On June 9, 2010, the Miaoli County Government sent excavators to Jhunan Township’s (竹南) Dapu Village (大埔) and, without notifying the residents, destroyed the rice paddies of farmers who refused to surrender their land to make way for the planned expansion of the Jhunan Science Park.
In a bid to resolve the controversy that ensued after the death of 72-year-old Chu Feng-min (朱馮敏), who allegedly committed suicide to protest the land seizures, then-premier Wu Den-yih (吳敦義) met with Dapu representatives two months later and pledged to protect the farmers’ properties.
Fast-forward to this month and the plight facing the Dapu farmers remains unchanged, despite current vice president Wu’s promise.
On June 11, Peng Hsiu-chun (彭秀春), Chu Shu (朱樹), Huang Fu-chi (黃福記) and Ko Cheng-fu (柯成福) — whose homes are on land set to be turned into a science park — each received an official notice from the county government asking them to “voluntarily relocate by July 5,” or a demolition squad would flatten their houses.
Is this how Chinese Nationalist Party (KMT) government officials treat promises, by putting up a display of sincerity while making pledges which they toss away like toilet paper after any resulting controversy appears to have fallen off the public’s radar?
Premier Jiang Yi-huah (江宜樺) and Wu may disagree with such a description, contending that the government has handed out compensation to the Dapu residents and that the remaining four houses do not meet “certain principles” that would exempt them from demolition. However, whether they like it or not, both the premier and the vice president have, through their insensitive and aloof rhetoric and conduct, once again undermined the government’s credibility and repulsed the public with their callousness and lack of empathy.
In times like these, it is ironic to consider President Ma Ying-jeou’s (馬英九) favorite expression: “Government officials ought to feel the pain of the people.”
In fact, many also recall that the president often pledges that his government will listen attentively to what the public is saying and reflect on how it might actually change people’s lives for the better.
“My house is only 6 ping [19.8m2] now because about half of it was torn down for a road to be widened and, if the latest demolition happens, we would have only 0.5 ping left... Why is it so hard to keep something that’s ours?” Chang Sen-wen (張森文), a resident of one of the four houses facing demolition, said in tears yesterday.
Jiang’s latest stance appears to favor the Miaoli County Government’s plan to tear down the houses tomorrow, so it would seem that he has not listened to the Dapu farmers’ cries, or worse, cannot empathize with them.
While some may be quick to dismiss the current Dapu controversy as a petty issue involving only a handful of houses, the insensitive way in which the government has approached the matter should not be overlooked. If this is the way officials demonstrate their way of governance, the Dapu case may not be the last in which people’s property is flattened by government excavators overnight.
This begs the question: When will the Ma administration learn to start behaving with a little more empathy and humanity?
Jan. 1 marks a decade since China repealed its one-child policy. Just 10 days before, Peng Peiyun (彭珮雲), who long oversaw the often-brutal enforcement of China’s family-planning rules, died at the age of 96, having never been held accountable for her actions. Obituaries praised Peng for being “reform-minded,” even though, in practice, she only perpetuated an utterly inhumane policy, whose consequences have barely begun to materialize. It was Vice Premier Chen Muhua (陳慕華) who first proposed the one-child policy in 1979, with the endorsement of China’s then-top leaders, Chen Yun (陳雲) and Deng Xiaoping (鄧小平), as a means of avoiding the
As the Chinese People’s Liberation Army (PLA) races toward its 2027 modernization goals, most analysts fixate on ship counts, missile ranges and artificial intelligence. Those metrics matter — but they obscure a deeper vulnerability. The true future of the PLA, and by extension Taiwan’s security, might hinge less on hardware than on whether the Chinese Communist Party (CCP) can preserve ideological loyalty inside its own armed forces. Iran’s 1979 revolution demonstrated how even a technologically advanced military can collapse when the social environment surrounding it shifts. That lesson has renewed relevance as fresh unrest shakes Iran today — and it should
The last foreign delegation Nicolas Maduro met before he went to bed Friday night (January 2) was led by China’s top Latin America diplomat. “I had a pleasant meeting with Qiu Xiaoqi (邱小琪), Special Envoy of President Xi Jinping (習近平),” Venezuela’s soon-to-be ex-president tweeted on Telegram, “and we reaffirmed our commitment to the strategic relationship that is progressing and strengthening in various areas for building a multipolar world of development and peace.” Judging by how minutely the Central Intelligence Agency was monitoring Maduro’s every move on Friday, President Trump himself was certainly aware of Maduro’s felicitations to his Chinese guest. Just
On today’s page, Masahiro Matsumura, a professor of international politics and national security at St Andrew’s University in Osaka, questions the viability and advisability of the government’s proposed “T-Dome” missile defense system. Matsumura writes that Taiwan’s military budget would be better allocated elsewhere, and cautions against the temptation to allow politics to trump strategic sense. What he does not do is question whether Taiwan needs to increase its defense capabilities. “Given the accelerating pace of Beijing’s military buildup and political coercion ... [Taiwan] cannot afford inaction,” he writes. A rational, robust debate over the specifics, not the scale or the necessity,