a broader and different audience: the Western Division Conference of the Association for Asian Studies; it was not intended for Chinese readers. It was first written in English and then translated into Chinese by Tu Zhaoqing . 46. Lin was very active in the North American Chinese Sociologists Association that he founded in 1982. He also served as chair for the Department of Sociology, State University of New York at Albany between 1979 and 1982. Since the early 1980s he has also helped to educate many mainland Chinese sociologists at Nankai University, Tianjin, and in the United States. 47. Lin was relatively more successful and active than his Chinese sociologist peers based in the United States at that time. His viewpoint does not represent the views of other contributors to the book. I have selected Lin for particular discussion because of his relatively prominent position among his peers. 48. Cai Yongmei, in Cai and Xiao, Shehuixue Zhongguohua, 14–15. 49. Li was a professor at the Catholic University of America, and was one of the few Chinese-American scholars who spent some time teaching at Nankai

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50. 51. 52. 53.

54. 55.

56. 57.

58.

59.

60. 61. 62. 63. 64.

65. 66.

Maukuei Chang University in Tianjin in the early 1980s to revive Western-oriented sociology in China. This section of dialogue is titled “Toushi sanshi nianlai haixia liang’an shehuixue de fazhan ” (Penetrating the Fundamentals of the Developments of Sociology over the Past Thirty Years on Both Sides of the Taiwan Strait). Cai and Xiao, Shehuixue Zhongguohua, 316. Unlike two years later, this was, of course, an exaggeration of the state of political freedom that existed in 1984. See chapter 2 by Fu-chang Wang in this volume for a discussion on this topic. Wen Chongyi, “Zhongguo de shehuixue: Guojihua huo guojiahua ” (Chinese Sociology: Internationalization or Nationalization), Zhongguo shehuixue kan, 15 (1991): 1–28. Ibid., 18, 19, 20. Wen Chongyi’s evasiveness on the sensitive issue of choosing appropriate wording can be found in his comments in the forum on “Sociology in China: Problems and Prospects,” Zhongguo shehuixue kan, 7 (1983): 319. He said: “This term, Zhongguohua, can stir up some emotional reactions. But we have not been able to find an appropriate substitute word for it over the sixty-nine years of the Republic. This is to say that we cannot find a better term to express our emphasis on the things (dongxi ) inside our own culture. We hope that no one will react emotionally to this term.” Wen Chongyi, ibid., 21, fn. 2. Xu Zhengguang “Yige yanjiu dianfan de xingcheng yu bianqian: Chen Shaoxin ‘Zhongguo shehui wenhua yanjiu de shiyanshi: Taiwan’ yiwen de chongtan : ‘ ’ ” (The Formation and Vicissitudes of a Research Paradigm: A Re-Evaluation of “A Laboratory for the Study of Chinese Society and Culture: Taiwan” by Chen Shaoxin), Zhongguo shehuixue kan, 15 (1991): 29–40. Chen Shaoxin, “Zhongguo shehui wenhua yanjiu de shiyanshi: Taiwan ” (A Laboratory for the Study of Chinese Society and Culture: Taiwan), Zhongyang yanjiuyuan minzusuo jikan, 22 (1966): 1–14. The word “zhutixing ” is difficult to translate into English. Ostensibly it is a synonym for the English word “subjectivity,” but it can also have the meanings of being a “desirable,” “unspoiled,” “autonomous,” or “authentic” subjectivity. Xu Zhengguang, “Yige yanjiu dianfan . . .,” 31. Ibid., 31–32. Ibid., 34. Ibid., 35. The leaders of the Sinicization movement, however, had always wanted to connect themselves to the “greater” intellectual tradition in China associated with either the May Fourth Movement of 1919 or with the early founders of sociology in China. Xu Zhengguang, “Yige yanjiu dianfan . . .,” 36. Ibid., 38.

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67. Ibid., 38. 68. Ibid., 37. 69. On this topic, A-chin Hsiau, Contemporary Taiwanese Cultural Nationalism, London: Routledge, 2000, provides an in-depth analysis. 70. Ardent Taiwanese scholars can do very little about the international state of the “China Studies” field that boasts so many reputable and well-funded establishments and programs outside of Taiwan; many more than are devoted to Taiwan Studies. 71. See, for instance, Qiao Jian et al., 21 shiji de Zhongguo . . ., and Xu Jieshun, Bentuhua. 72. The journal publishes articles written in Chinese, and although based in Taiwan it has many contributors from other Huaren communities. The journal has been surprisingly open to the critics of indigenization and does not take an exclusive stand in supporting Yang and the movement. 73. See Yang Guoshu, “Women weishenme yao jianli Zhongguoren de bentu xinlixue ” (Why We Want to Establish Indigenous Chinese Psychology), Bentu xinlixue yanjiu, 1 (1993): 63, fn. 1. 74. Yang Guoshu, “Bentu qihexing jiqi xiangguan wenti de lunzheng ” (Arguments for “Local Correlation” and Other Related Issues), Bentu xinlixue yanjiu, 8 (1997): 85. 75. Ibid., 231–233. 76. Yang Guoshu, “Women weishenme yao jianli Zhongguoren de bentu xinlixue,” 113–114. 77. One of the recent examples was the conference in Hong Kong, which resulted in the publication of Qiao Jian et al., 21 shiji de Zhongguo . . ., 2001. 78. See, e.g., Xu Jieshun, Bentuhua. 79. Xie Guoxiong, Chun laodong: Taiwan laodong tizhi zhulun, Taipei: Institute of Sociology, Academia Sinica, 1997, 347. 80. Kjellgren, “The Predicament of Indigenization.” However, Kjellgren’s main argument against Sinicization in Taiwan was limited since he relied narrowly on an analytical reading of Yang and his former student, Huang Guangguo, now also a well-known advocate for cultural conservatism. He is especially critical of Huang’s essentializing tendency regarding the uniqueness of Chinese culture and his misconceptualization of the West. See pages 154–155, in particular. 81. In fact, as I have shown, Ye Qizheng and Xu Zhengguang were both critical of naïve attempts to essentialize Chinese culture and society. Ye Qizheng, “Bianchuixing yu xueshu fazhan: Zailun kexue Zhongguohua ” (Peripherality and Academic Development: Further Discussion of Scientific Sinicization), in Li, Yang, and Wen, Xiandaihua yu . . ., 221–262; Xu Zhengguang, “Yige yanju . . .” In advancing Sinicization, Yang Guoshu himself cautioned against becoming ignorant of the West, although he cannot be said to be well versed in either the philosophy of social science or the historical formation of the West. 82. In fact, in 1991, Xu Zhengguang had already made similar criticisms of other Sinicization advocates, even though he also advocated indigenization, but in the name of “Taiwanese identity and subjectivity.”

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83. Kjellgren, “The Predicament of Indigenization,” 157–158, made another mistake by lumping the Academia Sinica (Taiwan) and the Chinese Academy of Social Sciences (China) together by saying: “neither has a tradition of sending anthropologists overseas to conduct research,” and hence, “in this respect, China is like most other third world countries.” The truth is that both institutions, supported by their respective governments, have been keen to provide funds for researchers—albeit relatively less compared to the funding available to their Western counterparts—to study the “outside world” when deemed important for national interests. 84. In our review of the indigenization movement, the gender difference has not been broached since all of the advocates are male. Yet this is not to say that gender is not a factor in social and academic power struggles. 85. For instance, in the special issue of Bentu xinlixue yanjiu, 8 (1997), one finds how critical Yang’s most loyal followers—such as Huang Guangguo, Ye Qizheng, and Yu Dehui —are. Sometimes they are unreasonably critical of each other through misrepresentation and misunderstanding. 86. This is best illustrated by the journal, International Sociology, launched by the International Sociological Association in 1986. In the Foreword of the first issue of its publication, the then president of the ISA, Fernando H. Cardoso, articulated the need to go beyond “provincial” perspectives that are limited to the Western cultural and American functionalistic traditions. Against an imagination of a normal science of sociology, he advocated the need: “to increase our knowledge about contemporary societies and sociologies, by showing pluralistic paths of concern in sociology rooted in different historical and cultural traditions.” See International Sociology, 1.1 (1987): 2. Also, Frederick Garreau contributed a very lengthy essay in Current Sociology to address the issue of cultural–regional/local–national concerns versus general theory concerns in sociology. See his “The Multinational Version of Social Science with Emphasis upon the Discipline of Sociology,” Current Sociology, 33.3 (1985): 1–169. For discussions of indigenization concerns in India and in South Korea, see T. K. Oommen, “The Nature of Sociological Research and Practice Worldwide: A Perspective from India,” International Sociology, 3.3 (1988): 309–312, and Myoung-kyu Park and Chang Kyung-sup “Sociology between Western Theory and Korean Reality: Accommodation, Tension and a Search for Alternatives,” International Sociology, 14.2 (1999): 139–156. 87. Wallerstein et al., Open the Social Sciences. 88. The publication of the first “indigenized textbook” is an illustration of this “reproduction effort.” For a general analysis, see Zhang Yinghua, “Shehuixue zai Taiwan,” 97–116; see also Qu Haiyuan, “Shehuixue kecheng neirong yu Taiwan shehui yanjiu ” (The Curriculum Content of Sociology and the Study of Taiwan Society), Taiwan shehui xuekan, 21 (1998): 1–20.

