Island Above the Sea Taiwan’s Path Through Media Democracy and Human Rights

Luna Tian

Introduction｜For Those Who Have Yet to Understand: A Beginner’s Note on Taiwan, Media, and Freedom

I was born and raised in mainland China. Growing up, most of what I knew about “Taiwan” came from textbooks and headlines—brief, assertive, and seemingly conclusive. It wasn’t until years later, when I began studying the history of media, democracy, and human rights in a foreign land, that I started piecing together a completely different picture—of a society that once endured prolonged authoritarian rule, once suppressed speech and news, yet gradually moved toward openness, diversity, and the dignity of the individual.

This is the story of Taiwan.

This series isn’t meant to glorify or compare who’s better or worse. It simply aims to offer a clear, gentle, and truthful introduction to those who are unfamiliar with Taiwan’s history: A Taiwan where there once was no press freedom, where the media could only say the “correct” things; where people were once imprisoned for saying the wrong words, or lost their freedom over a single magazine.

Today, this island’s vibrant civil society and diverse media landscape are the hard-won results of many people’s sacrifices over long decades.

Together, we will revisit several key moments:

• From the underground flow of banned magazines to the trials of the White Terror era;
• From the roar of street protests to the institutional guarantees of free speech;
• From the growing pains of media commercialization to the challenges of the information warfare era.

As someone from China, I often felt both shocked and deeply moved while learning these stories—shocked that I had never known this history before, and moved that such a history happened among people who share a similar language and culture with us. More importantly, this history showed me a possibility: that a society can change; that journalism doesn’t have to be a tool, but can be the gatekeeper of public interest; that democracy is more than ballots—it’s a system that allows people to speak without fear, and to live with dignity.

This series is both a personal study journal and something I hope to share with anyone willing to take the time—no matter where you’re from, no matter how much you know about Taiwan. I hope that through reading, we won’t just come to understand a slice of history, but also recognize this:

When we talk about journalism, human rights, and democracy, we are really talking about one thing: how a society treats its people.

If this is a record of the past, then it is also an imagination of the future.
A future where people can speak without fear—perhaps that, too, is something worth reflecting on together.

I. The Age of Silence: Martial Law, Press Bans, and White Terror

In an era when the media could not speak, how did people remember the truth?

1. Opening Scene: The Silence of a Newspaper

Early morning in Taipei. The fog hangs low, the air laced with the damp scent of asphalt and the warm aroma of freshly made soy milk. A paperboy pedals through narrow alleys, sliding stacks of newspapers into iron mailboxes with a dull thud. A middle school teacher, dressed in a gray cotton robe, sits on a worn rattan chair beneath his wooden window. He opens the morning paper, fingers still stained with printing ink. But he doesn’t read right away. He simply flips through each page—too spotless, too clean, as if the truth itself had been wiped away.

It is 1954. A voiceless morning.

As always, the front page shows a photo of President Chiang Kai-shek in military attire, solemn and composed—identical to yesterday, and the day before. The headline reads: “Three Principles of the People Will Reunify China” and “Nation Stands with Government to Retake the Mainland.” Page two is filled with clipped regulations and editorials, neat in format and firm in tone. No breaking news, no voices from the streets, no uncertainty. It’s a newspaper—but it might as well be a wall. One that shuts the world out, burying human feeling behind printed silence.

In that era, the media didn’t speak—and people learned not to ask questions. Newspapers didn’t just report what happened—they worked hard to convince people what had not happened.

Under martial law, Taiwan became a society where order smothered echo. Real reporting often died on the editor’s desk. Real records hid in private diaries, stashed deep in bookshelves—or burned in kitchen stoves before dawn. People knew which words could get them in trouble. Children were taught in school to “resist communism and oppose Russia,” but at home, mothers would quietly warn: “Don’t repeat what you hear outside.”

Sometimes, silence came from fear. More often, silence became a way of life—a survival instinct.

And the media? It ceased to be a recorder of memory, choosing instead selective amnesia. No longer did it speak for the voiceless—it echoed power. Journalists were trained to be scribes; newspapers turned into government bulletin boards. Every headline looked like it was measured with a ruler. Every article, trimmed and “corrected.” Readers became used to blanks—and used to reading between the lines, to guess what hadn’t been said.

On this canvas of silence, history unrolled quietly—like the lead type on newspaper pages: clear, yet soundless.

Years later, as we flip through yellowed sheets in archives, we come to understand: the real news wasn’t in the paper. It lived in the stories that were never printed. The names that were never spoken. The facts that were altered. The questions no one was allowed to ask. They existed—in silence. And they resisted—in silence.

This article begins with that silence.

2. Institutionalized Gag Orders: Press Bans, Party Bans, and the “Correct” News

In Taiwan, silence was never a voluntary choice. It was an engineered order.

In 1949, after losing control of mainland China, the Kuomintang (KMT) fully retreated to Taiwan. On May 20 of that year, martial law was declared. The order seemed temporary, but it lasted 38 years—one of the longest martial law periods in world history. And the first targets of this system were not enemy soldiers, but the people’s mouths and pens.

One of the core aims of martial law was to “prevent ideological instability.” The KMT understood that to maintain control, guns weren’t enough. Total control of language and information was necessary. The media, once the fourth estate, became a frontline propaganda tool.

Under the revised 1952 Publications Act, newspapers required strict government licensing and approval. Content must not “endanger national security,” “promote communism,” or “harm public morals.” Seemingly reasonable terms—yet dangerously vague—these gave authorities sweeping interpretive power. Violators faced suspension, fines, license revocation, or even jail time.

Complementary laws such as the Newspaper Act and the Broadcast and Television Law created a full control system. To renew publishing licenses, newspapers had to submit annual content plans, reporter rosters, circulation stats, and undergo “public opinion reviews.” Government agencies—like the Government Information Office or the Garrison Command—could instantly pull stories or revoke licenses. A single government order could shut down an entire newsroom.

Journalists were no longer seen as reporters, but as “opinion warriors.” In training programs and journalism textbooks, their mission was not to seek truth—but to “stabilize public sentiment, support policy, and promote government directives.” The most important step in reporting was to submit drafts for inspection. Some papers even had “patriotic editing teams” for “nationalist proofreading.”

Each week, the Information Office issued a List of Prohibited News. It outlined stories not to be reported—sometimes a labor protest, sometimes a political rumor, or even celebrity suicides or divorces deemed “disruptive to social order.” Rumors of military smuggling, corruption, teacher strikes—none made it to print. Journalists no longer wrote the world—they erased it.

This control birthed a unique phenomenon in Taiwan’s media history: the “Three Chinas and One United” landscape. The Central Daily News, China Times, The China Daily, and United Daily News formed a near-monopoly. All were either directly run by the KMT or affiliated supporters. Front pages echoed each other, filled with the same policies and propaganda. News became an extension of official statements—not reflections of society.

But not all journalists complied.

In the late 1950s, intellectuals like Lei Zhen, Yin Haiguang, and Hu Shih founded the magazine Free China, seeking reform and ideological freedom from within the system. It advocated for “democratic nation-building” and opposed “party dictatorship,” publishing sharp essays like “Our View on the Current Situation.” It drew attention—and retaliation.

In 1960, Lei Zhen was accused of “withholding knowledge of communist ties” and sentenced to 10 years in military prison. Free China was shut down. Yin Haiguang was dismissed and silenced. This marked the regime’s “zero tolerance” for dissent and sent an entire generation of liberal thinkers into silence.

What makes institutional control so terrifying is not just its power to punish speech—but its ability to make silence feel normal, even virtuous.

It was a time when people learned to hide pens in drawers, to keep truths whispered at the bedside, to swallow doubts into their stomachs.

And journalism became a ritual—seen, but never touched. People opened the paper each day and read politically sanitized text filtered through layers of censorship, like reading a letter from a home that had never truly spoken.

3. When Media Becomes an Extension of Power: A Silent Collaboration

In a free society, the media is meant to be a watchdog of public power, a gatherer of social truths. But in martial law–era Taiwan, it became part of a state-orchestrated ensemble—the tempo set by the regime, the melody played by the press. It was not a relationship of resistance, but one of tacit coordination.

Newspapers were the state’s most punctual daily propaganda.

From the 1950s onward, The Central Daily News, the official paper of the Kuomintang (KMT), delivered the most authoritative “correct narrative.” Once headquartered in Nanjing, it relocated to Taipei and featured daily front-page staples like “Presidential Quotes,” “National Policy Declarations,” and “Lectures on the Three Principles of the People.” Its text wasn’t meant to report reality—it was meant to construct it.

The China Daily had close military ties and focused mostly on army drills and enemy threats. China Times and United Daily News, though privately owned in the early years, had to maintain close relations with the authorities to avoid license revocation, printing suspension, or journalist interrogation.

Sometimes, this cooperation was voluntary. Many editors and reporters came from military or police backgrounds, or had deep ties to the party-state. They believed they were engaged in an ideological war against communism—in war, there is no neutrality, only sides.

Many media professionals found themselves caught in a dilemma. They knew there were other voices in society—voices of protest, suffering, and alternative ideas. But they remained silent, for this was a time of internalized censorship. Censorship was no longer imposed—it became instinct. Sensitive topics were preemptively cut; controversial figures renamed or avoided; if something couldn’t be sidestepped, it was “written without saying, and said without being clear.”

