There is no doubting Mark O’Neill’s affection for Taiwan. Throughout this book — his first to focus exclusively on the country — he praises the “warmth, friendship and humor” Taiwanese showed in welcoming “the Big-Nose” and making him feel safe and comfortable during two-and-a-half years here as a student and journalist from 1981 and on many subsequent visits.
True, there was the occasional hostility from those who “detested foreigners and said so in no uncertain terms,” times when he was upbraided for language failings, and even the odd accusation that he was a spy during his initial stay. But most of this he puts down to the climate of the era — when the Chinese Nationalist Party (KMT) government was still stoking concerns about outsiders. At one point, he recounts a civil servant friend having spotted a file with O’Neill’s name on it at a police station.
The dossier, which was slim as O’Neill had not been in Taiwan long at that point, contained a form with two boxes at the bottom — one of which had to be ticked by the responsible officer, depending on the perception of the foreigner’s stance toward the KMT government. O’Neill asks which box was ticked in his case. “You are pro-China,” says his friend. The China in question here is the Republic of China or, as it was commonly known in the propaganda of the period, “Free China.”
While O’Neill has nothing but praise and positivity for the Taiwanese, he admits that foreigners of other ethnicities have pushed back against this “idealized” version. Noting that white foreigners are “not competing with them [Taiwanese] for jobs, housing and opportunities, as we are,” a Hong Konger acquaintance tells O’Neill that such competition reveals “a different face, more inward-looking and protective of their own interests.”
Even an unexplained stabbing is not enough to change O’Neill’s rosy view of Taiwan and its people. While walking close to what was then New Park (now 228 Peace Memorial Park), one evening in July 1981, O’Neill and a fellow British student are knifed in the back by two assailants who flee the scene looking more terrified than their stunned victims.
The two Brits never conclusively established a motive for the assault, but their Taiwanese co-residents at the International House of Taipei — a student accommodation that once stood on the site of present-day Daan Forest Park before relocating to the foothills of New Taipei City’s Sindian District (新店) — suggested the foreigners’ proximity to New Park may have been a factor. The park was (and still is) a well-known pick-up spot for gay men, and “many Chinese detested homosexuality and considered it a disease imported by Westerners.”
While his compatriot is “so shaken” by the incident that he returns to the UK, O’Neill is overwhelmed by the “care and concern” he is shown. Apologizing for the attack, several Taiwanese used expressions such as “disgrace to the nation” to describe it. O’Neill marvels at the “civility and fine manners” of such statements, and he indicates that one would be unlikely to get the same reaction in New York or London.
Of course, anyone who has lived in Taiwan for an extended period, will probably have come across such apologies by individuals on behalf of the entire country. For someone who has lived in East Asia since 1978, O’Neill is happy to take such expressions of sympathy at face value, without delving into their cultural foundations.
This type of naivety — sometimes seemingly willful — and aversion to controversy pervades the text. Historical grievances such as the 228 Incident and the ensuing White Terror are addressed, and the gravity of the human rights violations that occurred is made plain enough. O’Neill also makes it clear that former president Chiang Kai-shek (蔣介石) “was ultimately responsible.”
But far too often, O’Neill just skims the surface and uncritically accepts the viewpoints of his KMT connections. Even where these opinions are not outright biased, they often just present part of the picture, with O’Neill unconcerned or unwilling to probe any further. Walking past the residence of Peng Meng-chi (彭孟緝), O’Neill is told that the late KMT general was “one of the commanders during the 1947 crackdown.”
O’Neill’s companion also notes that Peng needs around-the-clock protection from potential assassination. But that’s it — no explanation of the atrocities ordered by the infamous “Butcher of Kaohsiung,” because discussing such issues was “not allowed” in those days. But O’Neill’s narrative jumps back and forth in time, drawing in history and knowledge that he later accrued when it suits him; so there really is no excuse for not fleshing out these anecdotes with the pertinent facts.
Another example of the bothsiding that plagues the text is a description of protests against the appearance of Taipei Mayor Chiang Wan-an (蔣萬安) at a 228 memorial event last year. It should have been an occasion of reconciliation, O’Neill indicates. Instead, it was marred by screams of “murderer and assassin,” in reference to the mayor’s presumptive grandfather, and “a visit of forgiveness and memorial could not pass in quiet solemnity.”
The issues with this book stem from one main root: The Taiwan that O’Neill gushes over is largely a Cold War anachronism. His narrative is one of a “Greater China,” where Taiwan is defined almost exclusively in relation to the “Mainland.”
This term recurs throughout, and he was reprimanded by an audience member for using it during a presentation at Taipei International Book Exhibition. Having apologized, O’Neill slipped up again minutes later, causing his elderly interlocutor to correct him once more. When O’Neill’s wife interceded, observing that “he doesn’t know [because]; he’s a foreigner,” the critic stormed off. “I’m not going to listen to this,” she said as she left.
It is obvious that O’Neill, who is a resident of Hong Kong and makes frequent trips to China, goes to great lengths to avoid rocking the boat. Aside from a few slips of the pen, he uses the conspicuously clunky “Taiwan people” in place of “Taiwanese” and the word “land” twice instead of “country,” when referring to Taiwanese donations to Japan following 2011 Tohoku earthquake and tsunami. Even the book’s title gives an indication of how O’Neill continues to see Taiwan.
This cautious approach is a shame, as there is a lot to like in this book — particularly the amusing and insightful personal anecdotes from his first stay in Taiwan. Some capture a bygone era — the revelation that Chiang Kai-shek’s adoptive son Chiang Wei-kuo (蔣緯國) could he convinced to execute a goose step “after a few beers” at the now long-gone German Club in Taipei, for example. (Wei-kuo had commanded a Panzer unit during the Nazi Anschluss of Austria in 1938.)
Others will be familiar to contemporary readers: the revelation that some Westerners “mistook the attention they received from attractive young ladies for admiration for their physique, charm and intellect.”
Having met O’Neill during his most recent trip to Taiwan, I am certain none of this comes from a bad place. He is a gentleman of the old school — polite, patient and considerate to a fault. That, unfortunately, appears to be part of the problem: By striving to offend no one, O’Neill has unwittingly demeaned the people to whom this work is dedicated.
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