Written by Omorose Aighewi
Image credit: Taken by the author.
For many Indigenous youth in Taiwan, the gateway to elite universities is paved with possessing a “bonus” that acts simultaneously as a ladder and a target. Taiwan’s preferential admissions policy for Indigenous students, known as the Regulations for Admission Preferences for Indigenous Students (原住民族學生升學優待辦法), requires students to demonstrate their “Indigenous-ness” in order to access the full benefits of the system. Students must either possess an Indigenous last name or register a Han surname alongside their romanised Indigenous name on their identification, and they must also pass a tribal language proficiency test.
This requirement carries a profound irony. Indigenous students are asked to prove cultural belonging in a system that historically sought to erase the very markers of identity now being demanded. Politics has historically and continues to forcibly reshape Indigenous identity. For the majority, identity is a given; for the Indigenous student, identity is a political negotiation. While the policy aims to address structural inequality, it does so within an educational environment that is still shaped by Han cultural norms.
This article argues that such policies produce a “social health paradox”: while designed to enhance opportunity and facilitate social mobility, they can simultaneously generate stigma, identity friction, and weaken social belonging.
Historically, successive governing powers used education as a tool of assimilation. Beginning with the Qing Dynasty, followed by the Japanese colonial period and later the Kuomintang (KMT) government, state education systems promoted cultural integration while suppressing Indigenous languages and identities. During the KMT era, policies such as the National Language Movement (國語運動) enforced Mandarin as the dominant language. At the same time, regulations like the Measures for the Restoration of Original Names of People in Taiwan (台灣省人民回復原有姓名辦法) imposed constraints on naming practices. The irony lies in the shift of political requirements. Under the KMT’s National Language Movement, identity was a liability to be suppressed; today, under affirmative action, it is a commodity to be ‘proven.’ This illustrates how politics dictates the ‘correct’ way to be Indigenous.
In response to these historical inequalities, Taiwan introduced affirmative educational measures. In 2006, the government established an “additional quota” (外加名額) for Indigenous students applying to high schools and universities, along with adjustments to exam scores, commonly known as bonus points (加分制度). These measures resemble the affirmative action policy in the United States, where similar programmes attempt to address historical marginalisation.
However, preferential treatment becomes socially stigmatised. For Indigenous Taiwanese students, who are already members of a historically marginalised minority, these policies can inadvertently intensify discrimination. Instead of functioning solely as mechanisms of opportunity, they often mark students as beneficiaries of “unearned” advantages, turning the policy into a visible symbol of difference.
Stigma and discrimination are not merely external obstacles; they shape an individual’s socialisation and, by extension, their social health. Social health encompasses both the quality of interpersonal relationships and broader integration into society. It reflects a person’s level of comfort, satisfaction, and security within social interactions, as well as their sense of belonging within wider social networks.
To understand the true impacts of Taiwan’s educational policies, one must view them through this multidimensional lens. Social health is defined as the “quality of social relationships and the capacity to manage social life in individuals, and one’s social cohesion and resilience capacity in society.” This dual-layered definition suggests that health is not merely a private, biological matter, but a communal and political one.
For Indigenous Taiwanese students, the bonus system functions as a double-edged sword. While it is designed to enhance individual capacity by facilitating social mobility, it simultaneously erodes social cohesion and societal resilience. This erosion occurs as the policy sparks resentment from Han peers and generates ‘identity friction’ within Indigenous communities themselves.
Empirical studies highlight how this paradox unfolds in everyday life. Research by Ciwang Teyra and colleagues shows that many Indigenous students experience discrimination linked to receiving bonus points, which in turn contributes to lower self-esteem and hesitance in interpersonal interactions. This hesitance often stems from a lack of trust, as individuals become more guarded in social settings.
One participant from my fieldwork supports this sentiment as they describe their social life:
I’m never really looking for a community… I’m not a social butterfly or anything, but when I’m with my friends, let’s say those friends from the nursing college, I’m cool, but I’m also cool with being alone.
More often than not, extreme perspectives on community can be expressed by people from marginalised communities.
Similarly, another participant described how discrimination can emerge even within close friendships:
They think I didn’t put in any effort… everyone just sees that I got bonus points.
Here, the perception of unfair advantage undermines recognition of effort, revealing how stigma operates not only structurally but also interpersonally.
Another participant in my research reflected that “affirmative action defines my Indigenous identity… that defines my whole life.” This illustrates how policy mechanisms can become internalised, shaping not only educational pathways but also self-perception and identity formation.