The rise of television news only amplified the media’s role as the government’s megaphone. With the launch of Taiwan Television (TTV) in 1962 and the emergence of CTS and CTV in the 1970s, TV news was entirely controlled by state agencies. Anchors were called “national broadcasters,” and the Government Information Office pre-approved every nightly bulletin. Footage was spliced, tone rehearsed, and every broadcast delivered orders, victories, and discipline—rarely the cries or diversity of a living society.

One veteran journalist once recalled:

“Writing the news was like writing a script. The government was the director. We were the script editors. And the people… were never invited on stage.”

Yet amid the cracks in this system, there were occasional tremors.

In 1964, China Times published a brief report on a student corruption case. But because it had not been pre-approved, the Government Information Office ordered the piece removed and demanded a public apology. This “overstep” served as a warning to all: you may write news—but not problems.

The government didn’t fear “fake news,” because the media had no room to fabricate. What it feared was true news—because truth, in itself, was the most dangerous form of politics.

When the boundary between media and regime is blurred, journalism loses its essential honesty. And when a society’s press ceases to be truthful, its people lose the ability to distinguish reality from illusion. They come to believe everything the paper says—because there are no other voices. They begin to see the world as it is portrayed: with only enemies, only praise, only “normalcy.”

But that “normalcy” was never normal.

4. White Terror: The Cost of Words and Sound

The White Terror remains one of the darkest shadows in Taiwan’s modern history. Beginning in the 1950s, under the banner of “anti-communist protection,” the KMT regime built a meticulous apparatus of surveillance, censorship, and military trials. In that era, saying the wrong thing could lead to imprisonment, torture, disappearance—or death.

This wasn’t distant history, but everyday reality for every Taiwanese who grew up between the 1950s and 1970s. It was a time when people feared not only speaking—but even listening.

How the State “Managed Thought”

In 1949, Taiwan entered full martial law. By 1951, the Ministry of National Defense and the Garrison Command launched island-wide purges. Laws like the Act for the Punishment of Rebellion during the Suppression of the Communist Insurgency, Martial Law Regulations, and Confidentiality Acts gave the military vast powers to arrest, interrogate, try, and execute. Military courts became the main tools for silencing thought. These laws were vaguely defined and broadly interpreted: reading leftist books, having relatives in mainland China, joining academic discussions, or simply commenting on politics at school could earn someone the label of “communist spy” or “subverter of state power.” Many cases are now considered manufactured crimes meant to intimidate society into obedience.

In 1960, Free China magazine founder Lei Chen was arrested. Once a trusted aide to Chiang Kai-shek and chief editor of Central Daily News, Lei and liberal intellectuals like Yin Haiguang and Hu Shih had founded Free China in hopes of pushing institutional reforms from within.

The magazine published essays calling for democratic governance, opposing personality cults, and advocating press freedom. It wasn’t radical—it was moderate. But Lei’s insider status made him even more threatening to the regime. His words weren’t just truths—they were truths spoken from within.

In September 1960, Lei Chen was accused of “failing to report communist ties” and sentenced to ten years. Free China was shut down. The incident stunned Taiwan’s intellectual community. Whatever hope journalists and scholars still had for freedom of speech vanished. In Taiwan, it wasn’t radicalism that posed a threat—it was honesty.

Yin Haiguang, under increasing pressure, resigned from National Taiwan University and lived his later years in silence and depression. He once wrote:

“Freedom is won through great endurance and pain. It is never a gift from the government—it is a fruit earned by the people.”

Even after martial law was lifted in 1987 and the laws were relaxed, the shadow of mental control lingered.

In 1989, Freedom Era Weekly founder Cheng Nan-jung published a draft of a “Republic of Taiwan Constitution.” Prosecutors charged him with “attempting to divide the nation.” When police surrounded the magazine’s office to arrest him, Cheng set himself on fire. He refused to let freedom of speech be compromised.

He left behind this message:

“I am dying for 100% freedom of expression.”

Cheng’s self-immolation shocked Taiwanese society. His death was not just a protest—it was a reckoning with the legacy of martial law. He reminded everyone: lifting martial law doesn’t mean freedom. Loosening the system doesn’t mean liberating the mind. Until freedom of speech is written into both the constitution and our hearts, the struggle remains.

During the White Terror, journalists and intellectuals weren’t the only victims. The regime built an entire informant system, encouraging people to report “unpatriotic” behavior. Schools, military barracks, villages, newspapers, even churches had their ears. For journalists, writing an article wasn’t just about facts—it was about avoiding landmines.

The term “communist spy” was omnipresent. Have relatives in mainland China? You could be a spy. Write in your diary criticizing the government? Spy. Use the word “corruption” in an editorial? That was “defaming the state”—spy again.

Under such pressure, reporters lived in constant fear. Literary editors were questioned or dismissed for publishing “sensitive” works. One urban legend tells of a literary column banned because of the line, “The sea wind roared”—allegedly deemed metaphorically inflammatory. These stories, true or not, perfectly symbolized the era: no one knew where the red line lay—only that it could move at any moment.

In this suffocating climate, real information never appeared in the news. People whispered at temple gates, exchanged notes after class, closed doors at family gatherings to speak of national affairs. Whispers became the most reliable news source.

For any society, when the only trustworthy information is passed in hushed tones, it signals not only the collapse of journalism—but the collapse of public trust. People stopped believing in newspapers. They stopped believing in institutions. They only trusted instinct—and their neighbor’s whispered warning: “Don’t talk about this.”

The White Terror had no fixed boundary. It was a lingering pressure embedded deep in the collective memory—and still stirs when touched.

It reminds us: freedom of the press was never a birthright. It is what remains after we pass through darkness and flame.

5. A Faint Glow in the Silence: Resistance, Memory, and Underground Transmission

In the long night of repression, the light never fully went out. Even a faint flame, if guarded by someone, can illuminate memory and reveal hope.

White Terror didn’t only produce silence—it also sparked a quiet defiance. When official newspapers echoed only one voice and the news became an extension of government orders, some people chose to quietly preserve forbidden truths. They didn’t necessarily wave flags or shout slogans. They simply believed: if we cannot speak, at least we must write; if we cannot write, at least we must pass it on.

Scholars, students, editors: they preserved a hidden Taiwan.

Taiwan in the 1970s appeared calm on the surface, but underground currents of thought surged quietly. In universities, scholars and students discussed Marxism, critiqued nationalism, and exchanged books and journals published abroad. Such behavior was labeled as “ideological deviance,” yet it spread quietly among youth.

Some professors secretly photocopied articles and distributed them as mimeographed booklets. Some students brought copies of Spring Breeze, a magazine from Hong Kong, back to their dorms to read silently at night. Some journalists, outside the censorship process, handwrote the redacted passages to preserve an alternative history.

Underground publications like Formosa Magazine, Summer Tide, and The Eighties were born in these shadows. Unregistered, never seen at newsstands, yet vibrant and sharp. They talked about social injustice, criticized authoritarian rule, and advocated that Taiwan’s future be decided by its own people.

Their editorial rooms were often kitchens or storage rooms. Printing presses were borrowed in secret; paper supplied by friends; distribution handled by friends of friends, one envelope or backpack at a time. They knew the risks—but they also knew the cost of silence.

Among all the resistors, the Presbyterian Church in Taiwan stood out as a rare, steadfast force. Since the 1970s, the church took on not only religious duties but also human rights and social justice. It became one of the few spaces that could still organize and speak publicly.

Its Taiwan Church News was not subject to the Information Office’s control and bravely reported on political persecution, indigenous land rights, and military surveillance of students. Though circulation was limited, its existence was a beacon amid censorship.

More importantly, when the machinery of the White Terror activated, families of the arrested had nowhere to turn. The church helped them find lawyers, send clothing, write letters. Sometimes pastors personally accompanied detainees during interrogation, prayed with them, bore witness. For these families, faith offered not only comfort—but a remaining thread of human dignity in defiance of the system.

Under intense surveillance and total news blackout, the truest information didn’t flow through papers or TV—it passed from person to person, whispered.

Someone remembers an old market vendor whispering, “Did you hear? They arrested someone last night.” Someone remembers a high school teacher pulling aside a trusted student after class and warning softly, “Don’t say anything too loud—your dad was called in.” Someone recalls seeing a crude flyer stuck behind the bathroom mirror at church, reading: Do you still remember? They’re still imprisoned.

These whispers were the news of that era. No headlines, no bylines—but utterly real.

They may not have changed the system, but they preserved society’s sensitivity to truth—and that sensitivity was the necessary condition for democratic transformation.

When we look back now, we’re tempted to romanticize these acts as “resistance.” But most of them weren’t heroes. They were ordinary people who, in a time without choice, chose not to be entirely silent. It was their small acts that kept the collective memory alive.

Someone preserved notes. Someone preserved songs. Someone kept an unsent newspaper. These records became the island’s alternate memory—and the foundation for Taiwan’s later ability to transform, reflect, and forgive.

When history is carved into national monuments, what they left behind is the islanders’ book of remembrance.

6. Conclusion: From That Era to This

We often treat history as something in the past, like flipping through a yellowed newspaper. But some history isn’t just behind us—it lives in memory, and in who we are today.

When we open our phones and see a chaotic flood of news, debates, and opinions, it’s easy to think that this noise and diversity are natural. But for Taiwan, such freedom was not a given. It was the dawn after a long night—earned, not gifted. It was built through acts of resistance, piece by piece, by people who refused to fall silent.

During the White Terror, Taiwan was a place where media could not speak. A newspaper couldn’t represent truth. A single news story could not reflect people’s suffering. Real information hid in whispers, diaries, and letters from prison. Real journalism lived not in the printing press—but outside of it.

