Book Review: Voices from the Mountain

Voices from the Mountain (2014)

Husluman Vava, Auvina Kadresengan and Badai

Translated by Dr. Shu-hwa Wu

Edited by David R. Braden

Recently, I've taken a greater interest in Indigenous Taiwanese literature. One big difficulty is the dearth of such literature that's both available in English and actually in print. It's also crucial not to lump all "Taiwanese Indigenous literature" into one category, as though the writers are interchangeable. All in all, it can be hard to know where to start. 

This is where Voices from the Mountain comes in. Containing excerpts of longer works by three prominent Indigenous writers -- Badai, Husluman Vava and Auvini Kadresengan -- it's a fantastic introduction to Taiwanese Indigenous literature. Instead of committing to a whole novel, you're committing to some of the most interesting parts of that novel, to get a sense of that writer's storytelling style, wordsmithing and the topics they tend to write about.

The only real issue with this is that if you like what you read, the full novel is not necessarily available in translation. It's not really a chance to read more if your interest is piqued, unless you can read Mandarin. As for me, I can, but I find novels challenging and I'm probably not going to. If anyone knows where to get full translated versions of Husluman Vava's Tattooed Face, Auvini Kadresengan's Wild Lilies or Badai's Ginger Road in English, drop a comment below. 

The effort taken to translate these excerpts is commendable, and although I'd have recommended a bit more editing to smooth out some of the rough bits (for example, the odd clause and collocation in the second paragraph of page 64), all three authors were a joy to read. It's not a long volume, making it both a quick read and an excellent choice to throw in a carry-on when traveling. 

Because Voices from the Mountain is a book of excerpts, not a novel, it's hard to review it per se. Each excerpt and author is different. Instead, I'll offer some thoughts on the stories that have stuck with me. I remember Tattooed Face (the first excerpt from the longer book of the same name) most clearly: the characters learn that a person from a different tribe with different traditions is not someone to be feared but respected. We learn, however, that Indigenous communities are not a monolith. Each tribe and sub-communities within those tribes may have their own customs, history and culture. So often, Taiwan is divided into neat little groups: Hoklo, Hakka, the KMT diaspora, Indigenous. Perhaps some include foreigners, mostly Southeast Asian, Western or Chinese. (Yes, China is a foreign country and people from China are foreigners in Taiwan just as British people in the US are). 

But it's really so much more complicated than that. Sure, there are the Zhangzhou and Quanzhou Hoklo, and there are different groups of Hakka (I don't know much about this but I am told that the Hakka community in, say, Meinong is culturally a bit distinct from Hakka communities in Miaoli. But don't take my word for it, I'm hardly an expert). And, of course, Indigenous communities have distinctive cultural and linguistic traits beyond even the 16 recognized tribes. 

Think about it: when I moved to Taiwan in 2006, 12 tribes were recognized. By 2007, it was 13. Several tribes (including Makatao and Siraya) are locally recognized, and several more are unrecognized but claim distinct identity. How can we possibly say that "Indigenous Taiwanese" are one cultural unit when even official recognition is so often updated? 

Auvini Kadresengan's excerpts more obviously follow the same characters, though it was a bit hard to figure out what was happening when. I enjoyed learning about the intra-village dynamics that gave rise to Er-sai's family situation. If you ever had any notion that Indigenous villages were bastions of purity where everyone got along and nobody followed their individual impulses to community chagrin, then please read these stories and wash the eau de sauvage noble out of your perspective.

I've read Badai before, so I know I like his writing style. His plot arc in Sorceress Diguwan was a bit nebulous until the very end, but he's engaging and readable. More than the other authors, Badai's writing focuses on the magic or sorcery aspects of his community's beliefs -- and if I remember correctly, his mother was just such a sorceress. Of these excerpts, The Shaman has really stuck with me. In it, a sorceress's son is in an accident, and she attempts to use her powers to save him, as he is being airlifted to a hospital and attended to by medical personnel. I won't reveal the ending, but The Shaman is a riveting story. It explores how magic works in Puyuma culture, and what the requirements of limitations of practicing it are. By contrasting it with Western (or modern) medical interventions, Badai makes it clear that the ability to keep someone alive through magic is possible in that belief system, but leaves you wondering to what extent that belief is in the mother's head -- or to what extent it might be real, and potentially more powerful than a modern hospital.

I don't actually think this is intentional on Badai's part: we're not meant to wonder, necessarily, if the shaman's magic is real. Perhaps I'm wrong, but I got the distinct impression that this was simply my own interpretation, as an atheist who puts no stock in the supernatural. But you know what else? If I've learned anything about such things after 18 years in Taiwan, it's that you just have to accept there are unknowable things, and ways of looking at those unknowable things that deserve respect.

I recommend Voices from the Mountain, and not only because Taiwanese Indigenous literature in translation is rare enough to find. Even so, on its own it's a worthwhile read for anyone who wants to understand more about Taiwan's Indigenous communities -- their literatures, cultures and histories. 

Book review: "The Butcher's Wife" is a brutal read

Content note: this book is about sexual assault and domestic violence. I don't know what else to say. Don't read this book (or this post) if you aren't in a place where you can engage with such topics. 


* * * 


Years ago in a used bookstore in downtown Singapore, I came across a lonely copy of The Butcher's Wife, by Li Ang. 

Li cemented herself as one of my favorite Taiwanese authors with The Lost Garden, only recently available in English translation despite not being a new novel. The Butcher's Wife, however, is probably her most famous work. You're unlikely to find the translated edition in a library or bookshop, but Amazon seems to offer it. 

To be honest, it's barely a novel. I'd call it a novella. A very long short story. It's straightforward, and brutal. 

The brevity of the story renders it highly engaging. Longer works of Taiwanese fiction tend toward narrative structures that can be a little hard to follow. Stories branch out or coil around in a spiral, glancing at the main plot -- perhaps sideswiping it now and again -- until zeroing in at the last moment. (The Lost Garden certainly did this). The Butcher's Wife, in contrast, opens with an arresting scene. I mean that literally: Lin Shi spies her mother having sex with (or rather, being haved sex with) a soldier, whom we later learn has promised the malnourished woman two rice balls in exchange. 

It's not consensual, as even "willing" sex work in desperate circumstances -- when you wouldn't have agreed if you didn't need the money, food or housing -- generally isn't. But, according to the family members who hog-tie her to a pillar in the ancestral hall, that's not good enough: she didn't put up a fight, her dress was still intact and freshly pressed, so the act of a hungry woman is considered adultery, not desperation. 

This sets the story in motion, leading Lin Shi herself to be banished from her family and married off to a pig butcher. 

It's also the first time the story shows us that the status of women in Taiwanese society, or any patriarchal society (which is to say, just about all of them), isn't due to some sort of natural difference between the sexes or any notion of fairness. It's a horrific triad of economics, violent misogyny, and silence. 

Later on, Lin Shi herself remarks that she is not entirely unhappy married to "Pig Butcher Chen". She has food and shelter, which isn't exactly nothing in 1950s rural Taiwan, for a woman with a so-called questionable past. Chen Jiangshui, the butcher, spends his mornings slaughtering pigs, comes home and rapes Lin Shi almost daily, and then gambles and drinks for the rest of the day. Lin Shi almost begins to endure it, thinking her life isn't terrible. 

In short, she's starting to come around to the idea that men are terrible, but it's possible to grit your teeth through their abuse if the rest of your life is going well enough. 

But then we learn that Chen specifically enjoys the screaming of a trapped woman. Before marriage, he paid prostitutes generously to scream like a stuck pig; it's implied that he enjoys butchery for the same reason. His butcher's knife is implicitly compared to his penis, and the squeals of pigs trapped in the "V-shaped" butcher's table (hm) contrasted with the screams of his abused wife. 

This could be read narrowly as the story of one sadistic man who gets off on violence. But Lin Shi was put in this position because all of society seems to enjoy watching women suffer. If they didn't, why would they have created abusive structures like the ones Lin Shi and her mother are both forced to endure? 

