by Charles DeBenedetto
(Taiwanese gather to support Hong Kong. October
1, 2014. Photo Credit: Foreign Policy)
I
grip the dangling handle on the MRT a little too tightly, turning my knuckles a
bright white. I’m nervous, and I almost decide to go home. ‘What if I get in
trouble?’ I think. ‘Maybe I will lose my scholarship money, and I will have to
leave Taiwan. I’ll have to go back home and wash dishes like I used to.’
My
thoughts continue to spiral for a while, but then my resolve boldens.
‘No.
I am an international relations major. This is important for my education. I
need to go.’
So I
go.
The
doors open at Chiang Kai-shek Memorial Hall Station, and a flood of people
disembark. There is no need to ask for directions tonight, because the flood
acts as one mind. Slowly, orderly, it makes its way to the exit, and ascends the escalator.
As
we ascend, I can already hear instruments playing, plugged into amplifiers, and
a murmur of conversation is underneath the passionate singing of many voices.
From the MRT entrance, I look out at the scene.
There
is a massive, Chinese style blue and white gate, flanked on either side by
large buildings with red lacquered pillars and curved roofs. Between them, a
wide, tiled square. From the center of the gate, the scene is perfect symmetry,
with the memorial hall directly ahead. A walk of about half a kilometer will
take you to a series of thick, gray steps. Follow them up, and you’ll be greeted
by the smiling face of the late-dictator, sitting in an enormous bronze chair
like Zeus or Abraham Lincoln. The Republic of China Sun is above him, soldiers
guard him, and a behemoth of a pavilion enshrines him. He truly looks like
a god.
But
he is far away in the background. What overwhelms me is the gigantic crowd of
Taiwanese people who have completely taken over the first half of the square,
surrounding the entrance gate. They are sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, and
singing. They have lights to wave, mostly from their cell phones, and look like
they might just be at an open air concert. A lean, sweaty man plays an erhu, a
two-stringed Chinese instrument, shredding like it were an electric guitar. The
singer instructs the crowd to clap, and the drummer makes me wonder whether I
have a heartbeat or a drumbeat inside my chest. After the song, a man grabs the
mic and says,
“The
people of Hong Kong are our brothers! We stand with you, brothers and sisters!
Hong Kong, keep fighting! Taiwan, keep fighting!”
The
crowd replies passionately, “Hong Kong, keep fighting! Taiwan, keep fighting!”
I do
not fully understand what I see, but as I walk around, I see pain, sadness, and
the want for a reality other than what is. I tell myself I should keep a low
profile, but I am a white boy at a Taiwanese protest. I walk for a while, and
then a tall woman with a microphone approaches me and asks me what I think.
“Here
we have a foreigner who supports Taiwan,” she says. She passes the microphone
to me. I feel uncomfortable about this, and I cannot say much in Mandarin, but I try
to say something.
“I
think…this protest…is good. I hope…China can…see it.”
I
regret my words shortly after, partly because I know I did not speak with
perfect grammar, and partly because I worry about the trouble I will be in when
people find out.
I
scramble away from the various news channel reporters, and find an auntie who
is selling T-shirts. They are black, with a yellow Taiwan in the middle, with
the Chinese characters 台灣不服貿. I don’t know what that
means, but I understand the English underneath it, “Save democracy. Don’t sell
our country.” Sounds like something I agree with, so I buy one.
(This is the same pattern as my T-shirt,
but different colors. Photo Credit: tw.carousell.com)
This
is not my event, but for a long time I stand at the sides, looking and listening.
I always thought of protests as violent and dangerous, but the people here just
sing, hold each other, cry, and sway. It is a funeral, or a memorial service
for someone recently passed.
It
is a long time before I force my eyes away and get on an empty train home.
* * *
It
has been six years since that day. I see now why the plight of those in Hong
Kong resonates so deeply with the Taiwanese. Just like Taiwan, Hong Kong is a
democratic country that is being influenced by Mainland China, and China’s long
term plan for “re-unification” is simple. First, Hong Kong. Second, Taiwan. If
Hong Kong’s democracy crumbles, and the mainland has total control of it, then they will be better poised to seriously consider invading Taiwan. Obviously,
the past six years have not seen an improvement in Hong Kong’s situation.
And
so, Taiwanese people came out in great numbers that day, to sing, to cry, and
to hold each other. The same Taiwanese who overthrew their own dictatorship
without picking up a single weapon. Today, they continue to stand up to China
in their non-violent, professional, beautiful way.
China
is a giant, but it stoops low to pick on the weak, to scare them and to watch
them cower. But Hong Kong and Taiwan, though small, stand up tall. Taller, in fact,
than the stooping giant.
Six
years later, I echo the protestors.
Hong
Kong, keep fighting. Taiwan, keep fighting.
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