Aug 15 to Aug 21 Within hours, a minor traffic dispute between two taxi drivers had escalated into a full-out street brawl involving hundreds of combatants. Armed with metal bats, car locks and even tear gas, the midnight battle on Aug. 17, 1995 between Chuan Ming (全民) and Beiqu (北區) taxi drivers associations lasted for over four hours at the roundabout on Tingzhou Road (汀州路) in Taipei. Scattered clashes also broke out in other areas of the capital, as well as in what is today’s New Taipei City. The crowd dispersed around 4:30am, but peace lasted only a few hours. Around 7am, about 50 Beiqu cars, each carrying five armed men, stormed Chuan Ming’s headquarters in Sanchong District (三重). They smashed up more than 20 vehicles and blew up one of the shipping container offices with petrol bombs. Then-Taipei County Commissioner Yu Ching (尤清) managed to broker a truce that evening, but just minutes later, the discovery of five Beiqu drivers who were seriously injured by samurai swords rekindled the violence. The fighting went on until Yu finally convinced the two sides to apologize to the public on Aug 19. It was a huge blow for the already poor image of the nation’s taxis, especially since the government had just approved a fare hike and requested them to improve their service. The police were panned for their inability to contain the situation, leading to calls for reform. And it was surely not a good look for Taiwan, as the world was watching it due to the unfolding Third Taiwan Strait Crisis. DRIVERS UNITE Shen Chia-hsin (沈嘉信) writes in the 1997 study, “The development of social activist groups: Chuan Ming Taxi Association’s violent behavior and image as an example” (社會運動團體的發展:以全民計程車司機聯誼會暴力行為與形象為例) that such associations developed initially to combat the government’s restrictions on issuing taxi licenses. Due to
It’s baking hot in New York, which can only mean one thing for the city’s small mammal population: it’s splooting season. This week, with temperatures reaching 35 degrees Celsius, the city’s parks department urged residents not to worry about the health of squirrels seen sprawling on the ground, legs extended behind them like a person whose arms gave out halfway through a yoga class. “On hot days, squirrels keep cool by splooting (stretching out) on cool surfaces to reduce body heat,” the department tweeted. Perhaps even more remarkable than the phenomenon itself was the word the government agency used. Splooting? Is that a real thing? The science certainly is. Squirrels’ bellies have less fur than other parts of their bodies, so splooting helps them cool down, says Dan Blumstein, a professor in the department of ecology and evolutionary biology at UCLA. It’s a popular trick among mammals, including the marmots he studies, which “on hot days will lie on rocks as it gets hot, because the boulders are still cooler,” he says. But until recently, he says, he didn’t know the term “splooting.” “I always called it ‘doing the rug,’” he says. DOGGO LANGUAGE Grant Barrett, a lexicographer and co-host of the radio show A Way With Words, explains that the term comes from Doggo language, a form of canine-inspired Internet-speak that has grown into its own tongue. Typically appearing on social media with pictures of dogs, the language features an array of cutesy words including “bork” (a version of “bark”), “mlem” (a kind of tongue movement) and “pupperino” (self-explanatory). Like squirrels and marmots, dogs sploot. Corgis, stubby legs sticking out behind them, are particularly adept at it and may deserve credit for inspiring the term — though pinpointing its exact origin may be an exercise in futility, Barrett says. “It would take you days or even a week
The menu at The Canteen in southwest England doesn’t just let diners know how much a dish costs. They can also check its carbon footprint. The carrot and beetroot pakora with yogurt sauce is responsible for just 16 grams of CO2 emissions. The aubergines with a miso and harissa sauce with tabbouleh and Zaatar toast caused 675 grams of carbon dioxide. As customers weigh their options, the menu at the vegetarian restaurant in Bristol includes a comparison with a dish that it does not serve: the emissions from a UK-produced hamburger. “Three kilos for a burger, wow! I can’t believe it,” exclaimed Enyioma Anomelechi, a 37-year-old diner sipping a beer outside in the sunshine. The menu notes that a real beef burger’s emissions is “10 times the amount of its vegan alternative.” The carbon footprints of businesses and consumers have come under growing scrutiny as countries scramble to limit global temperature increases to 1.5 degrees Celsius and to achieve net-zero emission by 2050. The Canteen became last month the first restaurant to agree to put its carbon footprint on the menu under a campaign spearheaded by UK vegan campaigning charity Viva! The restaurant’s manager, Liam Stock, called the move a way to “see what we are doing; to understand and improve ourselves.” The average British person has an annual carbon footprint of more than 10 tonnes, according to UK government figures. Britain has set the ambitious goal of reducing harmful emissions by 78 percent by 2035, compared with 1990 figures, in order to meet its international climate change commitments. Switching to a plant-based diet is one of the most effective ways for an individual to reduce their carbon footprint, experts from the UN’s Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change said in April. The livestock industry replaces CO2-absorbing forests with land for grazing and soy crops for cattle feed. The