Epilogue: Bentuhua—An Endeavor for Normalizing a Would-Be Nation-State? A-chin Hsiau

In Taiwan’s closely fought presidential election held in March 2004, incumbent President Chen Shuibian and his running-mate Lü Xiulian (Annette Lu) of the Democratic Progressive Party defeated their rivals, Chinese Nationalist Party Chairman Lian Zhan and his vice presidential candidate People First Party (Qinmin dang ) Chairman Song Chuyu (James Soong) . This result represents a further consolidation of the indigenization of Taiwan’s politics. As many commentators have stated, the reelection of President Chen confirmed the continued ascendancy of Taiwan-centered consciousness,1 or the Taiwanese people’s sense of national identity, and this will lead to Taiwan’s moving further away from China. As stated in the introduction, the purpose of this book is to make a timely contribution to analyzing what is arguably the single most important aspect of cultural and political change in Taiwan over the past quartercentury: the trend toward indigenization. This epilogue discusses in more detail several issues raised in individual chapters. These issues include the significance of Taiwan’s unique historical trajectory as a driving force for indigenization; the relationship between globalization and the trend toward indigenization; the reactions and discontent caused by this trend; and the future of indigenization.

The Driving Force for Indigenization and Taiwan’s Unique Historical Trajectory Viewed retrospectively, the main force driving the indigenization of Taiwan’s politics has been the internal dynamics of ethnic (zuqun)

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relations, especially the uneven distribution of political and cultural power between “mainlanders” (waishengren) and local Taiwanese (benshengren) that characterized postwar Taiwanese society. Dramatic political and cultural change, however, did not begin to occur until the 1970s. In the wake of rapid economic development, by the end of the 1960s Taiwan encountered problems of rural deterioration, labor disputes, and uneven distribution of wealth. The next decade began with major diplomatic setbacks that crippled the Chinese Nationalist Party (GMD)-controlled government. These changes forced the GMD to initiate limited political reform when President Jiang Jieshi handed over the power to his son Jiang Jingguo. The indigenization trend started with these rapid socioeconomic and dramatic political changes and gained increasing momentum over the following quartercentury. The early 1970s witnessed a political response by the postwar generation to the country’s diplomatic failures, authoritarian rule, and economic inequalities. Throughout the 1970s dangwai dissidents led by Huang Xinjie and Kang Ningxiang played the key role in this postwar generation’s response, calling for sociopolitical reforms based on a realistic recognition that the Republic of China (Zhonghua minguo ) did not control the Chinese mainland but only Taiwan. Key to this demand was the proposition that Taiwan should establish a true democracy and adopt entirely new measures to secure international recognition as a sovereign state. Since then, indigenization in the political domain has demanded that benshengren be granted full civil rights and equal political rights with those afforded to the waishengren elite; that the benshengren political elite gain more power through democratic elections; and that Taiwan should seek independent national identity through domestic negotiation and international recognition. The cultural elite of the postwar generation in 1970s Taiwan devoted itself to promoting Xiangtu (Nativist) Literature as a genre responsive to local sociocultural realities and to discovering Taiwanese literature written under Japanese colonialism.2 Similarly, dangwai dissidents drew on the history of Taiwanese resistance to Japanese colonialism to facilitate political mobilization.3 A unique form of Taiwanese collective memory and identity fed on this cultural and historical construction, paving the way for the post-1980s Taiwanese nationalistic historical narrative. Since the 1970s, in the cultural domain, the general idea that the uniqueness of Taiwanese society/culture/history must be appreciated and interpreted from

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the viewpoint of the Taiwanese people per se has been increasingly adopted as a paradigmatic principle for knowledge construction and cultural representation. The development of this cultural trend was subsequently incorporated into the political pursuit of an independent national identity. Over the past two centuries, conceptions of nationalism and the nation-state have constituted a dominant ideology adopted by political communities throughout the world. Since the latter half of the twentieth century many theorists have argued that these ideologies have been unable to withstand postmodernist challenges to various meta-discourses (among which nationalism is regarded as a prominent example); the development of deconstructionist approaches to culture and identity; and the formidable process of globalization.4 In different parts of the world, however, many people are still committed to establishing distinct national identities and nation-states even though their respective efforts involve different historical dynamics and secure differing degrees of domestic and international support. Situated in the postmodern context, Taiwanese nationalism is an historical “latecomer” when viewed from the perspective of the global spread of nationalism.5 In order to understand the forces motivating latecomers to join the nationalist club, one has to grasp the particularities of their respective historical trajectories. Focusing on the indigenization of politics and culture and its close connection with the identity politics of ethnicity and nationalism, this volume has sought to map prominent contours of the indigenization paradigm as it has unfolded over the past quarter-century in Taiwan. In its early phase, the principal driving force behind the indigenization of Taiwan’s politics and culture was the internal dynamics of ethnic inequality between waishengren and benshengren. Since the 1990s, however, the call for indigenization has been closely connected to the rise of the People’s Republic of China (PRC) in the international arena. Thus, indigenization has become increasingly involved in resisting the escalating challenge of the PRC’s claim to sovereignty over Taiwan.

Globalization and the Trend toward Indigenization At a time when the issue of globalization arouses considerable attention and debate, it may be asked: Is Taiwan’s trend toward indigenization, especially in the cultural sphere, an expression of “localization” in

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reaction to globalization? Globalization may be characterized as a set of mutually reinforcing transformations that have occurred over the last decades of the twentieth century. Such transformations include changing concepts of space and time, an increasing volume of cultural interactions, a common stock of problems facing the world’s inhabitants, growing interconnections and interdependencies, as well as a network of increasingly powerful transnational actors and organizations.6 Thus understood, globalization bears only a remote relationship to the sort of political and cultural indigenization that has occurred in Taiwan since the 1970s. By and large, these changes have gained momentum primarily through the internal historical reality of politics and culture, rather than as a reaction to globalization. As Maukuei Chang explains in his chapter, the one partial exception to this is in the social sciences, where the term indigenization has been employed as a reaction to “Westernization.” This is not to say that globalization had no influence on the indigenization trend discussed in this book, although that influence has not been our primary focus. Indeed, it is not difficult to find evidence of the impact of globalization (especially global capitalism) on the “by-products” of political and cultural indigenization, even though this may be regarded as a superficial observation of the most obvious effects of globalization. For example, Taiwan has felt pressure to establish its own political and cultural identity vis-à-vis China because of increasing international exchanges and cultural interactions. In order to attract international tourists, Taiwan has had to think about what its unique cultural legacy is. According to the directors of two leading travel agencies in Taiwan, “there are attractions in Taiwan, but these need to be marketed better and the concept of a distinct identity from China had to be made.” They mention that they have been trying to promote “the concept of small and beautiful, compared with the big mountains and water attractions of China.”7 The government recently allocated NT $200 million (about US $6 million) to promote “2004: Visit Taiwan Year.”8 Promotional events held overseas and advertisements placed in major international media (e.g., CNN, National Geographic Channel, Knowledge Channel, Time magazine, and so on) emphasized aboriginal dancing, the Mazu Pilgrimage (Mazu jinxiang ), the Yanshui rocket festival (Yanshui fengpao ), Taiwanese ghost festivals (qi yue guijie ), the Eight Generals (ba jia jiang ), glove puppet performances, Tainan noodles, pearl milk-tea (zhenzhu naicha ), and the like, in addition to the Taipei 101 building and the Taroko Gorge.9

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As John Tomlinson argues, globalization should not be supposed simply to bring about cultural homogenization. The general effects of the trend toward the compression of the world into a single place is not a simplistic uniformity, but “a context which increasingly determines social relations” and simultaneously “a frame of reference within which social agents increasingly figure their existence, identities and actions.”10 Nevertheless, the act of highlighting those local cultural resources within the reference frame of global tourism is a made possible by political and cultural indigenization. It is hardly imaginable that aboriginal dancing, Taiwanese ghost festivals, glove puppet performances, Tainan noodles, pearl milk-tea, and so on would be presented as the symbols of the Republic of China (ROC) and promoted internationally, if Taiwanese language, culture, and history remained marginalized and repressed in a public sphere dominated by Chinese nationalism. Moreover, it is arguable that Taiwan is a counter-example to the claim that nationalism and nation-states are losing their significance due to the impact of globalization. In a sense, the case of Taiwan shows that globalization can fuel aspirations for national identity and nation-state identity instead of dwarfing them.11 Viewed retrospectively, however, it is the particular internal dynamics of ethnic relations and the ongoing confrontation across the Taiwan Strait that have formed the essential driving force for the pursuit of indigenization.

