From Opposition to Power: Taiwan's Democratic Progressive Party

FROM OPPOSITION TO POWER

FROM OPPOSITION TO POWER

Taiwan’s Democratic Progressive Party Shelley Rigger

b o u l d e r l o n d o n

To David and Emma

Published in the United States of America in 2001 by Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc. 1800 30th Street, Boulder, Colorado 80301 www.rienner.com and in the United Kingdom by Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc. 3 Henrietta Street, Covent Garden, London WC2E 8LU © 2001 by Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Rigger, Shelley, 1962– From opposition to power : Taiwan’s Democratic Progressive Party / Shelley Rigger. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 1-55587-969-1 (hc : alk. paper) 1. Min jin dang (China) 2. Taiwan—Politics and government—1945– I. Title. JQ1539.A56 R53 2001 324.25124'906—dc21 00-068840 British Cataloguing in Publication Data A Cataloguing in Publication record for this book is available from the British Library. Printed and bound in the United States of America

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The paper used in this publication meets the requirements of the American National Standard for Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials Z39.48-1984. 5 4 3 2 1

Contents List of Tables and Figures Acknowledgments

vi vii

1 Introduction

1

2 A Brief History of the Democratic Progressive Party

15

3 Roadblocks on the DPP’s Path to Power

37

4 Organization

55

5 Factionalism

71

6 Decisionmaking

91

7 Platform, Policy, and Strategy

119

8 How the Public Views the DPP

155

9 Breakthrough to Power: The March 18, 2000, Presidential Election

173

10 The DPP Enters the Twenty-first Century

205

Appendix: Rising Stars in the Young Generation Selected Bibliography Index About the Book

221 227 228 232

v

Tables and Figures

TABLES 2.1 3.1 8.1 8.2 8.3 8.4 8.5 8.6 8.7 8.8 9.1 9.2

Factional Composition of DPP Leadership Seat Bonuses in Legislative Yuan Elections Popular Perceptions of the KMT Popular Perceptions of the DPP Parties’ Most Prominent Qualities Which Party Is More Capable of Performing These Policy Tasks? The Influence of Demographic Factors on Party Voting in the 1995 Legislative Election National Identity and Party Identification in the 1995 Legislative Election Characteristics of DPP Supporters, 1991–1996 DPP Vote Shares by Region and Municipality Presidential Election Results by Region and Municipality DPP Vote Shares in Executive Elections by Region and Municipality

26 45 161 161 162 163 164 165 166 168 195 196

FIGURES 3.1 3.2 3.3 3.4 6.1 6.2 8.1 8.2 8.3 8.4 9.1

Ideal Versus Poor Performance in SVMM Elections Party Performance in the 1989 Legislative Yuan Election Party Performance in the 1992 Legislative Yuan Election Party Performance in the 1995 Legislative Yuan Election DPP Decisionmaking on Policy Matters DPP Decisionmaking on Personnel Matters Party Preferences Party Antipathy Party Image Dangwai/DPP Vote Share, 1980–2000 Presidential Candidates’ Poll Standings, October 1999– March 2000

vi

46 47 48 49 93 93 157 159 160 169 175

Acknowledgments This book was made possible by the generous (and foresighted) encouragement and financial support of the Smith Richardson Foundation. The kind cooperation of many Democratic Progressive Party members also was indispensable. I especially wish to thank Chen Chu and the late Li Tsung-fan, who first opened the DPP’s doors to me many years ago, and the many DPP legislators, party staffers, and grassroots activists who submitted to lengthy interviews for this project. As always, my southern Taiwan contacts—Mr. and Mrs. Wang Sheng-hung, Chen Yan-chiou, and Huang Tsung-hsiung (Hsiao Lung)— provided hospitality and down-home political wisdom. Thanks also to those who read and commented on the book’s first incarnation at www.dpp2000.com, especially James A. Robinson and Nathan Batto, and to Joachim Ghislain, who designed the website. Jesse Lan (Lan Yu-chen) provided unsurpassed research assistance throughout this project. I cannot thank him enough. Research for this book included in-depth interviews with DPP activists, legislators, and staff members, as well as journalists, non-DPP politicians, and scholars. The interviews were conducted in June and July 1999 and March 2000.

vii

1

Introduction

On March 18, 2000, Taiwanese gathered around their televisions and radios to listen to a historic speech. For the first time, an oppositionparty candidate was about to accept victory in a presidential election. In solemn tones, president-elect Chen Shui-bian began, “The election results for the 10th Presidential and Vice Presidential election of the Republic of China have been declared. The Democratic Progressive Party candidates, Chen Shui-bian and Annette Lu, have been elected.” He continued, “This moment is a dignified and sacred one in the history of Taiwan—because the courageous people of Taiwan, with love and hope, have conquered fear and darkness.” Later in the speech he added, “This election is not only the pride of the people of Taiwan, but it is also the pride of Chinese all over the world. We share the same bloodlines and culture. We hope that through more intimate exchange and interaction, with patience and respect, we can collectively create a harmonized and joyous new era.” Chen concluded, “May the heavens bless the people and may the heavens bless Taiwan—our motherland forever.”1 In these few words, Chen summarized his homeland’s tortuous past, complex present, and contested future. He called his land the Republic of China and he called it Taiwan. He spoke of love and hope— and of fear and darkness. And he pointed to a fundamental paradox: his people are Chinese by ancestry and culture, but their motherland is Taiwan. Listening to Chen’s speech, one could feel the enormous weight of Taiwan’s unique and complicated history. Chen also took note of the historic nature of this election: for the first time, the people of Taiwan had chosen a leader from outside the ranks of the island’s traditional ruling party, the Kuomintang (KMT). The decision to place executive authority in the hands of a Democratic

1

2

From Opposition to Power

Progressive Party (DPP) politician was a milestone on Taiwan’s long journey to democratization. Outside Taiwan the election result came as a shock; few foreign observers expected the DPP to win national office so soon (nor did many Taiwanese, for that matter). Given its long tenure in office and its vigorous efforts to reach out to foreigners, the KMT was a familiar presence to scholars, journalists, and policymakers. The DPP, in contrast, was a new, largely unknown player on Taiwan’s political stage. Most foreign observers focused on the DPP’s weaknesses—its pro-independence views and internal factionalism. For months after the election, citizens, scholars, and policymakers in the West debated fundamental questions about the new government: What was its connection to the DPP? What positions would it take? Which of the DPP’s many political celebrities would wield significant influence over the new president? Helping Western readers understand the Democratic Progressive Party—its history, organization, and ideology—is the goal of this book. The book argues that although the DPP’s highly democratic ideology and organization promote debate and dissention within the party, this is as much a strength as a weakness. It traces the party’s political factions to Taiwan’s institutional environment, and suggests that they play a negotiating role that reduces open conflict and helps hold the diverse political elements within the party together. The book also looks in depth at the DPP’s positions on issues, and concludes that it is a much more moderate force in Taiwanese politics than most observers believe. But to understand Taiwan’s people and politics—and especially its second-largest political party—we must first know something of the island’s past.

TAIWAN: THE ISLAND AND ITS PEOPLE Taiwan sits astride the Tropic of Cancer, off the coast of southern China. About 100 miles away, across the Taiwan Strait, lies Fujian, a province of the People’s Republic of China (PRC). The island of Taiwan is about 250 miles long and 90 miles wide at its widest point; Taiwanese say its shape resembles a sweet potato. Officials in Taiwan’s capital, Taipei, also govern a number of small islands and island groups, including Orchid Island to the south, Green Island to the east, the Pescadores (Penghu) to the west, and two small islands just off the coast of mainland China, Jinmen (Quemoy) and Mazu (Matsu). The main island is extremely mountainous. With almost two-thirds of Taiwan covered by rugged peaks up to 4,000 meters in altitude, the

Introduction

3

population is crowded into a broad coastal plain to the west of the mountains and a narrower, more isolated plain to the east. And crowded it is. Taiwan’s population of 23 million lives on just under 36,000 square kilometers of land, making Taiwan the second most densely populated country in the world. The climate in Taiwan is tropical and subtropical, although some high altitude areas support alpine vegetation. Because of the rugged terrain and excellent climate, species diversity in Taiwan, including both plants and animals, is enormous. For example, 5 percent of the entire world’s bird species live in Taiwan.2 Even today, after thirty years of rapid industrialization and severe pollution, deforestation, and urbanization, Taiwan is astoundingly lush. Mountain forests and lowland agriculture provide much of the greenery, but even in towns and cities, plants are irrepressible. Weeds sprout from cracks in asphalt, saplings appear atop concrete skyscrapers, and thick shrubs flourish alongside highways and rivers. Taiwan also produces abundant crops; it exports many agricultural products, including rice, pork, fruit, and sugar. The earliest settlers came to Taiwan from nearby islands in the South Pacific. Most of these people—known today as Taiwan’s aboriginal peoples (yuanzhumin, or “original residents”)—lived on the western plain. Beginning in the seventeenth century, overcrowding in Fujian sparked the migration of Chinese peasants to Taiwan. Chinese settlers seized the western plain from its aboriginal inhabitants, assimilating some and driving the rest into the mountains or to the east coast. Several aboriginal peoples survived in these remote areas, preserving their languages and cultures. Despite strong pressures for assimilation, about 350,000 Taiwanese today identify themselves as members of one of nine distinct aboriginal populations. In the sixteenth century, Chinese pirates plying the Taiwan Strait and South China Sea used the island’s rugged coastline as a hideout, a place where they could live beyond the reach of any government. But in the mid-sixteenth century, the island gained visibility, thanks to European explorers’ growing interest in East Asia. In 1554, the island appeared on a European map for the first time. The map called it Ilha Formosa, a Portuguese phrase meaning Beautiful Island. Portuguese and Spanish conquerors attempted to colonize Taiwan, but made little progress. The Dutch were more successful, and in 1623, China’s leaders, the Ming dynasty, acknowledged Dutch control over the island. When the first Dutch colonists arrived, there were few Chinese living in Taiwan. But during their four decades of rule, the Dutch encouraged Chinese migration, and the number of settlers from the mainland

4

From Opposition to Power

increased rapidly. By 1700, more than 100,000 Chinese were arriving in Taiwan each year.3 The majority of Chinese settlers were from Fujian Province. This population, identified by their language as Hoklo (Minnan) people, became Taiwan’s largest ethnic group, and descendants of Fujianese migrants make up more than 70 percent of Taiwan’s population today. Another ten to 15 percent of today’s Taiwanese are Hakka (Kejia) people, whose ancestors also came from China in the early waves of migration. Today, the divisions between Hoklo and Hakka are blurring, but linguistic and cultural distinctions still exist, reinforced by partial residential segregation in rural areas. In 1661, a new conqueror arrived in Taiwan: the Chinese piratehero Cheng Ch’eng-kung (known in Western histories as Koxinga). Cheng used the island as a base from which to counterattack the Manchu armies that had seized China and established the Qing dynasty in 1644. Cheng’s plan to restore the Ming dynasty failed, but under his leadership, Taiwan experienced a burst of political, social, and economic development. Still, when Qing forces defeated Cheng’s troops and incorporated Taiwan into the Chinese empire in 1683, the island remained politically marginal, a rough-and-ready outpost of which it was said, “There is a small rebellion there every year, a big rebellion every five years.” The rebellions came to an end in 1895, when the Qing dynasty turned Taiwan over to Japan after losing the Sino-Japanese war. For the first time, the island’s residents found themselves governed by a strong state that took an intense interest in Taiwan’s development. In many ways, Taiwanese—who were unaccustomed to heavy-handed leadership—resented the Japanese. However, Taiwan’s economy thrived under attentive Japanese bureaucrats. Japan’s goal for Taiwan was to transform it into a model colony; its Meiji-era leaders hoped to win the respect of the Western powers by proving their ability as colonizers. The result was a colonial government that combined political control, economic development, and cultural assimilation. Still, even as its Japanese rulers improved Taiwan’s economic infrastructure and educational system, they also imposed cultural policies that denigrated Taiwan’s Chinese identity and traditions. Taiwanese reactions to Japan’s colonial rule reflected the ambivalence of a people traded back and forth from one set of rulers to another. Taiwanese were far more likely to speak Japanese than Mandarin, the language of the Chinese government, and innumerable Japanese customs—from food ways to fashion—became commonplace in Taiwan. Yet Taiwanese resented colonization; local elites complained bitterly

Introduction

5

about restrictions on their educational choices and cultural practices. In the 1920s, a home rule movement appeared, in which hundreds of educated Taiwanese demanded autonomy for their island. These grievances found little sympathy in Tokyo, where the Taiwanese were seen as an inferior people, an attitude that justified both paternalism and exploitation. For example, during World War II, Taiwanese recruits joined the Japanese armed forces to prove their worth as subjects of the emperor, even as those same armed forces were enslaving Taiwanese women for sexual servitude, under the euphemistic title “comfort women.” Japan lost Taiwan in 1945, along with the rest of its colonies. The Allied powers arranged for the Chinese government to accept Japan’s surrender of the island, in effect handing Taiwan over to the Republic of China (ROC) and its leader, Chiang Kai-shek. Within months, civil war broke out in mainland China between the ROC’s ruling party, the KMT, and the Chinese Communist Party. In 1949, the Communists defeated the KMT, and on October 1, 1949, Mao Zedong declared the founding of the People’s Republic of China. The surviving ROC government officials and troops took refuge in Taiwan. At first, ROC leaders expected the Communists to advance on Taiwan, but the outbreak of the Korean War convinced the United States to protect the ROC in Taiwan and halt the expansion of communism in Asia. Thus, the “ROC on Taiwan” became “Free China,” a handy ideological and rhetorical foil to the “Red Chinese” governing the mainland. Many Taiwanese welcomed the return to Chinese rule, but their joy was short-lived. From 1945 to 1947, the ROC government viewed Taiwan as a sideshow, a distraction from the critical task of fighting the civil war. ROC officials took money and equipment from Taiwan, ostensibly for use in the war effort, although much was misappropriated. The troops and administrators sent to Taiwan were not the ROC’s best or its brightest. To make matters worse, many ROC personnel sent to Taiwan suspected the Taiwanese were secretly loyal to Japan. There also was a deep cultural divide between the two groups. Many of the ROC soldiers in Taiwan were uneducated conscripts from desperately poor mainland villages, while even peasants in Taiwan were decently fed and clothed and had at least a few years of education. Taiwanese who had idealized mainland China experienced deep disillusionment and disappointment as a result of these early contacts. Before long, many Taiwanese began to view the KMT as just another in the long series of foreign conquerors who had ruled their island. The divide between the two groups was captured in the names they used to describe one another. Those whose families had been in Taiwan for generations were called bendiren (people from this place),

6

From Opposition to Power

or Taiwanese in English. The new arrivals were called waishengren (people from outside provinces), or Mainlanders. In 1947, the Taiwanese rose up against the Mainlanders, and were violently suppressed. The repression liquidated Taiwan’s indigenous leadership, easing the way for the KMT to impose a new political order in the island. Creating that new political order in Taiwan became a much more pressing concern in 1949, when the ROC government suddenly found itself in exile on the tiny island. Beyond ensuring its immediate survival, the ROC’s first priority was to rebuild its military power and recover the mainland. Accomplishing this goal required the cooperation of the Taiwanese people. As a result, KMT leaders devised a strategy that combined two elements: the central government remained firmly under the control of the KMT, but at the local level, elections were used to incorporate Taiwanese into the KMT and enhance the legitimacy of the ROC state. The ROC’s leaders—all of whom belonged to the KMT—used the claim that their government represented mainland China as well as Taiwan to justify their domination of the state apparatus. They insisted that someday they would regain control of mainland China and reestablish the ROC as its legitimate government. To facilitate this plan, ROC government institutions that had existed on the mainland were transferred wholesale to Taiwan. Legislative elections were suspended; representatives elected on the mainland in 1947 retained their seats after the move. Surviving members of the 1947 legislative bodies were still in office in 1990. In theory, this was a temporary arrangement. In practice, it put Taiwan’s government beyond the reach of the people it ruled. In addition, the KMT suspended the ROC constitution, placing Taiwan under martial law. Martial law provided a legal framework for repressing dissent, censoring publications, and outlawing new political parties. In short, the national government imposed by the KMT in Taiwan was highly authoritarian. However, ROC leaders recognized that pure authoritarianism was not the best approach to take in dealing with Taiwan. Recovering the mainland would require more than sullen obedience from the Taiwanese; it would need their active support and cooperation. To obtain this, the KMT employed a strategy that combined authoritarianism with mobilization. First, the government implemented a broad-based land reform program, transforming Taiwan’s tenant farmers into landowners—and KMT supporters. Second, the KMT-led government instituted grassroots elections. These competitive contests for local offices served many purposes. They provided an outlet for political tensions and ambitions, they identified authentic local leaders, and they created opportunities for the KMT to channel patronage to local

Introduction

7

politicians who would pledge their loyalty to the ruling party. In addition, local elections facilitated a “divide and control” strategy, under which the KMT encouraged the growth of local political factions that competed with one another in elections. The ruling party used these factions to manage local politics and suppress the development of independent political forces. Throughout the 1950s and 1960s, the KMT-led government used this two-sided strategy with great success. By pacifying local political forces and insulating the central government from popular demands, mobilizational authoritarianism gave KMT technocrats broad latitude in creating economic policy. Their efforts laid the foundation for the rapid economic development for which Taiwan is famous. During the era of strong economic growth, Taiwan was relatively quiescent politically. The few dissidents who openly criticized the KMT ended up in prison. Beginning in the late 1960s, subtle changes appeared in Taiwan politics. The Taiwanese were permitted to elect a small number of supplementary legislators, and two non-KMT candidates managed to win seats. In 1971, the ROC government’s confidence was shaken when it was forced to surrender China’s UN seat to the PRC. The loss of international legitimacy undermined the KMT’s rationale for refusing to let Taiwanese elect their leaders. Thus, in the mid-1970s, the KMT launched a reform program aimed at reinvigorating the party and strengthening its ties to the Taiwanese. At the same time, a new opposition political movement was beginning to coalesce. Opposition politicians used electoral politics as a platform for disseminating their demands for democratic reforms, while dissident intellectuals launched a series of publications with similar goals. By the end of the decade, these two threads had become integrated into a unified political force, the Dangwai Movement (outside the party movement). Through the early 1980s, the Dangwai grew in popular support and organizational strength. Dangwai activists worked long hours for little reward. They suffered financial losses, harassment, and imprisonment. In 1979, a group of activists were sentenced to long prison terms for their involvement in a human rights demonstration. During the trial, one defendant’s mother and two young daughters were stabbed to death in their home, even though the house was under police surveillance. Despite the terrible risks, the Dangwai attracted some of Taiwan’s most gifted activists and political leaders. They came from all sectors of Taiwan’s society; their backgrounds and ideologies varied widely. But Dangwai activists shared one common goal: they wanted the Taiwanese to throw off centuries of foreign domination and rule themselves. They wanted democracy.