So we must ask:
When media cannot speak, what can a society still remember?

History teaches us: when a regime begins deciding what may be seen and what must be forgotten, we don’t just lose press freedom—we lose collective memory and moral immunity. When a society forgets how to ask questions, silence becomes habit. Silence becomes safety.

Today’s Taiwan is no longer the Taiwan where journalists self-censor and students are arrested for reading books. But it still carries traces of that era—in the silent eyes of elder reporters, behind the stone walls of old prisons, in the renamed streets of our cities.

For our generation, this history isn’t just for lamentation—it is a mirror, a warning.

Because we must ask:
If a society can walk out of 38 years of repression, censorship, and fear—what does that mean?

It means memory has power. Record-keeping has purpose. Silence is not destiny.
And it means the right to speak that we enjoy today was forged in the era when speech was a crime—when words became evidence, when questions were forbidden, when thoughts were punished and voices erased.

So when you see today’s media landscape filled with noise, bias, even malice—you may be disappointed, you may criticize, but please don’t be indifferent. Freedom of the press never guarantees perfection—it only guarantees the right to choose.

And that right was won through silence.
It was proven by people who lived their entire lives to show:
Even in silence, someone still lived for the sound of truth.

II. The Underground Voice: Opposition Magazines and the People’s Media Resistance

1. Prologue｜A Storm in Print: The Voice from a Magazine Page

It was a sweltering afternoon in the summer of 1979, in Tainan.

Mr. Wu had just finished work and was waiting under an arcade for his wife to pick him up. In his hands was a magazine borrowed from a friend. The bold black title on the cover stood out strikingly: Formosa Magazine. The ink was still fresh, the page corners slightly wrinkled. The paper was thin, the print rough, the layout carried the distinct feel of underground publishing. But the content—he had never seen anything like it in the newspapers.

The headline read: “Taiwan Needs Real Democracy.”
Inside were articles discussing the hereditary structure of the Legislative Yuan, the tensions between Mainlanders and native Taiwanese, indigenous language rights, and the absurd logic of free speech under martial law. The tone was not radical, but every sentence pointed directly to the blind spots of the regime. These writings weren’t meant to insult or incite—but to remind: the people of this island have the right to know the truth, and the right to change it.

His hands trembled as he turned the pages—not from excitement, but fear. The magazine was illegal; simply possessing it could lead to charges of holding prohibited political material, with severe penalties. He wasn’t sure if someone was watching him. But he couldn’t put it down—didn’t want to. Because he knew this magazine said what many longed to say but couldn’t.

In that era, a magazine wasn’t just a collection of words—it was a quiet political act. Silent, yet powerful. It bypassed the press ban, slipped through censorship, and was passed hand to hand in basements, schools, alleys, and markets. It was like a love letter without an address—or a stone tossed into the still surface of a closed society, sending ripples beneath.

This is how the underground voice began.
When the media could not speak, the people printed their own. It wasn’t a slogan—it was history.

2. The Voice from Beneath: How the Opposition Sought Space Beyond State Media

Taiwan in the 1970s was clean and orderly. The streets were tidy, the news broadcasts tightly choreographed. But behind that façade, the true public space was sealed shut. When the legislature couldn’t be reelected, when newspapers belonged to the ruling party, and when textbooks labeled all dissent as “social instability,” people realized they were trapped in a prison of visible and invisible censorship.

The party ban remained, the press ban unrelenting. Anyone wanting to engage in political discourse or social reform was labeled a “Tangwai”—outside the party. They weren’t formal opposition members, because there was no legal opposition. They could only run as independents in legislative or provincial elections. No party name. No fundraising. No political platform. No public forums.

But the more voices were forbidden, the more they longed to speak.

Thus emerged a culture of underground expression—quiet but persistent, small but spreading. It was not a violent revolution, but a micro-rebellion made of paper, ink, and staples.

Among Tangwai activists and supporters, dozens of unofficial publications began to take form. Some, like Summer Tide, explored youth thought and independence. Others, like The Eighties, envisioned Taiwan’s future. Titles like Taiwan Political Review or Deep Cultivation dug into identity and historical trauma. These magazines had no registration, no formal office—just rented flats or church basements. But they existed. They were read. They were shared.

Their content was rich—opinion columns, essays, interviews. Field reports, legal critiques, and local political commentary. They filled in the blanks mainstream media left behind—stories of farmers’ hardship, workers’ strikes, Indigenous protests, women’s oppression. These weren’t just news reports—they were public dialogues with the future.

Most importantly, they created a space to think in their own language. These articles abandoned the propaganda-laden vocabulary of the KMT. They developed a new political grammar—a writing that started from we.

This marked the first time in Taiwan’s history when an “alternative public sphere” emerged: a community of thought that wasn’t officially acknowledged but was undeniably real. In a time with no platforms, they built their own. In a time with no media, they made their own.

They believed: a magazine could be a political space.

Printing was clandestine. Mimeographs hidden in homes. Layout done by volunteers. Cover designs completed late at night by teachers, students, artists. Distribution was by word of mouth—at campaign rallies, after church services, through bookstores under the table. These magazines never hit the newsstands like Central Daily News, but they made it to factory breakrooms, into students’ backpacks, into kitchens where mothers stirred rice.

They spoke in another language—a language that flowed beneath the surface but would not be contained forever.

3. Formosa Magazine: A Systematic Experiment in Media Resistance

If the underground publications of the 1970s were scattered sparks in the darkness, then Formosa Magazine was the first bold attempt to ignite the entire night sky.

It wasn’t the first Tangwai (non-KMT) publication, but it was the first to systematically combine media and political mobilization in a coordinated experiment. From the moment it was born, it was destined to face the storm.

Founded Under Pressure, Born in a Time When One Couldn’t Speak

On August 16, 1979, Formosa Magazine was officially launched. Its publisher was Huang Hsin-chieh; the editor-in-chief, Shih Ming-teh. The editorial team included prominent Tangwai figures such as Annette Lu, Lin Yi-hsiung, Chang Chun-hung, and Yao Chia-wen. Among them were expelled legislators, returned dissident scholars, former political prisoners, and young activists recently home from overseas. They had no political party, no media resources—only one conviction: if this island still couldn’t speak freely, they would create their own voice.

The magazine was named after “Formosa,” Taiwan’s poetic moniker. It was both a call to the land and a vision for a society yet to be realized. Its inaugural issue declared:

“Taiwan is a beautiful island, but she needs more sunlight, more air, and more words.”

This wasn’t poetry—it was a political declaration. Because in those days, “air” and “words” were not rights taken for granted—they had to be reclaimed from bans and punishments.

Unlike earlier Tangwai publications that focused on commentary or opposition, Formosa Magazine was structured and systematic in its claims. Each issue had regular sections: “Legislative Reviews,” “Provincial Politics,” “Social Issues,” “Taiwanese Culture,” “Human Rights Reports,” “Tangwai Figures,” and “Indigenous Voices.” It was more than a magazine—it was a parliament on paper, a grassroots court, and a newsroom of the people.

Most striking were its sustained calls for political transparency and constitutional reform. It exposed nepotism among KMT elites, the opacity of military budgets, the vote-buying culture of local elections, and began exploring the idea of self-determination for Taiwanese people. These pieces were calm in tone, thoroughly documented—not easily dismissed as “incitement.”

More importantly, Formosa Magazine was a hub for movement networks. It wasn’t written for journalists—it was written for workers, students, local candidates, and community mothers—those rarely seen in the official news. After each issue, volunteers distributed copies at campaign events and through churches. Circulation jumped from a few thousand to tens of thousands. It became the informational spine of the Tangwai movement.

A Shared Awakening: When People Finally Saw Each Other

Before that, many thought they were alone.

A worker injured on the job had nowhere to complain. A teacher with doubts about the curriculum dared not speak. A young person questioned the “Three Principles of the People” but had no one to hear him out. Then, through an article in Formosa Magazine, they saw their experiences, their language—even their anger. Only then did they realize: it wasn’t that they were too sensitive. It was that society was too silent.

This feeling of being seen was the most precious awakening of that time. It turned isolated individuals into communities. It gave the voiceless a voice. It made the hopeless think—perhaps things can change.

Naturally, the government couldn’t sit idly by. From the moment the magazine launched, state security began tight surveillance. Reporters were followed, printers infiltrated, bookstores pressured, volunteers’ homes raided.

But the editors had anticipated this. They knew publishing this magazine was a gamble that could lead to prison. Still, they chose to move forward. They believed that without risk, speech could never be real.

No one expected that only four months later, a political earthquake would shake Taiwan—and its prelude would be written in the pages of this magazine.

4. The Formosa Incident: When Print Met the Streets, and Words Became Action

December 10, 1979 – International Human Rights Day.

The air in Kaohsiung was unusually heavy. Police had deployed en masse downtown. Plainclothes officers mingled in the crowd. Before 5 p.m., people began to gather in front of the City Council on Zhongshan Road—some wearing T-shirts, others donning yellow ribbons for “Tangwai Candidates.” Some held hand-painted signs that read: “We Want Freedom”, “End Martial Law”, “Support Free Speech.”

This protest had been organized by the Formosa Magazine editorial team. It wasn’t just a Human Rights Day event—it was a political demonstration putting the magazine’s calls for reform into action. As Shih Ming-teh declared:

“We can’t just write—we must take to the streets so they hear our voice.”

