As a college student with the right to vote, I should feel empowered by my political agency. Voting is not just a civic duty — it is a symbol of self-expression, of being part of a democratic society that values diverse voices. However, the freedom to vote has not translated into the freedom to speak. Increasingly, I find myself reluctant to express even moderate opinions about political parties or public policies. Not because I lack opinions, but because I fear being reduced to a label — categorized, dismissed or targeted.
Terms like “Bluebird” (青鳥) and “Little Grass” (小草) were initially coined as expressions of collective identity within political movements. Today, these terms have evolved into tools of social division. Instead of reflecting shared ideals, they are used to stereotype individuals and shut down meaningful dialogue. A comment that slightly deviates from the dominant view can provoke mockery, insinuation or outright hostility, especially online.
Taiwan’s young generation is more politically engaged than ever. Social media platforms like Dcard, Threads and Instagram are filled with political commentary from youth who care deeply about their future. However, the algorithms that power these platforms tend to amplify outrage and oversimplification. Likes, shares and comments create the illusion of consensus. When a certain political stance gains momentum online, those who disagree can find themselves overwhelmed by a flood of opposition. Rational discussion is replaced by emotional reactions and knee-jerk judgements.
This is where self-censorship begins to take root. Even in a free society, when speaking up leads to social alienation, ridicule or public backlash, silence can feel safer. Young people begin to calculate the risks: Will expressing this opinion cost me friends? Will I be “exposed” online? Will my words be screenshot and taken out of context? These questions push many into silence, not because they lack political awareness, but because they no longer feel safe participating in public discourse.
The long-term implications are serious. When people choose silence over engagement, democracy suffers. Public discourse becomes dominated by the loudest, not the most thoughtful. Nuanced opinions disappear, and with them, the possibility of constructive compromise. Political participation becomes performative — a show of loyalty, rather than a space for deliberation.
Moreover, the labeling of individuals reinforces an “us vs them” mentality that corrodes social trust. If we can no longer separate a person from their political affiliation, we risk losing the ability to cooperate across differences. This undermines one of democracy’s core strengths: the capacity to hold competing ideas in tension, while still moving forward as a society.
To address this, we need to rebuild a culture of respectful disagreement. It starts with how we respond to views we do not share. Do we listen, or do we label? Do we ask questions, or do we accuse? Schools should teach civic discussion and debate — not as combative exercises, but as opportunities to understand complexity. Media outlets and digital platforms should resist the urge to frame politics as tribal conflict, and instead spotlight stories that reflect nuance, dialogue and bridge-building.
As young voters, we must also reflect on our own role. It is easy to judge or dismiss others, but much harder to engage with empathy. Speaking up should not be a test of allegiance, but an act of courage and responsibility. If we want a healthier democratic culture, it is not enough to vote. We must create space for every voice, including the hesitant, the questioning and the different. Democracy thrives not in uniformity, but in the diversity of thought. Let us ensure that every young person not only feels heard at the ballot box, but also respected in conversation.
Eva Huang is a student in the Department of International Affairs at Wenzao Ursuline University of Languages.
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