Western-style progressivism comes to Taiwan, challenging its national identity
Notice what's missing.
Chiang Kai-shek Memorial Hall could easily be mistaken by the unfamiliar tourist for a religious shrine of preeminent sanctity.
Massive and tastefully ornate, it sits within a sprawling square of stone and is flanked by two temple-like assembly halls. Within its main chamber sits a 10-meter statue of the titular Chiang, Taiwan‘s first president.
I saw the hall in all its glory for the first time when I was flown to Taipei on a press junket alongside journalists from 12 other nations. We were there to learn about every facet of the island, from military preparedness to diplomatic relations, historical origins to visions of the future.
The other journalists and I had been brought to the memorial hall by our government handlers to witness the famous changing of the guard ceremony that has been conducted at the monument since 1980.
Members of the Taiwanese honor guard take part in a change of duty ceremony at the Chiang Kai-shek Memorial Hall in Taipei, Taiwan. (Ng Han Guan/AP)
If we had arrived before last year, we would have been led to see the event in the hall itself, directly in front of Chiang’s towering statue. The soldiers would have stayed as sentries before and after the performance, symbolically guarding the legacy of Taiwan’s founder.
But the Ministry of Culture had decided that such displays were “worshipping a cult of personality” and “worshipping authoritarianism.” They moved the honor guard out of the hall and abolished the sentries as part of their broader, national project aimed at “promoting transitional justice.”
So without even seeing the Chiang statue, we stood behind ropes on the small boulevard outside the memorial. My group watched two sets of soldiers march in, twirl their guns, click their heels, and then retreat out of sight.
“Why are we here?” I thought to myself. “Outside a memorial to a founding father the ruling government despises, watching an honor guard perform in no one’s honor?”
The Taiwan that I observed on my trip was a friendly and refined nation with a dazzling cultural legacy. I walked through Taipei and observed the endless streams of disciplined scooter drivers zipping about their clean streets. I felt the tropical heat and sat in the shade of traditional gardens. I ate piping hot, hand-rolled dumplings and drank in soft, secluded bars safe enough to leave your wallet on the table.
Taiwan captured my heart. But throughout the week, I found the island to be at war with the most beautiful parts of itself, …
Notice what's missing.
Chiang Kai-shek Memorial Hall could easily be mistaken by the unfamiliar tourist for a religious shrine of preeminent sanctity.
Massive and tastefully ornate, it sits within a sprawling square of stone and is flanked by two temple-like assembly halls. Within its main chamber sits a 10-meter statue of the titular Chiang, Taiwan‘s first president.
I saw the hall in all its glory for the first time when I was flown to Taipei on a press junket alongside journalists from 12 other nations. We were there to learn about every facet of the island, from military preparedness to diplomatic relations, historical origins to visions of the future.
The other journalists and I had been brought to the memorial hall by our government handlers to witness the famous changing of the guard ceremony that has been conducted at the monument since 1980.
Members of the Taiwanese honor guard take part in a change of duty ceremony at the Chiang Kai-shek Memorial Hall in Taipei, Taiwan. (Ng Han Guan/AP)
If we had arrived before last year, we would have been led to see the event in the hall itself, directly in front of Chiang’s towering statue. The soldiers would have stayed as sentries before and after the performance, symbolically guarding the legacy of Taiwan’s founder.
But the Ministry of Culture had decided that such displays were “worshipping a cult of personality” and “worshipping authoritarianism.” They moved the honor guard out of the hall and abolished the sentries as part of their broader, national project aimed at “promoting transitional justice.”
So without even seeing the Chiang statue, we stood behind ropes on the small boulevard outside the memorial. My group watched two sets of soldiers march in, twirl their guns, click their heels, and then retreat out of sight.
“Why are we here?” I thought to myself. “Outside a memorial to a founding father the ruling government despises, watching an honor guard perform in no one’s honor?”
The Taiwan that I observed on my trip was a friendly and refined nation with a dazzling cultural legacy. I walked through Taipei and observed the endless streams of disciplined scooter drivers zipping about their clean streets. I felt the tropical heat and sat in the shade of traditional gardens. I ate piping hot, hand-rolled dumplings and drank in soft, secluded bars safe enough to leave your wallet on the table.
Taiwan captured my heart. But throughout the week, I found the island to be at war with the most beautiful parts of itself, …
Western-style progressivism comes to Taiwan, challenging its national identity
Notice what's missing.
Chiang Kai-shek Memorial Hall could easily be mistaken by the unfamiliar tourist for a religious shrine of preeminent sanctity.
Massive and tastefully ornate, it sits within a sprawling square of stone and is flanked by two temple-like assembly halls. Within its main chamber sits a 10-meter statue of the titular Chiang, Taiwan‘s first president.
I saw the hall in all its glory for the first time when I was flown to Taipei on a press junket alongside journalists from 12 other nations. We were there to learn about every facet of the island, from military preparedness to diplomatic relations, historical origins to visions of the future.
The other journalists and I had been brought to the memorial hall by our government handlers to witness the famous changing of the guard ceremony that has been conducted at the monument since 1980.
Members of the Taiwanese honor guard take part in a change of duty ceremony at the Chiang Kai-shek Memorial Hall in Taipei, Taiwan. (Ng Han Guan/AP)
If we had arrived before last year, we would have been led to see the event in the hall itself, directly in front of Chiang’s towering statue. The soldiers would have stayed as sentries before and after the performance, symbolically guarding the legacy of Taiwan’s founder.
But the Ministry of Culture had decided that such displays were “worshipping a cult of personality” and “worshipping authoritarianism.” They moved the honor guard out of the hall and abolished the sentries as part of their broader, national project aimed at “promoting transitional justice.”
So without even seeing the Chiang statue, we stood behind ropes on the small boulevard outside the memorial. My group watched two sets of soldiers march in, twirl their guns, click their heels, and then retreat out of sight.
“Why are we here?” I thought to myself. “Outside a memorial to a founding father the ruling government despises, watching an honor guard perform in no one’s honor?”
The Taiwan that I observed on my trip was a friendly and refined nation with a dazzling cultural legacy. I walked through Taipei and observed the endless streams of disciplined scooter drivers zipping about their clean streets. I felt the tropical heat and sat in the shade of traditional gardens. I ate piping hot, hand-rolled dumplings and drank in soft, secluded bars safe enough to leave your wallet on the table.
Taiwan captured my heart. But throughout the week, I found the island to be at war with the most beautiful parts of itself, …
