A place for immigrants from mainland China, Taiwan is home to ethnic groups of differing background. Is it possible for the islanders to reach ethnic integration and find a unified identity by calling themselves "New Taiwanese?"
"Are you a yam or a taro?" This is a question usu ally heard in Taiwan when one person is trying to discover the ethnic identity of another, in relation to when the latter's parents arrived on the island. "Yam" refers to the so-called "Taiwan natives" who moved to the island from mainland China on a large scale from the seventeenth century to the early twentieth century, and "taro" describes "mainlanders" who have been living here since around 1949. A dichotomy of this sort has come to bear less meaning over time, since intermarriages between "yams" and "taros" are increasing. The question also ignores the indigenous people who form the smallest ethnic group on the island, but who have existed in Taiwan longer than anyone else.
Today, Taiwan's inhabitants are usually divided into four main ethnic groups: indigenous people comprising nine major tribal groups; Hakka people, mostly from Guangdong province; Southern Min people from south of the Min River in Fujian province; and "mainlanders," who followed the Nationalist (KMT) government to the island after Chinese Communists gained control of the mainland in 1949. Southern Mins (the largest single ethnic group on the island) and Hakkas account for more than 80 percent of the population, while mainlanders occupy over 16 percent and indigenous people less than 2 percent.
Except for indigenous groups, who are culturally and racially distinct from the other three groups, all ROC citizens could accurately be called "mainlanders," since their ancestors came from mainland China. As time went by, mainland immigrants, whether established or new, underwent the process of seeking a new identity. "This is called 'indigenization,' and Taiwan is still in the middle of it," observes Chen Chi-nan, former vice chairman of the Council for Cultural Affairs and currently a professor in the Graduate School of Traditional Arts at the National Institute of the Arts.
According to Chen, the first stage of the indigenization process was completed when early settlers from Guangdong and Fujian began to identify themselves with the land in which they lived. "This is evidenced in what they called themselves. You know, at first they called themselves natives of Zhangzhou and Quanzhou [after two coastal Fujian cities], but later they replaced these names with Taiwan-related ones, like Changhua or Taipei native."
Today, none of the so-called "Taiwan natives" use mainland-related place-names when they identify where they came from, whereas mainlanders and their offspring may still say they are natives of, for example, Shandong or Hunan (two mainland provinces). For Chen, these latecomers are still in the process of indigenization because they have not lived on the island long enough. "Judging from the precedent, I think sooner or later all Taiwan people will be indigenized. The process takes time, but it's quite natural," notes Chen.
Language is being relied on to expedite the process, and opinion leaders are seeking a unifying term for all of those currently on the island. For example, on the eve of Taiwan Retrocession Day last year, ROC President Lee Teng-hui empha sized the concept of "New Taiwanese." According to Lee, everyone living on the island, no matter when they moved here, should be seen as "New Taiwanese" and the real masters of the island, because they have been equally important in terms of their contribution to its development.
Similarly, Chen Shui-bian, Taipei's former mayor and a high-profile figure in the Democratic Progressive Party (DPP), Taiwan's major opposition force, dismisses "yam" and "taro," preferring the word "peanut." "In fact, we are all peanuts," Chen said at a public gathering late last year, adding that people here should take root easily, just like peanuts, and be able to identify with the land they dwell on and which they think of as their permanent home.
Taiwan is perceived by some to be an island of immigrants, full of challenges that serve to stimulate the population to develop themselves to their full potential, without being burdened by tradition. Hsu Hsin-liang, former chairman of the DPP, calls the Taiwanese "the rising people" for this reason.
Julian Kuo, an associate professor of political science at Soochow University in Taipei and former director of the DPP's Policy Research and Coordinating Committee, believes that Hsu and President Lee are hoping to build local people's confi dence in the island. "Lee adds the word 'new' before 'Taiwanese' in an effort to move beyond the old misconception that mainland China is higher in status than Taiwan, and Hsu enhances islanders' pride by focusing on their potential," Kuo says.
