Written by Ming-yeh T. Rawnsley (蔡明燁).
Image credit: provided by the author.
At a time when Taiwan’s political parties offer sharply different visions of how peace should be maintained, a new documentary about the Tangwai (黨外, outside the party) movement provides an unexpectedly timely intervention. Recent weeks have seen Kuomintang (KMT) Chairperson Cheng Li-wun (鄭麗文) travel to Beijing and meet Chinese leader Xi Jinping (習近平), presenting cross-Strait dialogue and exchange as pathways to stability. At the same time, after months of delay and political wrangling, the KMT finally approved the government’s special defence budget, but only after securing substantial cuts to the proposed spending. These developments reflect an ongoing debate at the heart of Taiwanese politics: should peace be pursued primarily through engagement and accommodation, or through strengthening Taiwan’s capacity for self-defence and deterrence? For some politicians, peace is presented as the product of dialogue, exchange, and reduced tensions with China. For others, peace depends on deterrence, resilience, and the capacity to resist coercion. The disagreement is not merely about policy. It reflects fundamentally different understandings of risk, power, and security.
These questions surfaced repeatedly at the European Association of Taiwan Studies (EATS) conference held in Portsmouth in April 2026, where the documentary Behind the Scenes (幕後吶喊, 2026), directed by veteran photojournalist Huang Tzu-ming (黃子明), received its debut screening and generated lively discussion among conference participants. Although I was unable to attend the conference myself, I was fortunate to watch the documentary later on YouTube. It left a deep impression and prompted me to reflect on the relationship between memory, democracy, and contemporary debates about peace.
Behind the Scenes revisits the period from the 1950s to the late 1980s, when Taiwan was under martial law, and a vibrant but precarious oppositional print culture emerged. Publications such as Free China (自由中國), Literary Star (文星), Taiwan Political Review (台灣政論), The Eighties (八十年代), Progress Weekly (進步雜誌), New Generation (這一代), Formosa (美麗島), and Taiwan Panorama (博觀) created a fragile public sphere under conditions of censorship and surveillance. They exposed social injustices, reported on elections and grassroots movements, and brought together figures who would later shape Taiwan’s democratic transition.
The documentary’s power lies not only in what it recounts, but in how it tells its story. Rejecting the conventional ‘voice-of-God’ narration, Huang constructs a polyphonic narrative from the testimonies of writers, editors, printers, distributors, activists, and even former law-enforcement officials. Through careful editing, these voices create a narrative that is concise, vivid, and emotionally compelling.
The effect is striking. The past is not simply described but reanimated. Viewers are invited not merely to learn about history but to experience its uncertainty and urgency. At the same time, the multiplicity of voices resists any singular interpretation. History emerges as contested, layered, and shaped by human decisions.
This is a crucial point. The documentary makes clear that Taiwan’s democratic transformation was neither inevitable nor cost-free. Events such as the 1979 Kaohsiung Incident and the 1989 self-immolation of Cheng Nan-jung (鄭南榕) are presented not as distant milestones but as moments defined by risk, sacrifice, and moral choice.
Seen from this perspective, the language of peace takes on a different meaning. The Tangwai publishers did not operate in a peaceful environment. They worked under surveillance, faced the constant threat of arrest, and saw their publications confiscated. Yet it was precisely by confronting these risks—not by denying them—that they expanded the boundaries of expression and helped lay the foundations of Taiwan’s democracy. Peace, in other words, was not the absence of conflict. It was something forged through engagement with it.
This insight speaks directly to Taiwan’s contemporary political debates. Whether discussing cross-Strait relations, defence spending, or international diplomacy, public discourse often presents peace as a simple alternative to conflict—as though societies can choose one and avoid the other. Yet recent events suggest a more complicated reality. President Lai Ching-te’s (賴清德) visit to Eswatini in early May took place only after reports that a planned African trip had been disrupted by Chinese pressure on other states to deny transit or overflight arrangements. Regardless of the precise diplomatic details, the episode served as a reminder that Taiwan’s international space remains shaped by power asymmetries beyond its control. Such realities cannot simply be wished away. They form part of the conditions within which Taiwan must pursue both security and peace.
Such framing obscures the structural realities that shape Taiwan’s circumstances. It promises security without confronting the conditions necessary to sustain it. This does not mean conflict should be welcomed, nor that peace is unattainable. Rather, it suggests that meaningful peace must be grounded in an honest assessment of reality. It requires awareness of power, recognition of vulnerability, and a willingness to defend the institutions and freedoms that make peace worthwhile.
In this sense, Behind the Scenes is not merely a historical documentary. It is a meditation on how societies remember and how they understand the relationship between past and present. By privileging lived experience over authoritative narration, it reminds viewers that democracy was built through difficult choices made by ordinary people under extraordinary circumstances.
That reminder feels particularly relevant today. Taiwan’s political future continues to be shaped by competing interpretations of peace, security, and national survival. Against this backdrop, the voices recovered by Behind the Scenes resonate with renewed urgency. They remind us that democracy and freedom were not gifts bestowed from above. They were achievements won through effort, sacrifice, and courage.
Peace, like freedom, cannot rest on denial. It must be grounded in reality. And that is perhaps the documentary’s most enduring message: that the voices of the past do not simply tell us where Taiwan has been—they challenge us to think more honestly about where it is today, and what risks it is willing to recognise in order to remain free.
Ming-yeh T. Rawnsley (蔡明燁) is a Non-Residential Research Fellow at the Taiwan Research Hub of the University of Nottingham. Her contact is mytrawnsley@gmail.com. The documentary is currently under revision to include more interviewees. Hence, the original version is unavailable until the new version is completed.