8

From Opposition to Power

Whether under the Dutch, the Qing dynasty, the Japanese empire, or the authoritarian KMT, the people of Taiwan had never controlled their own fate. In 1986, Taiwan’s democratic activists decided they could wait no longer. On September 28, in direct defiance of martial law, delegates to a Dangwai conference voted to found the Democratic Progressive Party (Minzhu Jinbu Dang). The KMT, weakened by the loss of international recognition and resigned to the inevitability of political reform, did nothing. From then on, Taiwan’s democratization drive gathered momentum. In 1987, the government lifted martial law. By 1992, all the senior legislators had retired, to be replaced by representatives elected by the people of Taiwan. To preserve the idea that some of these legislators represented all Chinese, and not merely specific constituencies in Taiwan, 41 of the legislature’s 225 seats were reserved for members elected at large, according to the proportion of the vote received by each political party. (The legislature also includes eight aboriginal representatives and eight overseas Chinese representatives.) In 1996, Taiwan held its first direct presidential election. And in 2000, after fourteen years of struggle, a Democratic Progressive Party candidate became the president of the Republic of China.

THE LONG ROAD TO VICTORY Chen Shui-bian’s victory in March 2000 was the most important event in the DPP’s history since its inauguration. From the moment the party was founded, its members devoted themselves to becoming Taiwan’s ruling party. Yet despite the rapid-fire political reforms that followed the opposition party’s founding, gaining control of the national government—or even one branch of it—proved extremely difficult. The party has never won a majority of votes in any national election. Even Chen Shui-bian was chosen by less than 40 percent of the electorate; he won because his opponents split their votes between two candidates. In the early months of his presidency, Chen struggled to overcome his party’s weakness in the legislature, in which the KMT held the majority of seats, and to assert his executive authority. On the road to its presidential victory, the DPP encountered numerous obstacles,including many of its own making. To understand why the party was so slow in attaining national office we need to examine its weaknesses as well as its accomplishments. Such an exercise can also shed light on Chen Shui-bian’s difficulties as a minority president. The obstacles and challenges facing the DPP can be analyzed in three categories: contextual obstacles, external obstacles, and internal

Introduction

9

obstacles, which can be thought of as errors. Contextual obstacles are forces beyond the immediate control of an incumbent regime or its opposition that work against the opposition party. For example, international pressures, economic forces, and threats to national security may encourage voters to choose the ruling party over the opposition. Such forces have played an important role in depressing the DPP’s electoral performance. Taiwan’s lack of formal international ties combines with the threat from across the strait to create an environment of tension and insecurity. Taiwanese voters cannot help but take note of Beijing’s clearly stated opposition to the DPP. Indeed, PRC leaders have stated that the DPP’s accession to power could lead to war. For its part, the KMT preserved Taiwan’s security and autonomy for more than fifty years; many voters are reluctant to upset a system that has preserved stability for so long. External obstacles are characteristics of a country’s domestic politics that make it difficult for an opposition party to increase its influence. They include political institutions, as well as the ruling party’s organization and behavior. Some external obstacles are negative, they suppress the opposition party, and some are positive, they promote continued ruling party success. Even today, Taiwan’s democracy is imperfect, marred by negative external obstacles such as corruption, patronage, unequal resources, and administrative and judicial bias. As the island’s politics has become more democratic, however, citizens have grown less tolerant of these abuses. The popular backlash against such practices played an important role in Chen Shui-bian’s successful presidential bid. Although direct manipulation of the electoral system through fraud is rare in Taiwan today, the KMT’s strategy of electoral mobilization promoted corruption. By weaving together networks of local factions and politicians, many of whom engaged in vote buying and other abuses, the KMT managed to win the great majority of elections, even after democratic reforms were well underway. The KMT’s mobilizational practices (which are discussed in detail in Chapter 3) undermined fair competition by ensuring that payoffs—and not issues, party identification, or candidate qualifications—would determine a significant number of votes. Here too, however, the tide is turning. The KMT’s much-touted political machine delivered very few votes for the party’s presidential candidate, Lien Chan, in 2000. Given the chaos within the KMT in the wake of its defeat, it is possible that the party will be unable to repair and refuel its broken machine in time for the next election, the 2001 legislative race. Another important advantage the KMT enjoys is financial. The party has accumulated an enormous fortune, not through fund-raising

10

From Opposition to Power

among its political supporters, but by constructing a vast business empire. As with other negative obstacles, the KMT’s economic advantage has become an embarrassment; during the 2000 presidential campaign, Lien Chan was so stung by his opponents’ criticism on this issue that he promised to put the party’s business empire in trust. Still, the Kuomintang is far from giving up its wealth, or the influence it buys.4 Yet another factor benefiting the KMT is favorable media coverage, a holdover from the days when television and radio broadcasting stations were owned by party and government agencies, and the publishers of major newspapers sat on the Kuomintang’s Central Committee. Even after the government lifted restrictions on independent media outlets, the overwhelming head start enjoyed by established, KMTlinked media companies made it difficult for pro-DPP and nonpartisan publications to compete. The KMT also has used its influence over the civil service and judiciary to promote its candidates. During the 2000 presidential campaign, prosecutors accused government agencies of paying their employees NT$300 (U.S.$10.00) to attend a rally for KMT candidate Lien Chan.5 When a prominent supporter of independent presidential candidate Soong Chu-yu (James Soong) suddenly found himself under investigation for corruption, one cabinet member quit and joined Soong’s campaign to protest what he called politically motivated judicial harassment. In sum, many factors have worked together to suppress the DPP’s performance in the past. However, Chen Shui-bian’s victory in 2000 shows that it is possible to overcome these negative obstacles. In fact, in some cases abuses of democratic procedures backfired and ended up helping the DPP candidate. In addition to these negative obstacles, the KMT benefits from many positive advantages. Above all, the KMT’s strength rests on a broad social base constructed over four decades of single-party authoritarian rule. The KMT assembled a cross-class coalition including farmers, workers, government employees, the military, and big business. The only significant groups left out of this coalition were independent professionals and entrepreneurs in small and medium-sized businesses, and many of these were brought under the KMT umbrella through its network of local factions. Historically, many of the DPP’s victories resulted from tensions within the KMT coalition. For example, when local KMT factions fought among themselves in 1997, the DPP won a majority of municipal executive posts. Indeed, Chen Shui-bian may well owe his election to Soong Chu-yu’s popularity among urban intellectuals, Mainlanders, and certain local factions—all traditional KMT constituencies.

Introduction

11

Another positive attribute that helped the KMT retain the support of many Taiwanese was its willingness to undertake reform after 1985. Under President Lee and his predecessor, Chiang Ching-kuo, the KMT made great strides toward Taiwan’s democratization. To the intense frustration of longtime DPP activists, the KMT has received much of the credit for Taiwan’s democratization, even though the pressure for political change came from the opposition movement. For example, when he stepped down after twelve years as ROC president and KMT party chair, pundits dubbed Lee Teng-hui “Mr. Democracy.” Internal obstacles have plagued the DPP since its founding. To win the presidency, Chen Shui-bian had to overcome not only the KMT’s strong advantages, but also his own party’s liabilities, some of which were self-imposed. These internal obstacles can also be thought of as errors, some forced, others unforced. For example, the unforced error that damaged the DPP’s prospects of winning national power most severely was the decision to call for the independence of Taiwan in its charter and platform. Although the People’s Republic of China has never governed Taiwan, peace in the Taiwan Strait rests on the idea that Taiwan is part of the Chinese nation. As long as Taiwan uses the name Republic of China, it tacitly endorses this idea. But Beijing has promised to use military force against Taiwan if it ever abandons this name or declares formal independence from China. For this reason, and because many Taiwanese believe formal independence is either unnecessary or undesirable, most voters opposed the DPP’s position when it came out in favor of independence in 1991. Many voters came to view the DPP as a reckless party, willing to endanger the country for its own quixotic goal. Endorsing Taiwan independence was the DPP’s most damaging decision, but it is not the party’s only internal liability. Structural weaknesses also contribute to its frustratingly slow progress. Because the KMT was built on a cross-class coalition, the DPP had no choice but to forge a party out of the anti-KMT members of all social sectors. From the beginning the DPP’s supporters have included intellectuals, disgruntled business people, local political bosses, environmentalists, and feminists. Every DPP supporter had his or her own constellation of reasons for supporting the party. Party members shared few interests or ideas beyond the desire for democracy and the dream of removing the KMT from power. Thus, articulating concrete policy objectives that satisfy the party’s diverse constituencies is all but impossible. Organizing the DPP as a catchall party for KMT opponents can be seen as a forced error. Because the Kuomintang’s popular coalition includes a wide

12

From Opposition to Power

range of economic interests and constituencies, the DPP had no choice but to mirror this structure. In effect, however, this decision left the party without a comprehensive policy program. Instead, DPP members relied on the promotion of democratic reform and equal rights for Taiwanese to hold the party together. Finally, the DPP’s organization has contributed to its problems. The DPP is modeled on the KMT’s structure: it has a central committee, party congress, and other Leninist trappings. But it lacks the strong central leadership that has been the KMT’s most significant organizational feature for more than fifty years. Instead, the DPP is a highly democratic party, offering abundant opportunities for party members to offer their opinions and views. Moreover, strong personalities and individual political stars dominate the DPP, and the party’s decisionmaking process is driven by factional negotiation and struggle. As a result, the DPP does not always respond effectively to new policy opportunities and challenges. Without a strong central leadership to guide it, the party tends to fall into embarrassing public squabbles. Despite these many obstacles, the DPP can boast of many achievements. But its greatest and most lasting accomplishment is its contribution to Taiwan’s democratization. Without the DPP and its predecessor, the Dangwai Movement, KMT leaders would have felt far less pressure to democratize. They might well have delayed political reform and extended the period of authoritarianism and repression. Taiwan’s democratic activists pressed their cause peacefully, accepting imprisonment, harassment, and even violence, but never responding in kind.6 They used the tools available to them within the system—elections, peaceful demonstrations, publications, free speech—to make their case. And always, they kept their eyes firmly on their goal: democracy. And so, despite challenges and setbacks, the DPP fought its way from the margins of politics to the center, finally capturing national power in March 2000. This book tells the party’s story, beginning in the early days of the democratic movement, and ending with Chen Shuibian’s victory. Chapter 2 recounts the history of the Dangwai and the DPP and Chapter 3 analyzes the structural factors that have influenced the party’s development. In Chapter 4, I turn to the DPP’s formal organization, and Chapter 5 explains the party’s informal organization, its allimportant internal factions. DPP decisions are products of complex interactions between the formal organization and the informal structures of authority; their operation is the topic of Chapter 6. In Chapter 7 I examine the outcome of this decisionmaking process, the DPP’s policy positions and political strategies. In Chapter 8, I describe where the DPP stands in the eyes of the Taiwanese people. Chapter 9 analyzes the DPP’s presidential win. Finally, Chapter 10 looks to the future.

Introduction

13

NOTES 1. The English translation of Chen’s victory speech is available at the Taiwan Headlines website maintained by the Government Information Office of the ROC. Available online at:http://www.taiwanheadlines.gov.tw/chen/chen01.htm. 2. Oscar Chung, “Our Feathered Friends,” Taipei Review (June 2000): 31. 3. Mei-Ling T. Wang, The Dust That Never Settles: The Taiwan Independence Campaign and U.S.-China Relations (Lanham, Md.: University Press of America, 1999), 17. 4. In July 2000, officials of the Securities and Futures Commission investigated large sales of stock at low prices by KMT holding companies. DPP lawmakers accused the KMT of deliberately driving down the stock market in an effort to damage Chen Shui-bian’s administration. Taipei Times, 12 July 2000. Available online at: http://www.taipeitimes.com/news/2000/07/12. 5. “Workers Paid to Attend Rally, Say Prosecutors,” Taipei Times, 13 March 2000. Available online at: http://www.taipeitimes.com/news/2000/03/13. 6. Opposition demonstrators did clash with police on occasion, and a handful of democratic activists committed suicide to protest the regime. However, compared to other democratizing nations, including South Korea and various Latin American and Eastern European countries, Taiwan’s democratization process was extraordinarily peaceful.

2

A Brief History of the Democratic Progressive Party

On September 28, 1986, members of a loosely organized political opposition group called the Dangwai Movement were meeting in a ballroom at Taipei’s Grand Hotel. Their purpose was to plan strategy for supplementary legislative elections scheduled for December. But when the debate turned to the possibility of founding a political party, the room came alive. A motion was made, seconded, and passed, and Taiwan’s first opposition party, the Democratic Progressive Party, was born. The Dangwai activists founded the DPP despite the fact that martial law provisions in effect in the Republic of China specifically forbade the creation of new political parties. Their defiant declaration was the product of years of organizing and preparation. And it was the beginning of a new era in Taiwan’s politics. Until that day in September 1986, a single party, the Kuomintang, or Nationalist Party, had dominated Taiwanese politics.1 The Kuomintang came to Taiwan at the end of World War II, when the island returned to Chinese control after five decades under a Japanese colonial government. From 1945 to 1949, the ruling party looked upon Taiwan as a minor sideshow; its attention was focused on its civil war with the Chinese Communist Party and its efforts to retain control of the Chinese mainland. Between 1945 and 1947, the regime’s inattention and corruption undermined its legitimacy; a gulf opened between the KMT-led government and the Taiwanese people. In 1947, an incident of police brutality sparked an antigovernment uprising that swept the island. The ROC military brutally repressed the rebellion, and the resentment between the two groups—the native Taiwanese and the recently arrived Mainlanders— hardened into a permanent grudge. This event, known in Taiwan as the February 28 Incident, or simply 2-28, set the tone for social and political interactions between the two groups for decades to come.

15

16

From Opposition to Power

In 1949, the Chinese Communist Party drove the last remnants of the ROC government out of mainland China, and they took refuge in Taiwan. From then on, Taiwanese and Mainlanders shared a common land and a common fate. Under U.S. protection, the ROC in Taiwan began to thrive. Until the early 1970s, most major countries (and the United Nations) recognized the Republic of China as the legal government of China. The ROC’s ruling party insisted that it someday would return and reestablish its authority on the mainland. Meanwhile, Taiwan’s economy grew rapidly in the 1960s and 1970s, thanks to several factors: Americans’ bottomless desire for consumer goods, Taiwan’s hardworking people and nimble manufacturing sector, and the skillful economic stewardship of KMT technocrats. Taiwan’s political system was an odd hybrid. At the grassroots level, the regime used competitive elections to identify authentic local leaders and give Taiwanese a feeling of participation. Under martial law provisions instituted in the 1940s, new political parties were banned, leaving local politicians no choice but to affiliate with the KMT. But even as a competitive (if KMT-dominated) electoral culture blossomed at the local level, the central government remained walled off from popular influence. None of the central decisionmaking institutions—the presidency, the National Assembly, and the Legislative Yuan—were subject to popular election. Officeholders elected on the mainland in the 1940s were frozen in office, based on the justification that elections could not be held in their home constituencies. According to the KMT, holding elections in Taiwan alone would disenfranchise the vast majority of ROC “citizens.” The highest officials Taiwanese voters were permitted to elect were members of the Taiwan Provincial Assembly, which existed to maintain the fiction that the ROC’s territory was not coterminous with Taiwan, and municipal (county and city) executives. Meanwhile, the KMT regime was relentless and efficient in persecuting and repressing dissidents who dared to challenge its singleparty rule or its mainland recovery project. By the early 1970s, cracks were appearing in the edifice of KMT control. Internationally, the ROC was losing its fight to represent China, as countries around the world switched their recognition to the People’s Republic of China. In 1971, the ROC lost its UN seat. Domestically, too, the KMT’s power was beginning to wane in the early 1970s. President Chiang Kai-shek, the man at the head of the KMT since the 1920s, was dying. Meanwhile, although the party’s strategy for co-opting and controlling local communities had succeeded in recruiting local leaders into the KMT, the loyalty of these politicians and the local factions that coalesced around them was never strong. By the

A Brief History of the DPP

17

mid-1970s, some local factions were eager to leave the KMT nest. These factors combined to give a new political force, the Dangwai Movement, an opening. The Dangwai originated in an alliance between two types of opposition activists: local politicians who shared a strong dissatisfaction with the KMT regime, and dissident intellectuals. From the beginning, these groups embraced distinct—but complementary—strategies and priorities. While the intellectuals parried and thrust at the regime through a network of political magazines and book series, the independent politicians expanded their base of support among the electorate. The differences of opinion between the two groups formed the basis for long-lived factional divisions within the Dangwai Movement and, later, the DPP. Because it is such a prominent feature of the DPP, my discussion of the party’s history will pay special attention to factionalism. A formative moment in Dangwai history took place in 1968, when Huang Hsin-chieh asked Kang Ning-hsiang to run his campaign in the 1969 supplementary Legislative Yuan elections. Huang, who died in November 1999, was a central figure in Taiwan’s opposition movement. As a young man, Huang joined the KMT, but he soon dropped out in frustration over his prospects and threw his support behind Kao Yu-shu, a political independent who managed to defeat KMT nominees to win two terms as the mayor of Taipei. In 1961, Huang joined several other non-KMT politicians on the Taipei City Council. He became one of a small cadre of dissident politicians who managed to win seats in local assemblies during the 1960s. The supplementary elections were necessary to replenish the ranks of senior legislators, whose numbers were dwindling after more than twenty years without elections. Huang decided to contest one of these seats, and he selected Kang Ning-hsiang, a politically astute, hardworking youth to manage his campaign. Upon winning his race, Huang became one of two opposition-oriented legislators elected to life terms in the Legislative Yuan. Kang, his protégé, saw his own political career take flight under Huang’s tutelage. Together, Huang and Kang provided leadership for the budding political movement, but over time, differences in temperament and strategy opened a rift between the two men. The result was the opposition movement’s first factional division. Early in his career, Kang Ning-hsiang benefited, paradoxically, from the central government’s efforts to undercut the nascent opposition movement. In 1967, the ROC government designated the city of Taipei as a special municipality, which meant that its mayor no longer would be elected, and its city council members would have to meet higher educational and professional standards. (A central motivation for

18

From Opposition to Power

the change was to shield the KMT from the embarrassment of being defeated by Kao Yu-shu and others like him.) The changes made several non-KMT council members ineligible for reelection. Kang Ninghsiang, who had worked his way through college pumping gasoline, inherited these men’s political bases. In 1969, he was elected to the Taipei City Council, and three years later he joined his mentor in the Legislative Yuan. When he ran for reelection three years later (after 1969, legislators were elected for three-year terms), Kang called himself a Dangwai (outside the party) candidate. The use of the Dangwai label was significant. Several dissident politicians had used it in the late 1950s, but after the authorities suppressed that group, non-KMT politicians avoided the term. They referred to themselves as wudang, wupai (without party or faction). But Kang and others revived the term, linking themselves to the earlier effort to organize an electoral challenge to the KMT. They also called attention to the authoritarian nature of Taiwan’s political system, in which only one party, the KMT, played a significant role. Another important figure who used the Dangwai name was Chang Chun-hung, an aspiring politician who quit the KMT and made a successful run for the Taipei City Council under the Dangwai label in 1973. In the second round of legislative elections, held in 1972, nonKMT candidates campaigned jointly under the Dangwai label. The Dangwai platform called for democratic reforms; above all, Dangwai activists appealed to the regime to lift martial law and other emergency provisions that prevented full implementation of the ROC’s democratic constitution. They also sought to give all Taiwan residents—Taiwanese and Mainlanders alike—an equal say in determining the island’s future. In the mid-1970s, Huang Hsin-chieh, Kang Ning-hsiang, and Chang Chun-hung were at the center of the opposition movement. Together they published the Taiwan Political Review (Taiwan zhenglun), a venture that soon attracted the talents of two other important opposition figures, Yao Chia-wen and Huang Hua. In 1975, however, a new group of opposition activists came onto the scene, recruited into politics to work as legislative campaign assistants to Kuo Yu-hsin, an opposition politician of 1950s vintage. Kuo’s assistants—including Lin Chengchieh, Hsiao Yu-chen, and brothers Wu Nai-jen and Wu Nai-teh—represented a new generation of activists that was both more intellectual and more ideological than its forebears. Members of this new generation also played a major role as candidates in the 1977 elections. Huang and Kang gathered more than two dozen opposition candidates together under the Dangwai umbrella and helped coordinate their campaigns. Fourteen Dangwai candidates,