This was not a spontaneous protest. It was a calculated, collective demonstration—not by lone individuals, but by an editorial board, a shared political vision. It was not just a social movement—it was political mobilization in print form. The ideas first written on paper were now chanted in the streets. The values they had published were now embodied by people.

From hundreds, the crowd swelled to thousands. Chants echoed through Kaohsiung. These were not rioters—they were organized, purposeful. Some even held Formosa Magazine in hand, reading aloud passages on “the right to participate in government.” In that moment, words and voice became one. Democracy was no longer just a concept—it was a lived, collective act.

But the peaceful march quickly turned into the beginning of state crackdown.

That evening, the police forcefully dispersed the crowd under charges of “illegal assembly” and “inciting violence.” Tear gas filled Zhongshan Road. Physical clashes erupted. The next day, Central Daily News ran headlines calling it a “Mob Riot” and blamed Shih Ming-teh and the editorial team entirely.

Within days, nearly all major editors and Tangwai leaders were arrested—Annette Lu, Lin Yi-hsiung, Yao Chia-wen, Chang Chun-hung, Chen Chu… everyone who had written, organized, or spoken for the magazine was named. Shih Ming-teh went into hiding for several days before being captured in a temple.

The magazine office was shut down. All documents were seized. Printing presses were moved to the Garrison Command’s evidence room. Even ink became trial evidence.

This was a counterattack against ideas—not a suppression of a riot, but a war against the thoughts that made protest possible.

For many, this was the first time they realized: this regime wouldn’t just arrest people—it would arrest everyone who dared speak the truth.

The Formosa Incident wasn’t just a purge of media workers. It was a public trial of conscience. While Lin Yi-hsiung was detained, his Taipei home was the site of the horrific “Lin Family Massacre”—his mother and two young daughters murdered. The perpetrator remains unknown, but most saw it as politically motivated retaliation.

After the incident, Taiwan fell into a chilling silence. But beneath the surface, something was shifting. International media began reporting on the arrests. Taiwanese citizens began questioning: could this regime truly ensure lasting stability?

Formosa Magazine never published again. But it left more than eight issues behind—it left an entire generation awakened. One young reader recalled years later:

“I didn’t know if they were right. But I knew they weren’t crazy. They were just saying what we all wanted to say.”

5. Underground Media as a Tool for Social Mobilization: Taiwan’s First Democratic Information Network

When the state monopolizes all speech, the very act of speaking becomes an act of defiance. And when people begin to raise their voices together, that becomes the beginning of a movement. The rise of Tangwai magazines was not just a breakthrough in publishing—it was the formation of an information network, a genuine grassroots experiment in public life.

During the 1970s and 1980s, Taiwan’s underground media formed a decentralized system of communication—without a central node, without financial backing. There were no fixed publishing schedules, no steady advertising revenue. And yet, its vitality far surpassed what any official media outlet could have predicted.

To bring a magazine from manuscript to publication required a dozen people and dozens of steps—typesetting, proofreading, mimeographing, binding, packaging, distributing. Each link in the chain risked exposure. Volunteers broke things down into parts, stuffing hundreds of copies into boxes or backpacks, delivering them by motorcycle or train to Taichung, Tainan, Kaohsiung, Hualien, and beyond.

Receivers knew the unspoken rules:
Don’t read the official newspapers—read this instead.
Don’t pass it during the day—wait until nightfall.
If questioned by the party office the next day, say: I don’t know who gave it to me.

This was a silent solidarity. No one directed it, but everyone understood: this piece of paper was one of the few things on the island that could still be trusted.

Underground publications were not just carriers of text and thought—they fostered a culture of civic self-education and grassroots organization.

Each issue was like a handwritten lesson plan. It taught readers about the legal system, explained government budgets, analyzed electoral fraud. It revealed why Indigenous children couldn’t learn in their native languages, why laborers lacked overtime pay, why women were excluded from politics. Behind every issue lay not just information, but an invitation: You are not a spectator. You are part of this society.

Many core leaders of the Tangwai movement got their start reading and writing for these magazines. They learned how to organize distributions, engage in dialogue, craft political platforms, critique policy. They weren’t trained in party schools—they emerged from the side of printing presses, born as citizens.

In an era when mainstream media failed and the legislature was a hollow shell, Tangwai magazines and their readers gradually built an alternative public sphere.

This wasn’t a café intellectual salon, nor the lofty debates of op-ed columns. It took place at night market corners, in rural schools, in church meeting rooms and union breakrooms—spaces never meant for politics, where politics began to take root as lived experience.

These discussions were often fragmented and scattered. But it was precisely this organic, underground growth that enabled the Tangwai movement to evolve, by the late 1980s, into a sweeping, popular wave of democratic reform.

In those years, “media” was no longer just an industry label—it became a line dividing state and society.

The state’s media had printing presses, news bureaus, press releases, cameras.
But the people’s media had pain, connection, and momentum.

The state’s media wrote for the system.
The people’s media wrote for each other.
The former preserved stability.
The latter forged recognition.

And it was these fragments of media—scattered, editor-less—that stitched together the grassroots foundation of Taiwan’s democratization. Not a trumpet for revolution, but the daily rhythm of resistance. Not a leader’s spotlight—but an entire society, quietly preparing to speak.

6. Conclusion: The Power of Paper

The voice of history doesn’t always come from stone walls, military orders, or broadcasts. Sometimes, it comes from the trembling of a single sheet of paper—from a passage secretly copied, a magazine never sold in bookstores but passed from hand to hand.

In the Taiwan of the 1970s and 1980s, under authoritarian rule and a gagged press, underground media became a desperate posture of resistance. It wasn’t a branch of the media industry—it was a crack in the social will. Not publication, but protest. Not documentation, but action.

It was an era when information had to hide, and speech had to find detours. And because of that, every page carried a kind of wager. Printing too loudly could lead to arrest. A typo could mean jail time. Even one’s family might suffer. Yet still, someone chose to write. Someone chose to print. Someone chose to read. That choice, in itself, was already an act of courage.

Today, we are accustomed to media pluralism, the noise of social platforms. We critique the press for bias, superficiality, chasing clicks. These criticisms are valid—but do we still remember there was a time when the problem wasn’t poor journalism, but no journalism?
When the problem wasn’t shallowness, but non-existence?
We had no freedom to choose the news—only the obligation to believe the state.

Now, press freedom may seem like a “normal” right. But if we forget how it was once stripped away, it becomes fragile again. The greatest enemy of freedom is not external censorship—it is internal forgetting.

Formosa Magazine didn’t change the world. It didn’t topple the regime. But it left behind a vision: that the people could write their own history; that no authorization was needed to express hope. It proved that media is more than a tool for transmission—it is a vehicle for reflection, connection, and action.

Underground magazines linked not just readers, but a shared longing for justice and dignity. They made text not merely text, but a signal flare—a way for the people to recognize one another.

Today, we no longer need to pass magazines in the dark, nor fear that a sentence could lead to arrest. But in this age of information overload, disinformation, and emotional polarization—do we still remember the essence of media?

It is not to entertain. Not merely to accompany. It is to remind us—what kind of conscience and direction this society should have.

If a free press is the heart of democracy, then the era of underground publishing was its earliest heartbeat. Faint. Painful. But alive.

It reminds us:
Freedom of the press was never a given.
It must be defended and renewed—generation by generation.

This article is not written to mourn the end of eight issues. It is written so that we may each ask ourselves:

In this moment, are we still willing to defend the power of paper?
And if one day we can no longer speak—will we still write that first word?

III. When Censorship Ends, How Does Freedom Begin?

1. When the Door Opens, Light Doesn’t Rush In

Afternoon, July 15, 1987.

Inside an aging newsroom on Ren’ai Road, Taipei, reporter Mr. Wu sat at his desk editing a story about rising prices. The air was humid, the air conditioner sputtering. The calendar on the wall fluttered slightly in the breeze. On today’s date, he noticed a handwritten note: Martial Law Lifted.

He froze for a moment, glancing at the black-and-white TV in the corner. The news broadcast announced: the Executive Yuan had formally declared an end to Taiwan’s nationwide martial law, which had been in place since 1949. The anchor spoke calmly, but Mr. Wu’s heart began to race. He put down his red pen and turned to the window. The sunlight looked the same, but something imperceptible had shifted.

This was the end of 38 years of martial law in Taiwan.

Until that point, the media had been silent—not voiceless, but hollow. A scripted language, a paradigm where deviation was forbidden. Reporters weren’t meant to question, only to trim. Editors didn’t expose—they filtered.

Mr. Wu remembered his first article, over a decade ago, about a factory strike. He wrote that workers were protesting “long hours and low wages,” but his editor had him remove “low wages,” replacing it with “uncoordinated labor relations.” He understood why—and understood that some words, no matter how visible, couldn’t be written.

And now, the door seemed open.
But would the light rush in?

In historical hindsight, “lifting martial law” is often seen as a clean break—a decree repealed, repression ended, and freedom begins.
But reality is more complex.

For frontline journalists, there was no triumphant cheer that day. More often, there was a weightless uncertainty—the familiar rules no longer applied, and new ones hadn’t arrived.

Freedom had come, but it came without instructions.

That evening, the editor-in-chief told the editorial team, “From today on, maybe we can tell a bit more truth.”
No one clapped. No one smiled.
Everyone understood: whether light comes in still depends—on whether the walls remain.

Ending martial law was a legal change. But starting press freedom would be a long journey of trial, error, and self-reinvention. It wasn’t just about abolishing censors—it meant rethinking:
What is journalism?
What is our responsibility as reporters?
Now that we can speak freely—how should we speak responsibly?