Indigenization of the island's political arena, a place that was originally dominated by mainlanders, is crucial to the process of consolidating Taiwan's identity. Toward the end of his life, Chiang Ching-kuo, the late ROC president who was born and raised in mainland China, proclaimed, "I'm a Taiwanese, too." Later, Chiang chose Lee Teng-hui to be his succes sor, and the latter went on to become the first Taiwan-born Hakka to govern the ROC after Chiang passed away in 1988.
The DPP gained strength after Taiwan moved toward democratization with the lifting of martial law in July 1987, and in 1992 the party, whose members were mostly Taiwan natives, made an impressive showing in the first major democratic legislative election based on universal suffrage. It won about one-third of the seats in the Legislature, which had been occu pied by mainlanders since the Nationalist government moved to Taiwan in 1949. At the same time the ruling party also underwent indigenization as Taiwan-born KMT legislators began to appear. Since the voice of the local majority began to be heard, Chen Chi-nan says, this helped improve relations between different ethnic groups. "It's necessary to distribute politi cal resources proportionately among the ethnicities; otherwise, the disharmony will never go away."
According to Kuo, mainland China should be careful about their acts of intimidation toward Taiwan, in order to avoid what the mainland least wants to see: a psychological backlash in the form of a rising consciousness of a Taiwanese identity developing into pro-Taiwan independence sentiment. "On every visit to Beijing, I tell them [mainland Chinese scholars and officials] that such acts will help Taiwan build an independent nation. But they don't seem to understand what I'm talking about," Kuo says, adding that KMT officials have made similar remarks.
This does not mean that the pro-reunification KMT shares the same platform as the DPP, which has sought the ideal of Taiwan independence. However, Kuo observes that both parties have increasingly come to share the same policy toward mainland China. "They all maintain that Taiwan's sovereignty should be protected, and the fact that Taiwan and mainland China are two political entities has been confirmed. This is already the common discourse on the island," Kuo explains.
At the same time, the trend toward indigenization and Taiwanese identity has brought some disharmony. According to a survey conducted by the Mainland Affairs Council (MAC) in October 1998, about 38 percent of Taiwan's population feel they are Taiwanese rather than Chinese, while 12 percent think they are Chinese rather than Taiwanese. About 45 percent embrace a "double identity."
The term "Chinese" can be both political and cultural. Assuming that the survey respondents who identified themselves as Taiwanese understood that the survey was not asking them about their political allegiance (a safe assumption, given that the ROC is by definition opposed to the PRC politically), that 38 percent of the population denies a cultural link with the other side of the Taiwan Strait. "Some politicians argue for separating Taiwan from mainland China culturally, but this will cause a certain degree of tension on the island," argues Hwang Kwang-kuo, a psychology professor at National Taiwan University. He believes that the number of islanders willing to say they are Chinese will increase when cross-strait relations change for the better.
Kuo agrees that the island is influenced by the mainland in terms of culture, but for him the identity issue is delicate and he is careful about his language. "I'm culturally Chinese but politically not," says Kuo, reflecting a position that some critics have come to associate with an increasingly moderate DPP membership. Though Kuo's statement may simply express a fact, 57 percent of the people in Taiwan who call themselves either "Chinese" or "Chinese and Taiwanese" may feel less than comfortable about his reluctance to say, simply, "I am Chinese"--and to leave it at that. Kuo explains his hesitancy in terms of fear of political "oral annexation"-- meaning that he does not want anyone unfamiliar with Taiwan's political situation to misunderstand this to mean that Taiwan is a part of the PRC.
