Beyond the Blood

1. Taiwan’s Geopolitical Tension vs. Identity

In 2021, The Economist published an article titled “The Most Dangerous Place on Earth,” arguing that Taiwan has become a potential flashpoint for conflict between the United States and China—a critical geopolitical risk. Under Xi Jinping, China has intensified its ambition to bring Taiwan under its control, viewing “reunification” as a core national priority. Meanwhile, Taiwan’s growing sense of distinct identity, along with its strategic ties to the U.S., adds to the complexity. 


Where does this evolving sense of Taiwanese identity come from? A brief recap to Taiwan's history. The island was a Japanese colony for over 50 years after the Treaty of Shimonoseki (1895). Then, after Japan's defeat in World War II, the Cairo Declaration (1943) and Potsdam Declaration (1945) stated that Taiwan should be "restored" to China. On October 25, 1945, Japanese forces surrendered to the Republic of China (ROC), marking what the ROC called "Retrocession Day." However, things weren’t that simple. The San Francisco Peace Treaty (1951) and the Treaty of Taipei (1952) officially ended Japan's sovereignty over Taiwan, but never clearly stated who Taiwan belonged to. The ROC began administering Taiwan in 1945, but never received formal international recognition as Taiwan’s rightful government. Then, in 1949, the ROC after losing the Chinese Civil War, it retreated to Taiwan while the People’s Republic of China (PRC) took control of the mainland.

For islanders, this was a huge identity shift—after more than 50 years as Japanese subjects, they suddenly found themselves under ROC rule. This transition, along with the trauma that followed, is a major theme in Taiwanese literature. One key figure is 鍾肇政 (Chung Chao-cheng, 1925–2020), whose 《台灣人三部曲》 (Taiwanese Trilogy, 1970–1977) tells the story of a Taiwanese intellectual growing up under Japanese rule. At first, he hopes for a “reunion” with China, but after the February 28 Massacre (1947) and the White Terror, that hope turns into deep disillusionment as he witnesses the violent suppression of Taiwanese people under KMT rule.

2. The KMT’s Cultural Indoctrination

Fast forward to my generation—Taiwan went through the Sunflower Movement in 2014, a student-led protest pushing for more transparency and autonomy in government dealings with China, the PRC China. For people like me, it was a wake-up call, making us rethink and rediscover what it really means to be Taiwanese. Back then, Facebook and social media were flooded with debates: Are we Chinese? Should we identify that way? That was when I finally realized—from my parents' generation to mine, we had all grown up under KMT’s compulsory education system, which drilled into us that China was “great” and that one day, we would return to the mainland and defeat the Chinese communist Party. 

Before college, I had to sing Republic of China's National Flag Anthem of the Republic of China every morning at school. The first two lines go:"Magnificent mountains and rivers, (with) bountiful and diverse goods;

Descendants of Yan and Huang, to be the heroes of East Asia."

(山川壯麗，物產豐隆，炎黃世胄，東亞稱雄。)

Looking back, it’s pretty ironic—all these “magnificent mountains” and “bountiful goods” weren’t even in Taiwan, but in China. The whole song basically glorified the Chinese legacy and mainland, pushing the idea that we, as Taiwanese, had to join the KMT’s dream—to one day reclaim China and defeat the Communist Party again. It’s wild to think how much of our education was shaped by that narrative.


The year the Sunflower Movement broke out was also my first year studying art in the U.S. on a full merit scholarship. Dealing with imposter syndrome, I thought the best way to stand out was by making art rooted in my cultural heritage. But that year, I had a huge realization—the culture I thought was mine wasn’t actually mine. I started questioning why I had always viewed Chinese heritage as "great," only to realize that much of it came from the KMT’s unfulfilled mission and their control over public consciousness.

In Japanese jounalist Nojima Tsuyoshi (野嶋剛) 's book The Division and Reunion of the Two National Palace Museums (兩個故宮的離合), he breaks down the power struggles behind the Palace Museum, showing how the KMT took a massive collection of Qing Dynasty treasures when they fled to Taiwan, stored them in the National Palace Museum, and taught Taiwanese people to worship them as “authentic Chinese heritage.” In response, I created a performance piece called "Occupy the Sinocentrism." Motorbikes are everywhere in Taiwan, so I filmed one riding endlessly around the museum and projected the footage onto a long rice-paper scroll. The looped image represents how we’ve been trapped in this colonial legacy, forced to keep circling around a narrow, never-ending version of “Chinese” identity—never allowed to break free.