Responses to Indigenization The first two chapters (chapter 1 and chapter 2), by J. Bruce Jacobs and Fu-chang Wang, analyzed the political and sociocultural contexts in which the trend toward indigenization emerged, the nature of GMD rule, the development of the Taiwanese opposition movement, and the relationship of these issues to the identity politics of ethnicity and nationalism. This examination of the sources of the trend toward indigenization also provided a background for discussions in the later chapters. The part of Wang’s chapter (chapter 2) that deals with the 1997 textbook controversy and Rosemary Haddon’s chapter (chapter 3) on Zhu Tianxin’s novel Gudu (Ancient Capital; 1997) examined reactions to, and discontent about, the trend toward indigenization expressed primarily by waishengren. These studies reveal the anxiety and alienation experienced by many waishengren as the indigenization trend threatened to marginalize their own political position, cultural symbolism, and collective memories. The chapters by A-chin Hsiau,

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Jeremy Taylor, John Makeham, and Maukeui Chang (chapters 4, 5, 6, and 7 respectively) examined how the idea of indigenization has impacted on various fields of knowledge construction and cultural representation. In the areas of literature, preservation and restoration of the built environment, Confucian revivalism, and sociology, the indigenization idea has been variously manifested, creating different effects and problems within these areas. Although this volume focuses on the unique historical dynamics of politics and culture in Taiwan, its findings also contribute to understanding more general issues. For example, the problems encountered in the trend toward indigenization in Taiwan are typical of those encountered by other “postcolonial” societies when those societies attempt to rediscover and reconstruct their political and cultural identity. It should be noted that colonialism is not necessarily imposed from outside a country or a people but can also be replicated and imposed from within.12 In many formally decolonialized societies, inequalities cannot be easily eradicated due to deep-seated divisions based on class, ethnicity, gender, region, and so on. Therefore, it has been argued, “it is more helpful to think of post-colonialism not just as coming literally after colonialism and signifying its demise, but more flexibly as the contestation of colonial domination and the legacies of colonialism.”13 As J. Jorge Klor de Alva proposes, postcoloniality should denote “not so much subjectivity ‘after’ the colonial experience as a subjectivity of oppositionality to imperializing/ colonizing (read: subordinating/subjectivizing) discourse and practices.”14 As a result of GMD rule, new political and cultural inequalities were established in prewar Taiwan in the wake of the collapse of Japanese colonialism. The institutionalization of the benshengren– waishengren ethnic distinction (created by the GMD) promoted and protected political and cultural inequalities. Postcoloniality in Taiwan consists in challenging those imperializing/colonizing discourses and practices based on the ROC system—and more recently, the PRC system—and in attempting to establish a form of subjectivity for a would-be nation. The reactions and discontent that were engendered when the process of political and cultural indigenization in Taiwan became sufficiently developed in the 1990s (and discussed in chapters 2 and 3 by Wang and Haddon) resemble the major integrative problem experienced by those new states that won independence from colonialism after World War II: the conflict between primordial sentiments and

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civil order. As Clifford Geertz insightfully points out, the very process of political modernization in these new countries—the formation of a sovereign civil state and the imposition of a modern political consciousness upon the population—tends not to soften primordial sentiments. Rather, it stimulates people’s obsessive concern with their primordial connections such as assumed blood, race, language, region, religion, custom, and the like, and thus results in a common problem: the “political normalization of primordial discontent.”15 Geertz also characterizes this problem as a clash between two opposed motives: “the desire to be recognized as responsible agents whose wishes, acts, hopes, and opinions ‘matter,’ and the desire to build an efficient, dynamic modern state.”16 Of course, the historical process of pursuing an independent national identity in which the trend toward indigenization is integral, differs from the process experienced by those newly emergent states more than half a century ago. In addition, the historical dynamics that brought about the creation of categories of identification in Taiwan—widely assumed to be primordial—are unique. Nevertheless, the source of the problems that the trend toward indigenization engendered is similar to a problem experienced by the states that emerged in the postwar period, that is, a form of “longing not to belong to any other group” that undermines civil sentiments.17 As the reactions and discontent brought about by the trend toward indigenization evidence, the difficulties presented by “integrative revolution” in Taiwan are no less complex than those experienced by the states that emerged in the postwar period. Reactions and discontent caused by the accelerating process of political and cultural indigenization in Taiwan have also been expressed in China. Before the 1990s, the attacks made by the PRC against the indigenization process (including the development of Taiwanese nationalism) were limited to “political” (in the narrow sense of the word) figures, activities, and affairs. It was not until the late 1990s that the PRC began to pay attention to indigenized knowledge construction and cultural representation in Taiwan, especially when these activities were used to support the claim that Taiwan has a distinct national identity.18 Since then the PRC has grown increasingly critical of the way in which the period of Japanese colonization has been portrayed in the indigenization process (Wang’s, Hsiau’s, and Taylor’s chapters each examined different dimensions of this portrayal). In fact, more than three decades ago, in his pioneering study on Taiwanese nationalism, Douglas Mendel dealt with the fact that

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just several years after the GMD controlled the island, the Taiwanese began to cherish the colonial past. He points out that, [I]f however [ Japanese] “influence” is defined as Japanese education of the Formosans [Taiwanese] in efficient government, honest police, and orderly economic development, the charge is valid. Educated Formosans who compared the rule of the prewar Japanese “dogs” with the postwar Chinese “pigs” found the latter definitely inferior. Fifty years of Japanese influence in Formosa [Taiwan] did not make the natives pro-Japanese, but they did provide a standard to which the postwar Chinese Nationalists failed to measure up.19

After the February 28 Incident of 1947, memories—if not all positive and pleasant—of Japanese colonialism were one of the chief elements that contributed to the formation and maintenance of a particular Taiwanese identity. This is especially true of members of the generations who had lived under the Japanese. Under the GMD, for a long time the colonial experience of the Taiwanese people was stigmatized and forbidden from public discussion. However, after the Kaohsiung Incident of 1979, Taiwanese nationalists, especially those humanist intellectuals in the fields of literature, history, and language movements, began openly to destigmatize the colonial experience of the Taiwanese people and to construct a positive historical memory of the colonial period with a view to discrediting the GMD rule. It has not been unusual for the period of Japanese colonial rule to have attracted undisguised—if limited—admiration. That is, colonial history becomes “more of an asset than a liability.”20 When the remarkable development of political and cultural indigenization ensured, those who are nostalgic about the Japanese colonial legacy are not limited to the “colonial” or prewar generations. Over the past two decades, as members of the prewar generations have passed away, growing numbers of the postwar generations have been variously mobilized to join the uncoordinated project of reconstructing a collective memory of the Taiwanese past, in which the Japanese colonial period forms the main part. The unexpected increasing interest in, and reconstruction of, colonial history by the younger generations bear witness to the consolidation of the indigenization of the Taiwanese national imagination, though at first glance, the kind of interest and reconstruction may appear to have little relationship to the idea of Taiwanese political independence. Taiwanese nostalgia for the colonial period can be contrasted with popular anti-Japanese resentment in China during the postwar period.

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From the disputes about the description of Japan’s military invasion of China in the twentieth century in Japanese school textbooks to the popular anger caused by Japan’s soccer team beating China in the Asian Cup Final in August of 2004, show that anti-Japanese sentiment in China, as Edward Friedman describes it, has been “popular, spontaneous, and rooted in history.”21 It seems that this anti-Japanese sentiment has not attenuated as a result of the normalized relations between China and Japan in 1972. Even though the economic relations and cultural exchange between Japan and China have been improving, a Chinese scholar recently expressed his worry that in spite of the close relationship, the images of each country in the other country seem to have been increasingly unfavorable. “The problem in the relationship between the two countries is like an active volcano that often erupts.”22 Situated in this context of ongoing popular anti-Japanese feeling, the PRC’s attacks on the nostalgic reinterpretation of the Japanese colonial past are not surprising. Since the late 1990s, when the PRC began to pay attention to indigenized knowledge construction and cultural representation in Taiwan, there have been few official attacks in China on the positive reinterpretation of the period of Japan’s colonial rule there. Nevertheless, harsh criticisms by PRC scholars have been increasing. For these critics, those Taiwanese who claim a particular Taiwanese national identity embrace a sort of “Japanophilia.” They argue that almost all Taiwanese political leaders, including Li Denghui, who challenge the PRC’s claim to sovereignty over Taiwan and pursue the goal of statehood for the island, have an abnormal “Japanophilic complex” (qin Ri qingjie ).23 They emphasize that, under colonial rule, in general the Taiwanese people were “antiJapanese” (kang Ri de ). They strongly condemn the way a reconstructed collective memory of Japanese colonialism has dominated the indigenization process, maintaining that it praises Japanese imperialism and promotes anti-Chinese separatism.24 Obviously, the purpose of such an act of stigmatizing this reconstructed collective memory is to de-legitimate the claim that a particular Taiwanese national identity deserves an independent state. Moreover, situated in the context of international politics, Taiwan’s colonial past and the development of Taiwanese nationalism have played a definite role in the postwar relationship between China and Japan. It is rather common for Chinese scholars and political writers to regard Taiwan as Japan’s (and also the United States’) tool for carrying forward her long-standing scheme of “using the Chinese to

