Any Chinese tourists who picked up a newspaper here earlier this month would probably have been intrigued to read the frank discussion of the government’s performance following Tropical Storm Kalmaegi.
The storm killed 20 people and left NT$1.05 billion (US$34 million) in crop damage on the heels of severe flooding that inundated fields and left farmers reeling last month. In the eyes of the disaster-weary Chinese, the damage and death toll would surely seem miniscule. At the same time, the right to ask questions about why the weather bureau did not issue a stronger warning ahead of Kalmaegi, or who is responsible for the inadequacy of the drainage system in parts of the country, is a critical ingredient to pursuing progress, and one conspicuously lacking in China.
There, in the wake of an earthquake that left 70,000 dead and another 20,000 “missing,” authorities have responded to public calls for accountability with threats and detentions.
Activist Huang Qi (黃琦) was arrested for “holding state secrets” after publishing articles online that took a critical look at the state’s response to the Sichuan disaster. Chinese local authorities have swept under the carpet probes into what has turned out to be a chronic problem: “tofu” schools, the substandard and unsafe buildings that are an unmistakable product of corruption. Reports indicate that grief-stricken parents who try to take their petitions to Beijing have been physically blocked from leaving their hometowns.
But it is precisely this demand for accountability that China so desperately needs if it is to make progress on such basic services as safe schools and efficient disaster-response mechanisms. Frustration would seem to be mounting in China, but the authorities, although painfully aware, have offered little more than a semblance of government accountability. They simply went through the motions of probing corruption after the Sichuan quake.
Elsewhere, in a classic case of tokenism, the authorities last week specified three locations in Beijing where demonstrations would be allowed during the Olympics.
The designation of protest zones seems to have been a charade intended as much for the international community as for local people, as the news was also reported in China, where such developments are sometimes only released in English to appeal to an international audience.
Unfortunately, applying for permission to rally in these areas would be, as some dissidents have said, like walking into a trap. Beijing police are out in full force to prevent anyone with a genuine grievance from coming anywhere near the zones or the thousands of reporters swarming into the Olympic city.
Ye Guozhu (葉國柱), who was due for release on Saturday after serving a four-year sentence for applying to hold a peaceful demonstration in Beijing against forced evictions, was immediately moved to a new detention center for safekeeping until the Games have passed. Also last week, police told Tiananmen Square Massacre activist Qi Zhiyong (齊志勇) to leave Beijing for the duration of the Olympics or be arrested.
Looking across the Strait, it is difficult not to recall Taiwan’s authoritarian past. As the Beijing Olympic Organizing Committee noted last week, Chinese law, and indeed the Constitution, guarantees the right to demonstrate peacefully. But it would seem that progressive Chinese — much like the Taiwanese 60 years ago — have a long and bitter fight ahead of them if they are ever to exercise that right without fearing retaliation from the government.
On May 7, 1971, Henry Kissinger planned his first, ultra-secret mission to China and pondered whether it would be better to meet his Chinese interlocutors “in Pakistan where the Pakistanis would tape the meeting — or in China where the Chinese would do the taping.” After a flicker of thought, he decided to have the Chinese do all the tape recording, translating and transcribing. Fortuitously, historians have several thousand pages of verbatim texts of Dr. Kissinger’s negotiations with his Chinese counterparts. Paradoxically, behind the scenes, Chinese stenographers prepared verbatim English language typescripts faster than they could translate and type them
More than 30 years ago when I immigrated to the US, applied for citizenship and took the 100-question civics test, the one part of the naturalization process that left the deepest impression on me was one question on the N-400 form, which asked: “Have you ever been a member of, involved in or in any way associated with any communist or totalitarian party anywhere in the world?” Answering “yes” could lead to the rejection of your application. Some people might try their luck and lie, but if exposed, the consequences could be much worse — a person could be fined,
Taiwan aims to elevate its strategic position in supply chains by becoming an artificial intelligence (AI) hub for Nvidia Corp, providing everything from advanced chips and components to servers, in an attempt to edge out its closest rival in the region, South Korea. Taiwan’s importance in the AI ecosystem was clearly reflected in three major announcements Nvidia made during this year’s Computex trade show in Taipei. First, the US company’s number of partners in Taiwan would surge to 122 this year, from 34 last year, according to a slide shown during CEO Jensen Huang’s (黃仁勳) keynote speech on Monday last week.
When China passed its “Anti-Secession” Law in 2005, much of the democratic world saw it as yet another sign of Beijing’s authoritarianism, its contempt for international law and its aggressive posture toward Taiwan. Rightly so — on the surface. However, this move, often dismissed as a uniquely Chinese form of legal intimidation, echoes a legal and historical precedent rooted not in authoritarian tradition, but in US constitutional history. The Chinese “Anti-Secession” Law, a domestic statute threatening the use of force should Taiwan formally declare independence, is widely interpreted as an emblem of the Chinese Communist Party’s disregard for international norms. Critics