A Brief History of the DPP

19

including Chang Chun-hung from Nantou County and Lin Yi-hsiung from Ilan County, won seats in the Provincial Assembly. In Taoyuan County, voters chose Hsu Hsin-liang to be their county executive. Hsu, a brilliant young man with strong political instincts, had been a rising KMT star. His outspoken criticism of the ruling party sent his career into a decline. Rather than give up politics, Hsu moved to the Dangwai. The opposition’s success in 1977 revealed growing popular dissatisfaction with the KMT’s authoritarian leadership and waning international prestige. It also rested, importantly, on tensions within the KMT. For years, the party leadership played local factions off one another to secure their obedience and keep competition in check. But several factions recognized the Dangwai’s appearance on the scene as an opportunity to demonstrate their independence. Their unwillingness to exert themselves on behalf of their party’s chosen candidates played an important role in allowing the Dangwai to wedge its foot in the door. Although the 1977 elections represented a major breakthrough for the Dangwai, events in Taoyuan County catalyzed the first public split within the movement. Fearing Hsu would lose the election to a fraudulent vote count, his supporters attacked a police station in Chungli Township. As it turned out, Hsu won the election, but the governmentcontrolled media used the riot to brand the Dangwai as violent and unreasonable. Dangwai activists were divided over how to respond. In Kang Ning-hsiang’s view, the Chungli Incident proved that mass protests were risky. Instead of demonstrating in the streets to overthrow the political system, he believed the Dangwai ought to use elections to press for change. This reflected Kang’s philosophy of “political kung fu.” Kang believed force was useless against a stronger opponent; only artfulness and compromise could succeed.2 Many of the younger activists disagreed. They believed mass movements—even if they sometimes went too far—were a good way to attract attention and turn up the heat under the regime. They were impatient with elections and working within the system, especially in an era when the system clearly was stacked against the opposition. After the Chungli Incident, Kang Ning-hsiang and his moderate supporters grew increasingly estranged from the younger generation of activists. In the 1980s, conflict between the two camps broadened to include debates over Taiwan independence, cooperation versus confrontation, and moderation versus radicalism, but in the 1970s it centered on how much emphasis the opposition should place on mass demonstrations versus electioneering. The government’s decision to cancel legislative elections scheduled for December 1978 aggravated this split. From the beginning, elections tended to unify the opposition. In the absence of

20

From Opposition to Power

elections, calls for direct action and mass movements increased, intensifying the discord between those who were comfortable with such tactics and those who preferred to use them only as a last resort. In March 1978, Kang Ning-hsiang founded The Eighties, a magazine that promoted his moderate, election-centered ideas. The managing editor was Chiang Chun-nan (Antonio Chiang), who later published an important newsmagazine called The Journalist (Xin xinwen). It is important to remember that while the magazine was moderate by Dangwai standards, by the standards of the ROC mass media in general, it was extremely daring. Many of the writers who published in The Eighties—Chen Chung-hsin, Li Hsiao-feng, Lin Cho-shui, and Huang Huang-hsiung—advocated profound social and political change. Later that year, opposition activists led by Huang Hsin-chieh founded the Dangwai Campaign Assistance Group. Their goal was to plan a coordinated campaign strategy to improve the Dangwai’s performance in the December elections. The organization attracted several dissident intellectuals: Lu Hsiu-lien (Annette Lu), Chen Wan-chen, Wang Tuo, and Huang Huang-hsiung. The head of the Dangwai Campaign Assistance Group was Huang Hsin-chieh. Its executive director, Shih Mingteh, and secretary, Chen Chu, were to become leading DPP figures. The 1978 legislative campaign was well underway when U.S. president Jimmy Carter announced the United States’ intention to normalize relations with the People’s Republic of China and cut its ties with the ROC. Taiwan was devastated by this news. Fearing a crisis, the KMTled government cancelled the elections. Kang Ning-hsiang immediately issued a statement urging Dangwai candidates to suspend their campaigns and work with the KMT to defend the Republic of China. Siding with the KMT turned out to be a profound political error, one that put Kang outside the Dangwai mainstream. Many of Kang’s Dangwai colleagues believed the cancellation was unnecessary; they accused the KMT of exploiting the crisis in international relations to avoid what was shaping up to be a tough electoral fight. Those activists who embraced this point of view distanced themselves from Kang, leaving Huang Hsin-chieh to inherit singlehanded leadership of the Dangwai mainstream. Events in January 1979 reinforced the split, as Dangwai radicals took to the streets to protest the jailing of a Dangwai politician in Kaohsiung County.3 Huang Hsin-chieh’s next project was a publication, Formosa Magazine (Meilidao zazhi). Formosa attracted an all-star staff of Dangwai editors, writers, and organizers: Hsu Hsin-liang (who directed the Formosa Magazine Association), Lu Hsiu-lien, Huang Tian-fu, Chang Chun-hung, Yao Chia-wen, Huang Huang-hsiung, Lin Yi-hsiung, Shih

A Brief History of the DPP

21

Ming-teh, Chen Chung-hsin, Chen Chu, and others. According to some sources, Kang Ning-hsiang was invited to take part, but declined, preferring to concentrate his energies on The Eighties.4 Both publications strongly criticized the government, but each had a different emphasis. As Li Hsiao-feng put it, “These two magazines represented two lines within the Dangwai Movement . . . Kang’s The Eighties was seen as a warmer, more temperate line of political discussion, whereas Formosa was viewed as taking an activist, mass-based line.”5 Formosa was more than a magazine; it was an island-wide Dangwai organization, and as such it posed an unprecedented challenge to the KMT-led regime. Formosa staffers opened offices throughout the island, creating a network of local branches capable of organizing prodemocracy activities. In December 1979, Formosa sponsored a demonstration to commemorate International Human Rights Day. The Kaohsiung march became the most famous event in the history of Taiwan’s democratization. During the protest, violence erupted between police and demonstrators, offering a pretext for the prosecution of the Formosa team. Eight members of its staff—Huang Hsin-chieh, Shih Ming-teh, Lin Yi-hsiung, Yao Chia-wen, Chen Chu, Lu Hsiu-lien, Chang Chun-hung, and Lin Hung-hsuan—were indicted on subversion charges and tried in military courts. Another thirty-seven defendants were tried in civil courts. Hsu Hsin-liang avoided prosecution only because he sought political asylum in the United States, where he was traveling when the protest occurred. Prior to the Kaohsiung Incident, the Dangwai Movement had two wings: the moderates, led by Kang, and the activists, led by Huang. Despite the widening gap between Kang and Huang, the two Dangwai camps still recognized their common goals. When the Formosa staffers were arrested, it was Kang Ning-hsiang who pulled together a team of top-notch defense attorneys, all of whom had everything to lose by involving themselves with the politically sensitive case. Among the attorneys who agreed to assist the Formosa defendants were several who ran for public office after the trial was over: Chen Shui-bian, Hsieh Chang-ting (Frank Hsieh), Su Chen-chang, Yu Ching, Chiang Pengchian, and Chang Chun-hsiung. Despite their attorneys’ efforts, however, the leading Formosa activists received long prison sentences, which yanked them off the political stage. In their absence, two new Dangwai subgroups appeared to challenge Kang’s moderates: the defense attorneys and the young radicals. The legislative elections originally scheduled for 1978 finally took place in December 1980. Dangwai candidates included several of the Formosa defendants’ attorneys and family members. The election

22

From Opposition to Power

results showed that the KMT’s harsh reaction to the Kaohsiung Incident had backfired. Voters treated the election as an opportunity to express sympathy for the defendants. Several members of the Wives and Lawyers Club finished first in their districts; others were elected with lower, but nonetheless impressive, vote totals. The Dangwai also did well in the 1981 Provincial Assembly and municipal executive elections, thanks to a well-crafted and well-executed campaign strategy. By the summer of 1982, however, a new cleavage was evident within the Dangwai Movement. In June, a new magazine, entitled Deep Plow (Shen’geng), appeared. It quickly revealed itself as a venue for ideas more radical than those expressed by the Dangwai mainstream. Deep Plow also became a forum for criticizing Kang Ning-hsiang. The Criticize Kang wave attacked the Dangwai moderate on two grounds. First, he was accused of cooperating too readily with the KMT. Articles appearing in Deep Plow accused Kang of “eating the KMT’s rice ball soup” and “pouring water on flames” when he negotiated an end to a Dangwai boycott in the Legislative Yuan. Likewise, a trip Kang made to the United States to encourage better relations was viewed as “doing the KMT’s business.”6 Second, Deep Plow writers criticized Kang’s ideas, including his arguments in favor of working within the system and using parliamentary politics (rather than mass movements) to bring about change. Kang’s most ferocious critic was the intellectual gadfly Li Ao. (Li represented the conservative New Party in the 2000 presidential race.) Kang Ning-hsiang was not, however, without defenders. Some members of the Kaohsiung Incident attorneys group shared his ideas. For example, Yu Ching went with Kang to the United States in 1982, and Hsieh Chang-ting advocated that the Dangwai Movement should cut itself off from the overseas Taiwan independence movement in order to establish credibility as a movement operating within the system. Others of the lawyers, including Chen Shui-bian, were more sympathetic to the activists. Still, as the target of these attacks, Kang’s reputation suffered the most. Rumors circulated that Kang had avoided arrest during the Kaohsiung Incident, not by wisely eschewing confrontational political tactics, but by cozying up to the KMT.7 Nor were the attacks on Kang motivated solely by ideology; personal ambition and competition for power also played roles. As Peng Huai-en put it, “When the moderate faction leader Kang Ning-hsiang used the method of holding the government accountable from within he provoked the activist faction’s doubts. Add to that discord over the distribution of power, and the result was a ‘criticize Kang’ wave.”8 Conflict between the mainstream (Kang) group and the new generation erupted in 1983. The two camps agreed to organize a Dangwai

A Brief History of the DPP

23

Campaign Assistance Group (DCAG) to coordinate the opposition’s electoral activities in year-end legislative contests. But they could not agree on the method for selecting candidates for the Dangwai slate. In previous elections, Dangwai leaders had chosen candidates to receive the Dangwai’s recommendation; the selection method was essentially a top-down process. But the Dangwai newcomers preferred a more democratic, bottom-up procedure. Both sides agreed on an internal “primary election” method, but Kang insisted that incumbents should be renewed automatically. Otherwise, he feared, the newcomers might force the moderates off the stage. The new generation activists refused to accept Kang’s condition. They left the DCAG and founded the Alliance of Dangwai Writers and Editors. In addition to arguing over the procedure for recommending candidates, DCAG leaders differed with the Alliance of Dangwai Writers and Editors over the Dangwai’s campaign platform. Dangwai activists in both camps initially agreed to the slogan “Democracy, Self-determination, Save Taiwan” (Minzhu zizhi jiu Taiwan). But the KMT reacted strongly to the idea of self-determination, which party leaders claimed was a veiled reference to Taiwan independence. Rather than antagonize the ruling party and give it a campaign issue to use against them, Kang and other mainstream candidates dropped “self-determination” and campaigned on the theme “Democracy Will Save Taiwan.” Candidates recommended by the Writers and Editors Alliance retained the self-determination clause. Without a coordinated strategy, Dangwai candidates made a disappointing showing in the year-end elections. The Alliance of Writers and Editors, led by Wu Nai-jen and Chiou I-jen, supported several candidates representing the Formosa Line (Meilidao xitong), including relatives of Lin Yi-hsiung, Chang Chun-hung, Huang Hsin-chieh, Hsu Hsin-liang, and Presbyterian church leader (and Kaohsiung Incident defendant) Kao Chun-ming, as well as defense attorneys Chiang Pengchien and Chang Chun-hsiung. These candidates performed reasonably well; four of the seven were elected. Overall, however, the Dangwai fell behind the trajectory established in the 1977 and 1980 elections. Mainstream (moderate) candidates did especially poorly. Even Kang Ning-hsiang, battered by criticism from his Dangwai colleagues, lost his seat in the Legislative Yuan. Political scientist Hu Fu identified four factions within the Dangwai as of early 1984: the Writers and Editors Alliance, the Dangwai Public Policy Research Association (DPPRA, the successor to the DCAG), the Progress Faction (consisting of independent-minded Dangwai politicians Lin Cheng-chieh, Tsai Jen-chian, Tsai Shih-yuan, and their supporters), and the imprisoned Formosa Faction. Later that year,

24

From Opposition to Power

activists from the Writers and Editors Alliance founded the publication that gave them their present-day identity, New Tide Magazine. New Tide offered a clear alternative to all the other tendencies within the Dangwai. The faction that sprang up around the magazine was, as Kuo Cheng-liang writes, “the faction with the highest intellectual level, the strictest discipline, the strongest commitment to struggle and the hardest ideology.”9 It emphasized the power of social movements for bringing about political change, it was sympathetic to Taiwan independence, and it opposed the practice of placing parliamentary participation ahead of other goals. When elected officials from the DCAG founded the DPPRA in 1984, the government made no effort to suppress the group. The ROC regime had just endured a series of embarrassments, including financial scandals at home and the assassination of one of its political enemies in the United States, and it needed to alleviate its reputation for reflexive repression. Critics within the Dangwai were not so restrained. The DPPRA’s mainstream leader, Fei Hsi-ping, stepped down after he was attacked by younger generation activists. In his place, two of the Kaohsiung Incident defense attorneys, Yu Ching and Hsieh Chang-ting, took over leadership of the DPPRA. This event marked the defense attorneys’ induction into the inner circle of Dangwai leadership. Part of their strategy was to use the DPPRA to build a foundation for a new political party. To that end, the group began opening offices around the island in the last weeks of 1985. The Dangwai’s various factions decided to work together in provincial and municipal elections scheduled for January 1985. They held a marathon nominating session on September 28, 1984, at which they whittled a preliminary list of eighty-one aspiring candidates down to forty-two recommended candidates. Yu Ching, one of the defense attorneys, played a key role in bringing the factions together. The election results rewarded the Dangwai’s compromises and cooperation: all eleven of its candidates for Taipei City Council were successful, as were half of its candidates for Kaohsiung City Council, eleven of its eighteen Provincial Assembly candidates, and one of its seven municipal executive hopefuls. Altogether, Dangwai and other non-KMT candidates won 30 percent of the vote. The Dangwai’s slogan in 1985 was “New Party, New Atmosphere, and Self-determination Will Save Taiwan.” The slogan revealed the Dangwai’s most important new initiative: founding an opposition party. Still, this successful collaboration between the DPPRA moderates and the activist Writers and Editors Alliance/New Tide Faction did not eliminate the tension between them. Even as they competed in elections

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25

and organized a national network of DPPRA offices, moderate leaders within the Dangwai were negotiating with a KMT government weakened by a series of domestic and international scandals. In talks mediated through prominent scholars Hu Fu and Yang Kuo-shu, Dangwai notables Yu Ching, Hsieh Chang-ting, Kang Ning-hsiang, Huang Tian-fu, Fei Hsi-ping, Chang Chun-hsiung, Chang Peng-jian, and You Hsi-kun urged the regime to relax pressure on the opposition, if only to avoid another Kaohsiung Incident-style disaster. True to form, the more radical Dangwai activists criticized the negotiations. For example, Chen Shuibian, a member of the defense attorneys group who identified more closely with the activist faction, accused his Dangwai colleagues of being “hooked” (goutong) instead of “communicating” (goutong).10 Internal disagreements did not prevent the Dangwai from forging ahead with its plans to found a political party, a project that united all Dangwai factions. In May of 1986, Kang Ning-hsiang and Lin Chengchieh opened a DPPRA branch in Taipei. One of its committees was called the Committee for Organizing a Party and Carrying Out Its Construction. Dangwai activists spent the summer of 1986 planning and strategizing, and on September 28 of that year they voted to found the Democratic Progressive Party. The party represented a coalition of all the camps within the Dangwai: the Mainstream Faction (or Kang Group), New Tide (formerly the Writers and Editors Alliance), and Lin Chengchieh’s Progress Faction. The Formosa Faction was absent at the founding only because the leading Formosa activists were still behind bars. From the beginning, a division of labor existed within the party between the moderate factions, which included a large number of elected officials, and the New Tide Faction, which was more interested in leading social movements than in winning elected offices. The moderates (first the Kang Group and other centrists, and later the Formosa Faction) dominated the party’s decisionmaking apparatus (the party chair and the Central Standing Committee [CSC]), while New Tide activists obtained a disproportionate share of posts in the party bureaucracy. To do so, New Tide cultivated good relations with the first two party chairs, Chiang Peng-chian and Yao Chia-wen, both of whom were elected with New Tide support. The result was that whereas moderates held the top post and a majority of standing committee seats, the DPP’s general secretary and deputy general secretary came from the New Tide Faction (see Table 2.1). New Tide’s hold on the party apparatus worried many moderates, including the imprisoned Formosa Magazine leaders. When these activists emerged from prison in the late 1980s, they immediately joined other DPP moderates in working to diminish New Tide’s influence.

Table 2.1 Factional Composition of DPP Leadership Year/Position 1986–1987 Chair Gen. Sec. Deputy Gen. Sec. CSC

Formosa

New Tide

Other

Chiang Peng-chian 4 members

Huang Er-hsuan Chiou I-jen 7 members

1987–1988 Chair Gen. Sec. Deputy Gen. Sec. CSC

5 members

Huang Er-hsuan Chiou I-jen 1 member

5 members

1988–1989 Chair Gen. Sec. Deputy Gen. Sec. CSC

Huang Hsin-chieh Chang Chun-hung Tsai Shih-yuan 5 members

1 member

5 members

1989–1991 Chair Gen. Sec. Deputy Gen. Sec. CSC

Huang Hsin-chieh Chang Chun-hung Tsai Shih-yuan 5 members

2 members

Chen Han-ching 4 members

1991–1993 Chair Gen. Sec.

Hsu Hsin-liang Chang Chun-hung

Deputy Gen. Sec. CSC

Yao Chia-wen

4 members

Chen Shih-meng Chiang Peng-chian Chiou I-jen 5 members

1994–1996 Chair Gen. Sec.