I'm not an expert in the symbolism of nomenclature in Mandarin-language literature, but it seems significant to me that Lin Shi's name (林市) means "forest and city" -- so, everywhere, really. Chen Jiangshui's name (陳江水) means "river water", implying an ever-flowing river. Chen lives, of course, in Chencuo (陳厝), which is a village name for an ancestral clan who dominates the area. In other words, violence against women is everywhere. It never stops. It's not one shitty guy, it's every shitty person who lets it happen and patriarchy throughout history that has rendered it acceptable. 

You'd think my least favorite character in The Butcher's Wife would be Chen, but it's actually elderly neighbor Auntie Ah-wang. She's the elderly archetype of every gossipy bint I've ever known or read about, and I've known a few real-life versions of her. She's endured violence at the hands of patriarchy as well; her feet had at one point been bound, which has disabled her for life. However, they were unbound early (we aren't told why, but my educated guess is that the family couldn't afford to keep her sedentary at home; perhaps they needed her to work). She gets into an argument with her daughter-in-law, who attempts to stand up to her. Through drastic means, she wins. 

Auntie Ah-wang hides behind a nearby wall listening to Chen rape and abuse Lin Shi. She knows it is rape, because at first she offers the young bride a soothing ointment. Later, she tells all the women of the village that Lin's cries are of sexual ecstasy and that the girl is a slut just like her mother. }

This is where society is complicit in Chen's treatment of Lin: he wouldn't be able to treat her as he does if her neighbors objected. Not only do they condone his behavior, but praise him -- and his upholding of patriarchal structures, which include some respect for much older women -- while victim-blaming Lin Shi. Even in attempting to create some small measure of economic freedom when her husband stops bringing her food, she's mocked by other women and further abused by him.

It's not just men. It's certainly not just a few violent men. It's all of society, women included, and the economic structures that uphold patriarchy. Which, to be clear, are just about all economic structures. (Yes, even communism. Sorry tankies.) 

This sets the characters on a path to annihilation. The Butcher's Wife was written in the 1980s so it's hardly a spoiler, but I won't divulge the ending here in case you're unaware. 

The Butcher's Wife was difficult and disturbing to read. The characters reminded me so much of patriarchal violence I've seen and heard about in real life, from shades of Auntie Ah-wang in the pink-vested women who would hand out anti-gay literature during the referendum to the stories of domestic abuse and societal complicity that I heard about living in China. One woman I know married the only make foreigner in town, even though he too was pretty awful, because the entire town blamed her for divorcing her husband. "A man never beats a good wife, so she must have done something to deserve it," they apparently said. 

I am sadly reminded of a friend who took her life. Her boyfriend was not abusive, but her father kicked her out of the family, her mental health problems prevented her from holding down a job, her former boss was petty and vindictive, suing her for something I am quite certain he knew she never did, and she didn't receive nearly enough social support. Her friends tried to help, but ultimately we failed. I'll never fully forgive myself for this, and I'll always struggle more than I otherwise would to read stories like this of society failing women. I suspect most women have experienced a trauma that affects them in some way, as well. 

Lin Shi doesn't even get that much acknowledgement. She takes her fate into her own hands, and for it, she is condemned by the village for being the only one at fault. Leading the pack, of course, is Auntie Ah-Wang. 

I have one final observation to make. It's a fairly obvious one. Sometimes I come across foreigners in Taiwan who think this is a gentle society of school-obsessed nerds who, I dunno, study engineering and drink tea in fine porcelain cups and never do crime. This is simply not true. Taiwan has higher domestic violence statistics than you might think, though they are lower than in Australia, which has a comparable population. Cases have been rising, not falling. Spousal abuse was only outlawed in 1998 (!), meaning it was still legal when The Butcher's Wife was written. Marital rape was outlawed at roughly the same time. There was no law against stalking until 2021, which is terrifying.

When I first moved here I felt like Taiwan was a crime-free society! Of course this is ridiculous, but just the ability to safely walk around alone at all hours of the night was astounding to me. I've been sexually harassed and assaulted in India, nearly mugged twice in Washington DC, followed and catcalled in countless other cities. 

But no, patriarchy is everywhere. Even seemingly 'safe' Taiwan. The Butcher's Wife may have been written in the 1980s, about what I presume was the 1950s (given the presence of the soldier in the beginning of the story). But it tells a tale as old as time: it's not just men who are beasts. It's all of us. 

As beautiful as the ringworm on her body: a review of Sorceress Diguwan

Sorceress Diguwan by Badai

I'm a blockhead.

I don't do stream of consciousness, and I'm not a fan of I like novels with intentionally beguiling names like Autumn of the Sixteenth Nephrologist. Novels that your white mom would read in her book club that the gals winkingly called "Prosé" because they meet to discuss books and drink rosé. I like novels that are creative, but also follow a novel structure predictable enough that when it's subverted, you go "oh so like Arundhati Roy did that one time." 

I'm also sucker for a surprising line. I don't mean those postmodern writerly affectations where being out of place or saying something shocking just makes you sound like all the other writers who've already done that. 

A novel doesn't actually have to be perfectly paced or structured or even particularly surprising, if it's different enough to keep my attention. Give me enough of an undercurrent and I'll happily float down even the longest roman fleuves.

So, did I like Badai's Sorceress Diguwan? I did. 

It was not a perfectly constructed novel. It begins with an intriguing premise; in 1917, the wife of the youngest son of a Hoklo family living on Puyuma Indigenous land commits suicide, and the sorceresses of Damalagaw springs into action to ensure her choice doesn't bring evil spirits to the tribe. The most powerful among these sorceresses is the playful Diguwan, who happens to be drunk on homemade wine when we first meet her.

As the villagers deal with the patriarch of the family, Japanese authorities in nearby Taitung grow suspicious and vow to keep an eye on their activities. 

Then there's a middle section describing a long training excursion for young Indigenous men. I didn't really see how this was connected to the previous plot: was it simply describing the events of one year without concern for whether they were connected or not? I never did figure this out. Many of the same characters are featured, but they're not doing anything that seems particularly related to everything that had just transpired.

The events from the beginning of the novel do come back around to affect the third act. By then, however, I was struggling to remember who some of the characters were. Certainly the Japanese officials had not been mentioned for so long that I couldn't really remember who was whom. When one of them appeared in the village, I had to flip back to the beginning to figure out why it was relevant. It didn't help that most of the characters were underdeveloped; I had nothing specific to remember them by.  All the middle section did (for me) was illustrate that Diguwan had powers most sorceresses did not. I don't know that this point required one-third of a novel to make.

The last part of the novel centered around Indigenous-Japanese and inter-tribal conflicts regarding homemade guns. Those final scenes were indeed riveting, and I was glad I pushed through the novel to get there. The Hoklo family showed up again too, but the suicide -- a key event in the beginning -- seemed to play no significant role. After some discussion in the beginning of how the women of Damalagaw were treated better by the men than Hoklo women were treated in their society, I still felt that sexism was an accepted norm. There was even a young, beautiful female character who was having trouble finding love because she was considered too 'smart, intelligent, capable and somehow powerful'! (I'm spoiling it a bit, but it was hinted that she did, in fact, find a mate, but at least for me, it's left unclear. The story simply moves on). 

Other plot threads are left hanging; the main inter-village conflict is settled, but another one looms with Naibeluk, which is deeper in the mountains. That never quite comes to fruition.

The translation is littered with mistakes and oddities; it was edited, but even accounting for the notion that an award-winning manuscript should retain as much of the author's voice as possible in translation, it needed another run-through. 

But then the titular sorceress is said to appreciate the marks on a tree that were "as beautiful as the ringworm on her body." 

That ringworm lives rent-free in my head...

...wait, that sounds wrong. Anyway. I love a great line. It was weird, it was unexpected, and -- I suppose rather like a parasitic worm -- I was hooked. 

So far, I've made it sound like I came to appreciate a deeply flawed novel. I suppose that's true. After all, it is flawed, and I appreciate it. Frankly, I appreciate that it's a novel at all. There is a fair amount of Indigenous Taiwanese writing available in English translation. Not enough, but perhaps more than you'd expect if you didn't go looking for it. Most of it is not in novel form. There are many short stories available, and at least one book that's purely stream-of-consciousness. I chose not to purchase that one at eslite when I read that it was praised for having essentially no punctuation. Like, two periods in the whole thing. 