The meaning of the term "Chinese" is also elusive against the backdrop of day-to-day politics in Taiwan. The percentage of people in Taiwan who embrace a Chinese identity may fluctuate from week to week or month to month, according to the manner in which the PRC is behaving in relation to the island. But one thing seems clear: if Chen Chi-nan's view of indigenization is justifiable, those claiming to be "Taiwanese" or "Chinese and Taiwanese" will increase from the current 83 percent of the population. But does this mean Taiwan's ethnic question will be better addressed in the near future?
Generally speaking, senior citizens and people with less formal education tend to have a stronger awareness of ethnicity. This is more or less related to Taiwan's past government policy, which ran counter to the social situation. One example is the government's past language policy, which promoted Mandarin as the national language but ignored--and at times suppressed --other languages. Languages marginalized by the national language policy included Southern Min, the local version of which, popularly known as "Taiwanese," was spoken by most people in Taiwan at the time. Exclusionary language policies inarguably contributed to the feeling of solidarity among "Taiwanese" people in opposition to the government, and Manda rin-speaking mainlanders in general.
There is nothing wrong with government efforts to promote a common language on the island, but many think this task was carried out at the expense of languages other than Mandarin. Chen also finds this language policy incomplete, arguing that it is inimical to the aims of multilingualism and multiculturalism. He further asserts that the government's practice of establishing residential quarters for the dependents of military personnel was detrimental to relations between mainlanders and the rest of Taiwan's people. "People inside and outside of the community were segregated from each other, and this developed the potential for conflicts," observes Chen.
Times have changed and there are chances for government policies to take a turn. Today, Taiwanese as well as Hakka and aboriginal languages are promoted on the island to the extent that they are now taught in elementary schools. Compared with the official language, Mandarin, Taiwanese is drawing more and more attention, and is spoken in public places by many- -including government officials, in the hope of getting closer to the general public.
At the same time, some of the villages for military dependents around the island have been reconstructed into new communities where Taiwanese-speaking residents mingle with those of mainland origin.
Another major step to blur the line between ethnic groups was taken when the Ministry of the Interior decided to modify the format of ROC identification cards. A small box printed on the back of the card provides a space for the cardholder's "native place"--meaning the place from which his or her father originated on the Chinese mainland (if the father immigrated to Taiwan around 1949), or the place in Taiwan that is considered the cardholder's hometown (if the father is an earlier arrival, or a Taiwan native). In 1986, an additional box was printed on the back of the identification card, to include the cardholder's place of birth. For the vast majority of those living in Taiwan in 1986, the word in this box was the name of a place in Taiwan. Cards issued after 1992 no longer listed a "native place" at all--whether in the mainland or in Taiwan. On all cards issued after 1992, the native-place box is simply blank. The effect of the change in identification cards signaled a de -emphasis on mainland China, and a linking of personal identity with Taiwan. Such a reform places more importance on the cardholder's life experience on the island, and helps facilitate the process of indigenization.
In modern Taiwan's society, the younger one is, the weaker his or her consciousness of ethnicity. It is good to emerge healthier from the past, but the task of fully defusing ethnic tensions remains unfinished and the divide marring the wholeness of "New Taiwanese" sometimes still shows itself. "You know, ethnic problems hardly exist at all during ordinary times, but when it comes to grabbing political power, they easily crop up," Hwang notes.
What Hwang is talking about is Taiwan's "election-culture" syndrome. "Every time an election approaches, candidates manipulate the votes in their favor by stirring up ethnic sentiments in some way. This strategy is often effective, especially when used in the rural areas," observes Hwang. "But we can say such acts are immoral."
On the other hand, Kuo thinks the ethnicity issue is being played down every year, since today raising it would only bring antipathy from society. "Politicians are more self-controlled in this regard than before," he notes.
But Kuo mentions an emerging ethnic hegemony that could stunt multiculturalism and provoke disquiet in society. This time, people of Southern Min origin are the subject of scrutiny. "Take language for example. They tend to give 'Taiwanese' a narrow definition, thinking it refers only to the language of southern Fujian. But why are Hakka and aboriginal languages not Taiwanese?" asks Kuo. "You know, a majority must especially develop the spirit of democracy because it easily and unknowingly ignores the needs of minor ones."