Shih Ming-teh Su Chen-chang (Welfare State)

Deputy Gen. Sec. CSC

Chiou I-jen

1996–1998 Chair Gen. Sec. CSC

1 member

Chiou I-jen 3 members

1998–2000 Chair Gen. Sec. CSC

You Hsi-kun 2 members

Chiou I-jen 2 members

2000–2002 Chair Gen. Sec. CSC

2 members (1 Centrist, 1 Indep. Alliance)

Hsu Hsin-liang 6 members (3 Welfare State, 2 Justice Alliance, 1 New Era) Lin Yi-hsiung

Wu Nai-teh

6 members (2 Welfare State, 3 Justice Alliance, 1 New Era) Hsieh Chang-ting (Welfare State)

Sources: Kao Ming-tsung, “Minzhu jinbu dang zhengdang zhuanxing zhi fenxi” (An analysis of the DPP’s transformation) (master’s thesis, Chinese Culture University, 1999), and news reports.

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Chang Chun-hung and Huang Hsin-chieh were pardoned and released in March 1988. They immediately joined the DPP leadership. As Kao Ming-tsung writes, “In order to counter New Tide’s hold on the party apparatus, they joined together the elected officials and political personalities of the centrist group and created the DPP’s largest faction by formally founding the Formosa Faction (Meilidao xi).”11 Their martyrdom burnished the Formosa activists’ heroic reputations, while New Tide’s relentless attacks had tarnished Kang’s, so most of Kang’s followers and other centrists soon were absorbed into the Formosa Faction, although some joined New Tide and a few (including Lin Yi-hsiung and Shih Ming-teh) maintained their independence. The Formosa Faction’s rapid rise to prominence sparked a period of intense factional conflict. From 1988 to 1991, this confrontation was so heated that many observers were convinced the DPP would not survive intact. These predictions turned out to be wrong; after 1991, the intensity of factional competition diminished. But the period of discord damaged the DPP’s credibility and hurt its electoral performance for years to come. From the beginning, the Formosa Faction was centered on personalities, not issues. Most of the opposition’s political celebrities have belonged to Formosa at one time or another. In a sense, it was similar to the factions in Japan’s Liberal Democratic Party. Aspiring politicians affiliated with Formosa because they wanted to partake of its political resources: its power in nominations for electoral and party offices, its contacts with political heavyweights, and its connections with local political networks capable of mobilizing votes and raising money. The faction did not impose much discipline on its members, nor did it require them to embrace a particular ideology or platform. The only obligation Formosa imposed upon faction members was to support its leaders in contests for power within the party. Formosa’s leaders thus could mobilize a significant number of votes both within the party and in general elections, which afforded them considerable influence over the young party’s political decisions. Not surprisingly, given its emphasis on winning elections, Formosa tended to shape its positions on issues to fit public opinion. Thus, it pushed a moderate line in party debates on issues, preferring the preservation of the status quo to a more overtly pro-independence line, for example. The New Tide Faction differs from the Formosa Faction on nearly every measure. Until recently, relatively few New Tide activists held elected offices, and even now its candidates rely more on ideological motivation than mobilization to win votes. Because elections are at the center of Taiwan’s political life, New Tide’s weakness in this area has

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From Opposition to Power

Summary: Factionalism from 1968 to 1988 1. The major division was between the Mainstream Faction, led by Kang Ning-hsiang and dedicated to gradual change through elections, and the activist intellectuals who entered the opposition movement in the 1970s and were committed to changing the system from without. (They organized under two names, the Dangwai Writers and Editors Alliance and the New Tide Faction.) 2. A group that would later be called the Formosa Faction, led by Huang Hsin-chieh, was gaining importance in the late 1970s, when its leaders were jailed after the Kaohsiung Incident (1979). As a result, it temporarily lost influence. 3. The defense attorneys in the Kaohsiung Incident trials constituted a significant force within the Dangwai/DPP. 4. Despite their disagreements, the factions cooperated in elections, and all factions took great risks in challenging the ruling party’s authority. All factions participated in founding the DPP.

diminished its influence in the party. In Taiwan politics, “What have you done for me lately?” is a key question, one that until the mid1990s, Formosa leaders answered more confidently than did the leaders of the New Tide Faction. New Tide’s electoral weakness was due, at least in part, to its own ideology, which held that mass movements were at least as important as electoral victories. As Chiou I-jen put it, Elections are an important catalyst, but it is not true that elections are the only way to come to power. I personally do not believe in armed revolution, but I also do not believe that elections can bring us to power. I believe in the power of a popular, democratic revolution. Without a strong mass movement as its foundation, I do not think the DPP can secure its electoral victories.12

New Tide also differs from Formosa in its strong ideological bent and discipline. Even grassroots-level New Tide activists are expected to pay dues, attend meetings, and commit vast amounts of time and energy to New Tide activities. In the early 1990s, a Formosa supporter in a rural town in southern Taiwan told me that the New Tide branch in her village was a “Stalinist organization,” a characterization that— while extreme—captured the atmosphere within the New Tide Faction at that time. For their part, from the moment they emerged from prison, Huang Hsin-chieh and the other Kaohsiung Incident defendants worked to shape the DPP into a tool for enhancing their own influence and pushing

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for political reforms. Formosa’s increased power inevitably came at the expense of the other major faction, New Tide. As Table 2.1 shows, the Formosa Faction’s rise to power in the DPP was extremely rapid. In 1986, the faction did not exist. By 1988 it controlled all of the key positions in the party, as well as five out of eleven seats on the Central Standing Committee. Still, Formosa was not able to establish a majority on the CSC, in part because during its leaders’ years in prison, other important political forces had emerged, including both New Tide and the defense attorneys. To counter Formosa’s rising strength, among other reasons, New Tide launched a campaign to make Taiwan independence the DPP’s formal position. By promoting a cause with strong emotional and ideological appeal, New Tide hoped to galvanize its own supporters and discredit Formosa’s pragmatic, centrist strategy. Thus, although there is no doubt that many New Tide activists were completely sincere in their devotion to the independence cause, factional conflict was a key motivation for launching the independence campaign. As Chen Wen-chian (Sisy Chen), a former DPP spokesperson and aide to Hsu Hsin-liang, put it, “The intensification of the DPP’s Taiwan independence line was, fundamentally, in large part a consequence of the struggle for power among factions. . . .”13 For years, the Dangwai and then the DPP had campaigned on the idea that Taiwan should have “self-determination.” Conservatives in the KMT interpreted this as a thinly veiled call for independence, but in fact it was not. From 1986 until 1991, the DPP embraced a variety of positions on the independence issue. Lin Cheng-chieh and Chu Kaocheng, both of whom supported unification, attained high positions in the DPP leadership. Whereas the call for self-determination masked a longing for independence in many DPP members’ hearts, the party’s official policy asked only that the Taiwanese people as a whole—and not a Mainlander-dominated KMT government—decide the island’s future direction. But as the government lifted its speech restrictions and met many of the opposition’s political reform demands, advocating Taiwan independence seemed both more feasible and more desirable. In 1987, at the height of New Tide influence in the DPP, the party adopted a plank in its platform stating that “people have the right to advocate Taiwan independence.” In 1988, the party passed the April 17 Resolutions, which clarified and expanded its self-determination views. One read, “Taiwan’s international sovereignty is independent; it is not part of the People’s Republic of China with its capital in Beijing.” The other said, “Any change in Taiwan’s international status must be approved by the entire Taiwanese people.” In addition, the party listed

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From Opposition to Power

conditions under which the party would advocate Taiwan independence. The “four ifs” were the brainchildren of Chen Shui-bian: If the Kuomintang and the Communists enter into one-sided peace talks, if the KMT sells out the interests of the Taiwanese people, if the Chinese Communists “unify” Taiwan, or if the KMT does not institute real democratic constitutional government, this party should advocate Taiwan independence.14

Formosa Faction leaders, especially Chang Chun-hung and Hsu Hsin-liang (who became an important Formosa figure upon his return to Taiwan in 1989), were wary of independence, which they believed (rightly, as it turned out) would antagonize the KMT and frighten voters. They argued that the DPP should stick with self-determination and preserving the status quo. Hsu even argued that the DPP should accept the national name “Republic of China on Taiwan,” a position that was rejected by his own party but adopted by the KMT. But New Tide kept up the pressure, and Taiwan independence zealots branded the Formosa leaders “unificationists.” New Tide used its tightly knit organization to demonstrate the enthusiasm of the DPP’s core supporters for the independence cause. In legislative elections held in December 1989, New Tide candidates ran as the New Nation Alliance (xin guojia lianxian). At their campaign rallies they welcomed the crowds with “Good evening, citizens of the state of Taiwan (Taiwan guo).”15 The DPP’s pro-independence wing picked up strength in 1990 when the government began to allow overseas advocates of Taiwan independence back into the country. (Ironically, Hsu Hsin-liang had urged exiles to return, for he thought the DPP lacked suitable candidates to compete in elections.)16 They immediately began pressing their cause within the DPP. Although their numbers were small, given the neck-and-neck competition between the leading factions, the returning exiles helped to tip the balance in favor of independence. In October 1990, the DPP passed a resolution stating, “Our country’s actual sovereignty does not extend to mainland China or Outer Mongolia. Our country’s future internal political and constitutional system and its foreign policy should be built upon its actual territorial boundaries.”17 In 1991 the National Party Congress responded to the nationwide debate over constitutional reform by approving a Draft Constitution of the Republic of Taiwan. The showdown between New Tide and Formosa came in October 1991. Hsu Hsin-liang (Formosa) and Shih Ming-teh (who had no factional affiliation) were the front-runners for the party chairmanship. For many DPP activists, Shih symbolized the DPP’s tragic qualities. Originally sentenced to life for his involvement in the Kaohsiung Incident, Shih served

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the longest prison term of all the defendants. (He had also served a lengthy prison term before the Kaohsiung Incident.) Initially, Shih had New Tide’s support. Hsu, in contrast, was a seasoned politician who had spent ten years in exile. He represented a more active, pragmatic tendency within the party. In order to secure the chairmanship, Hsu (and the Formosa Faction) decided to accede to New Tide’s core demand.18 They agreed to amend the DPP platform to include the following provision: “Based on the fundamental rights of the people, the establishment of a sovereign Taiwan Republic and the formation of a new constitution shall be determined by all citizens of Taiwan through a national referendum.” In addition, Hsu promised New Tide’s Chiou I-jen the post of deputy secretary-general. Neither of Hsu’s two secretaries general had connections to either major faction. Hsu began backtracking from the independence plank almost as soon as he took over the party chairmanship. He told the KMT that the plank represented the DPP’s position, but that he recognized the impossibility of implementing such a plan unilaterally. He also argued that it was the DPP’s responsibility to inform the rest of the world that not all Taiwanese agreed with the KMT’s plans for unification with mainland China. He also tried to soften the effects of the change by naming the following as the DPP’s “most important responsibilities”: “to compete with the KMT and strive for popular support, to consolidate a domestic consensus, to compete with China, and to strive for international support.”19 None of these gestures muted the effects of the independence plank, however. For better or for worse, the DPP had taken on the mantle of the “party of independence”; this garment would not easily be cast off. Several factors helped to end the acute stage of New Tide-Formosa conflict. First, when Hsu Hsin-liang became party chair, he agreed to share power with New Tide’s most important strategist, Chiou I-jen. In addition, the compromise that allowed Hsu to become the party chair alleviated the tension significantly. By accepting the independence plank, Formosa gave New Tide the opportunity to make the case for independence. If the party’s new stance increased its popularity, New Tide could take credit for that success. If it drove away voters, Formosa’s pragmatic strategy would be proven right. As it turned out, New Tide won the battle, but lost the war. The DPP turned in its worst performance in years in the 1991 National Assembly election, largely, although not entirely, because the independence plank frightened the voters. Since then, DPP moderates have made energetic efforts to distance themselves from Taiwan independence. The party has adopted the position that the status quo is independence, so the party’s goal is to preserve the status quo.

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Nonetheless, many voters (not to mention PRC leaders and international media) still view the DPP as the party of independence. The formation of additional factions also helped mitigate the conflict between Formosa and New Tide. According to Kuo Cheng-liang, the Kaohsiung Incident defense attorneys and other unaffiliated DPP officials found themselves squeezed between the warring Formosa and New Tide factions. To diffuse the conflict and prevent the party from splitting, they formed factions of their own.20 During the 1991 National Assembly campaign, Chen Shui-bian founded the Justice Alliance (zhengyi lianxian), the first faction made up of elected officials. The faction became a haven for political superstars such as Lu Hsiu-lien, Peng Pai-hsien, and Shen Fu-hsiung, who wanted to combine political independence with influence in the party. Thus, the Justice Alliance is looser than other factions, since its high-profile members have little need to cooperate. The faction gained a major boost in 1994 when Chen became Taipei’s first popularly elected mayor since 1967, and another boost in 2000, when Chen Shui-bian ascended to the presidency. Shen Fu-hsiung took Chen’s place as Justice Alliance head. In 1992, Hsieh Chang-ting, Yao Chia-wen, Su Chen-chang, Chang Chun-hsiung, Yu Ching, and others formed another faction of elected officials, the Welfare State Alliance (fuli guo lianxian), merging two small factions, the Hsieh Faction and the Centrists. The Welfare State Alliance is widely viewed as a catchall for unaffiliated party celebrities. About the same time, Chou Po-lun formed the Progressive Alliance (jinbu lianxian). Later, several former exiles who had been active in the overseas group World United Formosans for Independence formed the Independence Alliance (taidu lianmeng). These new factions diluted the influence of Formosa and New Tide and created new opportunities for coalition building within the party. DPP factions continued to multiply in the late 1990s. In 1999, Chang Chun-hung left the Formosa Faction to found New Era (xin shidai). In June 2000, the Formosa Faction effectively dissolved when one of its remaining members, Hsu Rong-shu, established New Energy (xin dongli). It would be a mistake to assume that the growing number of DPP factions reflects increased disharmony within the party. On the contrary, as the number of factions has grown, their competition has become less public and less fierce. The 2000 presidential campaign provided a powerful motive to hang together, and Chen Shui-bian’s victory was an equally powerful reward. Once the election was over, resistance from the KMT majority in the Legislative Yuan provided yet another compelling reason to keep the DPP together. Thus, despite policy disagreements between Chen and some DPP members on such issues as

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cross-strait relations and nuclear power, the behavior of DPP factions and leaders since the presidential election suggests that the party will hold together, at least until elections scheduled for late 2001. Shortly after the presidential election, DPP legislators banded together to form the Mainstream Alliance. The purpose of the alliance was to support President Chen in the Legislative Yuan. Only two factions— New Era and New Tide—declined to participate, and they did so without acrimony. In addition, the factions agreed to give Hsieh Chang-ting a clear path to the party chairmanship, thereby avoiding a public fight over the post. The New Tide candidate, Hung Chi-chang, withdrew from the chair’s race, reportedly in exchange for Hsieh’s promise to support Wu Nai-teh for the post of secretary-general. The factional unity displayed during the presidential campaign continued at the 2000 DPP congress. Two controversial issues could have erupted at the conference. First, some party members hoped to revive earlier proposals to reform the party’s organizational structure. Second, DPP legislator Chen Chao-nan planned to make a formal proposal scrapping the DPP’s pro-independence position. Legislator Chen first suggested the change immediately after the presidential election, offering it as a gesture of goodwill aimed at overcoming Beijing’s opposition to President Chen Shui-bian. When the party congress convened in July, both issues were set aside. The delegates declined to act on the question of structural reform. Instead, they decided to wait for President Chen to take a leading role. And in the end, Chen Chao-nan withdrew his controversial antiindependence proposal, arguing (as did many other DPP leaders) that such a concession was “inappropriate and unfair” so long as Beijing refused to respond to President Chen’s previous overtures and continued to threaten Taiwan militarily.21 DPP politicians have good reason to emphasize unity and harmony. KMT legislators blocked President Chen’s every move in his early months in office, making it clear that only a DPP legislative majority could secure the DPP’s status as the ruling party. To win such a victory will be extremely difficult, and will require the full cooperation of every DPP member and politician. However, there is a chance that voters will be so turned off by the KMT’s obstinacy that the DPP may be able to deprive the Kuomintang of a legislative majority in 2001. Thus, DPP legislators (and potential legislative candidates) have every reason to help their party succeed. Adding to their motivation is the fact that if the DPP increases its legislative presence in 2001, many DPP legislators and deputy cabinet ministers can expect to receive cabinet appointments. Thus, whereas factions will continue to exist and to structure

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competition for party offices and legislative nominations, we can expect the DPP to present a relatively united front to the outside world, at least until the end of 2001. Although the party held only a small share of elected offices in the 1980s and early 1990s, the DPP’s machinations and activism were not in vain. Shortly after the party was founded, the pace of political reform in Taiwan accelerated. The government, under the leadership of President Chiang Ching-kuo and his successor, President Lee Teng-hui, made a series of concessions to the opposition agenda. In 1987, Chiang lifted martial law, legalizing political parties and new mass media outlets. Restrictions on political speech disappeared overnight (although advocacy of communism and Taiwan independence remained off-limits). In 1990, President Lee (who assumed office in 1988, after Chiang’s death) sponsored a National Affairs Conference, at which representatives of the KMT and DPP discussed the future direction of reform. Among other things, they agreed that the national representative bodies—the Legislative Yuan and National Assembly—should be entirely reconstituted with members elected by the people of Taiwan. Such elections were carried out in 1991 and 1992. In 1994, the first direct election was held for a Taiwan provincial governor, along with long-suspended mayoral elections in Taipei and Kaohsiung. And in 1996 the people of Taiwan directly elected their president for the first time. In addition to these highly visible reforms, Taiwan’s political system was reconfigured in innumerable smaller ways to make it more open and democratic.

Summary: Factionalism from 1988 to 2000 1. The Formosa Faction was founded by the Kaohsiung Incident defendants upon their release from prison. It quickly became the largest, most powerful faction. 2. Between 1989 and 1991, New Tide tried to counter Formosa’s influence by pushing for Taiwan independence. The result was the DPP’s decision to adopt the independence plank in 1991. 3. The proliferation of factions after 1991, the independence plank’s failure in elections, and the institutionalization of factional competition combined to alleviate inter-factional conflict after 1991. Ideological debates diminished in frequency and intensity. 4. Between 1991 and 2000, the number of factions multiplied. By 2000, there were half a dozen factions, most of which participated in the Mainstream Alliance in the Legislative Yuan. Their primary function was to structure negotiations over party policies and nominations.

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Although many factors were important in prompting the ROC government to democratize Taiwan’s political system, there is no question that relentless pressure from the opposition, backed by its strong showing in elections, was an essential component of the mix. Paradoxically, however, the institutional reforms in which the DPP played so important a role did not bring the opposition party to power. On the contrary, the DPP’s performance in national elections stagnated at 30–35 percent of the vote. Although its legislative influence grew as the KMT weakened, the DPP still is nowhere near winning a majority of seats in the legislature. It has done better in local races; DPP executives now administer thirteen of Taiwan’s twenty-three municipalities, and the party has controlled Taiwan’s two largest cities (Taipei, under Chen Shui-bian, from 1994 to 1998, and Kaohsiung, under Hsieh Chang-ting, since 1998). Still, even the DPP’s greatest success to date—Chen’s 2000 presidential victory—was accomplished with only 39 percent of the popular vote. It is worth considering why this vibrant and active party has made such limited progress.