Over time, these experiences contribute to minority stress—the chronic stress produced by stigma and prejudice. This stress can manifest in lowered confidence, imposter syndrome, and social withdrawal, and may also have physiological consequences. One participant explained, “Why I think I’m not good enough is that society impacts me,” highlighting how external judgements become internalised.”
This process can lead to internalised racism, expressed through identity concealment or distancing from Indigenous culture. Public incidents reinforce these dynamics. During National Taiwan University’s “Free Speech Month” in 2024, a banner mocking Indigenous admissions policies sparked widespread backlash and forced Indigenous students to defend their presence on campus publicly. Such incidents expose the fragile social cohesion between Han-majority institutions and Indigenous communities.
At the same time, identity tensions are not limited to interactions with the Han majority. Migration and urbanisation have reshaped Indigenous social life, with many individuals growing up distant from their tribal communities. This can lead to identity confusion and a weakened sense of belonging.
One participant described this disconnection:
I grew up with confusion. I have an Indigenous legal identity, but I’m very far from the tribe… I have no right to attend the inner group in the tribe. Because I didn’t go to the tribal school. So I don’t have the right. I don’t have the connection with the inner circle in this tribe.
This reflects the complex relationship between mobility, educational access, and cultural displacement. Migration from rural villages in pursuit of better career and educational opportunities often comes at the cost of social and emotional safety. Children, who typically have little say in these decisions, are compelled to adapt to urban environments while experiencing varying degrees of connection to their village. As a result, their cultural identity may become fragmented.
Moreover, competition within the Indigenous quota system can generate tensions among Indigenous students themselves, particularly between urban and rural backgrounds. Rather than eliminating inequality, the policy often reconfigures it, surfacing deep-seated generational trauma rooted in urban migration. This displacement profoundly shapes contemporary identities, as illustrated by one participant’s reflection on their father’s strained relationship with their tribe:
I don’t feel comfortable in the tribe. I would say that my dad has built good relationships with the older generation, but he still feels uncomfortable due to his identity and the pressure from my grandpa. Thus, it is hard for my dad in the tribe because the tribe holds high expectations for members who leave to pursue their own careers. He left the tribe really early, during high school.
This narrative reveals how the pressure to “succeed” in the city creates a lasting emotional distance. High expectations within the community can inadvertently push away members who have sought opportunities outside the tribe. This internalised distance is then passed to the next generation, leaving children to navigate an identity already marked by their parents’ alienation.
Yet these outcomes are not uniformly negative. For some students, the requirements attached to the policy—such as language testing—can spark renewed interest in Indigenous identity and culture. One participant described how switching to their Indigenous name “was the first real step in my journey of self-identification.”
Supportive relationships also play a crucial role. Encouragement from teachers or mentors can help transform access into opportunity, empowering students to pursue ambitious academic paths. One participant, reflecting on their journey toward a PhD, highlighted the transformative power of a supportive professor:
She makes me believe that I can do that.
This simple act of belief provides the psychological safety necessary to navigate a system often marked by exclusion.
Taken together, these contrasting experiences highlight the complexity of Taiwan’s Indigenous educational policies and the realities of a politicised minority identity. Preferential admissions can simultaneously open doors and create new social challenges. This raises important questions: Do these measures effectively support long-term success? Are their psychological and social costs justified? And how do they shape students’ relationships with themselves, others, and society?
At stake are not only access to education but also the conditions of belonging. Social health is not merely the absence of conflict—it is the presence of a secure sense of belonging that does not require constant justification.
Achieving meaningful equity, therefore, requires more than numerical adjustment. It calls for a broader shift in how Indigenous students are supported: through cultural mentorship, accessible mental health resources, and education that critically engages Taiwan’s colonial history. By addressing not only access but also belonging, Taiwan can begin to resolve the social health paradox at the heart of its Indigenous education system.
Omorose Aighewi is an American of Thai, Chinese, and Nigerian descent, currently based in Bangkok, Thailand. During her Master of Science in Global Health from National Taiwan University in 2022, she focused her research on the experiences of Indigenous students and how educational special measures impact their cultural identity and social health. Driven by her interest in Indigenous populations, Omorose sought to explore the parallels between her own experiences as a minority in the United States and the realities faced by Indigenous students. Passionate about people, their stories, and their health, she continues to engage with diverse communities to foster understanding and support.
This article was published as part of the special issue on “Plural Education within Taiwan and Beyond“.