Fri, Aug 26, 2011 page8

• Ma wary of identifying with Taiwan

  • By Chen Chi-nan 陳其南
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  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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