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counteract the Chinese” ( ). Japan has been seen as a key base for overseas Taiwanese nationalists, especially after the rise of the political right in 1980s Japanese domestic politics. A Chinese scholar thus writes: “The Taiwan issue has become the most provocative and complex problem involved in the China-Japan relationship”; “As far as the Taiwan issue is concerned, although the USA is a troublemaker, in reality it is Japan that is the villain.”25

Collective Memory and Intellectuals Taiwan’s trend toward indigenization has brought to the surface such complex issues such as postcoloniality, ethnicity, citizenship, and national identity because indigenization challenges a collective memory of an old Chinese polity that maintained time-honored cultural and linguistic traditions. The troubles are compounded by the fact that the geographic dimension of this collective memory sustains the perception of a close relationship with a rising power hostile to Taiwan, the PRC. As a consequence, the tensions caused by domestic ethnic divisions—which presumably could be relaxed through patient negotiations within the framework of a sovereign country—have become enmeshed in the complex international confrontation across the Taiwan Strait (this view is expressed by Wang in chapter 2). This kind of lingering collective memory constitutes another project of indigenization. This project is different from that which aims to establish a distinct Taiwanese national identity, having emerged earlier and coexisted with it despite the development of Taiwanese nationalism. John Makeham’s chapter on a group of Confucian revivalists and Maukeui Chang’s chapter on sociology address a version of indigenization based on a “China-centered” collective memory. The Confucian revivalists’ notion of indigenization—in which they attempt to reconcile the notion of Taiwanese cultural identity with the claim that “Taiwanese culture” is a part of “Chinese culture”—is a response to the trend toward “Taiwan-centered” indigenization. The dynamics of the project of indigenization in the social sciences is, however, very different. The indigenization project championed by social scientists since the 1970s continues to concern itself with the notion of a modern Chinese nation that prevailed among intellectuals in late imperial and early Republican China. They also reproduce the “metaanxiety” widely shared by intellectuals of that time about foreign (especially Western) domination. This meta-anxiety led them to dwell

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on possible strategies to achieve China’s revival, prevalent amongst which was the idea that traditional Chinese culture should somehow be integrated with Western modernity. This idea has obviously been accepted by those who pursue the indigenization of the social sciences in Taiwan. Situated in this context, the movement in Taiwan over the last two decades to “Sinicize” or “indigenize” the social sciences constitutes one of the cultural reactions developed by intellectuals in the third world in response to the impact of Western modernity over the past century. A similar meta-anxiety and related actions can be found among intellectuals in other areas impacted by the rising West, such as Iran and Africa.26 Such responses, in different areas of the world, bear witnesses to the important role played by intellectuals in the articulation of nationalism and nation-building. This is also evident in the process of “Taiwan-centered” indigenization (Hsiau and Taylor touch on this aspect in chapters 4 and 5).

The Future of the Trend toward Indigenization: A “Latecomer” Coming too Late? What is the future of the trend toward political and cultural indigenization in Taiwan? Three factors among many are vital. The first is ethnic politics: Can ethnic politics in Taiwan sever its connection with the complicating factor of nationalistic politics? The pursuit of equal ethnic rights in political and cultural activities needs to be conducted in a climate free of the tensions caused by debates about an alternative politically imagined community, such as the PRC. Only then will it increasingly be recognized that ethnic equality is fundamentally a domestic issue that calls for patient internal negotiations within the framework of a single sovereignty. Second, the future of the trend toward political and cultural indigenization also depends on whether it can move toward a more “civic nationalism.” The “integrative revolution” that Geertz referred to in discussing the experience of the newly independent states after World War II has only just begun in Taiwan. Ideally, the indigenization trend will promote the development of a “normal” country espousing an inclusive citizenship based on civic nationalism. Taiwan is not, however, a normal country at all. Its national sovereignty is recognized by only a few other countries and too often its domestic political conflicts become enmeshed with a concept of cultural tradition and a form of historical memory that is

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being increasingly appropriated by the PRC. Modern concepts of citizenship are premised on the concept of sovereignty. As far as the issue of national identity is concerned, Taiwan lacks the framework that would enable its citizens to reconcile themselves to one another as members of a “community of fate.” The essential condition for establishing a more “civil” society—in which internal issues such as ethnic equality can be patiently addressed—is lacking. This is a major problem that Taiwan has encountered in the past and remains a key impediment if the process of indigenization in politics and culture is to continue. It follows that the third factor affecting the future of the indigenization trend is the attitude that the PRC and other powers adopt in regard to Taiwanese nationalism. The grim reality of international politics constitutes a strong factor determining whether the project of indigenization can achieve its ultimate goal: Taiwan’s becoming a “normal” country. Therefore, the core issue facing the indigenization project is not whether it can overcome the potential parochialism of nationalism or survive the challenge of globalization but whether it can create a “normal” political community that functions as a framework within which people of different ethnic identities, political positions, and “nation-views” can recognize the importance of peaceful coexistence and patient negotiation, when local life is still “the vast order of human social existence which continues, because of the constraints of physical embodiment, to dominate even in a globalized world.”27 Although the trend toward indigenization has caused discontent and faced challenges, it represents the ideal of emphasizing the importance of thinking and practicing “actually within localities”—to borrow John Tomlinson’s term28—and of establishing national political institutions that are informed by such a form of thinking and practicing. Only peace—both domestic and in cross–Strait relations—can make it possible for people to develop their own identities freely and learn to respect the identities of others. The three factors affecting the future of the indigenization process constitute the knotty problems that have been encountered as indigenization has developed. These problems derive in part from the fact that Taiwanese nationalism is a historical latecomer in terms of the global spread of nationalism. A latecomer who strives for statehood at the turn of the twenty-first century has to meet the challenges of growing antiessentialist and deconstructionist discourse on collective identity and of the calls for the end of the nation-state, regional integration, and globalization. Collectively, these popular discourses share an

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underlying view that may be put in this way—the nationalist club is not worth joining because the game they play is no fun at all. For Taiwanese nationalists who seek to establish Taiwan’s distinct national identity via cultural and political indigenization, however, the kernel of the issue is that the island country has been excluded from playing the game, rather than that the club or the game is no fun and not worth joining. Obviously, China is the single power that has tried everything to maintain Taiwan’s exclusion from the world community. Struggling forward within the long-established global framework of nation-states and with the fact that Chinese nationhood has been consolidated over the past century, as a historical latecomer to the nationalist club, Taiwan has to struggle to demonstrate her particularity so as to legitimate the claim of political independence. The latent or obvious ironies involved in the process of cultural and political indigenization (Haddon, Hsiau, and Taylor discuss some of these ironies in chapters 3, 4, and 5), which its critics have been eager to point out, derive partially from the belatedness and postmodernity of Taiwanese nationalism. If Japanese colonialism formed the first denial of Taiwanese national identity and the GMD rule the second, the task of meeting the third challenge—that posed by the PRC as a rising power— is no less difficult. Last but not least, we remind readers that we are unable to avoid using binaries of identity categorization in this book. The use of such binaries as waishengren and benshengren, however, does not necessarily suggest that the authors are blind to the complexities—if not falsities—these identity categories create and of Taiwan’s identity politics in general. First, in spite of such complexities, it is hardly practical to avoid using these terms in discussing the politics of ethnicity and nationalism in Taiwan. Second, most chapters in this volume are devoted to analyzing the relationship between the process of indigenization and ethnic identity politics in which several binaries of identity categorization prevail. However, an author’s analysis of the politics of such identity categorizations does not necessarily suggest that he or she agrees with their popular use. The prevalence of these identity categories is part of Taiwan’s social reality. An author’s analysis of an “is” problem should not be confused with his or her practical position on this problem. The is–ought distinction should be made. Third, at a time when the deconstructionist critique of master narratives of identity has become popular, understandably, any specific category of collective identity is liable to be criticized as “false.” Nevertheless, as Benedict Anderson notes, “all communities larger

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than primordial villages of face-to-face contact (and perhaps even these) are imagined. Communities are to be distinguished, not by their falsity/genuineness, but by the style in which they are imagined.”29 It follows that the main thrust of study on collective identities lies not so much in distinguishing their falsity/genuineness as in examining their social effects. However “false” the identity dichotomies we use in this book are, they have created significant social effects. One of the tasks we set for this book was to clarify the origins of these identity dichotomies and to analyze their social effects.

