A recent scandal involving a high-school student from a private school in Taichung has reignited long-standing frustrations with Taiwan’s increasingly complex and high-pressure university admissions system. The student, who had successfully gained admission to several prestigious medical schools, shared their learning portfolio on social media — only for Internet sleuths to quickly uncover a falsified claim of receiving a “Best Debater” award.
The fallout was swift and unforgiving. National Yang Ming Chiao Tung University and Taipei Medical University revoked the student’s admission on Wednesday. One day later, Chung Shan Medical University also announced it would cancel the student’s admission. China Medical University, initially rumored to have taken similar action, clarified that it had not yet reached a decision, but was reviewing the case with caution.
Academic dishonesty is a serious issue that warrants concern, but this particular case also raises broader questions: Was the institutional reaction truly a reflection of justice and ethics? Or was it a rushed, punitive verdict spurred by public backlash and the viral nature of online exposure? Beyond the immediate scandal lies a deeper and more pressing issue: Taiwan’s university admissions system is no longer a fair or sustainable model.
Once centered on a single, high-stakes exam, Taiwan’s college admissions system has in recent years transformed into a maze of multi-pathways, such as the STAR Project (繁星推薦), individual applications and distribution through the General Scholastic Ability Test combined with subject-specific tests. What was originally intended to create a more holistic and flexible system has become a burdensome and confusing process. Students today are not just judged on their test scores; they must curate and present an entire academic persona, complete with polished learning portfolios, recommendation letters, interviews and documentation of extracurricular activities.
This shift was designed with the hope of reducing stress and better capturing each student’s potential beyond exam results. However, in practice, it has created a culture of anxiety, inequality and surface-level performance. The learning portfolio, in particular, has moved far from its original purpose. Instead of being an honest reflection of growth and learning, it has become a tool for presentation — a marketing document. In such a system, it becomes tempting, even normalized, to exaggerate or embellish.
Indeed, the student in question might have made a poor decision in claiming an honor they did not receive, but to what extent did the system itself create the conditions for such an error? In an environment where success can depend on who tells the most compelling story, not necessarily who is most academically prepared, students are increasingly incentivized to stretch the truth.
Even more troubling is the growing divide between students who can afford to game the system and those who cannot. Wealthier families are able to hire private tutors, enroll their children in specialized extracurricular activities, and even pay professionals to help craft perfect portfolios. This gives them a clear advantage in a system that rewards presentation over substance. While the intention of the multi-admission approach was to level the playing field, in reality, it has reinforced social inequality and entrenched privilege.
Taiwan’s education reforms promised to develop independent thinkers and well-rounded individuals. If we truly want a fair and effective admissions process, then this case must serve as more than a moment of scandal. It must be a wake-up call.
The ultimate goal of higher education admissions should not be to reward those with the flashiest portfolios, but those with the character, ability and readiness to grow. Taiwan must rethink its approach, not to excuse dishonesty, but to ensure that honesty remains possible, and that students are not punished for trying to survive in a system that too often demands perfection over authenticity.
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