In the Sinhua Hills (新化丘陵) of Tainan, farms, temples, narrow roads and stands of bamboo dot the landscape, making them virtually indistinguishable from other rural areas in southern Taiwan. There is one important difference, however: over the years, the environment here has alternated between ocean, brackish lagoon, freshwater, and dry land, leaving behind a rich variety and concentration of fossils. As the Cailiao River (菜寮溪) erodes the hills, these fossils are continuously being exposed. These fossils were first excavated for academic study during the Japanese colonial period, eventually culminating in the opening of a museum dedicated to their display. Over the years, this museum grew, first merging with a neighboring hall dedicated to indigenous Pingpu relics, then undergoing a further expansion that saw its scope broaden beyond Taiwan to include a general account of the history of life on Earth. This facility, now known as the Tainan City Zuojhen Fossil Park (台南左鎮化石園區), has enough to keep small children engaged for an afternoon family outing, but also has such a wealth of information (including excellent English descriptions) that a thorough exploration of the park may take some more than a full day. CAILIAO RIVER FOSSILS The current Fossil Park is made up of five exhibition halls. In the first hall, the Natural History Education Hall, visitors get into the spirit of fossil hunting right away by descending a long ramp into the basement. As you descend, a dirt wall on the right shows you the different layers that scientists encounter when digging near the Cailiao River, and the types of fossils that may lie in each. Down in the basement, visitors can learn about how fossils themselves are formed and why this region has so many of them. In the second hall, the History Hall, there is an exhibit dedicated to Chen Chun-mu (陳春木),
Some of the world’s most prized works of contemporary Western art have been unveiled for the first time in decades — in Tehran. Iranian President Ebrahim Raisi, a hard-line cleric, rails against the influence of the West. Authorities have lashed out at “deviant” artists for “attacking Iran’s revolutionary culture.” And the Islamic Republic has plunged further into confrontation with the US and Europe as it rapidly accelerates its nuclear program and diplomatic efforts stall. But contradictions abound in the Iranian capital, where thousands of well-heeled men and hijab-clad women marveled at 19th and 20th-century American and European minimalist and conceptual masterpieces on display this summer for the first time at the Tehran Museum of Contemporary Art. On a recent afternoon, art critics and students were delighted by Marcel Duchamp’s see-through 1915 mural, The Large Glass, long interpreted as an exploration of erotic frustration. They gazed at a rare 4m untitled sculpture by American minimalist pioneer Donald Judd and one of Sol Lewitt’s best-known serial pieces, Open Cube, among other important works. The Judd sculpture, consisting of a horizontal array of lacquered brass and aluminum panels, is likely worth millions of dollars. “Setting up a show with such a theme and such works is a bold move that takes a lot of courage,” said Babak Bahari, 62, who was viewing the exhibit of 130 works for the fourth time since it opened in late June. “Even in the West, these works are at the heart of discussions and dialogue.” The government of Iran’s Western-backed shah, Mohammad Reza Pahlavi, and his wife, the former Empress Farah Pahlavi, built the museum and acquired the multibillion-dollar collection in the late 1970s, when oil boomed and Western economies stagnated. Upon opening, it showed sensational works by Pablo Picasso, Mark Rothko, Claude Monet, Jackson Pollock and other heavyweights, enhancing Iran’s
