Through these contemplations I achieved yet another degree of nuance in my understanding of the psychic ecology of Taiwan, this wonderful land that has welcomed me as a naturalized citizen. It was a delight to be so impacted by an artwork and to see that our artists are among the most important members of our community, for they have the ability to see and share with us those parts of the human experience that we might otherwise never have taken the time to think about.
My
contemplations divided into two directions, one of which headed directly into
the realm of Speculative Fiction (available at the Hu
Reads Horror blog). The other direction took me here, to a very
personal dive into how Taiwanese identity is shaped by larger forces outside of
the individual.
The
artwork (shared here) features an amalgam of images, though the most prominent
of these at the center of the work are suggestions of data computation and
storage: from the earliest floppy drives to modern flash drives. Also
dominating the center of the photo is a head being submerged by the pressure
wave of an approaching container vessel.
Also depicted,
at the top of the frame, are bags that suggest sacks of foodstuffs like rice,
beans, or potatoes, and beneath these is a shelf with items that look like
apartment buildings but which could just as easily be boxed goods for sale. The
square structures on the right of the picture are unquestionably city
buildings.
Beneath
the grocery bags or sacks is a bottle (as would be used for alcohol or rice
wine), to the left of which are yams or other tubers. At the extreme left of
the picture is a cabinet with what might be receipts or notes pinned to its
inner wall. At the picture’s bottom are three desk drawers, within which are
what seem to be logs that are forming into books or ledgers, audio speakers,
what seems to be a straight-line ruler and what is either a calligraphy brush
or a pen — maybe a chopstick. At the lower right of the drawing is another
drawing. The above-mentioned computer storage devices — the old floppy hard
drives and current flash drive — are depicted in midair, as if they are in the
process of tumbling down.
The data
storage devices, the head, and the ship draw the viewer’s focus in a
bottom-upward sweep, though it is the disembodied head that demands the most
attention. Curiously and confusingly, the bow of the cargo ship is drawn as if it
has a face, somewhat in the style of a Jack-O-Lantern or the now-iconic Guy
Fawkes masks from “V for Vendetta.”
Without
offering any critical opinion of the artwork itself, I want to make note of how
this black-and-white oil painting sent my mind spiraling into contemplations of
contemporary Taiwan and the idea of “islandness” as an identity. More
specifically, the artwork encouraged me to see Taiwan as supporting and
expanding the notion of an “island mentality” touted by social scientists
across a diversity of academic disciplines, from psychologists to economists.
Put
simply, the “island mentality” argument states that people born and raised on
an island territory develop a psychological state of mind that is peculiar to them
and different from the psychic identities of non-islanders.
Among the
standard assumptions about the islander psychology is that the reality of
geographical isolation encourages in people the characteristics of independence
or self-reliance (upon the individual and the community) and a stronger sense
of “tradition” or “inheritance.”
Added to
this is the idea that living on an island naturally encourages psychic
qualities such as innovativeness and resourcefulness.
Do these
apply to Taiwanese?
Any answer
I give would mean taking a dive into contemplation, conversation, and solid
research — none of which is available to me at this moment.
However, I
do believe quite firmly that Taiwan goes unrecognized in the world as a site of
technological, cultural, and artistic innovation. And given the current
economic environment and demographic changes being wrought upon Taiwan’s
younger generation, I can say with confidence that Taiwanese are resourceful.
My focus
here is upon the relationship between island geography and international trade,
and how these combine to influence self-identification.
When You Look at Me, I See Myself …
Throughout its history, Taiwan has been a site of exploitation by outside
forces. Perhaps the only true islanders were the prehistoric Austronesian
inhabitants, the ancestors of today’s indigenous tribal people. The aborigines were
later thrown into competition with the settler colonists of Hakka and Hoklo
descent who started arriving as farmers in the 1600s. These agriculturalists
from the impoverished regions of the Chinese mainland maintained a notion of
themselves as being “from China,” but through intermarriage with indigenous
communities and the maintaining of farmland for ongoing generations, they came
to identify with the island as their home.
My
curiosity about “trade and identity” is focused on the changes brought to the
island psyche by the “traders” who imposed themselves upon Taiwan as
colonizers, but never actually “settled.” They used their military strength to
exploit the island’s rich natural resources, quite literally using Taiwan as a
golden goose. For the Europeans and Japanese colonists, and to some degree the
pirates of the fallen Ming Empire, Taiwan was little more than a source of
animal skins, timber, coal, and gold. With a longer-term mindset, the Japanese
colonizers helped develop Taiwan’s agricultural output, especially the sugar
and rice industries. But even so, for the Japanese the island was a property to
be exploited, not adopted.
Throughout
the three centuries of Taiwan’s colonized existence, what was at the heart of
the “island character” of Taiwanese? Again, I would not know without doing a
great deal of study, the kind of scholarly investigation that I am far from
able to do. And yet I would feel comfortable saying that the Taiwanese of those
centuries identified themselves with the land, both the local home community
and the islandwide area bordered by salt waters.
I can speak
with greater confidence about the “island identity” of today’s Taiwanese, and
how it seems to differ from so many other historical examples of “islandness.”
What is
that difference?
Global
realpolitik forces have imposed upon contemporary Taiwanese the need for a dual
self-identification. The first of these may be somewhat similar to what W.E.B.
Du Bois called “double consciousness,” the psychic sense of identifying oneself
as part of but not part of a national identity. For Taiwan, this means
maintaining an awareness of and respecting ancestral connections to China,
while also refusing to directly identify as part of the modern nation state
that is the People’s Republic of China.