NOTES 1. In addition to the KMT, the ROC had two domesticated “opposition” parties prior to the DPP’s founding, the China Youth Party and the China Social Democratic Party. Neither provided any real political opposition or supervision in the pre-reform era, and neither was able to remain relevant after the reforms took hold. 2. Jiuling niandai: Taiwan qiantu zhudao renwu, minjindang 1 (The 1990s: Taiwan’s future leaders, the Democratic Progressive Party, volume 1) (Taipei: Tianhsiang Publishing Company, 1989), 114. 3. Hsu Hsin-liang was impeached and removed from his post as Taoyuan county executive because he participated in these protests. 4. Jiuling niandai, 3. 5. Li Hsiao-feng, Taiwan minzhu yundong 40 nian (Forty years of Taiwan’s democratic movement) (Taipai: Independence Evening Post Publishing Company, 1989), 146. 6. Ibid., 146. 7. Hsu Hsin-liang also saw his reputation tarnished by accusations that he had evaded the fate of his Formosa Magazine colleagues. 8. Quoted in Li, Taiwan minzhu, 188. 9. Kuo Cheng-liang, Minjindang zhuanxing zhi tong (The DPP’s painful transformation) (Taipei: Tianhsia Publishing Company, 1998), 166. 10. Li, Taiwan minzhu, 227. 11. Kao Ming-tsung, “Minzhu jinbu dang zhengdang zhuanxing zhi fenxi” (An analysis of the DPP’s transformation) (master’s thesis, Chinese Culture University, 1999), 71. 12. Quoted in Hsia Chen, Hsu Hsin-liang de zhengzhi shijie (The political world of Hsu Hsin-liang (Taipei: Tianhsia Publishing Company, 1998), 170.

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13. Quoted in Kao, Minzhu jinbu, 72. 14. Kuo, Minjindang, 65. 15. Kao, Minzhu jinbu, 73, n. 53. 16. Hsia, Hsu Hsin-liang, 174. 17. Quoted in Kuo, Minjindang, 66. 18. According to James A. Robinson, another consideration also influenced this decision. By amending the party charter and platform in this way, the DPP hoped to force the KMT to back down on a law outlawing the advocacy of Taiwanese independence. 19. Hsia, Hsu Hsin-liang, 183. 20. Kuo, Minjindang, 166 21. Taipei Times, 16 July 2000. Available online at: http://www.taipeitimes. com/news/2000/07/16/story/0000043942.

3

Roadblocks on the DPP’s Path to Power

In its short lifetime, the DPP has experienced triumph and frustration. In this, it is like any other political party. But for the DPP, frustration outweighs triumph. Even the party’s greatest success—capturing the presidency—was limited, since without a legislative majority, the party could not push through its policy objectives. The fundamental problem facing the DPP is this: after fourteen years in existence, it rarely attracts more than 40 percent of the vote in national or local elections. This is not enough to win a majority in the legislature, and it can bring success in executive elections only if the DPP’s opponents are divided. This state of affairs may well change now that the DPP holds the presidency; breaking the 40 percent barrier is the party’s main goal for the 2001 legislative elections. But doing so will require the party to overcome a number of structural impediments.

THE KMT’S IDEOLOGICAL FLEXIBILITY One of the most vexing problems facing the DPP has been the KMT’s talent for co-opting the opposition’s popular ideas. For example, the KMT, which suppressed democracy advocates for decades, today takes credit for Taiwan’s democratization. In January, Vice President Lien Chan said, “Lee [Teng-hui] is regarded as ‘Mr. Democracy’ by the foreign media, the man who led Taiwan into becoming a democratic country.”1 In fact, although KMT leaders eventually acknowledged the need for reform, without pressure from the opposition, change would have come much more slowly, and with more limited results. A more specific example of the KMT taking over a DPP proposal is the ruling party’s decision in 1993 to pursue a seat in the United

37

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Nations. DPP politicians, particularly Vice President Lu Hsiu-lien (Annette Lu), began agitating for a UN bid in 1990. They argued that Taiwan should seek representation in the United Nations alongside the PRC. When Taiwan independence proved counterproductive as a campaign issue in the 1991 National Assembly elections, the DPP looked to the UN idea as an opportunity to rebuild its credibility in international affairs. In fact, the UN bid was an immediate hit with the public, and it was a very successful issue for DPP candidates in the 1992 Legislative Yuan race. At first, the KMT was unable to embrace the UN concept because hard-liners within the party opposed any move that might undercut the notion that the ROC was the one and only Chinese state. Entering the UN, even in the guise of a second China, was unacceptable to the old guard. But in 1993, Lee Teng-hui and his Mainstream Faction engineered the hard-liners’ removal from power, liberating the party from the ideological straitjacket it had worn since Chiang Kai-shek’s day. Immediately, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs began preparations for a UN bid. Thus, the DPP’s most successful campaign issue in 1992 became a KMT policy initiative a year later. Ordinarily, ideology and historical practice prevent political parties from gobbling up their opponents’ positions. But as a single party driving the entire ROC political system, the prereform KMT needed to be open to a variety of policy paths. Unlike a multiparty system, the ROC’s political market had only one merchant; all policy initiatives came from within the KMT. Thus, over the course of its long tenure as Taiwan’s ruling party, the KMT learned to take a flexible approach to public policy. In its domestic policy, at least, the ROC government was remarkably adaptable. It adjusted its economic policies regularly to capture new opportunities, and its strategy for winning elections was innovative and pragmatic. For many years, the only strong ideological constraint on the KMT was its commitment to mainland recovery and the unification of Taiwan with mainland China. The DPP developed several policy positions aimed at exploiting the KMT’s dogmatism on these issues, advocating direct elections for national leaders and the elimination of the provincial government—both of which were popular with voters but violated KMT hard-liners’ standards for preserving the ROC equals China fiction. Once the hard-liners were driven out in 1993, even these issues were open to negotiation. In addition, the KMT was able to co-opt popular DPP proposals because the voters were willing to give credence to its policy shifts. If the DPP were stronger, with more popular support, it might have been able to resist these hostile takeovers. But at least until March 2000, Taiwanese

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were so accustomed to recognizing the KMT as the party of government that only when the KMT took up a policy initiative did most voters believe there was hope of achieving it. Thus, voters have proven quick to put aside their skepticism and reward the KMT for adopting new policies, even at the expense of the opposition party that originated the idea. Only when the KMT fails to act on its promises over a long period of time do voters tend to rate the opposition above the ruling party. For example, the KMT tried—but failed—to steal the DPP’s thunder on anticorruption and environmental issues. It failed because it did not back up its rhetoric with action, and its credibility suffered.2 The KMT has continued its strategy of co-opting DPP proposals under President Chen. In fact, KMT legislators hijacked the new administration’s first major legislative initiative, a proposal to reduce working hours from forty-eight to forty-four per week. Instead of passing the bill offered by the cabinet, KMT legislators introduced a countermeasure. Their proposal, which passed, outdid that of the DPP by offering to cut working hours even further, to eighty-four per every two weeks. The KMT’s flexibility on ideological and policy matters is reinforced by another peculiarity of Taiwanese politics: Taiwan’s political cleavages do not follow socioeconomic fault lines.

THE ABSENCE OF CLASS-BASED POLITICS In most democracies, political parties developed in response to the divergent interests of different socioeconomic classes. Great Britain and several other countries make this distinction explicitly, calling their parties Labour and Conservative. But even where parties have other names, their differences tend to center on their positions on an economically defined left-right spectrum. In Taiwan, however, political parties do not represent class interests. This fact works against the DPP in practice. There are two main reasons for the absence of class politics in Taiwan, and two main results. To begin with, the context in which party politics developed was dominated by political concerns. From the beginning, the opposition’s central motivation was to overturn the KMT’s authoritarian ruling structure. People joined the Dangwai Movement and the DPP because they opposed the KMT, for many different reasons. Each opposition activist has a unique complex of motives combining historical resentment, family tradition, personal relationships, ideological conviction, careerism, commitment to Taiwan independence, a desire to protect the environment, and so on. What unites these disparate individuals is the

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recognition that the most plausible strategy for removing the KMT from power is to offer an alternative. Opposition activists share a political agenda, but their economic interests are anything but uniform. In fact, they often are contradictory. For example, many DPP supporters are entrepreneurs in small, private companies. Their opposition to the KMT stems, in part, from their resentment of the favored treatment the ruling party has given to big business at the expense of small and medium-sized enterprises. At the same time, however, many DPP supporters are environmentalists and labor activists who oppose other aspects of the KMT’s economic policies. Obviously, these groups do not have parallel economic interests. A second reason for the lack of economic politics in Taiwan is the KMT’s economic strategy. Since the 1940s, the KMT has worked to secure a base of support in all socioeconomic classes. When its economic policies have promoted the interests of one group above another, the party has used patronage and pork barrel projects to compensate the losers. The result is a party that, like the DPP, embraces a range of social classes. One of the KMT’s most brilliant successes, both politically and economically, was the land reform program undertaken in the early 1950s. The ROC government purchased large holdings and sold them to the tenants who worked the land on very favorable terms. The policy undercut the political and economic power of the landlord class, secured the political support of individual farm families, and increased agricultural productivity. At the same time, the KMT promoted heavy industry, which benefited both entrepreneurs and industrial workers. The only Taiwanese whose economic contributions economic policymakers consistently undervalued were entrepreneurs in small and medium-sized firms. (The government generally left them on their own, with little access to credit, subsidies, or other government assistance.) However, the party purchased their compliance through pork barrel schemes and kickbacks to the grassroots political networks to which most of these entrepreneurs belonged. Taiwan’s classless politics has important consequences for the DPP. Above all, it forces the DPP to lean heavily on noneconomic issues. But noneconomic issues usually are less important to voters than economic concerns. When the DPP was founded, most Taiwanese were satisfied with the KMT-led government’s economic performance, but many resented its authoritarian tendencies and discriminatory treatment of Taiwanese. Consequently, in the early years the DPP emphasized ethnic justice and democratization. For many voters, these issues were more important than economics, and the DPP’s vote share increased

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steadily. However, after 1989, the ROC government implemented many of the DPP’s reform proposals, and the Taiwanese came to play the leading role in the KMT and the ROC government. In effect, the ruling party met the DPP’s demands, which left the opposition casting about for new issues to mobilize its supporters. Finding new issues has proven difficult, and the DPP made its predicament worse when it reformulated the demand for ethnic justice and self-determination into a call for Taiwan independence. Most Taiwanese remain satisfied with the KMT’s economic performance, and many worry that the DPP’s independence platform is unnecessary and provocative. As a result, while the Taiwanese complain about political corruption, environmental destruction, economic inequality, and other issues on which the DPP leads the KMT, they tend to vote on economics and national security, and on these issues, the DPP trails the ruling party. Classless politics also creates another problem: conflicts of interest within the opposition party. The DPP is a coalition of anti-KMT political elements; its members have very little in common, aside from their dislike of the ruling party. As a result, when the party attempts to articulate strong positions on policy questions, it often provokes internal squabbles. The clearest example is the DPP’s reputation as an antibusiness party. DPP moderates find this reputation troubling, but others, including many in the New Tide Faction, believe the DPP should be a voice for labor and environmental concerns. Because there is not a strong consensus on the issue, individual DPP politicians are free to oppose specific industrial projects. When they do, they reinforce the perception that the DPP opposes business interests. For example, in 1998, the German chemical giant Bayer AG cancelled a huge industrial project planned for Taichung County after the county executive, a DPP politician, insisted on subjecting the project to a local referendum. Although the DPP chair favored the Bayer project, the fact that a DPP-led local government opposed it reinforced the DPP’s antibusiness reputation. (The Bayer controversy is discussed in detail in Chapter 6.) The perception that the DPP opposes the interests of business was further reinforced by President Chen’s decisions to cancel a planned dam in southern Taiwan and halt construction of a fourth nuclear power plant. Both projects were aimed at supporting industrial expansion.

THE SVMM ELECTORAL SYSTEM When Japan reformed its electoral system in 1993, Taiwan became the only country in the world still using the electoral formula known by the

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cumbersome name “single, nontransferable voting in multimember districts” (SVMM).3 Taiwan uses the SVMM system for all of its representative bodies: the Legislative Yuan, National Assembly (until the National Assembly was reduced to an ad hoc body in 2000), Provincial Assembly (until 1994, when the last Provincial Assembly election was held), municipal and town and township councils. Under this formula, each voter selects a single candidate, but the great majority of districts have at least two representatives. Districts are drawn along municipal boundaries; in order to maintain equal representation, the number of members elected from each district—the district magnitude—varies according to population. Taiwan’s legislative districts have anywhere from one representative to more than a dozen. To win an SVMM election, a candidate does not need a majority of the votes cast; it is necessary only to finish near the top. The larger the district magnitude, the more candidates enter the race. As the number of candidates increases, the percentage of the vote required to win a seat diminishes. A handful of Taiwanese districts have only one representative; elections in these districts are, in essence, plurality elections. But where the district magnitude is large, the percentage of votes needed to capture a seat can be quite small. For example, in a district with five evenly matched candidates (a modest-sized field by Taiwanese standards), one or more candidates might well be elected with fewer than 20 percent of the votes cast. In one extreme case, a candidate was elected to the Legislative Yuan with less than 3 percent of the vote, in a district in which forty-eight candidates were competing for sixteen seats. The SVMM formula has far-reaching political consequences. Above all, it favors large parties with ample resources to manage candidates and mobilize supporters; in Taiwan, that means it favors the KMT. SVMM elections benefit large, well-organized parties because in order to achieve a legislative majority under this system a political party must plan and execute an intricate strategy. In order to maximize its share of legislative seats, a party must win multiple seats in most districts. To do this, it faces a twofold challenge: first, it must accurately estimate the number of votes it can expect to receive in each district (so as to nominate the ideal number of candidates); second, it must make sure that its votes are distributed evenly among its nominees. If the votes are not distributed evenly, one or two candidates may win with votes to spare, while the rest are defeated. The KMT first competed in SVMM elections in the 1950s. Over the years, the party developed an effective procedure for managing

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43

these elections. The process relies on the cooperation of grassroots political machines; the KMT rewards the local bosses and factions that participate with patronage positions, political endorsements, and pork barrel projects. Prior to each election, potential candidates meet with party leaders and faction bosses to estimate the number of votes the party can capture in each district. (Theoretically, any group of candidates could agree to divide the vote in their district; but in practice, only the KMT has had the organizational resources and vote share to carry out such a strategy on a large scale, although the DPP has made some progress in this area.) The sources for these estimates are grassroots political bosses known by their Taiwanese name tiau-a-ka. These men and women also are charged with delivering the votes they have reported. Those who do so are rewarded with material benefits and enhanced social status. Many voters accept tiau-a-kas’ recommendations because they trust their political judgment; this is especially true in races in which many candidates are competing, since a long ballot makes it difficult to choose a candidate. It also is common for tiau-akas to provide gifts or payments to encourage compliance. Based on the tiau-a-kas’ estimates, KMT officials in each district nominate only as many candidates as they can elect, given the number of votes reported. Once the KMT slate is set, the nominees negotiate a division of turf, assigning to each one a “responsibility zone” containing enough reliable KMT votes to elect the candidate. Apportioning votes correctly is extremely important. A candidate who secures too few votes will lose, but one who secures too many wastes votes that could have helped elect a less popular nominee. If the estimates of vote resources are accurate and no candidate poaches in another’s territory, dividing turf makes elections less costly and more predictable for everyone. Until the mid-1980s, the real competition in most elections was finished long before the voters marked their ballots, because what really mattered was the KMT’s nominating process. Once nominated and assigned to a responsibility zone, a KMT candidate was home free. In the absence of strong competition, SVMM elections actually can reduce conflict within large parties. An SVMM race is not necessarily a zero-sum game; on the contrary, SVMM elections have many winners. Thus, before the DPP came on the scene, the SVMM formula encouraged cooperation among KMT candidates. As competition from outside the KMT increased, however, KMT politicians were less and less willing to risk their own positions to help the party as a whole. They began poaching in one another’s responsibility zones and bidding up the price of votes, which raised the cost of campaigning and increased politicians’ incentives to participate in corruption.

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From Opposition to Power

Executive elections are the Achilles’ heel of the KMT political machine. Unlike SVMM elections, contests for municipal and township executive posts can have only one winner. Thus, they force local factions to compete against one another. For many years, the KMT used a strategy of alternating factions in these offices in order to minimize conflict, but this approach had limited success, especially in the 1970s and 1980s, when local factions began to appreciate their own importance to the ruling party. When an opposition candidate entered an executive race, the local faction that had lost the contest for the KMT nomination now had a new weapon at its disposal: it could refuse to mobilize votes for the KMT candidate—or even throw its support behind the opposition candidate. Beginning in 1977, this kind of behavior became increasingly common. As elections became more competitive, local factions became ever more powerful.

Special Focus: Measuring Parties’ Performance in SVMM Elections Competition from outside the KMT, and especially from an organized opponent such as the DPP, makes SVMM elections much more unmanageable for the ruling party. Nonetheless, the KMT still does a better job than the DPP, which lacks the grassroots infrastructure required to maximize its performance. One way to measure this is to look at the parties’ “seat bonuses,” the difference between the percentage of the vote they receive and the percentage of seats they win. To achieve a large seat bonus—and in order to make every vote count—a party must implement its SVMM strategy skillfully. If opposing parties do not make their votes count, the successful party will end up transforming its share of the vote into a larger share of seats in the legislature. Table 3.1 shows the seat bonuses resulting from Legislative Yuan elections in the 1980s and 1990s. It illustrates two points. First, the fact that the KMT achieved a seat bonus in every election proves that it is better at managing SVMM elections than its opponents. Second, the diminishing size of the KMT’s seat bonuses suggests that it is not as far ahead as it used to be. There is another, more graphic, way to illustrate the KMT’s track record in mobilizing voters for SVMM elections. Figure 3.1 shows how two hypothetical parties’ candidates performed relative to the number of votes required to win a seat. Those who won 100 percent or more of the quota were elected (“quota” refers to the percentage of the vote won by the lowest-ranked successful candidate); those below 100 percent

45

Roadblocks on the DPP’s Path to Power Table 3.1 Seat Bonuses in Legislative Yuan Elections (percentage of seats won minus percentage of votes won) Year KMT Dangwai/DPP Other

1980

1983

1986

1989

1992

1995

1998

+8 –6 –2

+16 –12 –4

+11 –8 –3

+11 –10 –1

+2 0 –2

+4 0 –3

+8 +2 –10

were not. The tall bar at the center of Figure 3.1 shows the ideal outcome for a political party hoping to maximize its share of seats in an SVMM race: all of the party’s candidates won exactly as many votes as they needed to be elected. None were defeated, and none wasted votes. In contrast, a party whose votes were distributed randomly would produce the opposite result: a flat distribution across all categories, with votes wasted at each end. Figures 3.2, 3.3, and 3.4 show the actual results of three legislative elections. Clearly, the KMT’s performance comes closer to the ideal than does the DPP’s (or the New Party’s). KMT candidates tended to cluster around the quota: most candidates got close to the percentage they needed to be elected. Relatively few were defeated, and relatively few won by margins wide enough to have elected an additional KMT candidate in the district. The DPP’s performance was less successful. The relatively even height of the bars in the figures shows that some DPP candidates won with far more votes than they needed, while others, who might have been helped by sharing the vote more evenly, were defeated.