This article begins from that moment in history, looking back at a transition when freedom was unfamiliar, and truth still a stranger—when news slowly relearned how to speak, moving from propaganda to questions, from command to voice.

2. From Decree to Rule of Law: The First Thaw in News Institutions

In 1988, The Independence Evening Post was launched. It was not licensed by the government, nor a branch of the KMT media apparatus—it was a privately funded paper created by journalists themselves. Its debut shocked the nation. Some called it “the underground press finally surfacing.”

Previously, Taiwan’s print media was controlled by a handful of powerful entities: the KMT’s Central Daily News, the business-aligned United Daily News, and the elite-run China Times. Their positions varied, but their logic was the same—coexist with the regime, co-create its narrative.

After martial law was lifted in 1987, that structure began to loosen. Journalism was no longer a decorative element of rule, but a way for society to rediscover itself. Yet this shift was anything but smooth. It was more like thawing frozen earth—muddy, chaotic, directionless.

In 1988, the government formally ended the newspaper ban. Until then, news control relied on a tight regulatory framework: newspapers needed licenses from the Government Information Office; paper imports were restricted; content had to meet “publishing standards,” with violations punished by license revocation.

With the end of the ban, these systems collapsed overnight.

For over 30 years, only 31 newspapers had legal status in Taiwan. Within three years, that number exploded to over 300. Small publishers mushroomed—some earnest, others peddling sensationalism and gossip. Suddenly, society entered what many called the “newspaper explosion” era.

Freed from repression, news now fell into disarray.

It was an exciting, yet confusing time. Journalists could report freely—but had no idea where the new lines were. Editors could publish once-banned phrases—but struggled to separate truth from rumor. The public was overwhelmed with unprecedented information—but began to ask: Which news can I trust? Which headlines are just manipulation dressed as journalism?

Press freedom quickly became a national consensus—but the absence of legal norms and ethical guidelines left a vacuum. Some media drifted toward entertainment, sensationalism, and political spectacle. Tabloid culture thrived. Celebrity gossip, scandals, and political intrigue became bestsellers. Media outlets competed—not over accuracy, but over speed, visibility, and outrage.

The government tried to intervene—but its old authority had vanished. The Government Information Office, once a symbol of martial law, now found itself in an identity crisis: it could no longer censor, yet hadn’t found its new role.

Freedom increased. But so did public confusion: Is this press freedom—or press chaos?

For many journalists, it was an era of mistakes. They could now ask the questions they once couldn’t—but didn’t know how. They could write more truth—but learned their audiences often preferred the sensational.

Press freedom wasn’t an automatic order after censorship ended—it was a collective learning curve involving society, law, professionalism, and values.

That’s why, even as the media environment broke through decades of restrictions, it exposed how unready the system—and the people—were. The end of press bans was cause for celebration—but also a reminder: freedom is not achieved by repealing a command. It must be sustained by legal guarantees, ethical education, and civic awareness.

3. The Legal Path Forward: How Press Freedom Was Written into Law

After the end of martial law and the press ban, freedom of the press was no longer a dream—it became a tangible part of daily life. But with the gates of speech suddenly flung open, new dilemmas arose:
Is freedom without limits still freedom?

Post-1987, Taiwan entered a “speech release period.” But law and governance lagged behind reality. The Government Information Office had lost its grip, but society hadn’t yet learned to self-regulate. A central question surfaced: What safeguards press freedom?

From Punishment to Protection: Reforming the Publications and Broadcasting Laws

The Publications Act, once a tool for censorship, was the first target. Previously, the government could revoke licenses, pull books from shelves, ban printing—especially during the White Terror. In a new era, such powers clashed with the principle of a free press.

In 1999, under growing civil pressure, the Publications Act was repealed. It was replaced by the Freedom of Publication Act and related administrative regulations—enshrining basic publishing rights and content diversity. This wasn’t just a change in statutes, but a shift in values: the state was no longer the gatekeeper of knowledge—it became the guarantor of protections.

Television and Broadcasting: Opening the Airwaves

Before the 1980s, Taiwan had only three TV stations (TTV, CTV, CTS)—all state-controlled. It wasn’t until the 1993 revision of the Broadcast and Television Act that private citizens could legally establish TV stations. New networks like TVBS, Era News, and ETTV emerged, signaling a new phase of professional journalism and market freedom.

But new systems didn’t equal stability. Licensing controversies, content disputes, and political influence remained common. The fundamental question emerged: If media becomes a tool of capital, can press freedom remain free from power?

The Transformation—and Ambiguity—of the Government Information Office

The Government Information Office, once the gatekeeper of censorship, now entered a period of restructuring. It no longer issued licenses or censored content, yet still managed media policies, subsidies, and international exchanges. Like a castle without a sword—it retained form, but lost force.

Debates followed. Some called for its complete abolition in favor of media autonomy. Others proposed a neutral press council to fill the gap between law and self-regulation. In 2006, the GIO was officially disbanded, with duties transferred to the Ministry of Culture and the National Communications Commission (NCC)—an independent regulatory body.

But challenges remain:
Can the NCC maintain independence?
Can it resist political interference across administrations?
How do we regulate fake news and manipulation?

Taiwan began learning to use law to protect freedom—and to question freedom. During this institutionalization, press freedom became constitutionalized—a core civil right. News became not just the domain of journalists, but the foundation of every citizen’s rights.

At the same time, public discourse around press freedom deepened:
Should freedom have limits?
Can the media criticize government without evidence?
Can it scrutinize power without invading privacy?

Misinformation, clickbait, media corruption—these trends have led many to wonder: Is this really the press freedom we fought for?

Legal reforms haven’t ended the debate—they’ve simply moved it to a more civilized arena.

Press freedom has left censorship and fear—only to enter multiplicity and complexity.
And perhaps that is its true sign of maturity: not the absence of controversy, but the capacity to endure it, and to move forward through it.

4. Ballots and Broadcasts: How Electoral Politics Reshaped the Media

In 1992, Taiwan held its first full legislative election. By 1996, the country conducted its first direct presidential vote. These were not only political milestones—they also marked a fundamental transformation of the island’s media landscape. From then on, the media no longer merely reported politics; it actively shaped and participated in it.

Before democratization, election coverage was heavily restricted—basic candidate profiles, state-approved platforms, and vote results. Once universal suffrage became reality, the media evolved: it became the eyes of the voters and the megaphone of the candidates.

During the 1992 elections, Taiwan saw its first wave of nationwide, multi-channel election coverage. Newspapers and TV produced candidate comparison charts, poll analysis, and issue briefings. Election information became a marketable commodity.

By 1996, the phenomenon reached its peak. Media followed candidates’ daily schedules, aired live debates, and broadcast campaign ads. Elections turned into national spectacles—and the media, into the main stage.

A new media role emerged: kingmaker. News outlets no longer simply recorded who won—they helped determine who could win. Candidates fought for exposure; headlines became tools of influence. Newsrooms were no longer neutral observers—they became players in the political arena.

This shift initially empowered citizens. Voters gained access to issues, candidates, and public dialogue. But soon, cracks appeared.

As ratings and clicks became dominant metrics, journalism lost its distance. Many outlets openly endorsed or opposed candidates. Post-election, media-political exchanges of influence became commonplace.

The term “media partisanship” entered Taiwan’s political lexicon. Newspapers allied with parties; television channels were steered by political capital. Anchors became pundits. The line between reporting and propaganda blurred.

In a free press environment, politics didn’t disappear from news—it penetrated it more deeply. Where the government once censored media, now media selectively amplified politics. Journalism no longer simply revealed the truth—it could shape it.

5. The Pains of Freedom: Ethics and Self-Regulation in Journalism

Press freedom doesn’t arrive with clarity—it often brings chaos.

In the late 1980s and 1990s, Taiwan’s media was like a train derailed from censorship—fast-moving but directionless. Sensational headlines, celebrity gossip, car crashes, and political feuds dominated coverage. Emotional manipulation became a ratings strategy.

Journalists, freed from censors, faced new threats: capital pressure, market temptation, political infiltration. Editorial choices shifted from importance to impact—from informing the public to attracting attention.

In this climate, journalistic credibility suffered. The term “reporter” began to lose public trust. People questioned whether media still spoke the truth—or simply echoed powerful interests.

This prompted internal calls for reform.

In 1993, veteran journalists and scholars founded the Taiwan Journalists Association, emphasizing five ethical pillars: truth, justice, independence, respect, and responsibility. Though non-binding, the guidelines helped re-anchor professional identity.

By 1999, a media review council was established to accept public complaints and provide recommendations. Though its rulings lacked legal force, it represented a turning point: the media began to see itself as accountable.

Gradually, more outlets developed ethical codes, complaint systems, and training programs. Though uneven, this marked the emergence of a previously absent concept in authoritarian Taiwan: media ethics.

“We can speak the truth—but will we?”
This question haunted the industry.

During martial law, truth-telling was a risk. After liberalization, it became a choice. But when truth costs readership or ad revenue—will media still choose it?

Freedom is not an endpoint—it’s a starting point. The question is not can we speak, but how we speak.

6. Conclusion: From Silenced to Speaking—The Ongoing Lesson of Freedom

In the White Terror era, the media’s defining feature was: you couldn’t speak.
After martial law, the temptation became: you could say anything.
Today, the challenge is: how should we speak?

Taiwan’s media journey isn’t a linear path from repression to openness. It’s a long, winding learning curve—from censorship to chaos, from freedom to commercial pressure, from democratic hope to partisan distortion.