When Zuo tested positive for COVID-19 while working as a cleaner in one of Shanghai’s largest quarantine centers, she hoped it wouldn’t be long before she could pick up the mop and start earning again. But four months on, she is still fighting to get her job back — one of scores of recovering COVID patients facing what labor rights activists and health experts say is a widespread form of discrimination in zero-COVID China. Using snap lockdowns and mass testing, China is the last major economy still pursuing the goal of stamping out the virus completely. Those who test positive, as well as their contacts, are all sent to central quarantine facilities, while a flare-up in a factory can grind production to a halt. Rights groups say the strict rules are feeding COVID-related discrimination and shutting out thousands of people from China’s already bleak job market — with migrant workers and young people hit hardest. “People are afraid they might contract the virus from us, so they shun us,” said Zuo, who only gave her last name for fear of retribution.“Recruiters check COVID testing history going back several months during an interview.” China’s strict control measures have led to stigma against not just recovered patients, but also their families, neighbors, friends and even frontline healthcare workers, said Jin Dongyan (金冬雁) from the School of Biomedical Sciences at Hong Kong University. “It is unscientific to think that people who were infected once will continue to carry the virus and be infectious long after recovering,” Jin said. “Due to the lack of awareness, some fear that those who have been infected are more susceptible to being reinfected, but in reality, it’s the opposite.” Zuo is now fighting a court battle with her employer, who has refused to pay her wages since she got sick, and who cites her disease
Serena Williams said it plainly: It isn’t really fair. A male athlete would never have to make the same choice. But after a trailblazing career that both transformed and transcended her sport, Williams, who turns 41 next month, has told the world she’ll soon step away from tennis to focus on having a second child and making her daughter, Olympia, a big sister. Her explanation in a lengthy Vogue essay resonated with women in sports and well beyond, many of whom could relate only too well to her words, “Something’s got to give.” And to the idea that, no, you really can’t have it all — at least, not all at the same time. Many noted that Williams’ achievements, which included winning a major when two months pregnant, had made her seem superhuman. But, said Sherie Randolph, even ordinary women are expected to seamlessly combine work and motherhood. “Society makes women think they can have everything all at once — be the best hands-on-mom and at the top of the field,” said Randolph, a history professor at Georgia Tech and founder of a Black feminist think tank who’s working on a book about African American mothers. “But that just is not borne out in reality for most women,” she said. “What ends up happening is that working mothers are just worn out and overworked trying to labor at the highest level of two demanding jobs — motherhood and their profession.” ALL IN OR ALL OUT As if to prove her point, Randolph’s 4-year-old son constantly interrupted her thoughts about Williams’ decision as she tried to discuss them in a phone call. In explaining how her daughter yearned to be a big sister, Williams noted she didn’t want to be pregnant again as an athlete: “I need to be two feet into tennis or two feet out.”
One of India’s biggest stars is banking on a remake of Hollywood feelgood hit Forrest Gump to revive the fortunes of Hindi-language Bollywood, after a string of weak box-office showings. Aamir Khan’s Laal Singh Chaddha, an adaptation of the 1994 US classic starring Tom Hanks, hits cinemas today ahead of India’s 75th independence celebrations. Disappointing takings for other Bollywood A-listers have cast a pall over an industry still recovering from COVID-19 lockdown losses when many in movie-mad India turned to streaming giants like Netflix and Disney+ Hotstar. The adaptation keeps several iconic scenes from the original — which netted six Oscars, including for Best Picture — such as a floating white feather, ping-pong playing and lots of running. But there are several changes, with Gump’s “box of chocolates” line becoming “Life is just like a golgappa. Your tummy might feel full, but your heart always craves more.” Golgappa is a popular Indian snack, while the second half of the saying — “you never know what you’re gonna get” in the original — draws from a common Hindi phrase. The film promises to take people through India’s history in the same way Gump stumbled through and influenced major US events like the Vietnam War. This could irk Indian right-wing critics who have already called for a boycott of the film because of comments made by Khan in 2015 that were deemed to be unpatriotic. Khan, the star of megahit Dangal (2016), and screenwriter Atul Kulkarni were coy in sharing what Indian historical settings would be featured. Kulkarni would only say that his script was a “beautiful story about a beautiful country called India through a beautiful person called Laal Singh.” Khan, 57, admitted that he initially put off reading Kulkarni’s script, uncertain it would be possible to adapt such a “cult classic.” “It’s like saying we are remaking Mughal-e-Azam and Mother India.
