The smoke has cleared from Taipei Main Station, but the fog of confusion remains. As Taiwan mourns the four lives lost and the 11 injured in the Dec. 19 attacks, the nation once again performs the grim ritual of asking “why?” The familiar answers are already circulating: Taiwan needs more metal detectors, better police presence and increased mental health screenings. These are logical, comfortable responses. They are also, as history demonstrates, insufficient.
To truly understand the tragedy of Chang Wen (張文) — and to prevent the next one — Taiwanese must be willing to look at the uncomfortable evidence that contradicts our most cherished social values. The most terrifying detail in the reports is not the smoke grenades or the length of the knife; it is the description of the killer by those who knew him.
He was not a known delinquent or a chaotic disruptor. He was, by all accounts, a “good student”: obedient, civic-minded, helpful and the recipient of more than 20 commendations.
The profile demands an unorthodox and unsettling conclusion: Our definition of a “good citizen” — compliant, quiet and academically successful — is not just a poor metric for mental health; it might be camouflage for deep pathology.
In Taiwan’s high-pressure, conformist culture, the quiet ones are rewarded. We praise the student who does not cause trouble, who gets good grades and who “interacts harmoniously.” We assume that silence equals stability. Chang’s descent from a commended student to a drunk-driving military dischargee and finally to a mass murderer suggests that silence was not peace, but suppression. By valuing obedience over expression, young men such as Chang drift into a void where their only connection is with the dead.
It is chilling that Chang did not just snap, he followed a script. Police investigations revealed he was “invested” in the 2014 Taipei metro attacker, Cheng Chieh (鄭捷), researching him extensively and empathizing with his isolation.
Chang reportedly wrote: “If Cheng Chieh knew someone was willing to listen to him, maybe the tragedy would not have happened.”
It creates a paradox that policy experts and parents must confront. Chang found more kinship with a deceased murderer than with society around him. He sought a mentor in a monster, because the “normal” world — the one that praised him for being quiet — likely offered him no language for his pain. When he fell out of the structured loops of school and military service, becoming unemployed and estranged from his family, the “good student” identity collapsed, leaving a vacuum that only a violent narrative could fill.
The National Union of Counseling Psychologists encouraged witnesses of the attack to seek “mutual support.” It is necessary, but reactive. True prevention requires a cultural shift that is far more difficult than installing security cameras.
Society must stop viewing “introversion” and “obedience” as inherently virtuous when they come without genuine social connection. We need to be as wary of the child who never speaks as we are of the one who screams.
An “infrastructure of loneliness” in modern cities is efficient at processing bodies through metros and schools, but terrible at anchoring souls. To stop the next Chang Wen, we cannot just look for weapons; we must look for the “good students” who are disappearing into the silence they were taught to keep. We must interrupt their isolation before they find their only validation in the history books of horror.
Last month’s tragedy is not just that Chang killed; it is that he felt he had to become a monster to finally be heard. Until we learn to listen to the quietest among us, we will continue to be deafened by their violence.
Y. Tony Yang is an endowed professor at George Washington University.
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