Taiwan now enjoys one of the freest press environments in the world. But we’ve learned: freedom without ethics or structure can lead to noise and fragmentation.

Freedom of information is both a right and a responsibility.
Media can amplify justice—or incite fear and hatred.
We value freedom more after we’ve lost it. We respect its boundaries after we’ve tested them.

Journalism isn’t just about delivering information—it’s about making value choices. A report doesn’t just reveal an event—it tells society what matters. A news line isn’t just a fact—it’s part of the narrative of who we are.

So we must ask:

Now that we can speak freely—what will we say?
Will it be accusation, labeling, and noise?
Or listening, dialogue, and repair?

In today’s environment, the question is no longer can the media tell the truth,
but will it accept the cost of telling the truth—of prioritizing public interest over profit?

This is Taiwan’s next media challenge.
And it’s a lesson shared by every democracy.

On this island—once silenced, once bloodstained, once sparked by underground whispers—we must remember:

Freedom is hard-won. To keep it, law is not enough. We need memory, ethics, and courage.

IV. Media and Democracy: From Public Service to Market Arena

When news becomes a product, what can we still trust?

1. When Power Shifts, So Does the Newsroom

On the night of March 18, 2000, Taiwan witnessed a historic moment: for the first time, the opposition party—Democratic Progressive Party (DPP)—won the presidency. As the announcement flashed across TV screens, the mood in many newsrooms shifted from routine to unease. At one station, a veteran anchor removed her earpiece, paused, then calmly announced, “Taiwan’s first peaceful transfer of power…”

But behind the composed tone was tension. For decades, Taiwan’s major media had existed in a tacit alliance with the ruling Kuomintang (KMT). News followed an unwritten code: what to ask, what to omit, how to frame power.

That night disrupted it all.

The political shift was not just institutional—it redefined the media’s role. No longer simply an extension of the state, journalists were forced to ask: Who do we serve now?
Are we neutral observers—or political instruments? Should we confront the past—or adapt to new powers?

The answer splintered. Some outlets aligned with the new ruling party. Others turned into fierce opposition voices. Still others realized: sensationalism, emotion, and conflict captured attention more reliably than policy debates.

Media ceased to be guardians of truth. They became battlegrounds for narratives, agents of perception. What was once the Fourth Estate began mutating into something more fragmented—and less accountable.

2. The Post-2000 Media Landscape: The End of Neutrality

After democratization, Taiwan’s media entered an era of open partisanship. Once symbiotic with the KMT, many outlets now struggled to redefine their identities. Political alignment became market strategy: to maintain audiences, media had to take sides.

Thus emerged Taiwan’s era of “colored media.”
News channels adopted explicit political tones. Headlines, guests, and coverage styles reflected distinct ideological leanings. Some outlets pledged to “defend Blue values”; others vowed to “watch the KMT’s comeback.”

Viewers, too, began choosing news based on identity rather than information. Journalism became echo chamber. Talk shows replaced reporting. Debate gave way to brawls.

Politicians learned to harness this spectacle—not through policy, but performance. Media, in turn, used politicians as content, mining missteps and scandals for engagement. The relationship grew symbiotic—and corrosive.

This was not journalism in decline—it was journalism transformed into political theater.

Under the banner of press freedom, the media’s function shifted from scrutiny to amplification of division. The media no longer mediated between state and citizen—it became the arena for partisan combat.
Reporters weren’t truth-seekers. They were opinion enforcers.

Instead of fostering democratic maturity, the media embraced mobilization and polarization—exacerbating social fractures rather than bridging them.

3. The Apple Daily Effect: Exposure or Exploitation?

In 2003, Apple Daily entered Taiwan. Critics called it vulgar, tabloid-like. But soon, other papers began mimicking its design—larger fonts, punchier headlines, more graphic imagery.

Apple Daily, part of Jimmy Lai’s Next Media, wasn’t just a newspaper—it was news as spectacle. Its philosophy:
Newsworthiness isn’t based on public interest—but on public attention.
Verification can wait—speed and shock come first.

Its visual-heavy, emotion-driven style redefined Taiwanese journalism. Every article became a performance, every front page a punch. From political scandals to celebrity gossip to bureaucratic failures, Apple knew how to make it impossible to look away.

To many, it was refreshing. It ignored elites, defied government spin, and exposed corruption—from black gold politics to tax fraud. It gave voice to the marginalized and spotlighted injustices often ignored.

But it also blurred ethical lines.

Surveillance, ambush interviews, speculative reporting—Apple frequently crossed into privacy violations and public shaming. In some cases, it created news events in pursuit of exclusivity.

The question arose:
Does press freedom justify any means?
Can media serve justice while bypassing due process?

Apple Daily saw itself as society’s conscience—a public prosecutor of the powerful. But its unchecked aggression often resembled trial by media.

It taught Taiwan’s media one lesson: truth isn’t the goal—attention is.
And that belief still echoes through newsrooms today.

Apple sparked a media revolution—and an ethical unraveling. It empowered the masses but eroded trust. It shattered norms and built new expectations. And after it, Taiwan’s journalism would never be the same.

4. Press Freedom Meets Market Competition: The Blind Spot of Democracy

Press freedom is a pillar of democracy—but without ethical and institutional support, it can be distorted by market forces. In Taiwan, after lifting the press ban and undergoing party alternation, the media became one of the freest in Asia. But soon, freedom turned into a battleground of commercialization and politicization.

As news became a product, clicks replaced content. Journalism, once a public service, became a competition for attention. Headlines grew more exaggerated, images more provocative, and substance thinner.

We saw:

• Important legislation buried beneath celebrity gossip.
• Public policy reduced to political scorekeeping.
• Reporters chasing exclusives, not truth.
• Fake news and content farms flooding social media with no effective response.

This wasn’t media failing—it was media adapting to survival in a hostile market. Journalists were forced into the role of content laborers, judged by speed and metrics, not depth or accuracy. Ethical journalism became a luxury few could afford.

Freedom of the press does not automatically guarantee a democratic society.
In Taiwan, the media can criticize, but also incite. It can expose corruption, or promote plutocrats. It can inform—or mislead. When public discourse is ruled by volume and emotional extremes, democracy is hollowed from within.

We must ask:
Is the media still a public space—or has it become another arm of power?

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5. Ethics Under Pressure: The Gap Between Classrooms and Newsrooms

In theory, journalism serves truth and the public. In practice, many young reporters quickly learn: “Get the scoop first—ethics can wait.”

Taiwan has strong journalism education. Universities teach ethics, fact-checking, and balance. But once graduates enter newsrooms, ideals often collapse under speed, quotas, and commercial demands.

Ethics become optional. Editors say: “Audiences want feelings, not fairness.”
New reporters are told: “Don’t be too idealistic—or you won’t last.”

Structural problems worsen the gap. Taiwan lacks binding ethical enforcement. Press councils offer only symbolic judgments. Most outlets have no clear complaints mechanisms. Even when they do, they are rarely effective.

Low pay, long hours, and KPI pressures turn ethics into an obstacle. When performance is judged by clicks—not truth—journalists are forced to compromise. Their failure isn’t personal—it’s systemic.

We’ve gained the freedom to speak, but not the capacity to listen.
We have rights, but not the structures to support responsibility.

Journalistic ethics must be more than individual conscience. It must be institutionalized, supported, and protected.
Right now, journalists feel alone. Media outlets are fragmented. And audiences, too, often prefer outrage to quality.

This makes ethics the most overlooked—yet most urgent—foundation of media freedom.

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6. Conclusion: Are Media and Democracy Allies—or Mirrors?

Media and democracy are not just partners. They are mirrors—each reflecting the other’s integrity and flaws.

We often say that press freedom is essential to democracy. But that freedom raises deeper questions:
What should media do with that freedom? Can it remain independent? Can it remain accountable?

Since 2000, Taiwan’s media environment has flourished in openness. News is fast, loud, and influential. But beneath this freedom lies imbalance, ethical erosion, and growing division.

This isn’t a critique of freedom—but a call to measure its weight.
Freedom is a test—not a prize. Can our media carry that responsibility? Can society sustain a trustworthy press?

News is more than “what’s said.” It’s how it’s said—and why.

When clicks matter more than facts, when journalists write for algorithms, when audiences seek only confirmation—then press freedom risks becoming an empty shell, or even a new form of control.

Taiwan has gone from an era of silence to an era of noise. But democracy needs more than volume—it needs values.
It needs not just the right to speak, but the ability to listen.

So the question remains:

Can the media still help us become better citizens?

If the answer is yes, then we must protect it, improve it, and demand more from it—not for the sake of news itself, but for the society that still believes truth matters.

V. In the Age of Information Warfare: How Should Democracies Defend Freedom of Speech?

1. News Can Be Free—and Also a Weapon

At 7 a.m. in Taipei, Mr. Chang opens his usual morning newspaper. A retired civil servant, he’s read the same paper for decades. The headlines scream: “Government Mismanagement Wrecks Economy”, “U.S. Stirs Tensions Across Taiwan Strait”, “The 1992 Consensus Is the Only Path to Peace.” He nods, believing what he reads.

What he doesn’t realize is that the newspaper he’s trusted for twenty years has quietly changed—its ownership, tone, and values subtly shifted. The headlines are no longer just reporting the news. They’ve become part of a larger strategy—an ideological occupation wrapped in the language of press freedom.

Taiwan has fought hard for its freedom of speech. Having experienced martial law and press bans, the island deeply values media independence. Any hint of censorship sparks immediate public backlash.