3. Tibetan Independence and Participatory Art

As I started questioning my own cultural heritage and visual language, I traveled to Dharamshala in the same year— Dharmshala is home to the Tibetan government-in-exile and where the 14th Dalai Lama has lived since 1959. While there, I volunteered at an NGO called Tibet World, teaching filmmaking and Chinese language classes to the Tibetan exile community.My goal? To understand how Tibetans have fought for independence while facing the same kind of CCP oppression that looms over Taiwan.

Most of my students were in their twenties—the same age as me—but their lives couldn’t have been more different. When I teach the filmmaking class. I had them storyboard scenes, mapping out the introduction, climax, and resolution. While most of them quietly sketched with simple black pens, one student asked for a red pen. He used it to illustrate a scene where his brother was arrested then tortured by communist police, yet his brother, through it all, kept praying to the Dalai Lama, wouldn't lose his compassion even toward his tormentors.

They showed me just how powerful art can be—not just as a form of expression, but as a tool for survival, resistance, and amplifying unheard voices. Through them, I realized that art isn’t just about aesthetics or commerce—it has the power to challenge, heal, and bring people together. This experience made me rethink the foundations of my own visual education and its political implications, pushing me to create work that is more socially engaged and participatory. My students taught me that beyond traditional art forms, art can transform even the harshest realities into a platform for healing, activism, and community.

4. Patriarchal Taiwanese Lineage

But the moment I stepped away from my "Chinese identity," another question hit me: What does it really mean to be Taiwanese? This felt especially personal because I grew up in a traditional patriarchal family where sons were valued over daughters. My mom and I were often treated like a disgrace, simply because we were women who had “failed” to produce a male heir. So how was I supposed to fully embrace a culture that had marginalized me for so long? That question pushed me to dig deeper into Taiwan’s Indigenous cultures and other identities—something I’ll be exploring more in future videos.

5. Should Art Be Apolitical? 


Growing up under KMT education, I was taught that a lot of things should be “pure” and free from politics—science, art, knowledge itself. These were supposed to exist above the messiness of politics. But after questioning my own identity and seeing how Tibetan refugees use art to fight for their voices, I understand that this kind of "pure" notion is just to make you not to think or interfere with their authoritarian politics.

One of my art school professors, Eduardo Kac, once told me about Jackson Pollock, and it really stuck with me. Pollock, a leading figure in Abstract Expressionism, was famous for his drip paintings, all about spontaneity and movement. But what most people don’t realize is that after World War II, his work—along with Abstract Expressionism as a whole—was secretly backed by the U.S. government, especially the CIA. the U.S. used Abstract Expressionism as a Cold War weapon, selling it as a symbol of "freedom and creativity" to contrast the rigid, state-controlled Socialist Realism of the Soviet Union. So much for art being “apolitical.”

And soon, In 1958, Pollock’s work was introduced to Taiwan, exhibited at the American Cultural Center (rented by the U.S. Information Service). Just like during the Cold War, the U.S. pushed Abstract Expressionism in Taiwan to project an image of a liberal, democratic America, shaping how a generation of Taiwanese artists viewed art and self-expression. From Tibetan exiles using art to fight for survival, to the KMT shaping Taiwanese identity through cultural education, to the U.S. using art as propaganda—art has never been neutral. It’s always been a battleground.


Conclusion

I grew up finding refuge in art. Over time, it became not just a sanctuary but also the foundation of my research, broadening my perspective and offering a way to challenge power structures. Whether through Pollock’s CIA connections or an art curriculum shaped by a colonized education system, art never exists in isolation. It reflects the political and historical forces that shape our world. Participatory and socially engaged projects often act as “temporary utopias,” where marginalized voices can be heard, validated, and united, providing an entry point for deeper understanding of experiences beyond our own.