Recent years have seen a string of scandals around white people pretending to be other races in order to obtain presumed advantages. Rachel Dolezal, then a chapter president of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, went viral in 2015 for claiming to be a black woman despite not having African ancestry. That same year, a white poet called Michael Derrick Hudson was found to be submitting poems to literary journals using the name Yi-Fen Chou. Hudson admitted to using the pseudonym whenever a poem of his was rejected under his real name. This type of incident is a central concern in Elaine Hsieh Chou’s debut novel Disorientation. Twenty-nine-year-old Taiwanese-American PhD student Ingrid Yang is eight years into her dissertation on the fictional Xiao-Wen Chou, considered to be “the greatest Chinese-American poet,” who has a dedicated archive at Barnes University. Yang was coaxed into this line of research by her supervisor, Michael: “They’ll be looking for another Chouian scholar in a few years. They’ll want someone young and energetic,” he tells her. But writing about Chou’s enjambment (a literary device in which a sentence of poetry continues after the line breaks without a grammatical pause) yields few words for Yang, who instead procrastinates by taking too many antacids, obsessing over her rival Vivian — the darling of the postcolonial department — and avoiding anything political, including the word “white.” Everything changes when Yang finds a note in one of the books in Chou’s archive. She then descends into a rabbit hole, alongside her best friend Eunice, and eventually discovers that the acclaimed poet is not only still alive, but is actually a white man called John Smith who, for decades, pretended to be Chinese, through the use of black wigs, yellowface makeup and eyelid tape. Though the novel is an absurdist
Over the past few years, wildfires in several parts of the world have dominated the news. The first six and a half months of this year saw almost 346,000 hectares of grassland, scrub and forest consumed by fire in Europe, three times the average between 2006 and last year, which was the worst ever for summer wildfires along Turkey’s Mediterranean coast. The California wildfire seasons in 2020 and last year burned the highest and second-highest numbers of acres of land since recordkeeping began. So far this year, authorities in the US state have battled almost 4,700 wildfires. Given this alarming trend, it isn’t surprising that people in many parts of the world have begun to ask if climate change might be amplifying the problem of wildfires. Taiwan isn’t prone to lowland fires in the way that Australia, California or countries adjacent to the Mediterranean are, but this doesn’t mean that wildfires aren’t a problem, or that changing weather patterns won’t exacerbate the frequency and severity of such calamities, says Lin Chau-chin (林朝欽). Lin — who served as editor-in-chief of the Taiwan Journal of Forest Science and published extensively on the issue of forest fires during a long career at the Council of Agriculture’s Taiwan Forestry Research Institute (TFRI, 林業試驗所) — says that, due to Taiwan’s mountainous topography, the country has high-altitude forests that are similar to woodlands in temperate climate zone countries. FIRE ZONES Around 1,500m to 2,500m above sea level, he says, conifers such as Taiwan red pine dominate the landscape. “This means that Taiwan also has a fire zone, and that our forest fires are not very different in character to those in countries in temperate climate zones,” he says. Coniferous tree species burn especially well, because their leaves are easy to ignite when dry, and both the leaves and the
Chris Findler says that the introduction of neural machine translation software has reduced the demand for human translators. “I am pessimistic about the future of traditional translation jobs,” says Findler, a lecturer of translation and interpretation at National Taiwan Normal University (NTNU). Online translators such as DeepL Translator, Yandex and Babylon offer accurate translations in dozens of languages, which means that a human translator may no longer be necessary for some jobs. Machine translation software’s growing influence is irreversible. Translation software can utilize artificial neural networks and large databases in order to accurately predict sequences of words and provide nuanced expressions in their results. AI’s presence in the field cannot be ignored, and translators in a variety of specialties will need to adapt to new job descriptions. “With artificial intelligence taking over, some translation jobs will be more like editor jobs” Findler