But this openness also creates vulnerabilities.
China’s united front strategy against Taiwan isn’t just about missiles and trade—it’s about narrative control. Unable to command media directly in a democracy, China uses capital, cultural affinity, and influence to infiltrate from within. It’s not through overt orders, but through joint ventures, content partnerships, and advertising deals. The result is a quiet erosion of Taiwan’s information sovereignty.

In this age of information warfare, journalism must be more than just free—it must be vigilant.

2. Red Capital, Quiet Influence

In 2008, a producer at CTi News told staff, “We want to build a new voice for cross-strait harmony.” It sounded benign. But for veteran journalists, it meant something had changed: certain issues were now off-limits.

China’s influence in Taiwan’s media didn’t arrive with fanfare. It came subtly—through corporate takeovers, content licensing, and soft narratives promoting “peaceful unification” and “shared heritage.”

Common tactics included:

• Investment via Hong Kong fronts tied to Chinese political networks.
• Broadcasting Chinese state content such as CCTV and Phoenix TV.
• Internal editorial guidelines discouraging critical coverage of China, or pushing “harmonizing” terms like “anti-China forces”, “reunification dividends”, or “violent protesters”.

One of the most controversial examples was the Want Want Group’s attempted takeover of a cable network in 2012. Civil society feared a single conglomerate could control half the nation’s cable channels—with indirect Chinese influence. Although the company denied CCP ties, its chairman publicly stated “Nobody died in Tiananmen” and praised China’s press freedoms. These comments ignited public concern.

By 2020, CTi News lost its broadcast license due to repeated violations, marking the first time Taiwan used democratic mechanisms to limit media capture.

The danger isn’t forced control—it’s voluntary submission.
Chinese influence doesn’t need to coerce; it needs only to create dependency. Over time, some outlets began self-censoring negative stories on China, replacing local language with Beijing’s preferred terms. The real question is no longer just “Who owns the media?”—it’s “Is our perception still truly our own?”

3. From “Anti-Red Media” to Detention: Cultural Resistance and Information Sovereignty

On June 23, 2019, tens of thousands gathered in Taipei’s Liberty Square—not to protest wages or rights, but to defend press freedom. Their signs read: “Say No to Red Media”, “Media Is Not a Mouthpiece for Beijing.”

This “Anti-Red Media Rally” was sparked by a viral exposé from a young YouTuber who infiltrated a pro-China news channel. Unlike traditional protests led by political parties, this one was decentralized—driven by students, designers, and content creators. It was a collective outcry against information manipulation.

In a world flooded with misinformation, Taiwan’s younger generation doesn’t just demand truth—they demand the ability to recognize it. They don’t trust media blindly. They ask questions, compare sources, and build their own narratives.

The indie video game Detention (2017) became a cultural turning point. Set during Taiwan’s martial law era, it immersed players in a haunting high school story of censorship, guilt, and disappearance. Its sequel, Devotion (2019), went further—this time tackling religion, repression, and the price of belief. But a hidden Easter egg referencing China’s President Xi Jinping as “Winnie the Pooh” triggered fierce backlash. The game was banned in China, the developer blacklisted, and digital stores forced to remove it.

Despite apologies, Devotion was never reinstated. The incident revealed how fragile “open markets” are when paired with authoritarian censorship.

Meanwhile, the Detention film adaptation brought this historical memory to mainstream audiences. It wasn’t just art—it was an act of cultural resistance. Audiences saw it not only as a story of Taiwan’s past, but as a reflection of China’s present.

In Taiwan’s new wave of cultural production—from TV dramas and podcasts to board games and comics—creators are reasserting narrative sovereignty.
They’re not just telling stories. They’re reclaiming the power to decide what stories matter.

4. The Paradox of Democracy: Should Free Speech Tolerate Hostile Infiltration?

Among all democratic values, freedom of speech is often considered inviolable—not because it protects only “right” speech, but precisely because it allows the wrong, the dissenting, the uncomfortable. But what happens when hostile narratives are not internal dissent, but the weaponized messaging of a regime intent on dismantling democratic norms and replacing national sovereignty?

This is the dilemma Taiwan now faces in the age of China’s cognitive warfare.

Beijing’s strategy is no longer mere “dialogue across the strait.” It is a coordinated system of influence, including:

• Exporting political rhetoric: terms like “peaceful unification” and “external hostile forces” replace local language.
• Funding pro-China media via advertising and subsidies.
• Manipulating social platforms with bots and fake accounts to spread fear and polarization.
• Interfering in elections with targeted disinformation.

These aren’t sporadic tactics—they’re part of a systemic campaign designed to exploit the openness of democratic systems that, by design, cannot retaliate with the same tools.

Taiwan has already grappled with this in the case of CTiTV’s license revocation. Was this censorship, or a defense against disinformation? The decision divided public opinion but spotlighted a critical truth: defending democracy may, at times, require firm action to protect the integrity of the public sphere.

Other democracies face similar challenges. The EU banned RT and Sputnik as “foreign propaganda arms.” The U.S. Senate scrutinized TikTok and WeChat for security threats. Nations like Australia and the Czech Republic established anti-disinformation task forces.

Freedom of speech must be protected—but it cannot be weaponized to destroy the very conditions that make open discourse possible. When certain speech exists solely to silence others, it becomes a form of aggression. Defending democracy, then, is not about suppressing ideas—it’s about safeguarding a space where diverse ideas can exist without being hijacked.

5. Between Institutions and Citizens: Who Guards the Information Frontier?

In recent years, Taiwan has taken legal steps to defend its information space. The 2019 amendments to the National Security Act criminalized receiving instructions or funding from hostile foreign forces to influence elections, lobbying, or political donations—Taiwan’s first legal framework for addressing covert infiltration. Efforts to criminalize malicious disinformation during elections have also gained traction.

But these measures raise difficult questions: How do we distinguish infiltration from dissent? Who defines “falsehood”? Without clear consensus, legal safeguards must be continually refined—and vigilantly monitored by civil society to avoid misuse.

Ultimately, the most vital line of defense is not legal—it is civic.

In Taiwan, media literacy is now part of the national school curriculum. Students learn to identify fake news, track sources, and analyze ownership structures. It’s the first time an entire generation is being trained not just to consume information, but to guard its integrity.

Nonprofit journalism outlets like The Reporter, Cofacts, and Watchout offer alternatives to click-driven coverage—focusing instead on investigations, public interest, and transparency. Though their reach is modest, their impact on civic knowledge is profound.

Citizen initiatives also play a key role: fact-checking collectives, anti-disinformation teams on social media, and digital literacy campaigns have emerged as grassroots efforts to reclaim the information space from hostile manipulation.

Public broadcasters should have led this fight, but Taiwan’s public media has long struggled with budget constraints, political interference, and structural fragility. Despite a legal mandate for editorial independence, changes in government and lack of cultural investment have kept it from fulfilling its democratic role.

A healthy democracy needs media that doesn’t depend on clicks, bow to advertisers, or serve algorithms. But building such a media system requires not only legal design, but public will—a collective commitment to invest in journalism as a public good.

6. Conclusion: Freedom’s Final Line Is Shared Memory

Freedom of speech is not a gift freely given—it is a space carved out through silence, blood, and struggle. During martial law, forbidden speech was suppressed by force. In today’s information war, truth is drowned not by censorship, but by noise, distortion, and doubt.

Beijing’s strategy isn’t persuasion—it’s confusion. The goal isn’t to win agreement but to erode trust, destabilize consensus, and make people believe that nothing is true. When language is manipulated, and media is weaponized, the foundation of democratic discourse begins to crumble.

In open societies, the most fragile boundary is trust; the most easily lost, language itself.

But Taiwan has a unique resilience. It stems from collective memory—from those who lived through censorship, and from a new generation determined to remember. From the anti-red-media protests to the cultural reflections in Detention and Devotion, from legal reforms to media literacy programs, from investigative journalism to citizen podcasts, Taiwan is not only resisting but rebuilding.

Because if we don’t speak, others will tell our story. If we don’t remember, history will be rewritten. If we don’t defend our information boundaries, the institutions may remain—but their soul will not.

The front line of democracy is not only in laws or borders. It is in every citizen who chooses to think, to question, to verify, to speak.

The last line of defense for freedom is not in force—it is in memory, and our shared will to protect it. Not as a government duty, but as an act of civic faith—a quiet, powerful resistance from those who still believe that truth matters.

VI. New Media and the People’s Voice: Livestreams, Movements, and the Public Sphere

1. The Night Livestreams Told the Truth

On the night of March 18, 2014, a spring chill lingered over Taipei. But outside the Legislative Yuan, a political storm was quietly erupting. A group of students scaled the walls and occupied the chamber—not with party backing or media coverage, but through livestreams, social media, and grassroots coordination. Within an hour, footage spread rapidly across Facebook, YouTube, and PTT. Shaky phones and laptops became broadcasting tools. That night, the news didn’t break from a newsroom—it flowed straight from the hands of the people.

Mainstream media hesitated. Some TV channels continued airing talk shows, waiting for an “official version.” But the internet had already surged ahead, powered by first-person perspectives, real-time text updates, and emotional momentum. The movement wasn’t just reported—it was self-reported.

For the first time, narrative control didn’t lie with political reporters, but with everyday citizens holding cameras and typing updates. Livestreaming became more than a tool—it was an act of resistance, reclaiming the right to define reality from the ground up.