Notes 1. As trumpeted in the May 28, 2004 issue of Taiwan Journal (published by the Government Information Office): “On May 20, President Chen Shui-bian, whose election in 2000 marked a historic transfer of power after more than five decades of Kuomintang rule, was inaugurated for a second term. The fact that ROC citizens granted the Democratic Progressive Party (DPP) four more years in office suggests not only an upsurge of a sense of Taiwanese identity on the island, but also strong grassroots support for the DPP’s agenda of social reform.” 2. Xiao Aqin (A-chin Hsiau), “Kangri jiti jiyi de minzuhua: Taiwan yijiu qiling niandai de zhanhou shidai yu Riju shiqi Taiwan xinwenxue ” (Nationalizing Collective Memory in 1970s Taiwan: The Postwar Generation and Its “Rediscovery” of Taiwanese Colonial Literature as Anti-Japanese Resistance), Taiwanshi yanjiu, 9.1 (2002): 181–239. 3. Xiao Aqin (A-chin Hsiau), “Rentong, xushi, yu xingdong: Taiwan yijiu qiling , , niandai dangwai de lishi jiangou : ” (Identity, Narrative, and Action: The AntiGMD Dissident Construction of History in 1970s Taiwan), Taiwan shehuixue, 5 (2003): 195–250. 4. For example, see Kenichi Ohmae, The Borderless World, London: Collins, 1990; Kenichi Ohmae, The End of the Nation State, New York: Free Press, 1995; Jean-Marie Guéhenno, The End of the Nation-State, Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota, 1995; Joseph A. Camilleri and Jim Falk, The End of Sovereignty?: The Politics of a Shrinking and Fragmenting World, Brookfield, VT: Elgar, 1992, especially chapter 3. 5. A-chin Hsiau, Contemporary Taiwanese Cultural Nationalism, London: Routledge, 2000, 178. 6. Robin Cohen and Paul Kennedy, Global Sociology, New York: Palgrave, 2000, 24. 7. Yu Sen-lun, “ ‘Naruwan! Welcome to Taiwan!,’ ” Taipei Times, February 15, 2004, page 17, accessed at http://www.taipeitimes.com/News/feat/archives/ 2004/02/15/2003098895. 8. Joy Su, “Tourism officials woo Japanese,” Taipei Times, February 1, 2004, page 2, accessed at http://www.taipeitimes.com/News/taiwan/archives/2004/ 02/01/2003097006.

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9. Yu Sen-lun, “ ‘Naruwan! Welcome to Taiwan!’ ” 10. John Tomlinson, Globalization and Culture, Cambridge, UK: Polity Press, 1999, 6, 11. 11. Horng-luen Wang, “Rethinking the Global and the National: Reflections on National Imaginations in Taiwan,” Theory, Culture & Society, 17.4 (2000): 94, 110. 12. Ania Loomba, Colonialism/Postcolonialism, London: Routledge, 1998, 12. 13. Ibid., 12. 14. J. Jorge Klor de Alva, “The Post-colonization of the (Latin) American Experience: A Reconsideration of ‘Colonialism,’ ‘Postcolonialism’ and ‘Mestizaje,’ ” in Gyan Prakash (ed.), After Colonialism: Imperial Histories and Postcolonial Displacements, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1995, 245. 15. Clifford Geertz, “The Integrative Revolution: Primordial Sentiments and Civil Politics in the New States,” in his The Interpretation of Cultures, New York: Basic Books, 1973, 269, 270, 278. 16. Ibid., 258. 17. Ibid., 261. 18. For example, see the harsh criticism of Taiwan’s “cultural independence” ( ) made by Tang Shubei , the former vice president of China’s Association for Cross-Strait Relations and the then director of the Cross-Strait Relations Research Center (People’s Daily, June 27, 2001, accessed at http://english.people.com.cn/english/200106/27/ eng20010627_73599.html). 19. Douglas Mendel, The Politics of Formosan Nationalism, Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1970, 39–40. 20. Hsiau, Contemporary Taiwanese Cultural Nationalism, 101. 21. Edward Friedman, National Identity and Democratic Prospects in Socialist China, Armonk, NY: M.E. Sharpe, 1995, 141. 22. Li Xiaodong , “Juanshou yu ” (Preface), in Zhongguo shehui kexue yanjiuhui (ed.), Zhongguo yu Riben de tazhe renshi—Zhong-Ri xuezhe de gongtong tantao (Chinese and Japanese Knowledge of Others—A Common Investigation by Chinese and Japanese Scholars), Beijing: Shehui kexue wenxian chubanshe, 2004, 1. 23. For a historical description of the ambivalent feelings of Taiwan’s political leaders toward Japan, see Xu Zongmao , Riben qingjie—Cong Jiang Jieshi dao Li Denghui (Japan Complex— from Jiang Jieshi to Li Denghui), Taipei: Tianxia wenhua, 1997. 24. For instance, see Chen Kongli , “Riju shiqi Taiwan lishi de jige wenti ” (Some Questions regarding the History of the Period of Japanese Occupation of Taiwan), in Caituan faren xiachao jijinhui (ed.), Renshi Taiwan lishi (1895–1945) xueshu taolunhui (1895–1945) (Symposium on the Understanding of Taiwan History [1895–1945]), 1998, A1–2, 3, 13; Cai Jiarui , “Riju shiqi (1895–1945) Taiwan tongbao de minzu yishi yu guojia rentong (1895–1945) ”

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25.

26.

27. 28. 29.

A-chin Hsiau (The National Consciousness and Identity of Taiwanese Compatriots During the Period of Japanese Occupation), in Caituan faren xiachao jijinhui, Renshi Taiwan lishi, A2–11, 12, 13; Wang Liren and Yan Shimei , “ ‘Riben qingjie’: Wenhua suyuan yu touxi ‘ ’ ” (The “Japan Complex”: Its Cultural Origins and an Analysis), in Caituan faren xiachao jijinhui, Renshi Taiwan lishi, A3–7, 8, 9. Chen Fenglin , “Zhanhou Riben dui Tai zhengce gaishu (1952–1997) (1952–1997 )” (An Outline of Japanese Postwar Policy on Taiwan, 1952–1997), in Song Chengyou and Tang Chongnan (eds.), Dongya quyu yishi yu heping fazhan (Regional Consciousness and Peaceful Development in East Asia), Chengdu: Sichuan daxue chubanshe, 2001, 471, 473. For example, see Ali Gheissari, Iranian Intellectuals in the 20th Century, Austin, TX.: University of Texas Press, 1998, especially chapter 5; Ali Mirsepassi, Intellectual Discourse and the Politics of Modernization: Negotiating Modernity in Iran, Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2000, especially chapter 4; Toyin Falola, Nationalism and African Intellectuals, Rochester, NY: University of Rochester Press, 2001, especially chapters 1, 5, and 6. Tomlinson, Globalization and Culture, 9. Ibid., 9. Benedict Anderson, The Imagined Community: The Origin and Spread of Nationalism, London: Verso, 1983, 6.

Notes on Contributors

Maukuei Chang received his doctorate in sociology from Purdue University and is Research Fellow at the Institute of Sociology, Academia Sinica, Taiwan. His current research interests include: social movements and political transition in Taiwan; nationalism and identity politics in Taiwan. He is the author of Social Movements and Political Transformation (in Chinese; 1989) and has published extensively in Chinese- and English-language journals (including China Perspectives; Bulletin of Concerned Asian Scholars; and Issues and Studies) and in edited volumes. E-mail: [email protected] Rosemary Haddon is Senior Lecturer in Chinese at Massey University, New Zealand. Her research interests include Taiwan, and she is currently completing her second book on Taiwan fiction. Her publications include “From Pulp to Politics: Aspects of Topicality in Fiction by Li Ang” (Modern Chinese Literature & Culture, 13:1 [Spring, 2001]) and Oxcart: Nativist Stories from Taiwan, 1934–1977 (Dortmund: projeket verlag, 1996). E-mail: [email protected] A-chin Hsiau received his doctorate in sociology from the University of California, San Diego, and is Assistant Research Fellow at the Institute of Sociology, Academia Sinica, Taiwan. He is currently researching nationalism, collective memory, generational identity, and historical narrative in relation to the Taiwanese postwar generation’s response to the country’s political crises in the 1970s, and has published a series of articles (in Chinese) on these issues. He is the author of Contemporary Taiwanese Cultural Nationalism (Routledge, 2000), a study of the development of Taiwanese cultural ideology and its role in Taiwan’s political change since the 1980s. E-mail: ahsiau@gate. sinica.edu.tw J. Bruce Jacobs received his doctorate from Columbia University and is Professor of Asian Languages and Studies, Monash University, Melbourne. He is a specialist in Chinese and Taiwan politics and society. He has published widely in Chinese- and English-language journals and edited volumes and is currently preparing a revised and expanded version of his Local Politics in a Rural Chinese Cultural Setting: A Field Study of Mazu Township, Taiwan (Australian National University, 1980). E-mail: [email protected]

