Feb. 9 to Feb.15
Growing up in the 1980s, Pan Wen-li (潘文立) was repeatedly told in elementary school that his family could not have originated in Taipei. At the time, there was a lack of understanding of Pingpu (plains Indigenous) peoples, who had mostly assimilated to Han-Taiwanese society and had no official recognition.
Students were required to list their ancestral homes then, and when Pan wrote “Taipei,” his teacher rejected it as impossible. His father, an elder of the Ketagalan-founded Independence Presbyterian Church in Xinbeitou (自立長老會新北投教會), insisted that their family had always lived in the area. But under postwar Chinese Nationalist Party (KMT) rule, families who were not officially classified as Indigenous were expected to trace their origins to China. In the end, Pan was forced to list his mother’s ancestral home in Fujian Province.
Photo courtesy of Pan Yen-ting
“It wasn’t until high school, when the term ‘Pingpu’ re-entered public discourse, that I started to understand what was going on,” he says.
While Pan Wen-li’s family was confident about their Ketagalan ancestry, countless others grew up unaware of their identity. Pan Yen-ting (潘彥廷) was one of them. Since his family lived around Beitou District’s (北投) Fanzaicuo (番仔厝) community — fanzai is considered a derogatory term for Indigenous people — and bore the common Indigenous surname Pan, they would sometimes half-jokingly say that they were Indigenous.
But it wasn’t until their ancestral graves were being relocated in 2014 that his uncle requested Japanese-era registry records, only to find that several ancestors were recorded as “cooked” (熟), a colonial term for Pingpu groups that were deemed assimilated and governable.
Photo: Han Cheung, Taipei Times
Later, while participating in a documentary at the Ketagalan-run Baode Temple (保德宮), Pan noticed his great-grandfather’s name among the donors of the altar table. Only then did he realize that he was related to the temple’s caretaker, Pan Kuo-liang (潘國良), and that there was much to uncover.
ORIGINAL INHABITANTS
Until the 1910s, the ancestors of both Pan Wen-li and Pan Yen-ting lived in Kipatauw’s upper settlement, near today’s Guizikeng (貴子坑) in Beitou District. Over time, due to differences in religion and multiple forced relocations, they dispersed into the surrounding city and lost touch — although many families remained in the Beitou area.
Photo courtesy of Tree Tree Tree Person
Pan Wen-li’s late uncle, Pan Hui-yao (潘慧耀), tried to stop this fragmentation as a leader of the Ketagalan revival movement in the early 2000s. Along with other activists, he worked to reconstruct ceremonies, attire and songs. But this momentum did not carry on to the family’s next generation, many of whom now live abroad, says Pan Hui-yao’s widow Liang Fen-ying (梁芬英).
Part of the challenge is that the Ketagalan had mostly adopted Han customs and languages early on, leaving little tangible cultural heritage to pass down. Today, cultural workers are attempting to rebuild the ancestral Basay language and unearth past practices and beliefs from historic and academic records — which they hope will attract more interest.
Nevertheless, Pan Wen-li attended last November’s Ketagalan autumn festival, which his parents helped lead, and says he is interested in learning more about the culture. For many years, he was reluctant to speak about his ancestry due to the political climate and lingering discrimination, but now he tells people he is Pingpu.
Photo: Han Cheung, Taipei Times
“The more you learn, the more you feel it’s important to let people know that before the Han settlers arrived, Taipei was originally Ketagalan land,” he says. “Many people still don’t know. Even my wife didn’t. If even one more person knows, that’s enough for me.”
BETWEEN CERTAINTY AND UNCERTAINTY
A few years after learning about his Ketagalan roots, Pan Yen-ting was assigned to the Ketagalan Culture Center for his substitute military service. Through working there, his story appeared in the 2017 documentary We Have Always Been Here (咱攏佇遮) and book The Nameless People (沒有名字的人).
Afterward, many people approached him to give cultural talks and participate in the Pingpu movement for official recognition. But with his music career gaining momentum and still feeling new to his Ketagalan identity, he says he remains unsure how much time and knowledge he can meaningfully contribute.
Unlike Taiwan’s officially recognized Indigenous groups, who can clearly articulate their distinct identity and customs, Pan feels that there is still not enough about the Ketagalan that he can share confidently.
“It feels unmoored,” he says. “You know who you are, but you don’t have much you can really verify or research … So you end up exploring the culture between certainty and uncertainty.”
However, he’s happy to tell his own journey of self-discovery, and when friends visit Beitou he’ll casually mention that it was once Ketagalan territory to gauge their interest.
“I’m pretty laid-back about it, but I’m not indifferent,” he says. “I’ll plant a seed, and if someone wants to know, they’ll naturally ask me more about it.”
KEEPING THE TEMPLE GOING
Pan Ming-hui (潘明輝), the nephew of Baode Temple’s director, describes a similar sense of uncertainty. What he knows about the Ketagalan and the temple’s past largely comes from elders’ recollections — many of whom are aging or have passed away.
Rather than focusing on reviving Ketagalan identity, he is more concerned about the fate of the temple, which has been in his family’s care for generations. After losing a land dispute in 2010, the temple was torn down and rebuilt as a temporary metal structure. With director Pan Kuo-liang now in his 60s, attendance has thinned as younger generations move away or lose interest. Pan Ming-hui himself is busy with his new business and lives more than an hour away in Taoyuan.
During celebrations for the principal deity Chih Fu Wang Yeh’s (池府王爺) birthday this year, Pan put his 12-year-old son’s name forward as a candidate for the temple’s master of the incense burner (爐主). The role is selected year through divination, and his son was chosen.
“We wanted to see if we could make the temple livelier — and hopefully bring some good fortune to our business,” he says. “We also wanted to expose our child to temple culture. But what he believes later is up to him.”
Pan says he has little interest in researching Ketagalan identity himself, noting that even growing up, elders rarely spoke about it. “I don’t really have the time,” he says. “And realistically, even if I find out more, it doesn’t necessarily change anything for me.”
Still, when talking about the next generation, his tone shifts. “My son has never asked me about it,” he says. “But if he does one day, I’ll take him to talk to my uncle.”
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