says. Translation AI could be seen as a threat to jobs, but it has also created a new post-machine editing role. Findler says that there is a large demand for translators to edit and add a “human touch” to texts that have already been machine translated. Interpreters, and those in technical or media translation are more likely to be threatened or impacted by AI. Findler says that interpreters may eventually disappear due to AI’s ability to recognize speech and instantly process it to text. He adds that museum and literary translation are less threatened. In Findler’s experience, museums in Taiwan still want to hire translators, but businesses are keener to opt for the more cost-effective option of using an online translation service. Furthermore, technical translators tend to deal with texts with repetitive language, which can more easily be machine translated. Perry Svensson, the former head of translation at Taipei Times, says approximately 40 to 50 percent of his freelance Chinese-to-English and
The plot intrigues and the jokes abound, but the best part of Mom, Don’t Do That (媽別鬧了), currently available on Netflix, is the realistic portrayal of the relationship between the three main characters: mother Wang Mei-mei (Billie Wang, 比莉) and her two daughters: Chen Ru-rong (Alyssa Chia, 賈靜雯) and Chen Ruo-ming (Ko Chia-yen, 柯佳嬿). Taiwanese culture permeates the show, playing off common cultural themes such as family pressure to marry by a certain age. Dirty jokes abound, using slang that the English subtitles can’t fully convey. “Frying rice” as a euphemism for sex had to be explained to me by my mom, who grew up watching these famous actresses in serious romantic dramas. The series revolves around Mei-mei’s international quest to remarry — and her constant criticisms of her daughters for not being able to find a husband. Her daughters, meanwhile, chide her for many questionable decisions while on the hunt for a man. It’s a familiar way for Taiwanese families to express their love: nagging, wanting a loved one to be better and to have the best. Their jabs are savage, expecting the target to fight back with exaggerated confidence. But the one time Mei-mei doesn’t retort, Ru-rong knows something is wrong. Humor coats everything from serious topics, like a cheating boyfriend, to glitzy high school reunion antics (the only sideplot in the show that I disliked, a quickly resolved confrontation with a blatant moral angle). Mei-mei’s ability to compulsively throw herself into new situations, as well as laugh at herself when she fails, is a central message of the show. “Getting scammed is just getting scammed. You get thick skin as you get old, just cry and laugh it off,” she says when Ru-rong worries for her emotional state. Fall in love — but not blindly, the show demonstrates through the interweaving storylines and conversations. Mei-mei
Among the Amis people around Chenggong Township (成功) in Taitung County there is a story of a place called Malaulau, ma being a prefix and laulau, meaning “withered.” In fact, that is the old name for Chenggong in Hoklo (more commonly known as Taiwanese): “Malaulau” (麻荖漏) is taken from the Amis word. What does that name refer to? In Amis oral histories, it is the place where a massive wave struck Chenggong, killing many people. The wave was quite localized and Amis communities to the north have no legends of that event. The east coast south of Yilan has good protection from the effects of tsunamis because the coastal shelf drops off rapidly and deeply, but Chenggong is one of the places a tsunami can reach due to the topography of the ocean bottom there. TSUNAMIS AND TAIWAN Although the Japanese researchers who first encountered this tale in the late 1930s attributed it to an event in the 19th century, Academia Sinica researcher Masataka Ando, who has studied tsunamis and Taiwan for decades, could not assign it to any particular event in a 2013 paper that numerically simulated different kinds of tsunami-generating events. Ando argued that a 19th century event is unlikely simply because the coast was already populated by Han settlers, yet there is no record of a quake powerful enough to generate such a tsunami. A more recent work, “The Sedimentological Record of Upper Holocene Tsunami Event in Fengbin, Taiwan,” suggests that Chenggong was hit by the 1771 tsunami that also struck Japan’s Miyako islands, based on affinities between deposits in Hualien County’s Fengbin Township (豐濱) and Miyako. A later 2017 work, “Investigation of Possible Tsunami Events on the Eastern Coast of Taiwan: Case Studies of Lu-Ye, Changping, and Tulan,” identified evidence of tsunamis hitting elsewhere along the east coast.