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John Makeham is Reader in Chinese Studies, Centre for Asian Studies, The University of Adelaide. He specializes in Chinese intellectual history. Recent publications include: (translator and annotator) Balanced Discourses, New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2002; (editor) New Confucianism: A Critical Examination (New York: Palgrave, 2003); Transmitters and Creators: Chinese Commentators and Commentaries on the Analects (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Asia Center, 2003). E-mail: john. [email protected] Jeremy E. Taylor received his doctorate in history from the Australian National University in 2003 and is currently a Visiting Fellow at the ANU’s Research School of Pacific and Asian Studies. He is interested in the cultural history of the Chinese-speaking world and his work has been published in scholarly journals such as East Asian History, Rethinking History, Social History, and Urban History. E-mail: [email protected] Fu-chang Wang received his doctorate in sociology from the University of Arizona, and is Associate Research Fellow at the Institute of Sociology, Academia Sinica, Taiwan. Research interests include: ethnic relations; social movements; and social classes in Taiwan. He is the author of The Ethnic Imaginings of Contemporary Taiwanese Society (in Chinese; 2002) and has published numerous articles in Chinese. E-mail: [email protected]

Index

Aboriginals: as ethnic minorities, 87; dancing of, 264; identity politics and, 11; identity status of; 5, 12n.5; Malay-Polynesian origin of, 144; political ethnicization and, 5; racist attitudes toward, 195; Yasakuni Shrine and, 14n.14 Alienation: Chinese culture and, 223; Hegel’s notion of, 192; political and social, 3; as theme, 4; reintegration and 13n.11; of waishengren, 265; of Western theory, 229 Anthropology: Chinese, 225, 248; indigenization/Sinicization of, 10, 128–129, 150n.6, 223, 224; international, 225; native, 249 Appiah, Kwame A., 142; on construction of identities, 146 Architecture: crown-style, 170, 174 Barthes, Roland: on narrative, 130 Basic Resources for Chinese Culture, 197–198, 204 Beitou Hot-springs Museum, 165 bentu (indigenous), 18–19, 222 Bentuahua: in culture, 56; definition of, 11; as discourse, 188; ethnic politics and, 97n.51; exclusionary practices of, 3; as paradigm, 3; political movement, 3, 85, 87, 107; political reforms, 77;

translation of, 11, 18–19; see also Indigenization Bourdieu, Pierre, 247, 248 Built environment: preservation of, 159 Cai Renhou, 188 Cai Yimin: attack on Hou Dejian by, 25–26 Cai Yongmei, 236 Chang, Maukuei, 10, 264, 266, 270 Chen Fangming, 139 Chen Lifu, 198 Chen Shaoxin, 242, 243, 248 Chen Shuibian: inauguration speech of, 19; as mayoral candidate, 80; as president, 2, 45–47, 140; reelection of, 261; reelection bid of, 5 Chen Xujing, 191 Chen Yingzheng: as Chinese nationalist, 24, 137; as critic of the narratived indigenization paradigm, 131; literary discourse of, 139; national identification of, 139; PRC scholars and, 146 Chen Yuan, 25 Chen Zhaoying, 9, 189, 190–197 Chiang Kai-shek, see Jiang Jieshi China: aggression of toward Taiwan, 41, 45, 83, 85–86, 140; traditional culture of, 187; see also People’s Republic of China

280

Index

China Complex: Taiwan Complex and, 25 China Unification Union, 74 “Chinese character”: project, 227, 228, 229 Chinese Communist Party (CCP), 37, 221, 235 Chinese Cultural Renaissance Movement: Council, 197; demise of, 64; heyday of, 62; launch of, 64; nation-building and, 161; as nationalizing process, 88; purpose of, 61; targets of, 91n.9 Chinese Nationalist Party (GMD): as colonial regime, 239; colonization under, 7; crisis of legitimacy faced by, 228; cultural hegemony of, 244; cultural policy of, 59; as defender of Chinese culture, 61; “ethnic cleansing” of, 169; ethnic division under, 8; as foreign regime, 78, 84; graft and corruption under, 7; under Jiang Jingguo, 85; as legitimate government of China, 65; legacy of, 204; mainlander elites, 95n.39; mainlander association with, 103; mainstream faction of, 25; membership of, 23; national imagination of, 67; political stigma attached to, 110; propaganda of, 140; repression of opposition by, 68; Sinicization policy of, 66; Taiwanese faction in, 88; “white terror” and, 7 Chinese New Party (CNP): founding of, 39; goals of, 79; mainlander elites and, 87; New GMD Alliance and, 78, 86; supporters of, 77; on Taiwan independence, 86; see also Li Qinghua Chinese Sociology Association, 221–223, 240, 242, 244 Chineseness: quality of, 236; study of, 227; of Taiwanese literature, 127

Ching, Leo T. S., 6–7 Chung Li Incident, 21 Colonialism: collapse of Japanese, 266; decolonization and, 8, 103, 105; Japanese, 6, 7, 17, 58, 76, 113, 166–171 passim; legacy of Japanese, 8, 13n.11, 58–59, 94n.23; nativism and, 191; nostalgia for, 268; older Taiwanese educated under Japanese, 99n.57; resistance to Japanese, 262; as a style, 183n.63 “Community construction,” 171–173 “Community of fate,” 137, 272 Confucian: apologists, 196; capitalism, 188–189; content of textbooks, 188; culturalism, 190, 200, 209; culturalists, 210; identity, 189, 211; meaning of term, 213n.8; modernization, 191; philosophy in Taiwanese academy, 9–11; revivalists, 189, 190, 200, 208, 209; temples, 187; values, 197 Confucianism: as Chinese culture, 196; classical, 200; vs. Christianity, 235; crisis of relevance for, 188; critical, 201; cultural identity and, 208; East Asian, 189, 193; folk, 196; as generalized phenomenon, 193; imperial style, 201, 204, 210; indigenization discourse and, 189; indigenization movement and, 191; indigenized, 197; intellectual forms of, 212; as native culture, 191, 192, 195; meaning of term, 213n.8; official, 196, 197, 198, 210; pan-Asian, 189; politicized, 205; in postwar Taiwan, 196, 197; real life, 201; relevance of, 193; Taiwanese forms of, 190, 207, 211; unofficial, 197, 199

Index Cross-Strait: economic relations, 45; exchanges, 83, 85; political relations, 47; war, 59 Culture/s: bentuhua and, 56; Chinese, 9, 19, 105, 161, 189, 195; confrontation between theory and, 224; as identity, 208; indigenization of, 240; Japanese, 195; national, 1; representations of Taiwanese, 56; Taiwanese, 9, 19, 136, 189, 208; uniqueness of Chinese, 249 “Cultural China,” 190, 204, 206, 207, 209 Culturalism: Confucian, 190, 200, 209 Dai Baocun, 167 Dangwai: candidates, 66; as democratic movement, 26; democratic reforms of, 67; dissidents, 262; election rhetoric, 31; movement, 8, 228; rallies of, 21; reformist challenge of, 135; repression of, 22; selfdetermination and, 28–29, 31–32 Daotong: zhengtong and, 198, 203–205; Chinese culture and, 206; construct, 210 Daxue zazhi, 229 Democracy, chapter 1, passim; nationalism and, 2–3, 34; Jiang Jingguo and, 76 Democratic Progressive Party (DPP): founding of, 33, 56; leading members of, 24; New Tide faction of, 86; on Taiwan independence, 79, 83, 84 Dirlik, Arif, 5, 189, 211, 224 Discourse: of antiquity, 162; bentuhua as, 188; Chinese nationalist, 58, 67, 69; on collective identity, 272; of constructed identities; of cultural