2. From Sunflower to Livestream Culture

The Sunflower Movement wasn’t only about opposing a trade deal. It reshaped how Taiwanese society engaged with news. When traditional media lagged behind, people turned to social platforms for firsthand visuals and commentary. The passive relationship between audience and broadcaster fractured. People no longer waited to be told the news—they participated in making it.

This marked a shift in media authority. News no longer began with anchors or official statements—it began with whoever had a phone and the courage to hit “go live.” Mainstream media later caught up, but by then, the public had already set the agenda.

This participatory model didn’t fade. It shaped later movements—from anti-air pollution protests in 2018, to marriage equality debates, to grassroots pandemic responses. Political engagement now often begins with a swipe, a post, a stream.

3. A Plural Media Landscape: YouTubers, Podcasts, and Grassroots Speech

Post-Sunflower Taiwan saw the rise of independent media creators. With the spread of YouTube, podcasts, and livestreaming tools, everyday people began taking part in public discourse. No journalism degree required—just a voice, an idea, and a device.

From political satire to social commentary, channels like EyeCTV, Ghost Island Media, Taiwan Bar, and The Reporter diversified the information ecosystem. They translated complex issues into relatable language, engaging younger generations with humor, clarity, and storytelling.

This democratized speech—but also brought new risks. In an algorithm-driven world, sensationalism often trumps substance. Without editorial standards or fact-checking, disinformation and polarization can flourish. Some creators chase clicks over accuracy, feeding division rather than discussion.

Still, this decentralization allowed more voices to be heard than ever before. The challenge is no longer simply “Can we speak?” but “Can we speak well—and responsibly?”

4. Civil Society’s New Role: Complementing, Not Competing With, Traditional Media

In today’s media ecosystem, civil society isn’t just a watchdog but an active participant in shaping public knowledge. During COVID-19, engineers and designers created dashboards, vaccine booking tools, and rumor-busting sites—often more effective than newsrooms. Journalists began collaborating with independent creators, fact-checkers, and open-data platforms to amplify complex stories.

Media is evolving from a one-way pipeline into a collaborative network of professionals and citizens. Public discourse is no longer confined to editorials but shaped through podcasts, visuals, live chats, and cooperative storytelling.

A healthy democracy needs this hybrid space: one that embraces both expertise and grassroots energy, where facts meet feelings, and where both mainstream and marginal voices coexist.

5. Conclusion: Who Gets Heard Defines a Democracy

The real test of free speech isn’t diversity of voices, but which voices are actually heard. In an age of endless livestreams, tweets, and videos, volume often overrides value. The louder, the more visible. The more extreme, the more viral.

But democracy isn’t “everyone gets a microphone.” It’s “even the quietest can be heard.”

Taiwan is still learning what that means. From student livestreamers to podcast educators, from data visualizers to community moderators, a new media ecology is forming—one that prizes participation, discernment, and shared responsibility. In this world, freedom of speech must be matched by the courage to listen.

Because democracy isn’t just the right to speak—it’s the commitment to hear one another.

VII. The Unfinished Path: Media Disorder, Human Rights Blind Spots, and the Future of Freedom

1. When We No Longer Know What to Believe

In the winter of 2023, a message went viral in LINE groups: a child was allegedly nearly kidnapped from a Kaohsiung supermarket. The message included grainy photos and vague details. Two days later, the police debunked the story—it was a misunderstanding involving a family friend. Despite clarification, fear had already spread, and trust had been damaged.

Taiwan ranks high on global press freedom indexes. Yet in this relatively open environment, public trust in the media is alarmingly low—only 28% according to the 2023 Reuters Digital News Report, placing Taiwan near the bottom globally. We live in a society where speech is free, but trust is fractured. Many people now believe forwarded screenshots over verified news reports.

This reveals a paradox: in the post-censorship era, the challenge is no longer speaking truth—it’s being heard and believed. Freedom of speech today doesn’t just mean the absence of suppression; it also demands a collective will to seek truth, invest in complexity, and rebuild shared narratives.

2. The Trap of Click Economy: When Traffic Beats Truth

In Taiwan’s current media ecosystem, click rates often determine a story’s value. Sensational headlines and clickbait content have become common, sacrificing accuracy for attention. For example, celebrity death hoaxes in 2023 drew more engagement than political news—even after being disproven.

Meanwhile, media conglomerates with significant market power limit pluralism. Some outlets with close business ties to China may self-censor or downplay sensitive topics.

To counter this, nonprofit platforms like The Reporter and Mirror Media Investigative Desk continue producing in-depth stories. Fact-checking initiatives like MyGoPen and the Taiwan FactCheck Center also work to combat misinformation. But a long-term solution requires structural reform—stricter media ethics, stronger public media, and improved media literacy across society.

3. Marginalized Voices: When Human Rights Are Out of Frame

Not all voices receive equal airtime. In a media landscape driven by visibility and virality, stories about marginalized communities are often oversimplified or ignored.

LGBTQ+ people, though granted marriage equality in 2019, still face media stereotyping. Transgender individuals are often reduced to sensational narratives, and coverage lacks sustained, informed attention.

Indigenous communities are typically portrayed during festivals or protests but rarely featured in reports on land rights, education, or systemic discrimination. President Tsai’s 2016 apology to Taiwan’s Indigenous peoples received fleeting coverage with little follow-up.

Migrant workers are often framed as either labor risks or security threats. In 2021, a local government banned migrant workers from going out during COVID-19—a discriminatory move met with limited investigative journalism.

Gender violence and caregiving—realities affecting countless women—are similarly underreported. While the #MeToo movement gained visibility through Netflix’s Wave Makers, media often focused on individual scandals rather than systemic patterns.

The Role of Journalism: Reflect or Reshape Reality?

The media is not just a mirror—it shapes what society sees. When coverage reinforces stereotypes or silences vulnerable groups, it actively upholds inequality. Media should not only reflect society but expand who gets to be visible, valued, and heard.

In this age of digital saturation, editorial choices determine whose stories rise and whose fall into silence. True press freedom means ensuring that even the softest voices have a chance to be part of the public conversation.

4. The Test of Freedom: How Can We Escape the Crisis of Failed Journalism?**

In Taiwan, press freedom is not a destination—it is a constant test. Despite a relatively open media landscape, journalism today faces serious threats from disinformation, media monopolies, and the click-driven economy.

For years, Taiwan has been a primary target of foreign disinformation, especially from China. In 2023, Taiwan’s Ministry of National Defense urged media to refrain from sharing unverified stories traced to Chinese sources, warning of the risk of becoming tools in Beijing’s cognitive warfare. Fake news sites impersonating legitimate outlets added to the confusion, undermining public trust.

Media monopolies further restrict diversity of viewpoints. With a few powerful conglomerates dominating the field, editorial independence often gives way to partisan or commercial interests. At the same time, the chase for clicks has led to sensational headlines, shallow content, and a decline in serious public-interest journalism.

In response, civil society and independent journalists are pushing back. Nonprofit newsrooms like The Reporter and Mirror Media’s Investigative Team produce in-depth stories often ignored by mainstream outlets. Fact-checking platforms like the Taiwan FactCheck Center and MyGoPen help debunk viral misinformation. The Ministry of Education has also incorporated media literacy into school curricula to cultivate critical thinking in young people.

Still, the crisis of journalism won’t be solved by regulation alone. It requires a cultural shift—where ethical standards, civic engagement, and institutional support work together to restore journalism’s role as the cornerstone of a functioning democracy.

5. Conclusion | The Context of Freedom: Between Memory, Reality, and the Future**

From the silencing of the White Terror to the noise of the digital age, Taiwan’s media and democratic journey has been shaped by struggle and hope.

From Suppression to Pluralism

Under martial law, media served the state. Figures like Lei Chen and Cheng Nan-jung paid dearly for speaking out. Yet even under repression, underground publications and whispered truths kept the dream of freedom alive.

After the lifting of martial law, legal reforms and democratic milestones led to a media boom. Press freedom flourished. But alongside it came commercialization, political polarization, and the rise of tabloid culture. The ideals of watchdog journalism were increasingly eroded by the logic of entertainment and profit.

Today’s Crisis: A Fragmented Reality

In a world ruled by algorithms, the media no longer controls the flow of information—platforms do. Journalism is caught in a storm of sensationalism, misinformation, and public distrust. Clickbait thrives while fact-based reporting struggles. Some media outlets practice self-censorship to preserve commercial ties, especially with China. Others focus on speed over accuracy, traffic over truth.

Again, civil society responds: independent newsrooms dig deeper, grassroots educators teach media literacy, and volunteers fight misinformation online. But these efforts still face structural challenges—underfunded public media, overworked journalists, and a lack of systemic support for ethical reporting.

Looking Ahead: Building a Culture of Freedom

Media freedom in Taiwan wasn’t given—it was won. But freedom doesn’t guarantee quality. Legal protections must be matched by infrastructure, education, and cultural values that prioritize trust and truth.

This means:

• Strengthening public media with stable funding and editorial independence;
• Embedding media literacy into core education;
• Supporting journalism with grants and fellowships for investigative work;
• Demanding transparency from social platforms and regulating algorithmic bias;
• Creating feedback loops, where citizens can co-produce and critique the news ecosystem.

Above all, we must remember: freedom isn’t about letting the loudest voice dominate. It’s about ensuring that even the smallest voice can be heard.

In the next decade, may Taiwan not only top the global press freedom rankings but truly embody the spirit of a free, inclusive, and responsible media culture—where journalism once again becomes the steady heartbeat of democracy.