Innovation is great and all, but I like punctuation, and I like novels. I'm a blockhead, remember? Perhaps that's a me problem, but it doesn't make it any less true. 

There's more to like about Sorceress Diguwan than some fun prose and the fact that it exists, though. If you want insight into what Taitung-area Indigenous life was like in the Japanese colonial era, you probably can't do better. Badai was born in the 1960s and so isn't writing an eyewitness account, but the story is drawn from interviews with tribal elders. 

Badai presents a world that is certainly culturally different to the West, but also quite different from Hoklo and Hakka settler society. It's not just that the story is about Puyuma people living in Puyuma villages. Everything from the treatment of women to the use of sorcery to methods of conflict resolution and pathways to adulthood are different. The ways in which Indigenous villages selectively adopted ideas from other groups -- from farming techniques to straw shoes -- was fascinating in its intentionality, at least as described in the novel. 

Some of it did challenge my Western sensibilities. There's a scene where Mawneb, the gun manufacturer, insists that the person suspected of stealing his favorite gun should prove their innocence, rather than insist Mawneb must prove them guilty (as the latter is impossible to do...or so it seems). I'm not sure if that's how society in those villages truly functioned, or just a conceit of Mawneb, but I'll admit I'm still a fan of innocent until proven guilty. 

The scene along the trail, however, was excellent reading. I might be annoyed that the initial catalyst -- the suicide of the abused Hoklo woman -- ceased to play an important role in the story so early on. But ringworm and all, Sorceress Diguwan is worth reading.

Book Review: Taiwan Studies Revisited

None of the online images were any good, so here's my own

In the past, I'd found it difficult to access the Routledge series on Taiwan research. The hardcovers are expensive (they're priced for university libraries) and it can take time for more affordable paperbacks to come out. There have been improvements in this situation, though. Paperbacks are coming out more frequently, making more titles available. I've thoroughly enjoyed reading Taiwan's Green Parties, Social Movements Under Ma Ying-jeou -- which I read years ago but didn't review -- and now Taiwan Studies Revisited. I'm currently working my way through The Spirit of 1895. If I can find a more affordable copy of Perverse Taiwan, it's next on my list. 

Today, I want to talk about Taiwan Studies Revisited. The central concept of the book revolves around authors of well-regarded books about Taiwan from decades past discussing the research and career trajectories that led to their publications, their arguments at the time, reviews and criticisms and how they feel their ideas have held up. There is another line of synergy running through each chapter, centering on the use of "China", as compared to Taiwan, as a conceptual touchstone, and how authors may have felt obligated or pressured to position their work as China-focused research.

Throughout, contributors also reflect on the evolution of Taiwan Studies over the last several decades, from the 'desert' of the 1990s to the relative prestige of today. Is Taiwan Studies still a marginalized area of inquiry, at best subsumed under China Studies, at worst seen as a career dead end? Taiwan Studies Revisited doesn't directly answer this question, but does reflect on it from multiple angles. Generally speaking, the outlook is positive. 

Featured academics include Simon Long, Melissa Brown, Anru Lee, Henning Klöter, Thomas Gold, Dafydd Fell and Michael Hsiao, among others, and was edited by Fell and Hsiao. It would take forever to recap each chapter; with regrets, I'll discuss only a selection of the ones I found particularly thought-provoking.

Overall, I enjoyed the 'recaps' of all of these fantastic works. Taiwan Studies Revisited can act as a sort of a collected Cliff's Notes of important research from decades past, either refreshing one's memory of books read long ago or giving you ideas about what to prioritize reading next. For example, Gold's chapter was a solid review of State and Society in the Taiwan Miracle, which I read ages ago, before I was doing book reviews. Brown's chapter focused on Is Taiwan Chinese? made me move that book -- sitting on my shelf but as-yet unread -- to the top of my list.  

While I was less interested in the conditions that precipitated the authors' specific research or their paths to becoming Taiwan-focused academics, it was notable to me how many started out interested in China but moved to Taiwan -- in Gold's case, finding the topic too interesting to abandon in favor of China. Yes, many encountered pressure to position their publications within a China framework as research on China tends to be higher-profile and get more attention than Taiwan, but those who actually began by wanting to focus on China and shifted toward Taiwan had the most interesting stories. 

I'm aware that Taiwan-based academics have held this debate among themselves: is Taiwan Studies part of a greater China-focused research area, what does it mean that to study Taiwan? Many must enter or work within the China Studies programs at their universities -- is this acceptable? 

Not that it matters, but I have my own opinion on this: if you are forced by circumstance to work within a China-focused framework but are aware of the inherent problem with that positioning, I have all the sympathy in the world. We do what we can in the circumstances we are handed, and not every university has a Taiwan Studies program. 

If, however, one actually sees oneself as ultimately within the China Studies paradigm, but studies Taiwan, then -- well, the kindest thing I can say is that I'm not impressed. I view all China-based observations, research, journalism and approaches with suspicion. If one actively positions Taiwan as part of some greater China-focused area of inquiry, to me that is a fundamental misunderstanding of Taiwan's uniqueness, even as I admit that China has greatly (but not entirely) influenced Taiwan. I will always take such work with an entire Tainan salt mountain of skepticism.

In other words, it's understandable to do what one can within a non-ideal academic environment. Moving from China to Taiwan-focused inquiry and comprehending what that means is also not a problem. In fact, it should be welcomed. But to see Taiwan-based research as ultimately one aspect of China-focused research, if that research is not directly related to the influences China has had on Taiwan? I'm out. 

Another thread I noted that spanned several chapters centered on social welfare in Taiwan. This is a good example of what one can learn from Taiwan Studies Revisited as several books across multiple areas of research are brought together.

It comes up in Joseph Wong's chapter on Healthy Democracies and Welfare Politics in Taiwan, Dafydd Fell's reflection on Party Politics in Taiwan, and Mikael Mattlin's discussion of Politicized Society. The development of, say, National Health Insurance (NHI) was an interplay of political and social forces: while it was ultimately promulgated by the KMT, early proponents and activists pushing for a nationalized health insurance system actually stemmed from the Tangwai, which eventually coalesced into the DPP. It's too simplistic to say that the KMT merely stole the opposition's idea for their own electoral gain (though in a sense, they did) -- the "race to the top" of benefit offerings was the result of both parties trying to buff up their social welfare bona fides during elections.

That said, before universal programs were pushed, the KMT regularly enacted highly discretionary welfare programs. Many citizens received little or no benefit from these, and they effectively created support blocs for the KMT (the book doesn't say this outright, but it is a logical conclusion and was borne out by the fight over pension reform several years ago). Here's what it does say: in changing this, groups that received the most benefits did "lose out" as their extra privileges were eroded, but the outcome was more universal -- though imperfect -- access.  

Here's something I didn't know: Wong notes that at one point, the KMT attempted to offload NHI through privatization. I believe this would have been disastrous. Fortunately, it never happened: opposition parties and social groups kept NHI under government purview, which probably kept it affordable and accessible for citizens. 

With that, I want to make an appeal: let us never again declare that the KMT should get all the credit for programs like NHI. Certainly, they enacted it, but they were not the only player in that game. 

I also found Melissa Brown's chapter to be of specific interest, in terms of both pressure to orient Taiwan-focused research as being under a China umbrella, and the specific issues women face in academia. Brown was the only female contributor to talk about sexism, but when a woman says she's faced discrimination, I tend to believe her. To see her tackle this issue head-on and even name some names was phenomenal (though I am sure those named were less than enthused). It's difficult to do this: as a woman, I know what it's like to ask myself, "is it really just me? Am I simply wrong, or less capable as an individual? Or is this an issue of unexamined sexism in which my ideas are given less credence simply because I'm a woman?" It can be hard to tell, and when I face what I feel is systemic sexism (and I have), I still struggle with being sure. 

Even if one is sure, it's even more difficult to speak up. Women who do so are regularly called irrational, emotional, "just angry", troublesome. People do say it's just us -- this or that woman is simply jealous or bitter that her individual star doesn't shine as bright, and it has nothing to do with her sex -- even when it's not true. It's hard to fight. An individual woman is not necessarily as capable as any given man simply because she's a woman, just as an individual man is not necessarily better at academia than any given woman simply because he is a man. You might be sure, but good luck trying to convince others of that. 