CANDIDATE-ORIENTED VOTING A fourth peculiarity of Taiwan politics that hinders the DPP is its weak tradition of party identification and issue-oriented voting. There are both cultural and institutional explanations for this phenomenon. Culturally, Taiwanese strongly value personal relationships and connections, so voting for a person—rather than a party or set of issue positions—is comfortable for many Taiwanese. However, ROC political institutions play a critical role in reinforcing this inclination. Under a different political system, the Taiwanese might well vote on the basis of party identification and issue preferences, but the structure of elections makes this unlikely at present. The institutional causes of Taiwan’s personalistic voting patterns are numerous.

Figure 3.1 Ideal Versus Poor Performance in SVMM Elections

Figure 3.2 Party Performance in the 1989 Legislative Yuan Election

Figure 3.3 Party Performance in the 1992 Legislative Yuan Election

Figure 3.4 Party Performance in the 1995 Legislative Yuan Election

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From Opposition to Power

• Because the SVMM system requires voters to choose among candidates representing the same party, party cues are not very useful. In a study of the SVMM system in Japan, political scientist Thomas Rochon found that whereas candidate-oriented voting was prevalent in Japan, this was the case only where parties nominated more than one candidate in a district. In cases in which only one candidate represented a party in a district, voters were much more likely to say they made their decision on the basis of party identification.4 • The SVMM system mutes the importance of issues in campaigns. Members of a party who are trying to divide their party’s votes evenly are reluctant to compete on the basis of issues, since to do so would damage party unity and coherence. Instead, they try to distinguish themselves on the basis of personal qualities, often dividing the vote according to “image niches.” • Martial law provisions in effect until 1987 prevented the development of party identification by limiting Taiwan to one party. Meanwhile, martial law also allowed the KMT to squelch meaningful discussions of political issues. For more than four decades, Taiwan had only one real political party, a fact that made party identification moot. At the same time, the government-controlled media prevented free-ranging political debate and issue discussions. Since 1987, both party identification and the availability of information about public policy (and political candidates’ positions on the issues) have increased substantially, and issues have become much more important. Taiwan’s authoritarian past also has another effect: until the 1990s, elected officials—even members of the Legislative Yuan—had very little real power. Thus, the positions candidates took on the issues made little real difference, a fact not lost on the voters. • Taiwan’s machine politics encourages candidate-oriented voting. Under this mode of political mobilization, voters look to grassroots political bosses to tell them for whom they should vote. These political bosses tend to emphasize the personal qualities of the candidates they recommend (especially their ability and willingness to provide services to constituents) rather than their positions on issues.

THE LENINIST ORGANIZATIONAL MODEL Taiwan’s political parties show the strong influence of China’s relationship with the former Soviet Union when the KMT was in its infancy. Like its rival, the Chinese Communist Party, the Kuomintang borrowed heavily from the Soviet Communists’ Leninist organizational model.

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Thus, the KMT is led by a strong party chair (who for most of its history also served as the president of the ROC), a central standing committee, and a central committee. When the DPP formed, it too followed this model, emulating the only party it knew well. But unlike the KMT, which concentrated political resources and decisionmaking authority in the hands of the party chair, the DPP is highly democratic internally. The DPP chair and standing committee have few political resources to use to enforce their decisions; as a result, they lead by negotiation and compromise. In short, the DPP’s formal organization is inappropriate for the political conditions it faces. This weakens the party’s effectiveness. (For a detailed discussion of party organization, see Chapter 4; for an analysis of factionalism, see Chapter 5.)

TAIWAN’S UNIQUE INTERNATIONAL STATUS Taiwan’s international status—or its lack—and the hard constraint imposed by its troubled relationship with the People’s Republic of China are extremely important factors helping to shape the DPP’s development. Unlike most other young political parties, the DPP grew up in the shadow of an overwhelming external threat. This danger affected the DPP’s growth in four major ways: 1. The threat of conflict with the PRC makes Taiwanese voters cautious. Given the very real possibility of military confrontation, most Taiwanese prefer to avoid provoking China unless Taiwan’s fundamental interests are at stake. To date, the ruling party has avoided conflict with Beijing, making it a good bet for maintaining peace and stability in the eyes of most Taiwanese. Voters are willing to put the DPP in charge of municipal governments, which do not have much say in cross-strait affairs. But when it comes to national politics, their preference for stability makes the Taiwanese reluctant to give the DPP more power—and even more reluctant to make it the ruling party. Even Chen Shui-bian, whose statements about cross-strait relations were anything but provocative, attracted the votes of only 40 percent of Taiwan’s electorate. 2. One of the central challenges facing the DPP has been to develop issues and positions that can win over new voters. But as we have seen, the KMT’s flexible ideology allows it to swallow up the DPP’s successful policy proposals. One issue on which the KMT did not enjoy flexibility in the past is the definition of the state. Until 1993, the DPP was the only voice in Taiwan offering a strong defense of Taiwanese cultural nationalism and de facto autonomy. Since 1993, however,

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From Opposition to Power

the KMT has eroded the DPP’s leadership even on this issue. Lee Tenghui’s Mainstream Faction marginalized his party’s pro-unification group in 1993, driving several leading unificationists to quit the KMT and found the New Party. Since then, the Kuomintang has moved much closer to the DPP’s position. In fact, Lee Teng-hui’s July 1999 description of cross-strait ties as a “special state-to-state relationship” and Chen Shui-bian’s moderate stance on cross-strait relations leave a narrowing gap between KMT and DPP policies on this issue. 3. The smoldering conflict between Taipei and Beijing gives the KMT a credible and salient argument against the DPP. Whenever the DPP begins gaining political ground, the KMT reminds voters of two facts: First, the PRC leadership says a DPP government in Taiwan is unacceptable because the DPP’s goal is Taiwan independence. Second, China has not renounced the use of force against Taiwan if it attempts to become independent. Beijing reinforces this strategy every time it makes threatening statements against the DPP or launches military exercises aimed at reminding Taiwan of its threat. In effect, if not by design, the PRC leadership and the KMT have worked together to prevent a DPP victory, seen in the fact they have tended to escalate their rhetoric at the same time: in the run-up to elections. This strategy is not infallible, however, as the results of the 2000 presidential race reveal. And despite Beijing’s dislike for Chen Shui-bian, the Chinese leaders’ unwillingness to take strong action against him in the early months of his presidency will make it much more difficult for the KMT to use the PRC threat against the DPP in the future. 4. The PRC threat has had at least one positive effect on Taiwan’s domestic politics: it helped to make the transition to democracy peaceful. Given the threat of military intervention from the mainland if Taiwan’s domestic politics became too chaotic, all the players in Taiwan’s political arena were forced to moderate their rhetoric and behavior. Throughout the transition process, activists on all sides called for restraint. The opposition within Taiwan never seriously considered revolutionary action or political violence, not least because such tactics might well have prompted Beijing to intervene.

NOTES 1. Taipei Times, 10 January 2000. Available online at: http://www.taipeitimes. com/news/2000/01/10/story/0000018971. 2. For example, a China Times poll in early January found that more than half of those polled believed KMT presidential nominee Lien Chan would not

Roadblocks on the DPP’s Path to Power

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keep a high-profile campaign promise to put the ruling party’s financial assets in a trust. 3. Some writers use the abbreviation SNTV to label this voting formula. 4. Thomas R. Rochon, “Electoral Systems and the Basis of the Vote,” in Parties, Candidates and Voters in Japan: Six Quantitative Studies, ed. John C. Campbell (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan, 1981), 6–7.

4

Organization

A party’s organization plays an important role in determining how effectively it performs its key political functions: merging citizens’ interests and preferences into a coherent platform and promoting candidates for public office. In the United States, with its presidential system, political parties are large, loosely organized groups whose main goal is to structure the electoral process. In parliamentary systems, parties are disciplined and centralized. They compete for legislative majorities, which allow them to form cabinets and select prime ministers. Taiwan’s political system combines elements of presidential and parliamentary government. Designing party organizations that work well in this hybrid system has not been easy, especially for the DPP. The DPP’s organizational structure is based on that of the Kuomintang, which in turn has the Soviet Communist Party as its model. The KMT is highly centralized. Decisionmaking power is concentrated in the hands of the Central Standing Committee and the party chair. Both parties emphasize obedience, ideology, and centralism, guaranteeing a top-down management style. When the DPP was founded in 1986, the activists who designed its structure took the KMT as their organizational model, but they also wanted to design a party that would be democratic. The result is a hybrid within a hybrid: a democratic party with Leninist institutions operating in a semi-presidential, semi-parliamentary political environment. Making this awkward combination work is not easy, and in many cases informal structures such as political factions have proven more important and effective than the party’s formal organization. The DPP’s organizational structure is defined in its charter, which establishes three layers of party offices (dangbu): central (zhongyang), municipal (including counties [xian] and cities [shi]), and local (townships

55

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From Opposition to Power

[xiang], towns [zhen], and cities within counties [xian xia shi]). The charter also stipulates special party offices for women, youth, aboriginal people, entrepreneurs, and overseas Taiwanese. Each party office includes a representative assembly as well as an administrative staff.

CENTRAL PARTY HEADQUARTERS (MINJINDANG ZHONGYANG DANGBU) The DPP’s top decisionmaking body is the National Party Congress (NPC; quanguo dangyuan daibiao hui). The congress meets at least once each year, although the Central Executive Committee (CEC; zhongyang zhixing weiyuanhui) and the municipal headquarters may call special sessions, which they often do. Members of the congress serve two-year terms. The congress’s members belong to two categories, representatives of party organizations and DPP members holding elective office in the government. The former includes representatives elected by municipal and functional headquarters as well as the secretary-general and all sitting members of the Central Executive Committee and Central Review Committee (CRC; zhongyang pingyi weiyuanhui), chairs (zhuren) of municipal offices, and municipal Review Committee conveners (zhaoji ren). The elected officials category includes municipal executives, DPP members of the Legislative Yuan and National Assembly, and DPP members of the Taipei and Kaohsiung city councils. Formally, the National Party Congress’s responsibilities include amending the party charter and platform; receiving reports from the Central Executive Committee, the Review Committee, the legislative caucuses, and the Municipal Executives’ Alliance; ruling on proposals; electing and recalling Executive and Review Committee members; and ruling on disciplinary cases. In practice, however, like most large legislative bodies, the National Party Congress exercises little actual control over the DPP’s strategy and policy. Its primary function is to legitimate decisions made in the Central Standing Committee and by the party chair. The top administrative official in the DPP is the party chair (zhuxi), the only DPP official elected by the entire party membership. The chair serves a maximum of two two-year terms. The chair is automatically a member of the Central Executive Committee and the Central Review Committee. He or she appoints a general secretary (mishu zhang) and one or two deputy general secretaries. In practice, DPP chairs operate under tight constraints and few have exercised decisive leadership. Elected officials, especially the leaders of

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57

the DPP’s influential factions, control more political resources than party chairs, and they also play a more important policymaking role in the government. This puts them in a strong position vis-à-vis the party chair. In fact, DPP insiders characterize the party chair’s role as that of a coordinator and negotiator rather than a leader in the conventional sense. The chair’s job is to build consensus among the party’s various factions and caucuses. The most successful party chairs are those—like Lin Yi-hsiung—who excel at negotiating among various party subgroups and who enjoy a high degree of legitimacy across factional lines. Party chairs who initiate new policy directions often suffer the fate of Hsu Hsin-liang: they are attacked from within for overstepping their authority. Similarly, since the Formosa Faction’s heyday (1987–1989), party chairs have come to power through compromises, often appointing members of competing factions to high administrative posts. For example, New Tide Faction member Chiou I-jen served as deputy secretarygeneral under Hsu Hsin-liang (Formosa Faction) and secretary-general under Lin Yi-hsiung (no factional affiliation). In 2000, when Hsieh Chang-ting of the Welfare State Alliance became DPP chair, another important New Tide figure, Wu Nai-jen, was named secretary-general. The party chair is assisted by a ten-member Central Standing Committee (changwu zhixing weiyuanhui) that meets at least weekly. The CSC members are elected from within by the thirty-member Central Executive Committee. The CEC is required to meet only four times a year, making it less influential than the CSC. Potential members of these key committees are nominated by the party’s legislative caucuses and by DPP members holding high government offices. The CEC’s responsibilities include carrying out the decisions of the National Party Congress, planning, rule making, overseeing budget and personnel matters, and supervising the municipal and local headquarters. The most important factor in the selection of CEC and CSC members is the balance of power among party factions, because gaining representation on these committees determines how far a faction will be able to advance its members’ careers. The Central Review Committee has a lower profile than the CEC and CSC. Its members, who are elected by the National Party Congress, are required to have administrative experience in the party or government, or to be trained in law. They are charged with supervising the CEC, preparing regulations and budgets, reviewing the party’s accounts, and deciding disciplinary matters. The Central Party Office also houses the DPP’s administrative apparatus, including the following departments:

58

From Opposition to Power • •

• • • • •

• •

International Affairs (coordinates the DPP’s overseas relations and relations with foreigners in Taiwan) Chinese Affairs (manages the DPP’s relations with the PRC, explains the DPP’s position on cross-strait relations, and advises DPP policymaking bodies on PRC matters) Women’s Development Social Development Organizational Development Information (manages press inquiries) Survey Center (conducts a wide variety of public opinion polls, including the surveys that are used in the DPP’s nominating process) Youth Development Secretariat

The DPP also has three auxiliary committees: the Financial Management Committee, the Policy Research and Coordination Committee (charged with maintaining policy consistency among the various offices of the party, such as the central headquarters and the legislative caucuses), and the Taiwan Institute of Democracy.

MUNICIPAL AND LOCAL BRANCH OFFICES The rules governing municipal and local (or second and third tier, respectively) party offices seek to balance the need for coordination and discipline with the party’s highly democratic culture. The emphasis in the party charter is on independence and autonomy for local offices. Article 25 reads, “Every local party office has decisionmaking autonomy on all local matters, so long as it does not violate the party charter or policies.” Second- and third-tier DPP offices make the most of their autonomy; their independent spirit is evident in the diversity of political styles in the various offices, in the positions they take, and in their sometimes troubled relations with the party center. The DPP recognizes twenty-three municipalities (unlike the ROC government, the DPP does not differentiate the cities of Taipei and Kaohsiung from the twenty-one other counties and cities in Taiwan). Municipalities vary greatly in terms of population and DPP popularity; some have large party organizations, while a few have trouble even finding candidates to nominate for public office. Where there are fewer than 500 DPP members in a locality, it can be run directly by its members. Otherwise, members elect a party congress. Many towns, townships, and cities

Organization

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within municipalities—the so-called third-tier—do not have DPP branch offices at all. Third-tier headquarters are most common in urban and suburban areas where the DPP is popular. As of June 1999, there were seventy-seven third-tier DPP offices in Taiwan. The organization of municipal and local branch offices mirrors that of the Central Party Office. Each has a congress that meets annually. Municipal party congresses have seventeen members serving two-year terms. Their members include representatives of local headquarters, members of local executive and review committees, local headquarters directors, as well as the DPP’s elected officials in the municipality. Local party congresses are smaller (five to nine members), but otherwise similar in composition. Likewise, party congresses at these levels share similar functions: overseeing the party headquarters operation, communicating with local DPP caucus members, deciding proposals, and electing executive and review committee members.

REFORM PROPOSALS The DPP’s formal organization is based on the KMT’s Leninist organizational structure. It is not surprising that the DPP adopted such an approach, given the lack of alternative models in Taiwan. But making the Leninist model work has not been easy for the DPP, a highly diverse organization with strong democratic traditions. The DPP still is searching for a formula that will allow it to manage its resources effectively without stifling internal democracy. The most serious organizational problem facing the DPP is the dispersion of power. Its organizational structure is not conducive to strong or decisive leadership. The party charter is loaded with checks and balances designed to prevent authoritarian tendencies from creeping in (for example, party chairs were initially elected for one-year, nonrenewable terms; even now chairs are limited to four years in office). As a result, says Kuo Cheng-liang, “In all the world there is not another democratic party charter so self-irritating and suspicious of leadership and authority.” Continues Kuo, “‘Who represents the DPP, ultimately?’ is a question for which I fear even the DPP has no answer.”1 Whether the DPP really is the most antiauthoritarian party in the world is arguable, but there is no question that although its charter and regulations define an elaborate structure for enforcing party discipline, they also strongly emphasize freedom of speech and debate. Article 27 of the charter seeks to balance democracy and effectiveness:

60

From Opposition to Power Members of this party at all levels of organization are free to discuss and criticize within the party its line, strategy, platform, policies and the words and actions of important cadres. Party members at all levels of the organization must not refuse to follow party decisions or participate in activities because they hold different views or opinions.

In practice, the libertarian tendency frequently overwhelms the desire for unity and discipline. DPP members constantly argue with party decisions and violations of party policy are rampant. Disciplining members often carries a political price tag that the DPP is unwilling or unable to pay, and many transgressions go unpunished. Another source of weakness is the party’s structural complexity, which offers many points of access for people with ideas and interests they want to pursue. It is not difficult for an ambitious local politician to pack a third-tier party office with his or her supporters and turn it into a personal political machine. Meanwhile, the party’s informal structures exacerbate intra-party competition. For example, the DPP caucus in the Legislative Yuan has more influence on the party’s positions on national issues than the CEC, the party chair, or the NPC. Likewise, municipal executives rarely consult with national party leaders before making decisions on local issues, although the party may well bear the consequences of those decisions. The Taichung County DPP executive’s decision to oppose a development proposal by the German firm Bayer caused a raft of problems for the DPP’s central leadership, despite the fact that he made the decision on his own, over the objections of the DPP chair. The party’s cumbersome central decisionmaking structure, combined with short terms of office for party chairs, makes these centrifugal forces doubly unmanageable. In an effort to facilitate more effective, decisive leadership, then deputy secretary-general Chiou I-jen proposed a major revision of the party charter in early 1999. The key elements of the reform plan were as follows: •

• •

At the central level, replace the Central Standing Committee, the Central Executive Committee, and the Central Review Committee with a forty-three-member Central Committee (CC; zhongyang weiyuanhui) that would meet every three months. (Some CRC functions would be transferred to the Arbitration Committee.) At the municipal level, replace the municipal executive and review committees with a municipal committee. Extend the term of office of party chairs and Central/municipal committee members from two years to four.

Organization •

•

61

Abolish the third-tier (township/town/city) party offices and rename municipal party offices “municipal party organizations” (change dangbu to dang zuzhi). Turn over disputes between party members and the party or among party units to an arbitration committee.