This
double consciousness is at this very moment playing out as political drama.
The other
aspect of Taiwan’s contemporary “island identity” is more unique, and it is
this that comes to mind as I ponder my friend’s work of art.
Taiwanese —
whether by choice or by force, I can’t say — identify themselves with the one
thing that the industrial world needs the most beside fossil fuels: the silicon
chip.
Through
the innovation and ingenuity of Taiwan’s TSMC, the island is now a supplier of
some 60 percent of the world’s semiconductors, but is a source of more than 90
percent of the most valuable kinds of silicon chips.
This has
led to the idea that Taiwan is protected by a “silicon shield” from the martial
ambitions of the Communist Party leadership in Beijing who understand that
colonizing Taiwan would not only conclude the feud that started when the
fascist Nationalist government fled to the island in 1949, but give China a
potential chokehold over the shipping lanes so vital to all of Asia and the
Pacific.
A 2023 public survey released by
Academia Sinica
found that fewer than 10 percent of those polled in Taiwan expressed “trust” in
Beijing’s leaders, with the great majority feeling quite the opposite about the
promises made by the superpower next door.
The same
survey saw a decrease in trust for the United States’ leadership, as well. (That
lack of faith could only have worsened once the second Trump Administration
kicked in and started threatening its ally Taiwan with high tariffs.)
Both of
these findings suggest an islander mindset dominated by self-reliance and
determination.
Let me
re-shift the focus to the “silicon shield.”
Perhaps
unlike any other island state’s people, Taiwan citizens identify themselves
with the economy’s most important export product.
This means
they no longer identify with “the land” as their agricultural forebears did,
nor with some larger cultural traits. Instead, Taiwanese think of themselves as
belonging to Taiwan, and Taiwan as the world’s sole source of the high-quality
semiconductors that keep computers and smart phones functioning.
Here is
where the artwork seems to be so spot-on in its depiction of a head (mind or
consciousness) being in the wash of a grinning cargo ship (the great symbol of
global trade). The head is itself laid upon a desk overflowing with
“information,” as represented by the audio speakers and the books, but more
dramatically portrayed by the mid-air icons of data storage (the flash drive
and old-fashioned floppy disks).
Notably,
almost falling from the frame, is a corner of a painting of a pastoral scene, a
suggestion of tree, cliff, and cloud.
The
overall impression I glean from this is our psychic relationship with “trade.”
Not very long ago we viewed groceries as essential for our biological survival.
Local grocers and traditional wet markets provided the staples we needed to
stock our pantries and maintain bodily health.
Perhaps
three or four decades earlier Taiwanese experienced the first twinges of
self-identifying with the national economy’s primary export product, which in
the 1970s was cheaply produced textiles and electronic goods. This was the
beginning of the “Taiwan miracle economy,” when the island was one of Asia’s
four important “tigers.”
It says a
great deal about the Taiwanese character, its “islandness,” that the strongest
driver toward this economic shift into export overdrive was brought about
through the production capabilities of small and medium-sized private
enterprises. Indeed, the islander’s development of a healthy degree of
resourcefulness (as well as inherited cultural traditions such as respect for
the extended family, education, ambition, and frugality) led to the development
of a lively system of subcontracting assembly tasks to “living room factories.”
A great
deal of the small tech products for consumer markets was quite literally
assembled in the living rooms of family homes, where multiple generations of a
family — often women — spent their days putting together components that were
delivered and picked up by supplier. Author
Ping-Chun Hsiung called this the “satellite factory system.”
From
morning to evening, family members would sit at home snapping together
components of cheap plastic toys, or cables and jacks. These homes would be
easily identified by the number of cardboard boxes that built up outside the
front door every day until the supplier would send a pickup truck (the iconic
“little blue truck”) to pick up the merchandise.
I recall
seeing one of the last of these living room factories about 15 years ago in a
small alley somewhere being the Kunyang MRT station in the Nankang District of
Taipei City. It filled me with a strong sense of nostalgia for what used to be
a very common site.
Perhaps
this was when Taiwanese first started to associate their self-identities with
“industry,” especially given the deep connection between “home” and
“production.” That sociopsychological closeness would energize the later “Made
in Taiwan” movement that was designed to invest a stronger degree of pride in
the island’s economy.
As
established by the Ministry of Economic Affairs, the “MIT” campaign was part of
a drive to improve production
quality through a certification system,
with the overall goal being to raise the international image of Taiwan as more
than a maker of plastic toys and dinky electronics. With this encouragement, Taiwanese
companies transitioned away from being the cheap overseas maker of goods for
Western companies, and towards original product design. (China became the place where
Taiwanese developers shifted the burden of manufacturing.)
The push
has certainly encouraged the rise of Taiwan’s computer production market, a
move that prepared the soil in which the island’s semiconductor culture would
flourish.
Fascinatingly,
an online platform dedicated to science fiction has recently posted an informative essay on the “Made in Taiwan” movement.
The author of the essay, Warren Boutin, correctly points out that label has
become “a subtle but powerful statement of distinct identity and economic
independence. It represents a refusal to be subsumed or overshadowed.”
Boutin
further identifies a quality of “islandness” in Taiwan’s national character: “From
natural disasters to political challenges, the Taiwanese people have
consistently demonstrated their ability to adapt, innovate, and overcome
obstacles. The ‘Made in Taiwan’ label is a testament to this resilience,
embodying the spirit of hard work, determination, and perseverance.”
He hit the nail on the head, though we can only hope that nail was made in Taiwan.
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