To come out and say it takes courage, and willingness to throw entire jungles' worth of shade. I'm here for it. 

One can say that Brown has not experienced much sexism -- after all, she wrote and published a fairly well-known book in the field, which was considered worthy enough to be included in this volume. Here is why I think Brown might have a point, though: Is Taiwan Chinese? -- a title she herself takes some issue with -- was published in 2004. It makes a very clear case for Taiwanese identity and elucidates the dynamics underpinning it. It's 2023, and people are still debating these dynamics as though she hadn't said anything at all. As though Taiwanese people "don't know who they are" because of how they answer the status quo poll, while the Taiwanese identity poll, which shows a clear consensus, is so often ignored. I find it a bit weird, to be honest. 

I also enjoyed this chapter because, as a woman not in, but interested in, Taiwan Studies, it's great to see women like Melissa Brown and Anru Lee -- whose focus is more domestic, on women and labor in Taiwan -- in publications like these. Often, I have been disappointed by other prominent Taiwan-focused women who take weird KMT-ish stances and pretend they're objective, or propagate viewpoints I think are simply wrong -- i.e. that somehow Taiwan and the US are "provoking" China rather than the truth: it's other way around. China creates the tensions, China decides what the provocations are, China expects everyone to dance around their arbitrary red lines. I want female role models who don't buy into this trap. 

There are a few more observations from other chapters worth mentioning. Gold is quite correct that Taiwan's story is more sociopolitical than economic. I'm happy to see that he finds Taiwan interesting in its own right. The interplay of private grief with public issues was fascinating in Lee's chapter, which focused on the 25 Ladies' Tomb in Kaohsiung. Long's chapter was interesting, but I found some of the conclusions faintly ridiculous. He outlines possibilities for the future which include "reunification on Beijing's terms" (as though Taiwan will ever agree to peaceful annexation by the CCP) or "unification on a compromise" (as though the PRC is willing to compromise and it would actually allow Taiwan sufficient autonomy). Most of them are not possible, and that should be immediately apparent. 

Klöter's chapter was of specific interest to me, as I'm currently learning Taiwanese with a private tutor (my Taiwanese still sucks, but I am getting somewhere.) I had always assumed use of a Romanized writing system was simply an invention of missionaries and not ideal. To learn that many view it as superior because it doesn't use Chinese characters -- that it's preferred because it's not rooted in Chinese culture and renders Taiwanese as something more unique to Taiwan -- was both fascinating and, to be honest, kind of cool. 

Mattlin points out several things I already knew, but it's great to see them in publication: that the KMT party elite's self-conception of their 'right to rule' (and yes, the KMT does in fact feel that way, although I suppose you could argue the DPP does as well albeit for very different reasons) is rooted in the system and symbolism of the ROC, which is why they fight so hard to preserve it. Mattlin calls the ROC "the raison d'être" for the KMT, and I can't deny that he was spot on then as he is now. 

All in all, Taiwan Studies Revisited is absolutely worth reading, either to see where the contributors stand now vis-à-vis their past work and how it's held up over time, or to get a condensed version of a range of books to help you better understand the field, or simply pick which book to read next.

Book Review: The Membranes

          

I cracked open the slim 2021 translation of Chi Ta-wei’s The Membranes on a transpacific flight, after a fairly rough but ultimately successful check-in experience. The flight itself was fine; other than the unuseable headphones, it was if anything an above-average experience. I was excited to see family and take a fun side-trip to Mexico. But, after two leg-aching hours of standing in various lines, some of which could have been avoided if Asiana Airlines had merely redeployed their human staff to check passengers in rather than forcing them through a robotic self check-in, I had to wonder — did I love travel, or hate it? 

There’s no actual duality here. The experiences, good and bad, don’t really matter. How I feel about them. Quite literally, what the experience ultimately means is all in my head.

Protected or trapped by a membrane of lightweight material as we arc across continents, I abandoned the movie and turned to the book. Originally written in the 1990s but only recently translated, The Membranes seemed like both a glimpse into the past — almost like historical science fiction — as well as a semi-dystopian glimpse into an imagined future for humanity.

The Membranes reads more like a novella than a novel, and takes just a few hours to read. It’s a very “quiet” novel: not much dialogue, mostly taking place inside the head of the main character, Momo. It uses the conflicted relationship between Momo and her mother on the even of Momo’s thirtieth birthday to explore an imagined society in the year 2100 in which climate change has ruined the surface and humans live under domes in the sea — one of many ‘membrane’ themes in the book, emphasizing its internality. 

How Momo, an introverted woman running a skincare salon (well, there’s more to that but I won’t spoil it) interacts with the world — or doesn’t — shows readers what life under the sea is like. Real animal pets are rare, as are plants and animals that humans didn’t deem useful. Skincare specialists are practically celebrities in an appearance-obsessed society and cyborgs who may or may not have human-like intelligence fight wars for humans on the surface. Mega-corporations with friendly faces but ultimately monopolistic goals matter more than people. The role of those corporations in perpetuating human-created “-isms” is explored as well. The ultimate membrane, in a move that surprised me, turns out not to be a hollow capitalist skincare thing, but something far more insidious. 

For a novel written in the 90s, The Membranes is visionary in its queer progressivism, as well. Beyond the usual critiques of unchecked capitalism, there isn’t a single straight couple among the handful of characters. Two women adopting a daughter is so normal that the narrative itself doesn’t remark on it. Rather like The Expanse, it shows a world where the petty shit we shouldn’t be fighting over now —  like who and how people choose to love — has mostly been resolved, but powerful government and corporate interests (with the corporate ones being ultimately more powerful). It turns racism on its head by showing a world where white people, seen as inferior as their melanin-reduced skin cannot afford sufficient protection against the sun, are excluded from major institutions. It includes technology that was rare or theoretical in the 90s, such as cloud computing, portable devices and micro-trackers, but which in 2023 are now seen as a normal part of life. 

Transgenderism is treated as normal and unremarkable as well; the novel lingers on it only slightly longer, ultimately deciding that gender goes beyond biology and gender binaries are restrictive rather than helpful.

Remember, again, that this was written in the 1990s. In 2023 it’s fairly normal to explore these topics. In the 90s, in Asia, this was radical stuff. If it reminds you of Chiu Miao-jin in length, style and referencing…it should. I suspect that’s intentional. Chi and Chiu were writing around the same time, and probably ran in many of the same circles. Unlike Chiu, Chi, fortunately, is still with us. 

And, of course, the novel is quietly, well, Taiwanese. Or rather, a dream of what Taiwan could be, or was hoped to be, by 2100 (if Taiwan existed in a dome under the sea, that is). In the early 1990s, just a few years out from the death of Nylon Deng, mentioning “huge” monuments such as plaques commemorating the 228 Incident was a bold, even radical statement. Showing Taiwan as the key financial hub of Southeast Asia while slyly referencing Taiwan’s complicated but ultimately special relationship with Japan, was an imaginative projection of hopes for the future. Some of these things came more or less true, some not — 228 Incident recognition is normalized now, but Taiwan never quite became a regional hub.

I’ve been avoiding the key point of The Membranes, because it’s so hard to talk about it without spoiling the big twist. The peaches Momo loves to eat, the method of Momo’s birth (referencing both Chinese and Japanese folk tales and idioms), the undersea domes — these are not the only membranes in the novel. Early in the narrative we learn that Momo had a devastating childhood illness that she barely survived. She had a custom-made android friend whose role is left obscure. Ultimately, we’re forced to ask ourselves first whether artificial intelligence should be considered human, and then whether a human brain in an android body is trapping the android in the human, or the human in the android.

Then, there’s a less predictable twist, which I won’t begin to spoil. I will say what it asks of you: to consider whether what your brain experiences is the real world, and whether it matters if it’s what you know. Are your emotions real and complex if they are in reaction to ultimately false events? Is it right to have your fate decided for you, and is it worth it to hand so much power to massive corporations in exchange for astounding technological advances? Do they make our lives better, or worse?