Although the reform proposal did not pass (it was withdrawn before a vote was taken), it provides important clues as to the DPP leadership’s perceptions of its own weaknesses. Moreover, a revised version of the reform is likely to reappear in the future, because the problems it addresses have not yet been resolved. Much of the proposal is designed to consolidate power and streamline decisionmaking. Creating an enlarged Central Committee would both increase its credibility and diminish its tendency to micromanage party affairs. This, along with the extension of the party chair’s term, would free the chair to act forcefully in day-to-day party management. At present, the chair’s post is too politicized to be fully effective. As a key target of factional infighting, the position does not provide the secure, authoritative leadership the party needs. Reducing the frequency with which factions fight over the post would help strengthen the party chair. The composition of the Central Committee in the Chiou proposal also reflects the true balance of power within the party. It allows various constituencies to elect the CC members in the following proportion: fourteen members from the party’s Legislative delegation, seven from the National Assembly, seven from among city council members, and fifteen from the National Party Congress. The reform could help to institutionalize the relationships among the various elected officials and between officials and the party center.

Special Focus: Grassroots Party Organization and the Problem of Nominal Members Chiou’s proposal recommended major reforms in the DPP’s municipal and local organization. His suggestions reflect the perception, widespread among DPP elites, that grassroots governments and elections are riddled with corruption and do not benefit the nation or the DPP. Too often, they believe, local officials represent entrenched parochial forces far more concerned with preserving their own selfish political and economic interests than with promoting the DPP’s program, ideology, and candidates. The KMT exploited these political tendencies and constructed a top-down political machine with a strong grassroots component. The DPP may once have imagined that setting up basic-level

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From Opposition to Power

offices would help it compete for local influence against the KMT’s deeply rooted machine. However, DPP elites have since decided that the party’s own grassroots offices have all the negative qualities of basic-level KMT offices, while contributing little to the party’s electoral performance. In the view of most of the top party officials interviewed for this study, grassroots (or third-tier) party offices have numerous flaws. They are susceptible to corruption, they tend to be “captured” by individual politicians who use them to promote their own careers instead of the party’s interests, they are prone to factionalism, and they undermine the DPP’s credibility as an alternative to the ruling party. But the thirdtier party officials interviewed for this study rejected these criticisms as unfair and uninformed. In their view, third-tier offices are the point of intersection between the party and the voters; they believe the DPP would be far worse off without them. The debate between DPP elites and grassroots activists seems, on the surface, like a tempest in a teapot. But it merits scrutiny, because it reveals a profound gap between the elite and the grassroots levels about how Taiwan’s elections work and what strategy the party should follow. Third-tier organizations reacted strongly against Chiou’s proposal to eliminate them (or, at least, to downgrade them to the status of party subbranches [dang zhibu]). On June 12, 1999, fifty-eight heads of third-tier party offices from throughout Taiwan met at the Grand Hotel in Kaohsiung to plan strategy to preserve their role in the party. They founded an organization called the National Alliance of DPP Township, Town, and City Party Chairs. The meeting was a window into the third-tier activists’ opinions and needs. The alliance’s basic demands were as follows: • • •

Preserve third-tier party offices. Develop the grassroots strength required to elect the DPP’s presidential candidate in 2000. Allocate one-third of the government subsidy paid to candidates for county council seats and other grassroots elections to thirdtier offices.

The conflict between the first and third tiers of the DPP is rooted in their perceptions of how elections are won. When first-tier leaders look at elections and party recruitment they see the influence of issues, candidate charisma, and party identification. When third-tier activists look at elections and party recruitment they see networks of friends and relatives who are drawn to DPP candidates on the strength of personal

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loyalty. When the first tier looks at the third tier, it sees vote buying, factionalism, and indiscipline. When the third tier looks at the first tier, it sees a small group of elitists who have little appreciation for the dayto-day workings of local politics. Third-tier activists view themselves as the DPP’s fundamental vote-gathering mechanism, as these statements from third-tier leaders, interviewed in June 1999, attest: •

• • •

“The party needs us, because the votes are at the third tier level. People learn about the party’s positions from TV, but the votes are mobilized at the grassroots. We need to build this level, not get rid of it.” (a third-tier officer from Taipei) “We are the front line against the KMT.” (Shihlin, Taipei) “This level—we call it the third level—is where the electoral work actually happens.” (Chiaotou, Kaohsiung County) “We are the most basic level; we are the ones that actually carry out the policies of the party center.” (Puli, Nantou County)

In these activists’ judgment, a significant proportion of DPP votes are won by person-to-person contacts between DPP grassroots activists and their friends, relatives, neighbors, and coworkers. They recognize that this is especially true in local elections (villages, townships, and municipal councils), but they see these elections as the foundation of higher-level (municipal executive and national) elections. First-tier leaders disagree. They see the contributions of third-tier activists as marginal at best. For example, New Tide leader Wu Nai-jen said that the third tier’s overall effect on the DPP is negative. Asked whether their role as vote mobilizers might compensate for their deficiencies, he replied: Actually, we believe their ability to mobilize votes is also very limited. Because, fundamentally, the great majority of people in this society are not going to be influenced by that kind of thing. Only people on the margins of society are influenced. So if you are not able to have influence within your community, your ability to mobilize votes is also very limited. Lots of the channels we use to mobilize votes at the local level do not go through them [the third-tier offices]. If we do go through them, we may end up losing.2

Wu did not deny that personal relationships were important in vote mobilization, but he minimized the importance of third-tier DPP offices in carrying out that work:

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From Opposition to Power In some relatively rural areas, many native doctors and other such people support us. And the votes they can mobilize absolutely exceed the number those third tier party offices can mobilize. They are respected people, so their opinion will be considered very sincerely. Those more marginal people, their opinions are not going to be listened to by most people.3

In short, the DPP party elite does not see the utility of the third tier for electoral mobilization. In fact, DPP leaders would prefer to abolish basic-level elections rather than try to win them. Since the early 1990s, the DPP has supported legislation to eliminate elections at the village and township levels, which they argue are the breeding ground for corruption and vote buying. Many in the party leadership view the third tier as absolutely pernicious. And not all third-tier activists deny their shortcomings. Tsai Yong-chang, a local branch head from Kaohsiung County who organized the 1999 meeting of third-tier activists, admitted that many third-tier offices have strong relationships with individual politicians. But, he argued, opportunistic behavior is inevitable; until the party began requiring new members to register with the branch offices in their hometowns, some politicians signed up members from a wide geographical area and built huge, sprawling organizations to advance their own careers. A third-tier leader from Taipei County cited three main problems facing his organization: We don’t have money, so we can’t do things. For example, 60% of the NT$1,000 annual dues [the local office’s share] was not enough to pay someone enough to live on, and dues have now been reduced to NT$100. Second, our offices are often not that great—many times, it’s the director’s house. Third, factionalism is a problem in our organizations. People get into cliques, and it becomes very personal and very permanent. That’s a big problem.4

A Taipei activist said, “Some headquarters are captured by factions and personalities, which makes the other factions and candidates angry. But I think the majority of party members still are driven by ideology, not interests.”5 Despite these weaknesses, however, the third-tier activists who gathered at the Grand Hotel in Kaohsiung were adamant that their organizations serve a useful and necessary purpose for the DPP. Another major problem that is often attributed to the third-tier headquarters is the proliferation of nominal members (rentou dangyuan). Nominal members are members recruited by a politician or faction boss in an effort to boost his or her influence in the party. These bosses pay the members’ dues and then use the votes they have purchased to

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manipulate primaries and leadership elections. According to Chen Chun-lin, the director of the DPP Survey Center, surveying party members is impossible because huge blocs of members are registered with the same addresses and telephone numbers—usually that of a third-tier branch office. He estimates that as many as one-third of DPP members are nominal members. DPP leaders believe nominal members damage the party’s discipline and unity because they are not committed to its ideals. Their only connection to the party is the local boss, and their support for him may have nothing to do with policy or ideology. Concern about nominal members increased after Chen Shui-bian’s presidential victory, when party membership increased by 50 percent in two months. A Taipei Times article dated June 4, 2000, reported that the surge in memberships “has left senior DPP officials wondering if they are sitting on a time bomb.” DPP organization head Kuo Chun-ming said, “We are very worried about nominal members, who are easily controlled by people maneuvering to change the DPP’s power structure.” The article described two proposals aimed at resolving this problem. First, the DPP is likely to make party nominations less sensitive to members’ preferences. As Chen Chin-te, a leading DPP politician, put it, “If the DPP doesn’t rectify its nomination procedures to avoid influence of nominal members, the quality of the party’s makeup will fall just as its administrative skills are improving.” The second solution would be to increase the number of “real” DPP members. As then party chair Lin Yi-hsiung told the Taipei Times, “The situation [of nominal members] is worsening, but their influence will be diluted if large numbers of independent members join and party membership can exceed one million.” At the grassroots level, this situation looks very different. Thirdtier activists say recruiting members is the hardest thing they do, and it is inextricably intertwined with electoral work. According to local branch head Tsai Yong-chang, getting people to join the party is very difficult, and most members recruited through the local offices are friends and relatives of existing members. Some people get excited about elections and join, but most, he says, “go through personal relations.” A third-tier leader from Taipei County emphasized the difficulty of getting supporters to join: “The DPP only has about 160,000 members [as of mid-1999]—but it has many more supporters and votes than that. People support the party, but they don’t join.”6 A grassroots organizer from Puli agreed: Party building and election work are indistinguishable. In Taiwan, we have elections constantly, and they are our opportunity to build the

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With member recruitment so difficult, it is not surprising that some third-tier activists reject the notion that nominal members are a problem, or even that they exist. To the local organizers, a member is a member. They have little interest in speculating about the motives of the few Taiwanese who can actually be persuaded to sign up. Said a Taipei County branch leader, “You know, this ‘nominal member’ business. I don’t really buy it. I think people won’t join unless they’re willing to join, so if they join they’re real members. We shouldn’t distinguish the two.”8 There also is evidence that the party’s own policies are contradictory. For example, a party activist from Kaohsiung County reported that when a legislator he works for asked to be included on the DPP’s proportional representation list for the Legislative Yuan, he was required to enroll at least 100 new members. The activist observed that the party was, in effect, requiring the legislator to enroll nominal members.9 One might argue that, given the problems created by the party’s efforts to recruit new members, it would be wise to downplay formal membership and emphasize the party’s role as a legislative and electoral instrument. In fact, when Soong Chu-yu formed the People First Party after the 2000 presidential race, he adopted just such an approach. From the time it was founded, however, the DPP has modeled itself on the KMT’s Leninist structure. Enrolling members, collecting dues, holding meetings, and building strong party loyalty are dearly held DPP values. For better or for worse, the party is unlikely to jettison these practices in the near future. The DPP has not yet secured a foothold in grassroots elections, and this adds to the sense that the party needs to attract more members. Despite their best efforts, third-tier organizers have broken the KMT’s monopoly on local elected offices in only a handful of municipalities. There is little doubt that the local headquarters are more likely than any other level of DPP organization to engage in unsavory practices. They are closest to voters, whose demands are not always as noble as political elites might wish. They also operate cheek by jowl with KMT vote brokers, who barely bother to conceal their vote buying, pork barreling, and intimidation. But would the DPP be better off without the third tier? Or does the party need a presence at the local level to counter the ruling party? Can grassroots organizations avoid being polluted by corruption? Some party leaders would like the DPP to use issue positions and excellent candidates—not constituent service and personal relationships—

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to appeal to voters. Although pragmatism is no longer a dirty word among DPP members, few in the party are ready to put aside their ideals to win at all cost. As more local politicians come to see the DPP as a vehicle for pursuing their ambitions, the debate over how to prevent corrupt and self-serving practices from infecting the DPP will emerge again and again.

PARTY CAUCUSES AND THE ALLIANCE OF DPP MUNICIPAL EXECUTIVES The DPP’s formal organization includes a party caucus in the Legislative Yuan (there was a caucus in the National Assembly as well, until that institution reduced itself to an ad hoc body in April 2000) and an organization consisting of DPP politicians who hold executive offices at the municipal level. The legislative caucus is responsible primarily for developing and carrying out the party’s legislative strategy. The Municipal Executives’ Alliance is a venue in which DPP executives consult with one another on local issues and push for national policies to benefit localities. For example, the alliance lobbies for devolution of power and distribution of revenue to county and city governments. According to the party charter, the legislative caucus and Municipal Executives’ Alliance are parallel to one another and to the party bureaucracy. Thus, proposals and arguments brought forward by these three bodies carry equal weight. The caucuses and alliance also play an important role in the party’s decisionmaking process (see Chapter 6.) In practice, however, the legislative caucus has proven more influential, mainly because its members have more time and enthusiasm for party affairs than their counterparts in the Municipal Executives’ Alliance.

PARTY FINANCE Money is a huge problem for the DPP. On January 5, 2000, the party reported NT$226 million (U.S.$7.3 million) in assets: cash, bank deposits, and real estate (DPP-owned offices). Not only does the party have very little money, but to make matters worse, its main opponent has too much. The KMT is known to be one of the wealthiest political organizations in the world; its assets are estimated at more than NT$200 billion (U.S.$6.5 billion). The KMT’s fortune comes from a vast business empire, including many companies in which the KMT holds a controlling share and government subsidies. Donations contribute very little to the

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total. According to a former DPP financial chief, Yang Huang Maysing, the KMT receives three times more in subsidies each month than the DPP gets in a year.10 (Subsidies are calculated according to a party’s vote share in elections.) Until 1997 the DPP depended almost entirely upon contributions from its supporters, who were both few in number and limited in resources. The party operated on a shoestring and was kept alive by its supporters’ enthusiasm and its staffers’ willingness to sacrifice. The situation improved after 1997, when the government began providing subsidies to political parties. According to its charter, dues, donations, and miscellaneous sources finance the party’s activities. Before the creation of subsidies, the party was extremely dependent upon donations, which never met the party’s need. The DPP was chronically in debt and relied on sugar daddies (including the late Huang Hsin-chieh) to keep its office doors open. In 1990, for example, the party’s income came from the following sources:11 dues, 10 percent; contributions from elected officials, 1 percent; sale of goods, 1 percent; donations, 72 percent; endowment for operations, 8 percent; other, 8 percent. At that time, analyst Liu Shu-hui called attention to the lack of financial coordination among the central office, local offices, and individual politicians. He noted that many DPP politicians received substantial and reliable funding from their supporters, but that this was of little help to the central and local offices. Nor were the party offices able to provide financial help to one another or to DPP candidates. Liu concluded that, “establishing a system of subsidies could solve some of the party’s financial difficulties and could also promote internal party unity and effectiveness. It deserves very serious consideration.”12 At present the party benefits from two new sources of income. The most important is the government subsidy, which is allocated according to each party’s electoral performance. According to Yang Huang Maysing, a former finance director of the DPP central office, the party gets about U.S.$4,750,000 per year in subsidy payments. According to Hsiao Bi-khim, the DPP’s director of international affairs until mid-2000, the subsidy is sufficient to pay the expenses of the central office. In addition to the subsidy, the DPP now requires its elected officials to pay a percentage of their income from the government to the party.13 As Hsiao put it, “After all, they campaigned under the party flag.”14 Both of these sources of income ultimately depend on the party’s electoral performance, which only adds to the pressure on candidates, campaign staffers, and party leaders. In addition, the DPP continues intense fund-raising.

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Although the DPP no longer operates under a cloud of debt and uncertainty, its budget still is extremely tight. Recruiting and retaining staff is a constant challenge, because the party cannot afford to pay competitive—or in some cases even livable—salaries to its employees. Meanwhile, the party is almost totally without financial leverage to use in disciplining its candidates. There is very little financial assistance to be had from the party; on the contrary, elected officials are expected to give part of their income to the DPP. Meanwhile, their expenses are very high. According to a 1996 China News Agency report, the monthly salary for a member of the Legislative Yuan was NT$440,000 (approximately U.S.$16,000), including a staff allowance of NT$240,000. One DPP legislator, physician Shen Fu-hsiung, said he hired fourteen aides at his legislative office and maintained two offices in his district, with expenses totaling more than NT$700,000 per month. Shen claimed, “Without income from my clinic, I can barely cover my expenses.”15 I visited Shen’s office and can attest that his operation includes not an iota of extravagance or excess. Nonetheless, his resources are taxed to the limit. And this is without considering the costs of electoral campaigns.

CONCLUSION Organizationally, the DPP tries to incorporate two incompatible imperatives. On the one hand, it aspires to emulate the KMT, which is a centralized, Leninist party with a strong central leadership and powerful— but generally obedient—grassroots political machine. On the other hand, the DPP is highly democratic. It lacks both the resources and the ideological tradition to make the Leninist model work. As a result, informal power centers play a more important role than the formal power structure, and individual actors (including elected officials and local activists) frequently act on their own initiative. Efforts to overcome these problems have not been very successful, not least because party members have not hesitated to oppose reforms that threaten their interests.

NOTES 1. Kuo Cheng-liang, Minjindang zhuanxing zhi tong (The DPP’s painful transformation) (Taipei: Tianhsia Publishing Company, 1998), 159–160. 2. Interview with author, Taipai, July 1999. 3. Ibid. 4. Interview with author, Kaohsiung, July 1999.

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5. Ibid. 6. Ibid. 7. Ibid. 8. Ibid. 9. Interview with author, Taipei, June 1999. 10. Interview with author, Tainan, July 1999. 11. Liu Shu-hui, “Zhengdang jingfei de yanjiu” (A study of party finance), in Minzhu zhidu sheji (Designing democratic systems), ed. Lin Chia-cheng (Taipei: Institute for National Policy Research, 1991), 41. 12. Ibid., 46. 13. Candidates receive NT$30 (about U.S.$1) from the government for each vote they receive. 14. Interview with author, Taipei, June 1999. 15. China News Agency, 14 November 1996, translated in FBIS-CHI96-222.

5

Factionalism

Veteran DPP politician Yao Chia-wen uses the saying sanjiao, jiuliu to describe the DPP. The saying refers to the three religions (Confucianism, Buddhism, and Taoism) and nine schools of thought in Chinese tradition. It is an apt characterization of the party, which includes members from all corners of Taiwan’s society, representing nearly every point on the ideological compass of the late twentieth century. From the beginning, activists in the Dangwai/DPP movement have shared only one trait: their opposition to the Kuomintang. That factionalism would develop in such a party is hardly surprising. But how does factionalism affect the DPP’s performance? This is a complex question. To use another of Yao Chia-wen’s metaphors, a tiger, a dragon, and a leopard in a cage make a formidable threat—assuming they don’t tear each other to pieces. Many observers, when they look into the cage, emphasize the danger DPP factions pose to one another. They see them as evidence of a weak and fractured party. But despite innumerable predictions of its imminent demise, the DPP has remained united, even as the number of formally structured factions within the party has increased.1 I will argue that the perils of factionalism are not as great as many observers believe; in fact, factions perform certain positive functions within the party. Moreover, by institutionalizing factionalism, the DPP has domesticated it, transforming the fierce predators of intra-party warfare into beasts of burden carrying the weight of compromise and negotiation. A DPP press release dated October 1998 strikes a plaintive note, stating, “foreign observers should not be misled in overestimating the policy differences within the DPP.” The document—issued, it says, in response to “a stream of inquiries on factions and membership orientations in the DPP”—complains that because its factions are public, foreigners assume

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the party is disunited. In fact, the document says, “Factions of the DPP are a reflection of the diverse viewpoints that are openly expressed in this extremely democratic party. . . . Yet despite the differences, the DPP has managed to remain quite unified.” The press release also emphasizes that “beyond elections and internal power alliances, factions as organized political groups have little significance when it comes to public policy.”2 This is one case when the DPP’s propaganda ought to be taken seriously.