281

elite, 147; emplotted, 126; of guji, 173; of heritage, 164, 165; indigenization, 9–10, 56, 189, 223, 249; on Japanese colonialism, 7; literary, 137; narrative as, 129; nationalistic, 126, 127, 139; pro-local, 118; separatist, 135; Taiwanese nationalist, 83, 84 Donglin Academy, 194 DPP, see Democratic Progressive Party Ehu, 199, 208 Essentialism: postcolonial, 4 Ethnic politics: analysis of in Taiwan, 80; dynamics of, 88; ethnic mobilization and, 96n.46; influence of, 88; nationalistic politics and, 271; nature of, 81; relations, 261–262; in 1960s and 1970s, 88; in 1990s, 86 Ethnicity: identity consciousness and, 9; Hoklo, 103; identity politics of, 4, 127, 145; minority, 118; politics of, 1 Ethnicization: of politics, 5, 78–88 passim, 144 Fang Sumin, 29 February 28 Incident, 18, 48n.4, 268; cultural differences and, 59; influence of on Taiwan’s politics, 91n.4; trauma of, 60 Fei Xiaotong, 233 Fei Xiping, 24 Formosa Association of Public Affairs, 79 Four Books: in school curriculum, 187; Chen Lifu and, 198 “Four great ethnic groups,” 5, 105; development of the concept of, 144 Four Modernizations, 234 Friedman, Edward, 269 Fu Dawei, 228

282

Index

Gao Chengshu, 232 Gao Junming, 23 Geertz, Clifford, 267, 271 global capitalism, 264–265 Globalization: anti-globalization and, 250; indigenization and, 188, 261, 263–265 Goth Shinpei, 94n.26 Gu Zhenfu (Koo Chen-fu), 36 Guji: codification of, 162; concept of, 164; definitions of, 160; nationstate and, 161; protection of, 160; shiji and, 162 Guomin dang, see Chinese Nationalist Party Haddon, Rosemary, 3, 273, 277 Hakka: as ethnic minority, 87; as marginalized ethnic group, 144; political ethnicization and, 5; in schools, 61 Hall, Stuart, 140 Hao Bocun, 35 Hegel, G. W. F., 192, 207 Heirs of the Dragon (long de chuanren), 24–25 Heritage: Euro-American tradition of, 164; indigenous social/cultural, 225; Japanese architectural, 173–176 Historiography: Confucian, 195; “pro-colonial,” 166–171, 176–177 History: pro-colonial, 7 Hoklo: broadcasts in, 61, 90n.1; ethnicity, 103; indigenization and, 4; in schools, 61; writing systems of, 146 Hong Fufeng, 172 Hou Dejian: “defection” of to China, 24 Hsiau, A-chin (Xiao Aqin), 4, 265, 267, 273, 277 Hu Jintao, 47 Hu Shi: Chinese Cultural Renaissance Movement and,

91n.9; New Culture Movement and, 191 Hu Zhiqiang, 41 Huang Chunming, 133 Huang Guangguo, 231, 249 Huang Junjie, 9, 189, 197–201 Huang Tianfu, 30 Huang Xinjie, 30, 262 Huaren, 223, 224, 245, 246, 250, 253n.10 Huntington, Samuel, 205 Identity: aboriginal, 5; African, 142; categorization, 273; Chinese, 39, 56; Chinese national, 133; collective, 147; conflicts, 239; Confucian, 9, 10, 189, 201, 210; construction of, 140, 146; contemporary study of, 142; critique of master narratives of, 273; cultural, 2, 9, 10, 56, 84, 192; culture as, 208; dichotomies, 274; disputes, 5; essentialist claim of, 143, 144; narrative, 129; nation-state as, 208; national, 4, 11, 104, 190, 263, 272; nationalist, 192; politics, 1, 4, 9, 11, 105, 125, 127, 145, 188; of Taiwan, 17; Taiwanese, 1, 9, 31, 188, 189; Taiwanese nationalist, 126 Indigenization: of anthropology, 224; Confucianism and, 198; of culture, 240; defined, 1, 11, 125, 223; as “de-Sinicization, 188; discourse 9–10, 56, 104, 189, 223, 249; as ethnic nationalism, 9; future trend of, 271–274; globalization and, 188, 261, 263–265; hegemonic qualities of, 105; of historic sites, 161; Hoklo and, 4, 118; identity politics of, 9; knowledge construction and, 145; lingering collective memory and, 270; as localism, 188; movement, 223, 249;

Index paradigm, 126, 188; as nationalism, 1; nationalistic impulses and, 105; political, 87; process, 88; responses to, 265–270; Sinicization and/as, 9, 222; of social sciences, chapter 7 passim, 271; of Taiwanese literature, 141; as Taiwanization, 11; three models of, 245. See also Taiwanization; Bentuhua Iwabuchi, Koichi, 8 Jacobs, J. Bruce, 2, 11, 265, 277 Japan: imperialism of, 168, 174; popular culture of 8; surrender of, 17 Japanophilia, 8, 174, 269 Jiang Jieshi: Japanese surrender and, 17; Jiang Jingguo and, 20, 198, 262; national emergency law of, 65; political speeches of, 63; as transmitter of daotong, 204 Jiang Jinfeng, 29 Jiang Jingguo: as chairman of GMD, 34; death of, 34; Jiang Jieshi and, 20; martial law and, 95n.37; as premier, 66; reforms of, 33; on Taiwan independence, 85 Jiang Pengjian: on self-determination, 32 Jiang Xun, 26 Jin Yaoji (Ambrose King), 226, 229 Kang Ningxiang, 28; on self-determination, 32 Kaohsiung Incident, 228, 268; democratization and, 21; impact of, 135; leaders of, 66, 67, 70 Kaohsiung Musuem of History, 165 Kissinger, Henry, 20 Klor de Alva, J. John, 266 Kong Meng yuekan, 198 Korean War, 19 Koxinga: as first ruler of Taiwan, 193; as national hero, 63 Kyoto, 113

283

Lan Dingyuan, 114 Lan Yiping, 23 Lee Kuan Yew, 33 Levenson, Joseph, 208 Li Ao, 192; Chinese Cultural Renaissance Movement and, 91n.9 Li Denghui (Lee Teng-hui): bentuhua reforms of, 77; constitutional amendments under, 37, 39–40, 42; early presidency of, 34–39; ethnic background of, 78; interview with, 12n.1; later presidency of, 43–44; middle presidency of 39–43; as president, 2, 18; as presidential candidate, 33; Taiwan history and, 166; Taiwan independence and, 43, 79, 85, 95n.42; textbook dispute and, 76 Li Hongzhang, 114 Li Huan, 35; as secretary general of GMD Li Minghui, 188, 209 Li Qinghua: as CNP leader, 98n.56; as member of New GMD Alliance, 97n.50; role of in textbook dispute, 73, 74, 76 Li Yiyuan, 226, 235, 245 Li Yongping, 105 Li Zhefu, 238 Li Shikan, 132; group, 135, 137; members of, 139 Lian Heng, 111; Taiwan tongshi and, 58, 195 Lian Zhan: as chairman of GMD, 261; as premier, 41; as running mate of Li Denghui, 42 Lian Yatang, see Lian Heng Lin Anwu, 9, 189, 201–208 Lin Shimin, 24 Literature: Chinese, 132, 134, 141; colonial, 141; identity in, 3–6; Japanese, 141; Taiwanese, 132, 135, 141, 146, 262; world, 136 Liu Mingchuan, 63; Taiwan’s modernization and, 76, 93n.16

284

Index

Lin Yixong, 23 Lin Zhengjie, 24 Liu Shuxian, 188 Long Yingtai, 70 Lu Xun, 107 Lü Xiulian, 261

Mendel, Douglas, 267–268 Military villages (juancun), 106, 116 Mingsheng: guiji and, 160 Modernization: of Taiwan, 7 Mou Zongsan, 199; philosophy of, 202–203

Ma Yingjiu: as mayoral candidate, 79 Mainland Affairs Council, 83 Mainlanders: alienation of, 265; association of with GMD, 103; Chinese New Party and, 87; in cultural domain, 87; definition of, 12n.2, 132; dichotomy of Taiwanese and, 144, 262, 263, 273; as ethnic category, 266; as ethnic minority, 86; as foxes, 117; as outsiders, 96n.43; voting behavior of, 81 Makeham, John, 9–10, 266, 270, 278 Mandarin: broadcasts in, 92n.11; imposition of, 61; as national language, 63, 92n.10, 178n.23 Mao Zedong, 19 Martial law: cessation of, 33, 95n.39, 198; right of resistance and, 23 Marxist: historical materialism, 235 Matayoshi Morikiyo, 111, 113 May Fourth Movement, 91n.9, 230 Mass Rapid Transit, 5 Meilidao Incident, see Kaohsiung Incident Meilidao Magazine: dangwai movement and, 21; native literature and, 69 Memory: China-centered collective, 9, 132, 270; of colonial descent, 118; intellectuals and collective, 270–271; of Japanese colonialism, 7, 268–269; nationalized, 137; suppressed, 99n.57; Taiwanese collective, 262; Taiwanese historical, 136; as theme, 4, 107