If there’s one criticism I have of the book, it’s that it was too short, and a little impersonal. Much of it read as a summary of a story, rather than a story itself. It could have been three times as long, or longer, as it explored Momo’s life and the lead-up to her thirtieth birthday in real time rather than a sort of gloss of what happened and is happening in the story. I understand why it was written this way — it all becomes clear when you hear the full story of what happened when Momo was ten, making a full, deep moment-by-moment story hard to tell from her perspective. But, hey, I just think it could have been longer and more richly developed: a novel, rather than a novella. 

That said, Taiwanese literature in general tends to be a little too meandering for me, more about scenes and impressions rather than a clear story or forward-moving plot. Chi avoids this, telling a quickly-driven narrative in a terse and succinct — perhaps overly succinct — way. 

Ultimately, however, you should read The Membranes. If you’re inclined to think that Taiwan is a wholly conservative culture, or that there’s not enough literary creativity or progressive politics, Chi Ta-wei’s novel should quickly disabuse you. It also tells us something else: we need more Taiwanese literature in translation — and to not call it Chinese, but Taiwanese — and not 30 years after it is originally published.

The Light Generation

Here are the things that swirl around my house and my head: it's the middle of the night, and I've taken the upper amount of anxiety and sleeping medication indicated by my doctor. My body is asking for more if it's to sleep, which I cannot give. Ambient light from outside provides just enough to navigate by, but no more than that.

Laptop in my lap, because I touched the black mound on my coffee table and it answered me with an annoyed prrrt. He's not supposed to be on the coffee table. Oh well. 

I am still angry to my core; I didn't know I had an aquifer of rage so voluminous. It's not that I was unaware that horrific injustices worse than the loss of Roe v. Wade happen around the world frequently; of course I knew that people in the US and beyond have been fighting them for longer than I've been alive. I thought, especially for Taiwan, that I had been regularly tapping into that cold, clear fury. I, too, am surprised it runs deeper. I suppose this is the difference between being an ally and being a person directly affected. (Even though I'm safe as a Taiwan resident, I'm still a US citizen with a uterus that is probably capable of bearing children.) 

This is affecting not just my sleep, but my work and life. It's a vise of anger during all hours, productive and not, that the infuriating debate over which human rights I get to have, and which I don't because I was born with complicated innards -- as decided mostly by people with different, simpler innards -- has even more real consequences.

It clarifies a lot, realizing that the people out there who thought they had an honest argument for why you are more of an egg sack than a human actually won something. But then the whole room fills with smoke.

While trying to manage my ire from Taiwan -- where I'm not of much help, but have been hunting for and donating to various sources -- I've been confronted with a more troubling self-truth. So many of the dark thoughts I know I should be managing, as I did during my first anxiety outbreak in 2020, aren't going away. What's worse, that's very clearly because I do not want them to. I won't detail every violent event I've imagined celebrating (most of them circle back to Molotovs; it's actually rather boring and repetitive -- Molotov this, Molotov that, you know, the usual). 

It is hard to focus beyond this shrieking wall of inchoate rage, to try and envision a world I don't want to burn to the ground. Yes, a single court ruling taking away my basic humanity in the country of my citizenship turned a boring center-left normie lib into a flaming anarchist.

But I don't want to talk about that. Too much, anyway.

Instead I'll focus on a deeper intransigence -- family. 

Friends and social media connections are easier to deal with -- if one supports the hijacking of a uterus for any reason, in ways we don't even violate corpses, then it's blammo for you. Get out of my life; we are not on speaking terms.

Family, though?

I love them very much. Many of them, I know, understand the importance not just of a woman's right to privacy and choice. Many understand that even if you support your loved ones, if you vote for people who will hurt them -- officials who have made it their life's work to do just that -- your support is shallow and hypocritical. 

Others, however, are less clear. People who have always been good to me, but drop hints that they voted for Trump, don't think I deserve full humanity as a woman, people who love me because we're related but genuinely wish that someday I will understand that God is real, and he prefers that women have subhuman status, not equal rights. 

Of course, I will never understand that because it is not true. 

I do not know who believes what exactly, because I'm afraid to ask. I have made it clear that I do not wish to be on speaking terms with anyone who thinks it is acceptable, should the circumstance arise, to force me to give birth to a child I do not want. But I'd prefer not to directly tell family members I care about that I cannot speak to them -- not until the federal law changes, or their opinions do. It would be fairly easy from Taiwan; I don't visit the US much anyway, and these are all extended family. It's hard to pull that plug, though. I both comfort and torture myself with the realization that they probably know exactly how I feel. 

There is nothing in the modern world that offers respite, let alone answers. The drugs don't make me worse, but they certainly don't work, either. So, of course, I turned to a book I cannot read. 

Last month, my immediate family and I spent a week cleaning out a packed storage unit. Inside were a stack of my great grandfather's books, mostly in Armenian. I asked an Armenian genealogy group to help translate the titles, and most turned out to be somewhat bland ecclesiastical reference materials. A plain brown tome simply called "Sermons" by a man surnamed Papazian. "The Radiance of the Bible" had a straightforward image of a Bible surrounded by light rays on the cover. These stirred no feeling, and I set them aside. A few I kept, even though I don't read or speak Armenian: most were cultural histories, one had stunning illustrations. 

The only religious title I kept was The Light Generation. It's a history of the Armenian Evangelical Movement, bound in dark leather decorated with swooping floral patterns. 

I wasn't attracted to it just for the cover: I'd already started playing with the words. The Light Generation. The Generation of Light. The Lightweight Generation, floating away like spent dandelion puffs as the diaspora spreads. A Generation of Lightweights, unable to fight as their descendants would for what is right, instead clinging to batty old conservatism. Or maybe we're the lighter generation; after all, they survived a genocide. 

The Generation of Light -- the light we make. Things are dark now, but we can generate light. Our generation can bring it forth. Or theirs did: maybe they were the Light Generation -- the light needed for their times, not ours -- and we have the Sisyphean task of finding our own light.

I can't read a single word of this book, much as I never had the chance to meet the man who owned it, and was too young to appreciate growing up with his widow, my great-grandmother. It's on my bookshelf all the same.

In the past year, I've been working through some heavy mental stuff by finding connections to past and family through amateur genealogical research. It would be a lie to say I haven't begun to write about it as well, but I'm unprepared to discuss the type and extent of that writing just yet. 

I can say this: people from the past are so much easier to work with. Most likely, I disagreed with almost all of them on social issues, perhaps even more strongly than I'd disagree with my conservative relatives now. 

But they are gone, and they did things I will never do. Surviving a genocide, watching your father led off to die, engaging in vigilante justice against criminals in your village, leading a church, raising three children, emigrating as refugees to the United States, rebuilding a family separated for months by arbitrary quota systems. Bringing their lives and images back into a living person's memory means I can accept that they (likely) believed things I wound find abhorrent, but I don't have to have a conversation with them, and considering their historical legacies in their own right is worthwhile regardless. It's a route back to family when I am not sure what extended family I can actually talk to right now. 

Certainly my mind could use the generation of some light. Rather like the dark living room, made moodier from the cool blue screen of a computer that should not be open, I don't know where to go from here. I've donated to all the resources, rage-posted for days straight. I don't know that any of it generates a speck of light. Maybe I'm a lightweight. I feel like I generate nothing; my generation has nothing.

Another book on my shelf (A Latter Day Odyssey by M.M. Koeroghlian) describes the ecumenical questions that beset the Armenian Evangelical Church in Athens, during the time that my great-grandfather worked there. The seminary and church community was plagued by dissent for a time, between conservative "mainline" types who believed in "simple" faith. That is, dogmatic faith in which a religious teaching is true because it was revealed to be true through miracles and scripture by in some way by an interventionist God. Believe in that God and his "miracles" and your path is correct. Do not ask questions.

These mainliners were worried that the School of Religion was teaching more "modernist" scripture: deist views eschewing 'revealed truth' and associated miracles, pointing instead to an innate knowledge of right and wrong in everyone, through which an understanding of God could be found through reason and observation of the natural world. Not religious strictures handed down by an angry God who blesses and smites, but moral guidance woven into the natural way of things.

Theoretically, according to this philosophy, even non-Christians could be good people worthy of Heaven if they understood and followed these natural laws. (I suppose these pastors felt it would be better, however, if the non-Christians converted.) 