Aug. 8 to Aug. 14 Chiang Kuo-ching (江國慶) denied raping and murdering a little girl until the very end, but on Aug. 13, 1997, the 21-year-old was executed by firing squad — less than a year after his arrest. The Air Force soldier refused to eat his last meal, and sent a final letter to his father maintaining that he confessed after being tortured. The letter also contained a list of the officers who had framed him. “I will definitely become a malicious spirit, so I can exact revenge on those who caused me harm,” he reportedly said before his death. It turns out that Chiang was telling the truth. After a posthumous retrial, Chiang was deemed not guilty on Sept. 13, 2011 when the court ruled that Chiang’s statements were made against his will. Additionally, the blood-soaked toilet paper and knife used as evidence against him were re-examined by forensic experts, who concluded that they could not prove that Chiang was involved. Chiang’s father, who had spent the previous decade trying to prove his son’s innocence, died a year before his son’s execution. His mother was awarded NT$131.8 million — at the time the largest compensation for a mistrial ever — and continued to demand punishment for the officers responsible. They were fined, but never faced criminal charges. The case gained widespread attention, and led to much discussion about whether Taiwan should abolish the death penalty. Another soldier named Hsu Jung-chou (許榮洲) was arrested and convicted as the real killer, but he was later pardoned due to evidence of torture, his mental disability and multiple contradictory statements. The five-year-old victim’s real killer remains unknown. FORCED CONFESSION Chiang was born on Double Ten National Day in 1965, and his Chinese name translates as “national
The Japan-Taiwan Exchange Association’s 2021 road safety guidelines pretty much says it all. “Taiwan’s drivers are inclined to prioritize vehicles over pedestrians. Be aware that their driving manners are often not as good. Even when it’s a green light, watch carefully for cars at all times when crossing the crosswalk. Be alert of cars that try to quickly turn right in front of pedestrians. Even if you’re on the sidewalk, you must still watch for scooters.” Japanese student Shun Komatsu referenced these advisories last month in a widely shared post on the News Lens, where he praised everything here besides the traffic. “In my two years here, I’ve been nearly hit several times. Due to the lack of sidewalks, I try to walk on the edge of the streets, but I’m often forced into the center due to illegally parked vehicles. When the cars see me, they honk their horns and speed right past me,” Komatsu wrote. The post caused an uproar, with the usual “this is an international shame of Taiwan” commentary, but anyone who lives here has at one point felt that, as the name of a popular Facebook page makes explicit, “Taiwan is a living hell for pedestrians (台灣是個行人地獄).” The page went viral two weeks ago when its founder Ray Yang (楊威榮) posted a diagram suggesting how to improve a pedestrian crossing at an intersection with a sharp turn. Traffic advocacy groups have been calling for more human-centric urban designs that prioritize pedestrian comfort and safety over driver convenience, but Taiwan Traffic Safety Association (台灣交通安全協會) deputy director Charles Lin (林志學) laments that the government still largely adheres to car-centric planning principles. “They’re still thinking like a developing country, where roads are usually designed for economically valuable and productive cars and trucks,” Lin says. According to Ministry of Transportation and Communication figures,
By the vertiginous standards of Taiwan’s interior, Guanyin Mountain (觀音山) — which straddles Kaohsiung’s Dashe (大社) and Renwu (仁武) districts — is a micro-mountain. Judged purely on its height, it wouldn’t deserve a paragraph. The summit is just 177m above sea level, making it one of the shortest of xiaobaiyue (小百岳, “Taiwan’s Little Hundred Mountains”). But in terms of how far you can see from the top, and for how little exertion, Guanyin Mountain is entitled to some kind of accolade. The day had begun with a rush-hour motorcycle ride through bleak industrial neighborhoods. My mood improved as soon as I reached Guanyin Lake (觀音湖), a 17-hectare body of water about 3km south of Guanyin Mountain. While egrets pecked at the mud, a few humans exercised on the path that hugs the lake’s eastern shore. Like the nearby hill, Guanyin Lake is named for the Buddhist goddess of mercy. In the Indian subcontinent, where she’s a he, Guanyin is known as Avalokitesvara. From the lake, I rode past bamboo groves, little shrines and clusters of graves to Yancheng Lane (鹽埕巷), site of the main trailhead for Guanyin Mountain. The local government has marked out plenty of parking spots for cars and motorcycles, but the brand-new bathrooms aren’t yet open to the public. The bilingual mapboard will help you get your bearings. The first section of trail is as wide as a road. It ascends to Gaosuwei Rest Stop (高速尾休息站), where there’s a pavilion and some benches. I had three options. I could go straight on and follow a broad concrete track down into thick woodland. On the right, knotted ropes led up a very steep hillside. On the left, where a sign pointed to the Sky Cave (天洞), the gradient was less intimidating. I didn’t see any reason to go downhill, and without gloves
