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Ma wary of
identifying with Taiwan
By Chen Chi-nan 陳其南
When visiting Majia (瑪家) and Taiwu (泰武) townships in Pingtung County on Aug. 6,
President Ma Ying-jeou (馬英九) praised the reconstruction work done after the
region was ravaged by Typhoon Morakot two years ago by comparing the two places
to Provence in France and to the Peach Blossom Spring (桃花源) — a secluded utopia
described in a popular Chinese fable. Ma’s analogies hint at a subconscious
concept of an ideal country that is either a foreign land or an imaginary
paradise on Earth — not his real home in present-day Taiwan. His choice of words
was therefore rather inappropriate and worrying.
This incident shows just how far removed and alienated Ma’s administration is
from the land of Taiwan — which the Portuguese called Ilha Formosa, meaning
“beautiful island” — and from Aboriginal society. Dawushan (大武山), from whose
name Taiwu is derived, is a pristine mountain where limpid streams wind their
way through verdant forest. Nestled in quiet valleys, deep in the mountains, one
comes across villages where Aborigines live in houses built with stone slabs.
The villagers’ songs linger in the mind of the departing visitor, as do their
enchanting legends and beliefs. In what way is this place less perfect than
Provence or the Peach Blossom Spring?
Is it not the nationalist ideology promoted by the Chinese Nationalist Party (KMT)
over five or six decades that has caused the society of these people who
originally lived in a real-world Peach Blossom Spring to gradually break down?
Now, in the year supposedly marking 100 years since the founding of the country,
they find themselves idling away in a new Peach Blossom Spring. When are the
Aboriginal peoples destined to finally connect the past and the present?
The Aboriginal chiefs who appeared in televised reports from Majia and Taiwu no
longer had the same air of confidence and dignity they used to have. It was a
sad reminder of a paternalistic comment Ma once made, when he said that he
regarded Aborigines as “people.”
Centuries ago, the son of the paramount chief of Old Taiwu Village married the
daughter of the paramount chief of the neighboring Old Jiaping Village (佳平). The
bride and groom each inherited the subjects and land of their forefathers, and
they presided over nearly 30 other villages headed by dependent chiefs. Ruling
over such a big area, they were like feudal lords. Still, their power could not
compare with that of the paramount chief of the still larger Old Majia Village
to the north.
These chieftains had dealings with Dutch colonists in the 17th century. Records
of a meeting called by the Dutch in southern Taiwan in 1644 show that the chief
of Jiaping Village was one of the most renowned figures in attendance. Only the
“kings” of Beinan (卑南) and Longkiau (瑯嶠) — as the Hengchun Peninsula (恆春) was
then called — held greater prestige.
Japanese anthropologist Yoshimichi Kojima, who researched Aboriginal customary
law under Japanese rule, was deeply impressed by this kind of cross-territorial
vassal structure. He saw it as something like a federal state, or a miniature
version of what was then the German empire. This history and these traditions
are on a larger scale and more highly organized than those of many small
countries in the South Pacific, providing a firmer basis for the establishment
of an independent country.
Ma’s references to Provence and the Peach Blossom Spring are an expression of
his own worship of foreign things and of the Chinese conservatism that pervades
his personal experience. On the one hand, it highlights his wish to connect with
the Republic of China (ROC) through references to the Chinese classics. Whether
it be Peach Blossom Spring or the term “ROCer” that was recently coined by his
election campaign team, Ma and his supporters seem to be trying to avoid
identifying with their new homeland of Taiwan. It is a far cry from the Paiwan
Aborigines’ belief that when they die their souls will return to Dawushan.
Those in government would do well to mull over a popular saying in Yilan County:
“As long as we have Yilan, who wants to go to New Zealand?” The moral of the
story of the Peach Blossom Spring, written by Tao Yuanming (陶淵明) in the 4th
century, is in fact the opposite of what Ma intended to say.
In the story, the people of Peach Blossom Spring told the fisherman who stumbled
across their idyllic home that their ancestors had brought their families and
villagers to this isolated place to avoid the chaos of war during the Qin
Dynasty and that they had never left it and thus never had contact with the
outside world. Having never heard of the Han Dynasty, let alone the Wei and Jin,
they asked the fisherman what the present reign was. After the fisherman left
Peach Blossom Spring, he and others tried to find it again, but they either lost
their way or failed and died of sickness. After that, nobody went looking for
the Peach Blossom Spring anymore.
The moral of the story seems to be lost on those who continue to identify with
the ROC.
Chen Chi-nan is an anthropologist.
Translated by Julian Clegg
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