Nan Lin, 237 Narrative, 129–131 National Affairs Conference, 35 National Bureau of Editing and Translating: attacks on, 74; newsletters of, 70; school textbooks and, 62; threats to, 77 National Science Council, 85, 97n.49 Nationalism: Chinese, 265; civic, 271; cultural, 135, 246, 248, 250, 254n.17; democracy and, 2–3, 34; ethnic, 3, 9; global spread of, 263, 272; identity politics of, 127, 145; as meta-discourse, 262; Taiwanese, 103, 136 New Alliance Union, 74 New Confucianism, 188, 196 New Culture Movement, 191, 193, 195 New GMD Alliance, 78, 86, 97n.50, 98n.55 New Party, see Chinese New Party “One China”: policy of, 18, 20, 36, 47 “Pan-blue” alliance, 44, 45, 47 “Pan-green” alliance, 44 Paradigm: bentuhua, 3; China-centered and Taiwancentered, 3, 6, chapter 2 passim; indigenization, 1, 126; literary indigenisation, 125, 129; narratived indigenization, 127; non-narratived indigenization, 127

Index Peng Mingmin, 17, 93n.19 Peng Ruijin, 139 People First Party: founding of, 39, 44 People’s Republic of China (PRC), 5, 34, 36, 263, 267, 269–273; see also China Postcolonial: essentialism, 141; nation, 103; sentiments, 226; society, 145, 174, 175, 266; state, 103; struggles, 141, 142, 146 Presbyterian Church, 27 Presidential Palace, 117, 176 Preservation: ordinances and acts, 160, 161 Psychology: Chinese, 226, 245; indigenization/Sinicization of, 10, 128–129, 149n.6, 223–224; transnational, 245; Western, 234, 245–246 Qi Jialin, 167 Qian Fu: as foreign minister, 41 Qian Jian, 226, 233, 245 Qianjin guangchang: on dangwai candidates, 28 Qianjin zhoukan: on Hou Dejian, 24 Qiu Fengjia, 214n.22 Qiu Yiren, 27 Qu Haiyuan, 223, 231 Regionalects: Hoklo and Hakka, 61; Taiwanese, 61–62, 90n.1, 92n.10, 92n.11 Renshi Taiwan: textbooks, 2; chapter 2, passim Republic of China (Zhonghua minguo) (ROC), 19, 36–37, 262, 265–266 Republic of Taiwan, 215n.22 Ricoeur, Paul: on narrative, 130 Royal Lords: cult of, 212 Sects: spirit-writing and “harmonizing,” 212

285

Sehn-kin (Shengen) weekly, 27, 94n.25 Self-determination: in dangwai publications, 26–29, 32; Xu Rongshu on, 31 Shi Ming, 69, 94n.25; as nationalist historian, 72 Shi Mingde, 21 Shimonoseki: Treaty of, 58 Shinto: shrines, 170, 174 Showa: architecture, 116 Sinicization: of anthropology, 256n.39; campaign, 228; GMD policy of, 66, 140; implicit goal of, 231; indigenization and/as, 10–11, 222; of Marxism, 234; movement, 223, 229, 236; problems with, 243; relationship between Taiwanization an, 240, 241; of social sciences, 129, 149n.6, chapter 7 passim; of Taiwan, 55, 62 Social sciences, chapter 7 passim; positivist conceptualization of, 230; sinicization/idigenization of, 10–11, 271; Western, 229 Sociology: Chinese, 237; defined, 222; empirical, 231; global, 237, 241; indigenization of, 223; indigenous, 247; institutionalization of, 221 Song Chuyu (James C. Y. Soong), 34, 53n.67; as GMD mainlander leader, 96n.45; as leader of People First Party, 39, 261 Stele: inscriptions, 194 “Strategic essentialism,” 141–144, 146–147; in identity politics, 127 Subjectivity, 1; group identity consciousness as, 209; loss of, 198; mainland, 206; Taiwanese, 206; of Taiwanese culture and society, 242; of Taiwanese literature, 138; various meanings of, 258n.59

286

Index

Sun Zhongshan, see Sun Yat-sen Sun Yat-sen, 30, 32, 63 Sun Yunxuan, 32 Taichung Incident, 21; Mou Zongsan’s criticisms of, 199 Taipei: Bao’an Temple in, 163; under DPP rule, 115; Kyoto and, 115; landmarks of, 116–117; physical environment of, 113; Shilin in, 115; Ximending in, 115 Taiwan: Confucian identity of, 188; Dutch rule of, 63; as “Free China,” 187; future of, 46; indigenous culture of, 207; modernization of, 76; nation, 34, 70, 84; nationality, 26; nationhood in, 105; native culture of, 192, 209; Studies, 242, 243, 244; studies fever, 70 Taiwan consciousness, 1, 26, 38, 192; debate on, 139; development of, 141, 195; nationalistic, 135, 136, 137; politically inflected, 199; “pro-colonial” historiography and, 166; promotion of, 228; Taiwanese nationalism as, 141 Taiwan Democratic Self-Government League, 18 Taiwan history (Taiwanshi), 6; discipline of, 159; Guoshi and, 166; Japanese colonial rule and, 166 Taiwan independence, 43, 45, 79, 82–83, 85, 96n.42; cultural discourse of, 139; movement, 1, 8, 18, 86, 190–191, 199, 210; opposition to, 97n.52 Taiwan Sociology Association, 223, 244 Taiwan Solidarity Union, 44. Taiwan Strait: both sides of, 139; confrontation across, 265, 270;

crisis of 1996, 41; neutralization of, 19 Taiwan tongshi (Complete History of Taiwan), 111, 112 Taiwan wenyi, 132; group, 135, 137; members of, 139 Taiwanese: Confucianism, 190, 192–197; Confucian culturalism, 189, 209, 211; consciousness, 6, 26, 239; culture, 189; cultural nationalism, 135, 239; cultural nationalists, 189; ethnic nationalists, 189; identity, 1, 9, 31, 189; language, 178n.23; literature, 136; local identity, 133; nation, 137; nationalism, 84, 141, 267; popular religion, 211–212 Taiwanese Associations of the United States, 22 Taiwanese Professors Association, 74 Taiwaneseness: definition of 5; rediscovery of, 141 Taiwanization: of Confucian philosophy, 200; democratization as, 23; as indigenization/ bentuhua, 1, 18–19, 223; relationship between Sinicization and, 240, 241 Taiwanshi, see Taiwan history. Taylor, Jeremy E., 6–8, 266–267, 273, 278 Three People’s Principles: as GMD ideology, 30, 198 Tomlinson, John, 265, 272 Unification, 82, 83 United Nations: Republic of China and, 19, 65; Taiwan’s loss of representation in, 118, 255n.24 Waishengren, see Mainlanders Wang, Fu-chang, 2–3, 265, 267, 270, 278

Index Wang Tuo, 133; as Chinese nationalist, 137 Wang Zhenhe, 133 Wang-Koo talks, 36 Wei Tiancong, 137 Wei Zhengtong, 188 Wen Chongyi, 226, 235, 240 Wen Jiabao, 47 Wenhua daotong, 106, 201, 203, 206, 209 Wenxuejie, 135 Wenxue Taiwan, group, 137; members of, 139 “White terror,” 18: GMD and, 7; as cultural icon, 108 World System, 232 Wu Nairen, 27 Wu Zhuoliu, 147

Xu Zhengguang, 241

Xia Zhujiu, 161 Xiangtu: literary debate, 69, 132–134, 262; literary movement, 105, 228; literature, 135, 137, 141; rhetoric, 126 Xiao Wanchang: as premier, 41 Xiao Xinhuang, 223, 232, 236, 238 Xie Changting: on Three People’s Principles, 30 Xie Guoxiong, 247 Xu Fuguan, 199, 200 Xu Guangzheng, 223 Xu Rongshu, 27; on self-determination, 31, 32 Xu Xinliang, 21 Xu Xueji, 167

Zhang Dachun, 105 Zhang Junhong, 27 Zhang Liangze, 139 Zhang Shouzhen, 167 Zhang Yanxian, 167 Zhang Yinghua, 223 Zhao Chang, 29 Zhao Shaokang, 79, 96n.43, 98n.55 Zheng Chenggong, see Koxinga Zhongguo luntan, 229 Zhongtai Hotel Incident, 21, 49n.14 Zhu Gaozheng, 97n.52 Zhu Xi, 194, 214n.19 Zhu Xining, 106 Zhuang Wanshou, 214n.9

287

Yan Jiagan, 34 Yang Guoshu, 225, 226, 228, 235, 245, 248; on “Westernization,” 234 Yang Qingchu, 133 Yang Rubin, 200 Yazhouren, 22; on martial law, 23; on self-determination, 32 Ye Julan, 5 Ye Naiqi, 161 Ye Qizheng, 223, 232, 234, 248 Ye Shitao, 131, 133, 139, 146 Yiguandao, 212 Yin Haiguang, 91n.7, 192, 229 Yu Guohua, 35 Yu Yonghe, 114