More than two decades after journalist Craig Addison coined the term “Silicon Shield,” the concept remains as relevant as ever, if not even more. The idea that global — including Chinese — reliance on Taiwan’s semiconductor industry has been a major deterrent of war between the two sides of the Taiwan Strait is still frequently espoused today, especially as tensions continue to soar. On Monday, Taiwan Semiconductor Manufacturing Co (TSMC, 台積電) chairman Mark Liu (劉德音) declared during in an interview with CNN’s Fareed Zakaria that a Chinese invasion of Taiwan would render the company’s factories “non-operable” and would create “great economic turmoil” for both countries. TSMC’s integral role in the Chinese economy is thus a deterrent rather than a risk, Liu added. “If something happens to Taiwan, the world would suffer the consequences,” Minister of Economic Affairs Wang Mei-hua (王美花) said in response to Liu’s comments. Addison first elaborated on the concept in his 2001 book Silicon Shield: Taiwan’s Protection Against Chinese Attack as well as the 2009 documentary, Silicon Shield: Two Chinas, One World. A lot has changed since then, but Taiwan’s unrivaled chipmaking capabilities continues to dominate the market, playing a crucial role in the global economy and as a focal point in the US-China trade war. The global semiconductor shortage amid the COVID-19 pandemic has also brought the topic to the attention of a broader international audience, making it even more important to understand Taiwan’s role in all of this. Addison recently released a remastered and updated version of his documentary titled Silicon Shield 2025, referring to the year Taiwan’s Ministry of Defense has predicted China to have the capability to mount a full-scale assault. The documentary is still an illuminating look on how Taiwan overcame its international isolation in the 1970s and became a high-tech powerhouse, and how
Carnivores beware: there will be no meat found on Tiger Mountain tomorrow as the Taipei Veggie Fest (台北素食生活節) returns for the third year with an extravaganza of live music, art performances, workshops and vegetarian / vegan food and drinks. “Climate change, the pandemic, monkeypox, are we getting the message?” organizer Sean Scanlan says. “The best thing we can do for the planet is to change our diet. I’m not saying do it forever, just try it for one day.” The eclectic music lineup will be rocking the two stages until late at night, featuring many familiar faces from last year. More than 20 food and beverage vendors will provide Indian, Mexican, Malaysian and Middle Eastern offerings as well as pizza, hand-crafted steamed buns, kombucha and of course desserts. Stalls will also offer a variety of crafts, clothes and other eco-friendly products. Many of the performers are vegetarian too. Rock trio Mudskipper’s (彈塗人) lead singer and guitarist Billy Walshaw has been meat-free for 15 years, ever since he heard the 1985 album Meat is Murder by The Smiths. “I’m against factory farming and the unnecessary suffering of animals,” he says. “We can all think about the journey of our food and new ways to live a more natural life that causes less harm to the Earth.” Be kind to the earth and bring your own plates and utensils. There will be reusable cups for rent for a NT$50 deposit, but single-use tableware is not allowed. Scanlan says he’s been using the same ropes and decorations for nearly a decade. ■ Tomorrow at 2pm, Tiger Mountain (微遠虎山), 186-1, Ln 221, Fude St, Taipei City (台北市福德街221巷186-1號) ■ NT$500 in advance, NT$$600 at the door, free entry for those under 12 ■ For more information, visit: bit.ly/3Qmew2v
The virtual cat hero from the new video game sensation Stray doesn’t just wind along rusted pipes, leap over unidentified sludge and decode clues in a seemingly abandoned city. The daring orange tabby is helping real world cats as well. Thanks to online fundraising platforms, gamers are playing Stray while streaming live for audiences to raise money for animal shelters and other cat-related charities. Annapurna Interactive, the game’s publisher, also promoted Stray by offering two cat rescue and adoption agencies copies of the game to raffle off and renting out a New York cat cafe. Livestreaming game play for charity isn’t new, but the resonance Stray quickly found from cat lovers is unusual. It was the fourth most watched and broadcast game on the day it launched on Twitch, the streaming platform said. Viewers watch as players navigate the adventurous feline through an aging industrial landscape doing normal cat stuff — balancing on railings, walking on keyboards and knocking things off shelves — to solve puzzles and evade enemies. About 80 percent of the game’s development team are “cat owners and cat lovers” and a real-life orange stray as well as their own cats helped inspire the game, one creator said. “I certainly hope that maybe some people will be inspired to help actual strays in real life — knowing that having an animal and a companion is a responsibility,” said producer Swann Martin-Raget, of the BlueTwelve gaming studio in Montpellier, in southern France. When Annapurna Interactive reached out to the Nebraska Humane Society to partner before the game’s launch on July 19, they jumped at the chance, marketing specialist Brendan Gepson said. “The whole game and the whole culture around the game, it’s all about a love of cats,” Gepson said. “It meshed really well with the shelter and our mission.” The shelter got four copies
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