The Reign of Terror
Jinmei White Terror Museum, Taiwan
“I didn’t do anything, and I didn’t commit any crimes. What do I have to run from?” — Last words off Journalist Juan Chao-Jih, arrested in the 228 incident
In 1945, following Japan's defeat in World War II, Taiwan was liberated from its colonial rule. For many Taiwanese, this initially brought hope for a brighter future. Streets were filled with celebrations as people anticipated self-governance and freedom. However, this hope was short-lived.
Chiang Kai-shek’s Kuomintang arrived with a different agenda. Chen Yi, appointed as governor-general, viewed the local Taiwanese population with deep suspicion. Having lived under Japanese rule for decades, many Taiwanese had embraced Japanese administrative systems and culture. To Chen, this made them inferior to mainland Chinese and potential Japanese collaborators.
Under Kuomintang, Taiwan descended into chaos. The transition was marked by poor administration, economic mismanagement, and widespread corruption. Everyday freedoms were stripped away. Popular forms of art, such as plays exploring class struggles, were banned under vague pretexts of violating state laws. This fostered resentment, especially among locals who had initially welcomed the Kuomintang.
The public narrative shifted toward the Kuomintang’s ultimate goal: retaking mainland China from the Communists. This goal became the justification for harsh martial law and repression, ensuring absolute loyalty to the Kuomintang.
The 228 Incident
One of the most pivotal events in Taiwan's modern history, the 228 Incident, occurred on February 28, 1947. This began as a clash between government agents and a civilian selling contraband cigarettes but quickly escalated into widespread protests against KMT corruption and abuse.
In response, Chiang Kai-shek sent military reinforcements. Over the following weeks, soldiers carried out a brutal crackdown, executing thousands of civilians. Dumdum bullets, designed to inflict maximum internal damage, were reportedly used. News of this violent suppression reached as far as Australia, shocking the international community.
For decades, the KMT silenced any discussion of the 228 Incident. Schools avoided teaching it, and survivors lived in fear of speaking out. The incident became a taboo subject, leaving a conspicuous gap in Taiwan’s historical narrative.
The Martial Law
The KMT’s harsh measures were driven by a mix of ideology, paranoia, and political pragmatism. After losing mainland China to the Communist Party in 1949, the KMT saw Taiwan as a temporary stronghold—a base from which they could “Retake the Mainland.” This vision required a tightly controlled society with absolute loyalty.
The Cold War further fueled their actions. The KMT’s fear of Communist infiltration justified a policy of preemptive repression. Anyone advocating for Taiwanese independence or criticizing the government was labeled a Communist sympathizer—a traitor deserving punishment.
For the Taiwanese, the arrival of the KMT brought not just authoritarian rule but also a sense of cultural and political alienation. The Waishengren (mainlanders) who came with the KMT were given preferential treatment, while Benshengren (locals) were marginalized. This created a deep social divide that amplified tensions during the White Terror.
The Detention Center
During the White Terror, the KMT didn’t just detain people—they put on a grand, farcical performance of justice. Being labeled as communist spies or Taiwan Independence activists was the most convenient excuse to silence anyone who even slightly deviated from the regime’s rigid narrative. It wasn’t about uncovering actual threats; it was about using a thin veneer of legality to cloak a fundamentally dirty and immoral agenda.
Suspects were hauled in on flimsy or fabricated charges, their "trials" nothing more than a cruel charade. Not-guilty verdicts were almost nonexistent—not because everyone was guilty, but because the KMT needed to maintain the illusion of order while systematically crushing dissent. “In reality, however, not-guilty verdicts were rare. Instead, suspects often confessed to crimes they had not committed. Under torture, many of them even implicated family members and friends. There is, apparently, only so much pain a human can take.”
The KMT’s strategy was painfully transparent: extract false confessions through brutal torture, parade them as evidence of guilt, and then pat themselves on the back for a job well done. It was state-sanctioned theater—clean and orderly on the surface, rotten and corrupt at its core.
The Memorial Museum
Walking through the Jing-Mei White Terror Memorial Park brought these stories vividly to life. The museum’s carefully preserved spaces offer a chilling glimpse into the prisoners’ daily lives. As I stepped into the reconstructed interrogation rooms and peered into the claustrophobic cells, I could almost feel the weight of the oppressive atmosphere that once suffocated those walls. The darkness of the cells, the minimal space that left barely enough room to stretch, and the eerie silence were overwhelming.
One exhibit that left a lasting impression was the papaya story. At first glance, the exhibit seems unremarkable—a simple piece of fruit. But it symbolizes a powerful act of defiance. Families would send papayas to their imprisoned loved ones, smuggling in hidden messages to maintain a fragile connection despite the strict surveillance. Reading about this clandestine form of communication, I was struck by the resilience and ingenuity of those who refused to be entirely silenced.
Another deeply moving part of the visit was sitting in the telephone booth, which replicates the conversations between prisoners and their families. Picking up the receiver, I listened to the voices of people who, even in their most desperate moments, sought to offer comfort and hope to their loved ones. The brief, often stilted exchanges were laden with coded language and unspoken fears. Hearing the restrained emotions in those conversations made the historical weight of the White Terror feel profoundly real.
The physical environment of the prison cells was equally impactful. Dark, oppressive, and impossibly small, the cells were a stark reminder of the inhumane conditions prisoners endured. In one of the cells, I noticed scratches on the walls—marks left by inmates as they counted days or perhaps etched out fragments of their stories. It’s one thing to read about these conditions in history books; it’s another to stand in the very space where people lived through such unimaginable suffering. The museum’s attention to detail made it impossible to ignore the humanity of those who were imprisoned there.
Taiwan’s path to democracy began with mounting public pressure in the 1980s. Martial law was lifted in 1987, and under President Lee Teng-hui, the government began acknowledging its past mistakes. By 1992, laws that had enabled arbitrary arrests were repealed, marking the official end of the White Terror. In 2017, President Tsai Ing-wen declassified millions of White Terror-era documents, uncovering long-hidden truths. These revelations allowed families to finally learn the fate of their loved ones, offering a measure of closure.
The Jing-Mei White Terror Memorial Park is more than a historical site; it is a space for reflection on the value of freedom and the cost of silence. While Taiwan today enjoys a vibrant, open society, the shadows of the White Terror remain a cautionary tale in its ongoing struggle for identity and autonomy.
For those who visit, the experience is both sobering and enlightening—a reminder of the resilience of the human spirit and the ongoing struggle for justice and democracy.
Written by Haya A. Elmizwghi
Edited by Thu Phan
Photographed by Julio Caggiano