In Taiwan, the phrase “June 4” is spoken in a hushed tone, like the quiet closing of a window before an incoming bluster of wind. On June 4, 1989, the violent “clearing out” of protesters in Beijing’s Tiananmen Square became a murky river in history, formed from a mixture of blood and smoke.
For China, it represents the shattering of the democratic dream. For Taiwan, it is a mirror no one dare face directly, yet cannot be ignored. Although the Tiananmen Square Massacre did not occur on Taiwan’s soil, it has profoundly shaped the nation’s understanding of peace, expression and political systems.
What kind of writers, mothers or comedians would those whose lives were extinguished on June 4 have become had they survived? Their voices could have become the very texture of the public sphere. Instead, they were left frozen among the smoke and blood-stained white shirts in old photographs. It is not that they did not speak up, but that they were silenced — silenced to the point where it is impossible to even ask how they died.
That silencing continues to this day. Last year, Chinese social media users who mentioned June 4 had their posts deleted, accounts muted and some were arrested on charges of “antagonization” and “subversion.” Chinese artificial intelligence (AI) platforms have been trained not to recognize the iconic image of “tank man,” which features an unknown Chinese man’s face-off with Chinese People Liberation Army tanks as they approached Tiananmen Square. The censorship of language, images and memory has become a form of advanced erasure — history rewritten, as if the massacre never happened.
However, Taiwan is not China. That is not just a declaration of confidence, but a reminder — we must allow this silenced part of history to keep its voice here.
In the 1990s, a detailed documentary about the massacre, titled The Gate of Heavenly Peace (天安門), circulated quietly in Taiwan’s bookstores and reading groups. The images of June 4 live on here, like an open wound reminding us that it is not merely China’s trauma — it is a deep, pulsing scar on the entire Chinese-speaking world that has yet to heal.
If the Tiananmen Square Massacre had never occurred, would China have continued on its democratic path? If so, how would we have come to understand the boundary between authoritarianism and democracy? That is not just a historical question — it is an issue of political consciousness concerning whether we can continue to speak up.
In Taiwan’s education system, the true nature of June 4 is often glossed over with the phrase “1989 pro-democracy movement,” and references to the bloody military crackdown are often vague or altogether absent. Some teachers take it upon themselves to provide additional context, while others remain silent.
However, the very absence of language itself is a political act — not teaching is also a form of teaching.
As former minister of education Ovid Tzeng (曾志朗) once said that education should be a process of cultivating subjectivity, not a gray area of conflict avoidance. If we do not talk about June 4, then we cannot understand the true price of democracy, nor can we fully grasp that fear often originates from the expansion of self-censorship.
Once, while attending a June 4 memorial vigil in Taipei’s Liberty Square, I heard someone say: “We are not only lighting candles for Chinese, we are also keeping vigil for ourselves.” That line pierced deep. As China chooses to forget its own history, Taiwan has become a refuge for memories. That is not out of pity, but out of a strong commitment to the future of the public sphere.
Remembering June 4 is about so much more than honoring the dead. It is an exercise in honing our ability to recognize the truth. Among AI-generated text, Google search results and official government narratives, we must learn to ask ourselves — who has been silenced — and why?
June 4 is not just a singular event, but an ongoing blockade. For China, it is a blockade against historical truths and civil society. For Taiwan, it is a challenge to our memory and moral imagination.
When the hashtag “#RememberJune4” (#記住六四) appears on social media in Taiwan each year, it is more than meets the eye — it is a faint yet firm act of resistance. In this era in which who remembers what is quantified and commercialized, remembrance in and of itself is a form of defiance against the system.
We remember not out of hatred, but to continue the unfinished conversation. As Indian literary theorist Gayatri Spivak argued in her 1988 essay: “Can the Subaltern Speak?” The subaltern should not be spoken over or for, but should be allowed to speak for themselves. What we can do is allow the whispers of history to continue to echo — in writing, in classrooms and in conversations at the dinner table.
Remembering June 4 — even if only in whispers — is enough to ensure that history no longer remains silent.
Liu Che-ting is a writer.
Translated by Kyra Gustavsen
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