On March 8, the world witnessed three champions in a single day.
On the courts of the All England Open Badminton Championships, Lin Chun-yi (林俊易) captured the men’s singles title, while Nicole Gonzales Chan (詹又蓁) and Ye Hong-wei (葉宏蔚) claimed the mixed doubles crown — historic firsts for Taiwan.
On Sunday, in gymnastics, Tang Chia-hung (唐嘉鴻) won gold on the horizontal bar at the International Gymnastics Federation World Cup event in Turkey.
Yet when their names were announced on the world stage, there was a subtle sense of wrongness. They did not compete under the name “Taiwan,” but the name “Chinese Taipei” used by the Chinese Taipei Olympic Committee.
The flag is not the national flag. The anthem is not the national anthem. Even the name feels folded in on itself. And yet, strangely, none of this folding seems to make anyone smaller.
In many societies, being “No. 1 in the world” carries an aggressive posture: louder, bolder, more assertive, perhaps even a bit domineering. Taiwan’s world champions often seem built differently. They are quiet, hardworking and slightly worried about causing trouble for others.
So you sometimes see an oddly endearing image: a world champion on the international stage who, in everyday life, would probably be the same person who lets others check out first at the convenience store.
This is an underestimated form of civilization.
For decades, Taiwan has been forced into an ambiguous identity in international politics. From the “Chinese Taipei” framework set by the International Olympic Committee to the faint and shifting names used in international organizations, the country has often seemed to drift between two words: the Republic of China and Taiwan.
Outsiders often interpret this ambiguity as a problem.
However, if you look closely at how society actually functions, another truth emerges: Taiwanese people’s sense of nationhood has not disappeared because the name is uncertain. If anything, it has become something closer to a daily habit.
You see it in small places. People naturally form straight lines at night markets. Passengers give up seats for elderly people on buses. At the convenience store counter, people instinctively say buhaoyisi (“Sorry,” 不好意思) before they pay.
Political science often treats “national identity” as a grand narrative — as if it must be validated by constitutions, treaties or diplomatic recognition. Sociology has long said otherwise: the most stable forms of national identity are rarely found in declarations. They live in everyday ethics.
That is Taiwan’s peculiarity. Our sense of nationhood often appears not through slogans, but through behavior.
This is why many people shed tears when our athletes stand on the podium. Not because we need a gold medal to prove we exist, but because, in that moment, the world briefly sees us as we are in our ordinary life.
Yet when the camera turns back to domestic politics, the contrast can feel almost absurd. Inside the legislature, many adults treat the nation like a tool: Budgets can be blocked; policies can be obstructed, as long as it benefits their political fortunes.
Too many debates revolve not around whether something is good for society, but whether it benefits a party.
And so a strange contrast emerges.
On the field of play, young athletes fight for every last point for their country. In the legislative chamber, politicians calculate every vote for power.
More strangely still, cheering for Taiwan can sometimes be dismissed as “pro-independence sentiment.”
There is a historical fact that often goes overlooked. Taiwan’s first direct presidential election took place in 1996. That day mattered enormously. In political science terms, when citizens directly choose their highest leader, they are exercising sovereignty.
When more than 20 million people decide their national leader through voting, a political community has already come into being.
A country is never just a certificate. It is the sum of institutions and ways of life.
So perhaps the question is not whether Taiwan is a country. Perhaps the real question is whether we are accustomed to admitting that we already are one.
Liu Che-ting is a writer.
Translated by Lin Lee-kai
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