While Mandarin chauvinism is now less common, some enterprises on the island practice reverse discrimination in terms of language when hiring workers. Kuo cites Evergreen Marine as an example of one company that is commonly known to exclude those who cannot speak Taiwanese at interviews, although officially Evergreen denies that such a policy exists. "And there are companies that even refuse to hire somebody just because their native place is mainland China," Kuo adds.
Language prejudices may be reflected in the policies of some businesses, but they will not lead to the death of Mandarin, since there are relatively few on the island who cannot speak it. Furthermore, as Mandarin has become a common language on both sides of the Strait, it is convenient when people from Taiwan travel and do business in mainland China, a region whose power is now steadily expanding. However, under threats from both Mandarin and Taiwanese, Hakka is becoming more marginalized than ever. Consequently, Hakka people are "becoming invisible," because on public occasions they tend to use mainstream languages instead of Hakka.
Aboriginal languages are also becoming invisible for the same (and other) reasons, and this seems to be the inescapable predicament of a disadvantaged group. "I think the government today expresses care for indigenous people in almost every issue just to build an image of itself as tolerant, and at the same time to incorporate them in order to expand its own political resources," argues indigenous writer Walis Nogang.
Nogang thinks the government's efforts to enhance ethnic harmony are merely tokenism. "Today, there are still cases of indigenous people being insulted, verbally or in other ways. Does Taiwan really have no ethnic problems? The point is not about the extent of discrimination," he notes, meaning that bias is bias, however "light" it may seem.
But the writer knows it takes time to see that Taiwan's ethnic groups respect one another. The situation has changed for the better, he feels. For example, the public has begun to call indigenous people yuan-chu-min (meaning "people who lived here first") instead of shan-ti-jen, or "mountain people," a term that is insulting to some and absolutely inaccurate for many tribes that live or once lived on the plains. And, if indigenous people can live comfortably with a society that is racially different from them, there is a better chance for the integration of the other three ethnic groups, which are all considered Han people. "We are similar in many ways, so it's not difficult to solve ethnic problems," says Chen Chi-nan.
Indeed, after islanders of differing ethnic background have mixed with each other through marriage, at school and in the workplace, the differences between them are less and less obvious. At the same time, it is becoming more unlikely that a person's ethnic background can be determined by the language he or she uses, since a "mainlander" may have mastered Taiwanese, while a so-called Taiwan native may speak it less fluently than Mandarin--and such unconventional cases are sure to increase in future generations.
"What is your native place?" President Lee asked Ma Ying-jeou, in Mandarin, before a group of people while helping Ma campaign for the 1998 year-end Taipei mayoral election. "I'm a 'New Taiwanese,' eating Taiwanese rice and drinking Taiwanese water," Ma, a "taro" who was born in Hong Kong and raised in Taipei by mainland Chinese parents, responded in loud, heavily accented Taiwanese. Observers thought the president's emphasis on the "New Taiwanese" concept in the hope of having him cross the ethnic divide and commanding more support from Taipei citizens would likely contribute to Ma's success. A couple of days later, Ma was elected mayor of Taipei with 51 percent of the vote.
What do people on the island think about the concept of "New Taiwanese"? A survey of Taipei city citizens conducted soon after the 1998 year-end elections by the United Daily News indicated that 68 percent of the polled found the concept acceptable. According to another post-election poll islandwide by the Gallup Organization, 46.7 percent of the respondents agreed that they are New Taiwanese. The numbers of people responding to these two surveys are respectively 1,106 and 1,129.
So, the question, "What are you? A yam or a taro?" itself implies that today in Taiwan it is not easy to tell one from another ethnically--or we may even say it is nonsensical to make such a distinction. Apparently, President Lee has good reason to promote the concept of New Taiwanese, a new social identity forming on the island.