Despite my own atheism, given what I know of my great-grandfather's personality, I have every reason to believe he was more of a modernist, not someone who put much stock in miracles or dogmatism.

As an atheist, I don't really believe in any of this, but there is some room in my thoughts for natural law and ethics. Of the schools of Christian theory, this is one of the least offensive. For what it was at the time, I can say it generated light.

Of course then, the question is: which ethics are natural? Would these enlightened Christian modernists of the early 20th century now accept that women's bodily autonomy is a fundamental human right, to be protected at any cost? 

I doubt it. 

But they probably would have believed that, even if a woman terminating a pregnancy ought to feel sorry for her "sin", that God would not smite or strike her or anyone over it. No cataclysms. No disasters. Just a choice she made, for which only God could judge her.

I don't believe this either, as it is quite plainly not ethically wrong to terminate a pregnancy. It is ethically wrong to deny a woman her humanity, even for a moment. There is no special case that changes this natural logic.

They likely wouldn't have agreed with me. But their light generation has passed, and mine is alive. If they believed an appeal to reason and natural law would return sufficiently consistent ethics across vast swaths of generational and cultural shift, they were mistaken.

This story is a difficult one. The road to the past is complicated, and in parts I have to fill in what I think happened. It's not so simple as saying I'm mentally sinking, but seeking solace in the stories of the past. I don't agree with everything those from the past would say. I'm not yet uplifted. I do not float.

But maybe the modernists of the past would be able to grasp that cultural norms do, indeed, change over time. That if nature reveals truths to us through reason, that our interpretation of that reason would certainly change as our society does. That what was seen as  "good" or "right" in the past may not be now. And perhaps that the god (and the good) they believe in simply would not want women to suffer and die. 

I don't know what The Light Generation says about any given generation in the history of Armenian Protestantism. Even if I were religious, I can't read or speak Armenian, so I doubt I'll ever read it. I don't even know if the title, in its original language, allows for such wordplay: Armenian is an Indo-European language, but it sits on a lonely branch. I do not know if generation can have two meanings in it, just as I don't know if those who once read it would think I'm improperly using their stories, or updating them for a new era.

But I have decided that every generation has the opportunity to be the Light Generation. Generating light isn't hard; some moral questions are complex, but some are quite clear. 

In this case, uphold women's unquestioned equal access to human rights at all times -- in fact, anyone's equal access regardless of their reproductive organs -- with no exceptions.

Maybe it's just a thread to hold onto -- long-dead ancestors who can't talk back, when I'm not sure who I can speak with alive. I can't even say it will be a useful road to get my own mind out of the dark pit of unmitigated fury, to a place of light generation. Perhaps it will. 

Or perhaps not.

 

Book Review: Bestiary

I have a flaw: while I’m fine with innovative storylines and narrative choices, I prefer novels that follow a conventional plot structure. I don’t like meandering. I like strong characterization and clear narrative flow, choosing it every time over highly metaphorical or poetic prose. 

This makes it somewhat difficult to read Taiwanese literature, which is far more tolerant of that ‘meandering’ and heavily-applied metaphor, but I accept it, because I want to read Taiwanese literature. Perhaps one could say that this pushes a reader out of their West-centric literary comfort zone, opens the mind. And perhaps it does. Certainly, it’s offered more chances for surprise, revelation or unexpected fondness. Yet I still prefer the comfort food of a conventional page-turner. 

All this is to say, I ended up enjoying K-Ming Chang’s Bestiary — a modern, fabulist novel that features Taiwan but takes place mostly in the United States — more than I thought I would. 

Especially as it took me nearly three months to finish. 

I want to start with what I didn’t like about Bestiary, so I can end with what I absolutely did. 

Chang’s prose is distinctive and singular; these are reasons to love it, and also to struggle with it. It’s loaded with simile, to the point of overload until you realize the choice is conscious. Everything is like something else. Nothing is ever just what it is. Nothing is ever described in a straightforward way: you get the impression that the family, Taiwanese living in Arkansas, are very poor, and you get some idea of how they’re connected to missionaries. It’s unclear whose father is whose, which generation moved to the US, whether the mother or daughter is narrating or exactly where they are when things happen. 

There is a lot of effluent: snot, blood, sweat, urine, and other human juices practically soak the pages. This leads to an extended metaphor about holes: in the body, in the ground, things that birth and excrete, as well as ingest. It takes awhile to get to the central plot: the daughter in the story starts turning into a tiger, which is related to an old story from Taiwan (or is it China?). Aunts have snakes in their bellies, a brother tries to fly. It’s an extremely human-body centric series of fables set in something like the modern day. In fact, I wasn’t exactly sure when it was set, but my brain kept defaulting to the late 20th century. Why? No idea. 

The starting point of the novel is the fable or children’s tale of Hu Gu Po (虎姑婆), though the actual story is never told directly in Bestiary. According to the fable, Hu Gu Po eats children to become or stay human. The only way to avoid this is to lock the door and sleep when you should. A child who isn’t sleeping lets her into the house because she’s disguised as her aunt. Hu Gu Po then eats her brothers ears and toes, and is going to eat the girl until she’s tricked into boiling herself.

This is obviously a terrifying story to tell children (aren’t most fairy tales?) but aren't Western ones similarly horrid?

Other fables play out in Bestiary, exploring the difficult ties of family and history, tying in Taiwanese Indigenous fables with the 1949 diaspora and what the protagonist’s grandmother lived through, being fed stories (and more than stories) that didn’t come from her land or people.

Of course, something has to happen among all this simile-and-metaphor laden fabulism, and indeed, the protagonist has to use her powers as Hu Gu Po in a dramatic confrontation with her grandmother. I’ll leave the actual plot there partly to avoid spoilers, but partly because the plot arc, so intent on its similes and metaphors, was not entirely clear — at least to me. 

In other words, I felt character development and straightforward plot points were sacrificed for fabulism to the point that I’m not entirely clear on why the climactic moment played out exactly as it did, and it sure took awhile to get there. That is, it made sense within the story of Hu Gu Po but felt a little unearned in Bestiary.

Only in retrospect did I see the attempt to escalate the story’s tension to that moment, I didn’t feel very much for the characters as individuals: they felt more like stand-ins or human symbols. Nor did I feel much for the letters from Ama that kept popping out of the holes in the backyard (if this sentence is not clear, honestly, you have to read the book). They were clearly intended to be stream-of-consciousness, but that style often reads to me as simply not making a lot of sense. 

It’s probably me, though. I’m too bricklike. Square, literal. 

You might think from all this that I’m forcing myself to say I enjoyed Bestiary  — like a tasting menu at one of those fabulously expensive restaurants that turns steak into frozen bubbles or some such, when all I wanted was a bagel. That’s not the case! 

The prose also contained moments of pure beauty, both in terms of wordsmithing and cutting to the heart of history, society and family:

I told myself that it wasn’t stealing if the thing had only been stolen once. Two acts of thievery canceled out, became something more like salvaging. 

Her fist flying into the door like a dumb bird. 

It’s summer and the sky is vomiting.

We met inside our mouths. I found the seam under her tongue and undid it. 

We have no history, only stories. 

She asked if I knew the story of Hu Gu Po, a story about the cost of having a body. The cost was butchery. She said there were no tigers on her island and there had never been. The story had been born somewhere else, brought over by men and stuffed into the bellies of women who didn’t want it. The women gave birth anyway, to daughters that did not resemble them. 

It’s just gorgeous writing, isn’t it? I’d say good enough to struggle through a story that meanders a bit too much, plot points that don’t always feel earned, and a too-heavy dose of metaphor. Not every simile works as well as these; some gargle awkwardly. I got a little tired of all the bodily fluids. But the lines that sing are downright hypnotic. 

I’m not being quite fair when I say it took me three months to read Bestiary. It took me three months to get through the first half or so. I finished the second half in two days. After a certain point, it pulls you along, if you let it. 

I’m not sure how much a reader who hasn’t spent time in Taiwan would get from the layered meaning, but as someone who lives here, the story does speak volumes — again, if you let it. 

The iconic Taiwan Store (台灣ê店) has to move -- so let's support them!

