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Lung risks obscuring
human rights
By Chen Chun-hung and Yeh Hung-ling 陳俊宏，葉虹靈
Late last month, Minister of Culture Lung Ying-tai (龍應台) delivered a report at
the Legislative Yuan on the progress of preparations for the National Human
Rights Museum. During the session, she was asked questions such as who were the
protagonists of the White Terror era and how the museum would present the record
of former president Chiang Kai-shek (蔣介石). Lung went from first placing the
responsibility on “groups” and “organizations” to saying that it was
inappropriate for her, as a minister, to impose her own values on the museum and
that this was for society at large to debate.
We find this somewhat perplexing. Even President Ma Ying-jeou (馬英九), as early as
2007, conceded that Chiang shared some of the responsibility for the 228
Incident and the White Terror. That being the case, it is difficult to
understand Lung’s reluctance to talk about it.
Evaluating Chiang’s legacy, for good or bad, in terms of governing Taiwan, is a
complex matter: There are no clear-cut answers. Things are made much simpler
when the debate is narrowed down to his role in the White Terror and how the
museum hopes to depict this role, although Chiang is certainly not the sole
person implicated. Equally important is the nature of the edifice behind the
White Terror: For example, how high-level military and political leaders
manipulated the government and the judiciary — through martial law — to suppress
society, and how martial law was maintained for decades after the situation in
the Taiwan Strait had become considerably more stable after late 1954, robbing
the public of their basic freedoms.
We need to study and exhibit how the intelligence services controlled and
permeated society, and what role they played in individual cases of political
crimes.
Studying the system does not mean neglecting the individual. There has been a
succession of studies on the part played by former president Chiang Ching-kuo
(蔣經國) as head of the intelligence agencies from the 1950s on, responsible for
investigating political crimes. As academic Su Jui-chiang (蘇瑞鏘) discovered when
looking through archives from the 1950s, decisions at military tribunals were
reviewed by officials at the former Taiwan Provincial Security Command, the
defense minister and the chief of the general staff at the Ministry of National
Defense and the secretary-general and presidential chief of staff at the
Presidential Office. These documents, with notes and comments added, were then
submitted to the president.
Many of the punishments initially decided by the tribunal were actually
increased in severity over the course of this process. It is common knowledge
that Chiang Kai-shek himself often demanded that custodial sentences were made
longer or changed to the death penalty, but the archives reveal that other
individuals, including Kui Yung-ching (桂永清), Chou Chih-jou (周至柔) and Liu Shih-yih
(劉士毅), made similar amendments to the initial punishment.
The question is, how are we to evaluate the behavior of these senior officials
and of the part they played? Were their decisions proportionate and reasonable
or were they arbitrary? Furthermore, how are we to understand the lower-level
tribunal judges, especially those who were upbraided by their superiors for
their “excessively lenient” initial rulings?
Such complex issues require an analysis that reflects the complexity of the
entire power structure and identifies the individual operators and facilitators
and the positions they occupy within the wider spectrum. We have to move beyond
universally applying the simplistic, stereotypical label of “perpetrator.”
This level of analysis is needed if it is to help future generations appraise
the relationship between the individual actors in relation to the larger
picture, allow them to more clearly assess the responsibility of individuals and
reflect upon the human and ethical issues on a more profound level.
The human rights museum has real potential to display the multifaceted character
of the martial law edifice within a public space and to represent the different
ethnicities and backgrounds of the victims and the complexity of the system. Of
course a minister should not impose their own personal preferences on the
content of the exhibitions. However, it is perfectly acceptable for the person
in charge to have an input in the main orientation of the exhibits, the experts
invited to contribute and the historical materials used, and for these to
reflect that person’s ideology.
When Lung finds it difficult to address even the most transparently evident
issue of whether Chiang Kai-shek was involved, we find it difficult to imagine
just what perspective the museum under her charge is going to have.
More importantly, Lung is trying to remain neutral and objective, but why should
it follow that she cannot tell us how she proposes to actually, in practical,
policy terms, guide the operation of the museum, to promote dialogue in society
and forge a consensus? If she really wants to address this vastly complex part
of history “with sincerity, courage and humility,” does she really think
allocating six staff members is adequate? And does she think that largely
relying on project consultants on short-term contracts is appropriate for a
national museum?
Chen Chun-hung is director of the Taiwan Association for Truth and
Reconciliation. Yeh Hung-ling is the association’s chief executive.
Translated by Paul Cooper
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