I was gonna drop in and take my own picture but I ended up forgetting to actually do so, even when I stopped by. So, here's a screen grab from FTV.

FTV reported recently that the Taiwan Store (台灣ê店) on Xinsheng South Road was being forced to relocate. 

This brought up a lot of memories for me, though I'm hardly the only one and my memories are hardly the most important.

Sometime in my first few years in Taiwan, I heard about The Taiwan Store. Open since 1993, I started visiting regularly. It had an old-school vibe, run by an elderly couple. Although my Chinese wasn't great then (to be fair, I still think it isn't), there was a section with English books about Taiwan, and souvenirs and t-shirts on sale as well as books. Sometimes I'd just drop by on my way to a cafe to peruse what they had, and for awhile they were the only store in Taiwan that reliably had books about Taiwan in English. 

I finally wrote about it in 2011, though admittedly the post is quite mediocre. 

Other little things drew me to the place. When they started making Taiwan passport covers (omitting the Republic of China words or symbol in favor of a more Taiwan-centric design), I was one of the first to get one, though I've never tried to travel abroad with it covering my blue passport. One year, Su Beng did a Lunar New Year calligraphy scroll: very simple, just 台灣獨立, his signature and an outline of the main island. The Taiwan Store gave those out for free: I took two, one for a good friend and one for myself. Although it's just a mass printed image on red paper, I eventually had mine framed. Su Beng has since passed away; there will never be another. 

We'd chat with Mr. Wu, the owner, who was delighted at any foreigner who spoke any amount of Taiwanese at all. My Taiwanese always failed after the first few sentences, and he seemed to prefer carrying on in English rather than Mandarin, some of the time at least. 

I'd bring friends in there and we'd find all sorts of items: a Taiwanese language-learning book created by my friend Ting (I immediately bought a copy), a CD full of the folk songs written by former President Chen Shui-bian from his prison cell, Chthonic t-shirts. It was one of the easiest places to get a Chthonic album, on old-school CD, if you wanted the Taiwanese version of the songs, not the English lyrics available on music-purchasing apps, back when those were a thing. The Taiwan Store has consistently been one o the only places to find a copy of A Borrowed Voice, detailing the support foreigners gave the Taiwan human rights movement under Martial Law. 

Even when Southern Materials re-opened nearby with an impressive selection of English-language books about Taiwan, I'd still pop by the Taiwan store. Their 'English corners' were a bit different, after all. One can reliably pick up a copy of Taiwan's Imagined Geography at Southern Materials, but the personal account of John Dodd, a tea merchant who witnessed the French blockade of Taiwan in the 1880s? That was Taiwan Store stuff. 

The rare titles on offer extend to their much larger Chinese-language selection. Anyone looking for something truly uncommon about Taiwan would find it here. It's one of the few bookshops that seriously attempts to incorporate books on Indigenous issues in Taiwan and promote Taiwanese language learning. 

Not long ago, hearing about their troubles, I started returning more frequently. I referenced a fellow foreigner whose Taiwanese is far better than mine -- "tall guy, blondish, actually speaks Taiwanese, always buying lots of books" -- and Mr. Wu knew him immediately. I've begun buying everything I'd eyed in the past but passed over: the John Dodd account, a book about Taiwanese decorative iron window grilles, a book that breaks down the architectural features of Taiwanese historic sites, well above my reading level but rendered comprehensible by the illustrations. A t-shirt, a keychain, a cupholder. I never did buy that CD of Chen Shui-bian folk songs.

It's not an exaggeration to say that while I don't know the owners well, they are some of my favorite acquaintances in Taipei.

So to hear the worst possible news: a drop in business from the pandemic, yes, but also the plain old capitalist calculus of landlords -- it cracked my heart a little. This is what happens when businesses rent their storefronts rather than owning them outright. The landlord wanted Mr. Wu and his bookstore out, and jacked up the rent accordingly. 

It's doubtful the landlord actually wants more rent. He probably wants to redevelop the property, and the rental fees from Mr. Wu could never possibly compare to the wealth he'd accrue simply by tearing the whole thing down and redeveloping. It's not evil, per se, but it is cold and calculating, perhaps if I'm feeling ungenerous it's avaricious, even. One of the deadly sins but not an unforgivable one. And yet, I don't like that landlord much at all.

According to the FTV piece, Mr. Wu doesn't intend to close permanently. He said his business is still the only Taiwan-themed bookshop in, well, Taiwan. And Taiwan does in fact need a bookshop dedicated to itself.

I agree. In any other country that the world recognizes as a country this idea -- we need our own bookshop with books about about our own country -- might seem annoyingly patriotic, perhaps even alarmingly nationalistic. You wouldn't catch me in The America Store. But for a country that has to fight for recognition internationally and whose voices, national identity and even right to self-determination and identification are so often erased or stomped on by others? Yes, you do need that. 

Mr. Wu is 79, though -- not an easy age to make such a big change -- and isn't quite sure where he will move. It won't be immediate: the current location will remain open through April, when the NT$5,000 government vouchers expire. In the meantime, he's been packing up books from shelves he installed himself.

In the FTV article, he spoke of times when taxi drivers would recognize him and say "you own a store dedicated to Taiwan -- I don't need money to drive you." He talked about the memories the store held for him, and the landlord's complaints about the "bad government" (which implies that perhaps Mr. Wu and the landlord have differing political views as well. I don't know if that contributed to the corresponding rent hike.) 

In a Humans of Taipei feature, he elaborated a bit more. After getting his PhD from Columbia, he was teaching at National Cheng-chi University when he was approached by strangers on a hike in the early 1980s, before the end of Martial Law. He was asked about a professor (Bruce Jacobs) considered a possible subversive -- do you know him? He said he did not, but felt an implicit warning: Taiwan is still not a safe place to be. He left Taiwan again and didn't return until 1987, after Martial Law had been lifted. At protests and events, he'd meet someone selling books about Taiwan in a sort of temporary set-up. He asked why they didn't open a bookshop, to which the man replied, "why don't you open one?"

Since trying to learn about Taiwan could be difficult -- books, when they existed, were hard to track down, and it was simply not easy to learn about Taiwan -- he did just that. Business started out strong, although some of his own writing (e.g. on the 228 Incident) was ignored by wider academic circles because he dared to simply call Taiwan an independent country. 

However, he lamented not long before the landlord came in for the kill, business hadn't been doing so well in recent years. People weren't buying or reading as much, he said, but it was still worth it to him to keep the store open.

Now, even that is ending, although an Indigenous friend of his is opening a branch in Taitung.

But Taiwan still needs, well...a Taiwan Store. 

So how can we support Mr. Wu as he looks for a way to relocate his business? Obviously, by stopping by and buying out some of his stock. Give him more liquidity and fewer goods to move. If you don't read Chinese, there are still all manner of t-shirts, banners and souvenirs you can pick up, even as he begins packing. 

I don't know if there's other help they need with moving or finding a new place, and assume they have friends and a support network for that. But every book or item you buy now makes it a little easier, and a little more certain, that after this April there will still be a Taiwan Store in Taiwan.

Here's the address: 

10673台北市新生南路三段76巷6號1F 

1st Floor #6, Lane 76 Xinsheng South Road Section 3

It's across the street from NTU, in the same lane as Guang Yi Cafe and very near the gray Lutheran Church that put up all those anti-gay posters in 2018.  The closest MRT is Gongguan.

Book Review -- Taiwan's Green Parties: Alternative Politics in Taiwan

Taiwan's Green Parties: Alternative Politics in Taiwan

Available from Routledge and on Amazon

Most political research and scholarship on Taiwan focuses on the major political parties, or at least the ones that have something of an election track record. Much energy has been spent dissecting the KMT and DPP from an academic perspective, and I suspect more successful small parties like the TPP and NPP will receive similar scrutiny in the future. Perhaps, given the New Party and People First Party’s erstwhile success, they’ll get some attention too. 

Then there are the tiny parties: the TSU (effectively dormant), the Social Democratic Party (whose only elected official happens to serve in my district), the Trees Party (still around?), the Statebuilding Party (perhaps an interesting subject of inquiry given that their only elected legislator was just recalled), Can’t Stop This Party (composed of Youtubers) the Minkuotang  (MKT, which later merged with another odd little party) and, of course, the Green Party Taiwan (GPT). 

Nobody seems to write about them much, mostly because they’re either quite new or don’t have much political influence. They don’t win a lot of seats, so they don’t get a lot of attention.

That has changed with Dafydd Fell’s Taiwan’s Green Parties: Alternative Politics in Taiwan, an insider account of the formation and evolution of the GPT, with ancillary-but-important looks into their frenemies, the Social Democratic Party (SDP) and the Judean People’s Front Trees Party. 

 “We’re the People’s Front of Judea…listen, the only thing we hate more than the Romans are the Judean People’s Front.”

When reading Taiwan’s Green Parties, I kept thinking about how, well, incestuous Taiwan’s progressive and activist political scene are. Many of the fallouts recounted in the book seem to be just as much the ups and downs of personal friendships — and friendships often end — as they are any real difference in concrete political beliefs or policy ideas. The Trees Party didn’t form because they are different in ideology from the GPT. They formed because they had different approaches to the same ends, and they realized they were being marginalized in the GPT. Imagine finding out you weren’t invited to movie night, because the new guy has convinced everyone you’re awful for always ordering pepperoni pizza instead of only vegetarian options. Yes, we’re talking about you in the group chat.

The Green Party went on to form a brief alliance with the SDP, only to have it fall apart with recriminations on both sides. Again, the SDP and Green Party aren’t really that different in ideology and you can be sure they all know each other. They — and everyone else in their ideological ballpark — all attend the same lectures, readings and protests. They probably go to the same cafes. The DPP can poach them because the DPP has already recruited some of their friends. (Yes, that is how it works.) 

In this respect, the Statebuilding Party seems to be actively forging a different path: forming in southern Taiwan and not necessarily recruiting from the same pool of Taipei cafe-goers. For that alone, they’re worth keeping an eye on, especially as their one legislator has just been recalled. In fact, future comparisons between Statebuilding and GPT might be interesting to consider: of the KMT revenge recalls, the NPP have survived whereas the GPT’s Wang Hao-yu (defected to the DPP right around the time of his recall) and Statebuilding Party’s Chen Po-wei have both gone down. Statebuilding actively avoids recruiting from the same pool of activists but will form alliances with them, whereas GPT can’t seem to form lasting alliances, and doesn’t seem to realize that the frequent poaching they experience is indeed detrimental.

On this claustrophobic theme, it also struck me how small Taiwan politics really is. I’m nobody at all, neither an academic nor an activist, and I’ve personally met enough people mentioned by name in this book that it might take more than one hand to count them. Mostly, we’ve perhaps talked briefly at the same gathering. In one case, a good friend’s name popped up, as it always seems to. 

As for the research itself, it’s impeccable. For details, head to Frozen Garlic’s review. He’s a trained political scientist, I’m not. In more general terms, however, I appreciated how in looking through the GPT’s past, Fell adjusts the benchmarks that might be used to determine whether a party is competitive, and then goes to some length to justify that modification. It has a magnifying effect: from far away, using benchmarks met by parties with records of real electoral success, the GPT looks like a failure from start to finish. Zooming in, however, and adjusting the scale and field accordingly, the ups and downs of the GPT can be better teased out and analyzed. 

Frozen Garlic categorizes these waves as “clear failure,” “dismal failure” and “utter failure”. He’s not wrong, but looking at what factors underpinned each era of various failures still provides a wealth of information on what it’s like to work for a small party, how these parties get funding and how much, how they campaign (or not) and how they interact with each other as well as other parties. 

From that time I met SDP politician Miao Po-ya, who gets a mention in the book. 

The short of it: it’s stressful. It isn’t a way to build an actual paid career — instead, dedicated members find themselves pouring their own funds into keeping the party afloat. It’s a constant balancing act between trying to figure out how to get votes, and sticking to your principles. But then you make that choice, and others in your party strike that balance differently, and that disagreement spills over into disorganization: not just presenting a chaotic face but actually being unable to get their act together. Then the elections come and go and, while perhaps the GPT could have won more if they’d been better able to cooperate and seize very obvious opportunities that came their way, they don’t. Recriminations follow — either their leaders were too focused on votes and blowing up social media, or not nearly focused enough on actually wining votes. People leave. Perhaps they are poached by the DPP, or leave politics, or start a new party. A new era begins…

Through all this, this same group of people seems to be more interested in dissecting ideological differences or severing ties with each other than it does facing any sort of common enemy. This is why they can’t seem to agree on a coherent policy regarding how much support to give the DPP, work with other small parties on their own side to form alliances or even take a clear line on national identity, even though they have one. They can’t work with the ideologically similar SDP, they’ll work with the TPP (often seen as light blue) to attack their ideological cousins the NPP, but one of their candidates did a photo op with an MKT candidate because it made sense vis-a-vis local Hakka clan affiliations — even though the GPT and MKT are worlds apart? Hm. I would question the strategizing, to put it mildly.

Because the GPT tries to be more about ideals than building a political legacy, they not only have very little influence in actual politics -- all of the things the more powerful parties have done in line with the GPT’s ideas don’t seem to have been inspired by the GPT in any direct way). It’s hard to keep committed people this way, however. If there isn’t a realistic path to actual political impact through the GPT, you’re going to get true believers — those are great, but people do need money to live. So only a few of the most committed will actually do the work, and everyone else will float in and out.

Why? Because while they may agree on the politics, there’s a point at which people start focusing on building actual careers. So often, activism takes a backseat. And the ones doing the work complain about how disorganized it is, how branches of the party are withering, how people aren’t showing up. And to be honest, it seems they've got a point.

When someone does get an opportunity — to, say, garner some support from a popular presidential candidate like Tsai Ing-wen, or work in a DPP cabinet in environmental affairs — they face criticism from their original party for selling out. I would ask: are you really sticking to your ideals if you are insisting on paths that will obviously and clearly never lead to getting any of those ideals enshrined in policy? At what point does an idealist act as contrary to their own ideals as they claim the “sellout” does, if they’re always creating their own insurmountable hurdles to getting their ideas injected into popular and influential discourse? 

If a party can’t figure out who your own voters are and where to focus your efforts, is that party indeed showing more ideological purity than those who choose differently, and actually get some change pushed through? What good is ideology if you can't win a lick of influence?

Other than squabbling, factionalism and general disorganization, there was some discussion of the GPT’s actual platforms, and to what extent other parties, activists and voters were even aware of them. One interviewee noted how challenging it was to clarify these positions: when you post a policy analysis and proposals on Facebook you get essentially zero attention. When you post an attack on a hated figure like Han Kuo-yu, the views, likes and comments come pouring in. Other parties seem to think the GPT only cares about the environment, and the GPT doesn’t seem to have done much to counter this except ask people to read their charter. 

I sympathize with this: as a blogger I know what it’s like to see something ultimately meaningless take off, when your favorite or most in-depth work doesn’t. However, every other party of moderate success has figured out this balance. The GPT could do this, if it could set goals, agree on them and work towards them as a cohesive and organized unit. What doesn’t work is telling people to do more work to learn these things. They won’t. It doesn’t matter if they should. They won’t. 

Another thing that jumped out at me while reading Taiwan’s Green Parties, which is an unqualified positive for the GPT: their willingness to engage globally. I don’t just mean their work with the Global Greens, but also intra-party. Robin Winkler is a naturalized Taiwanese citizen who seriously considered running for office more than once (I don’t think any other party has considered running a naturalized citizen, but correct me if I’m wrong). Linda Arrigo headed their international affairs department. While every party is willing to employ foreigners, the GPT seems a breed apart in not just welcoming people like Arrigo and Winkler, but not necessarily thinking of them as different or ‘apart’ simply because they’re not originally from Taiwan. 

All in all, however, Taiwan’s Green Parties is an excellent book — equal parts enjoyable reading and academically grounded — and well worth a read for anyone interested in obscure corners of Taiwanese politics, especially on the left. It's academic, but written engagingly. However, the ideal reader will already have a strong notion of Taiwanese party politics before they pick up this book, so as to properly contextualize the names, small parties and other affiliations that crop up. 

Recommended food pairing for Taiwan’s Green Parties: a pint at your local and lots of popcorn