ORGANIZATION The DPP’s factionalism is a product of its history. The party began as a congeries of anti-KMT elements working together to bring about political reform. From the outset, different strands within the opposition have had different backgrounds, goals, and strategies. Over the years, these tendencies gelled into factions. Still, factional boundaries are blurry, except in the case of the New Tide Faction. DPP politicians can and do change their factional affiliations and sometimes break away and form new factions. Given the variability and looseness of DPP factional organizations, there are few generalizations that hold true in every case. Overall, however, DPP factions share the following qualities: • Factions are built around personal relationships. The DPP’s former director of international affairs, Hsiao Bi-khim, compares factions to tribes. They are based on personal friendships and loyalties, reinforced by the exchange of political favors and support. Within the DPP, however, politicians and party staffers have dense webs of relationships; they know people in all of the factions, and most have worked with many different factions’ members on policy initiatives and political campaigns. What, then, determines the choice to align oneself with a particular faction? Political aspirants look at the prestige of a faction’s leaders, its size, and its ability to get its members elected to party and government offices. Nonetheless, it would be wrong to assume that joining a faction is purely a calculated, utilitarian decision. Personal relationships—including mentoring relationships between junior and senior DPP politicians—are essential. • Factions are rooted in different political generations. The factions within the DPP reflect successive generations of activists who entered the Dangwai before the party was founded. The pattern since 1986 suggests that the party’s founding institutionalized the opposition’s factional structure; once the party formed, newcomers tended to

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choose among the existing factions rather than create new ones. Nonetheless, the factional structure has continued to evolve, as factions split and senior members recruit political newcomers. The factions and the generations they represent (roughly) are as follows: The Kang (Kang Ning-hsiang) Faction, or Centrist Faction: These politically moderate elected officials entered the Dangwai Movement in the 1960s and 1970s and believed in working within the electoral system. This faction yielded to younger politicians after the DPP’s founding. The Formosa Faction: This faction began with staffers from Formosa Magazine (1979), most of whom had not held elected office (with the notable exceptions of Huang Hsin-chieh and Hsu Hsin-liang). Early on, they differed from the Kang Faction in their willingness to use demonstrations to achieve political reform. Later, after New Tide became its primary competitor, Formosa represented the opposition’s pragmatic, moderate wing. The Formosa Faction effectively ceased to exist in 2000, after the New Era Faction under Chang Chun-hung split off (1999) and Hsu Rong-shu reorganized many of the remaining Formosa supporters into the New Energy Faction (2000). The New Tide Faction: This faction was founded by students who became active in politics in the mid-1970s. These intellectuals emphasized ideological purity and direct action over pragmatism and electoral politics. Before founding New Tide, many of these activists were involved in the Dangwai Writers and Editors Alliance. New Tide has a long-standing leadership core comprising Chiou I-jen (the strategist), Lin Cho-shui (the theorist), and Wu Nai-jen (the organization specialist).3 The Justice Alliance and Welfare State Alliance: These two factions were founded by attorneys who defended the Formosa Magazine staffers arrested in 1979; they have attracted many of the DPP’s political celebrities. Before founding their factions, the leaders were collectively known as the Defense Attorneys Group, although they held different ideas and opinions on some issues. Their founders are Chen Shui-bian (Justice Alliance) and Hsieh Chang-ting (Welfare State Alliance). The Taiwan Independence Alliance: This faction was founded by members of the World United Formosans for Independence (WUFI) who returned from overseas between 1990 and 1995. In a sense, the WUFI was a Dangwai faction in exile. The Mainstream Alliance: After Chen Shui-bian assumed office in May 2000, DPP legislators formed this meta-faction within the legislature to provide unified support to the president. Only the New Tide and New Era factions declined to participate in the Mainstream Alliance. • Factions have formal organizational structures. Unlike factions in the other major Chinese political parties, the KMT and Chinese

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Communist Party, the DPP’s factions are not furtive. On the contrary, they have offices and staffs. They even collect dues from their members! Some factions recruit only legislators, others also include local politicians, while the New Tide Faction even enrolls members from the DPP’s rank and file. • Factions have differences of opinion over policy and strategy, but these differences are not the main focus of their existence or their competition. In Chapter 2, we saw how the debate over electoralism versus direct action characterized the gap between Formosa and New Tide in the early years of the party. It is important to note, however, that both factions have used both techniques. Many New Tide activists have sought election to the legislature and other posts, while Formosa often has endorsed demonstrations and other direct actions. Both factions recognize that the utility of each tactic depends upon the situation; they are much more flexible than the general characterizations imply. Similarly, on the national identity issue, Formosa was often viewed as the pro-status quo faction, while New Tide was known as the pro-independence group. This is true, but it is also true that many Formosa members harbor dreams of independence (the faction ultimately accepted New Tide’s independence platform proposal), and that New Tide’s position on the issue has moved toward Formosa’s over the course of the 1990s.

FUNCTIONS Political factions perform many functions in the DPP, some of them helpful, others harmful. Given the DPP’s history, however, including the fact that factions existed before the party itself, I will argue that factionalism’s net effect on the DPP is at worst neutral, and may even be slightly positive. There are two major reasons for this conclusion: First, factions channel the DPP’s diverse elements into compromises that respect the party’s democratic values. Second, the DPP enjoys a felicitous combination of factions in which the pragmatism of electiondriven factions (Formosa, Justice Alliance, Welfare State Alliance, and New Era) is tempered by the idealism of New Tide. New Tide has prevented the DPP from losing its soul in pursuit of electoral victories, but rarely have the other factions allowed it to impose extreme positions that damaged their electoral prospects.4

Institutionalizing Conflict The greatest benefit factionalism offers the DPP is to institutionalize intra-party conflict. The DPP cannot escape its history as an imperfectly

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blended alliance of anti-KMT political forces; its goal must be to ensure that those forces can find points of consensus and avoid externalizing their conflicts in ways that undermine the party’s unity and credibility. This is the role factions have evolved to fill. While factionalism may not be the ideal instrument for accomplishing these tasks, the DPP has done well to transform factions, which are a given, into conduits for controlled competition and contestation. This is a vast improvement over the Dangwai era, when factions used vicious personal attacks in public forums to damage their opponents. (The best example of this phenomenon was the Criticize Kang Ning-hsiang Movement described in Chapter 2). Yen Wan-chin, the DPP’s director for Chinese affairs, offered a thoughtful defense of factionalism on these grounds: When something comes up about which there are differing opinions, at least the factions will have a discussion within themselves, and they will produce factional representatives to participate in negotiations. That allows the DPP to come up with a unified opinion. It ensures that the DPP will not suddenly fall apart because of differences of opinion. If it were not for the operation of factions, these discussions would have to be carried out in the Central Standing Committee or the National Party Congress, through a process of formal statements or debate, in a way that would make it very easy for the party to split or be badly damaged if it encountered problems.5

One danger facing the DPP today is that its efforts to win votes away from the KMT could undermine its identity as a reform-oriented party. This is especially problematic because the KMT’s flexible ideology allows it to co-opt the DPP’s positions when they prove popular with voters. For example, the DPP’s 1992 proposal to pursue UN membership became KMT policy. Later, in the run-up to the 2000 presidential race, Lee Teng-hui’s two-states theory narrowed the gap between the KMT’s ostensibly pro-unification view on cross-strait relations and the DPP’s independence-leaning position. Thus, it would be easy for the DPP to lose its identity. The New Tide Faction plays a major role in preventing the DPP from compromising too much. As New Tide leader Wu Nai-jen put it: Our function within the DPP is, in my opinion, to bring to the party a consideration of the long-term view. Our feeling is most factions just think about the next election, about their own interests. Because of the way the other factions are organized, they are not able to suggest a long-term view. A party needs someone to contemplate this sort of thing. You can’t have everyone thinking only of this year’s election, then next year’s election. . . . This kind of thing is very important,

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From Opposition to Power don’t get me wrong, but fundamentally, you must have someone thinking about what the situation ten years from now will be like. You need someone who will constantly raise this kind of question for discussion. I personally believe that New Tide’s greatest contribution to the DPP is this bringing up of the long view.6

In addition to these abstract functions, DPP factions perform very concrete tasks in the areas of nomination, electioneering, and policymaking.

Nominations Factions help select DPP candidates for central party leadership posts, caucus positions, and public offices (including both district-based candidacies and the party’s proportional representation list). They use a complex process of bargaining and logrolling to arrive at nominations that satisfy as many party notables as possible. One of the resources party chair candidates have for building coalitions is their power to appoint secretaries general and deputy secretaries general. Of course, the nominating process reflects the size and resources of the various factions; small factions succeed when larger factions need coalition partners. As Yao Chia-wen explained: The advantage of factions is the exchange of votes. For example, if you want to run for the Legislative Yuan, and I want to be the party chair, and someone else wants to be a county council member or county executive, all of us can get together and bargain. So in party building, the benefit of factions is on the organizational side. It helps you organize, it helps with distribution, it lets you bargain with others. These are the advantages. Those of us in the Welfare State Faction—if one of us is seeking an office—if we don’t support that person, it won’t work.7

Party leadership posts. Positions in the DPP leadership are prized; competition for them is very heated, and factions play a key role in structuring this competition. Thus, the top decisionmaking bodies include few members without factional affiliation. Leaders who once eschewed factions (such as Yao Chia-wen, Yu Ching, and Hsieh Chang-ting) have joined or created factions in recent years.8 The factional balance in the Central Standing Committee is a crucial factor in the party’s decisionmaking process, making elections for the CSC (and the thirty-member Central Executive Committee) extremely competitive. In a July 17, 2000, article in the Taipei Times, the DPP’s legislative caucus leader, Lee

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Wen-chung, accused candidates for top party posts of buying votes: “Though there is no concrete evidence, everybody knows that candidates gave money, presents and even foreign holidays to buy votes.”9 Factions also play a key role in electing the party chair. It is not unusual for faction leaders to agree on a candidate in advance, allowing that individual to run unopposed (or without serious competition). This is an example of classic logrolling behavior. In 1991, the New Tide Faction agreed to support Formosa’s Hsu Hsin-liang as party chair in exchange for a pro-independence plank in the party charter. Likewise, there is evidence that in 2000, Hsieh Chang-ting gained New Tide’s support for his candidacy by agreeing to make Wu Nai-teh, a leading New Tide figure, his secretary-general. Shortly before the election, New Tide candidate Hung Chi-chang withdrew from the race. Two recent DPP chairs, Shih Ming-teh and Lin Yi-hsiung, were not affiliated with factions when they entered the competition for party chair. This arrangement has both advantages and disadvantages. Certainly, it is easier for all factions to support a chair who will not favor any. Moreover, because the main responsibility of DPP chairs is to facilitate negotiations among factions and elected officials, a neutral chair is an asset. The disadvantage of selecting chairs with no factional affiliation is that they tend to be weak leaders because they cannot muster organizational support for their initiatives. DPP chairs who had factions behind them (Huang Hsin-chieh, Hsu Hsin-liang) were more effective in moving the party in new directions. On the other hand, Hsu’s efforts to push the party toward Formosa’s point of view created severe internal conflict; in 1997, Lin Yi-hsiung went so far as to call for Hsu’s impeachment. The pattern of alternating the chair’s position between factionbacked leaders and unaffiliated negotiators reflects the party’s tendency to balance the pros and cons of the two models. This pattern continued in 2000, when the Welfare State Alliance’s Hsieh Chang-ting replaced Lin as chair. Party caucus positions. Serving as a caucus convener or whip in the Legislative Yuan or National Assembly gives legislators experience and exposure. Here again, factions play an important role in leadership selection. In the Legislative Yuan, the factions decided to rotate the positions in order to minimize competition and conflict. The caucus elects new leaders in each legislative session, creating plenty of opportunities for representatives of all factions to gain the experience and exposure that comes with assuming a leadership role.

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Elected office. The party’s complex candidate selection process affords factions considerable influence over DPP nominations for public office. Both the nominating process and its outcomes are intensely contested, which helps explain why the DPP amended its nominating procedures thirteen times in twelve years. The development of procedures for selecting party nominees can be broken into three phases. Between 1989 and 1993, the process emphasized member participation and democracy. In the beginning, the party used binding member primaries organized within each locality to choose its nominees. Leaving candidate selection up to rank-and-file members created three serious problems. First, because the DPP had very few members, primary results did not reflect candidates’ popularity among the general population, which hurt the party’s overall performance.10 Second, member primaries gave candidates an incentive to “stack” the party with their supporters, the so-called nominal members (rentou dangyuan), a practice most party leaders considered corrupt.11 Third, because of its grassroots strength, the Formosa Faction dominated the member primaries, a state of affairs New Tide and the Centrists found unacceptable. To counteract these difficulties, the DPP devised a new system, in place from 1994 to 1996. In this phase, the party implemented a twostage primary. In the first stage, the results of voting among party officials (ganbu) were averaged with the results of a vote among party members. The second phase was a general primary open to the entire electorate. The first test of the new system came in 1994, in preparation for the provincial governor’s races. The competition did not advance to the second stage, however, because the trailing candidate dropped out after the first stage. The system did go into effect, however, in the 1996 presidential election. The second stage voting (general electorate) was carried out at forty-nine public meetings at which the candidates spoke, after which votes were collected. (For a detailed discussion of that process, see the discussion of the 1996 presidential nomination process in Chapter 6). The results of this process were problematic. Many DPP officials quickly concluded that the two-stage primary combining cadre, party member, and general public voting was not ideal. One criticism focused on the undemocratic nature of the process, in which the votes of fewer than 200 party officials were given the same weight as those of 50,000 party members. Some party leaders questioned the qualifications of many officials, especially in grassroots organizations. Complaints also centered on the degree to which this system privileged factions. DPP factions enjoy the greatest strength among party staffers; thus, the new system gave factions a disproportionate role

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in the nominating process. This exacerbated the horse-trading and raised the barriers for unaffiliated and centrist candidates. The third phase in the DPP’s nomination procedures began in June 1996, at a National Party Congress that was sharply divided between those who supported Hsu Hsin-liang for party chair and those who wanted Chang Chun-hung to assume the top party post. In the confusion, unaffiliated party delegates pushed through a nominating procedure that eliminated any role for party officials, replacing them with a 50 percent member primary, 50 percent general electorate vote system. This was unacceptable to the mainstream party leadership, which called a special NPC session to undo the damage. The party was unable to reach a consensus at this meeting; instead, it adopted a compromise proposal to base the nominations on an equal weighting of two factors: a party member primary and public opinion surveys. This is the process the DPP used until 2000. In 2001, the weighting was changed to 30 percent for the member primary and 70 percent for the opinion polls. The first step in the nominating process is for party officials to determine the number of candidates to be nominated for each office at their level (e.g., the Central Party Office sets the number of legislative candidates, while municipal offices set the number of municipal council member candidates). This stage has enormous strategic import, since Taiwan’s electoral formula (single, nontransferable voting in multimember districts) rewards parties that distribute votes evenly among exactly as many candidates as the party’s supporters can elect. Next, the party branches receive prospective candidates’ registrations. If there is not a clear consensus as to whom the candidates should be, the appropriate party office carries out a two-stage selection process. In the first stage, party members in each constituency vote. In the second stage, the party’s survey center (or an independent survey organization contracted by the party office if it does not have a survey center) carries out a public opinion survey to identify candidates preferred by the electorate at large. The results are combined to produce the final result. Although the goal of this protracted search for a workable nominating process has been to reduce the influence of factions, they still intrude on this process at several junctures. First, they help recruit candidates to register for nomination. Second, they mobilize support for their preferred candidates in the member primary. An aide to a DPP legislator described the horse-trading at this stage: They sit down with the other factions and divide things up; they say, I can give you this many votes, you give me this many. If we have this many candidates, how many votes does each one have? How many can this one afford to give your guy? We’re talking about party members’

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Although candidates do not formally campaign for the public opinion surveys, affiliation with a political celebrity (usually a faction heavyweight) can produce the kind of media attention that improves a candidate’s performance in polls. In national elections, this factional involvement probably is not damaging to the party’s interests. After all, having the support of a faction guarantees candidates the resources they need to win in the general election. However, party leaders express concern about the influence of local factions (many of which have little or no connection to national factions) in municipal and local elections, where nominal members can influence the member primary adversely. The party’s recent decision to reduce annual dues from NT$1,000 (about U.S.$40) to NT$100 was justified on the grounds that genuine party members were deterred from joining by the high fee, producing a large population of nominal members sponsored by deep-pocketed local politicians. The DPP has struggled to develop nominating procedures that are both democratic and effective in producing viable candidates for public office. Because factions play a role in getting candidates elected, they also must be permitted to participate in candidate selection. As Julian Baum and James A. Robinson wrote in 1995: The selection of candidates without primaries or with modified primaries departed from our expectations two years ago. At that time, those who demanded greater democracy within parties seemed in ascendancy. And in a polity whose major symbols stress democracy, we projected that the trend toward frequent use of primaries and other intraparty democratic practices would be difficult to reverse. As it happened, however, each party’s overriding interest to win elections demanded that leaders modify candidate selection processes in ways calculated to improve the party’s chances in elections. Future nominating procedures are likely to be influenced by this same consideration. The party that wins with current methods probably will continue to use them; the party or parties that lose likely will revise their procedures again.13

Baum and Robinson’s prediction of continued procedural modification was right on target. In fact, the most recent development in the DPP’s nominating strategy was the appearance in early 1999 of the Shih Ming-teh model. Under this approach, the DPP tries to use negotiations within the top leadership circles to avoid competitive nominating

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processes altogether. According to this logic, the main criterion in making nominations should be candidates’ electability. Composing the party’s list for the proportional representation seats in the legislature offers additional opportunities for factional horsetrading. At first, the central secretariat composed the list. But in 1992, a corruption scandal prompted the party to reexamine its procedures. The result was a vote by party members. In 1995 the party added requirements to ensure diversity on the proportional list. Most of the candidates on the list are either national celebrities who prefer not to compete in district elections or representatives of disadvantaged constituencies who lack the resources for constituency races. Legislator Tai Chen-yao offers a good example. Tai was originally elected to the Legislative Yuan to represent the functional constituency for farmers. When parliamentary reform initiatives eliminated the functional constituencies, Tai’s prospects for reelection were grim. The farmers who elected him were not concentrated in a single geographical area, the districts in which he might have run already had strong DPP representation, and Tai was utterly without resources for mounting a campaign for a district seat. An at-large seat allowed him to retain his seat in the legislature. According to Tai’s legislative assistant Wang Chih-lang, factions play a large role in the selection of candidates for the DPP’s list of atlarge candidates: At-large representatives need to be more responsible when it comes to party policies and rules. Also, with at-large representatives, whether they get elected or not has to do with factionalism. Within the DPP, the influence of factions is extremely great. For example, if you want several thousand votes for the Legislative Yuan, it is usually impossible for a person to have those votes all on his own; it’s necessary to go through the factional distribution of votes to get elected. On this, our legislator, Legislator Tai, is unusual. He is the only one who doesn’t have a factional affiliation, yet he is able to be elected. This is quite unusual. In general, for at-large legislators, you need to go through factionalism, you need to go through the distribution of votes among factions, to be elected.14

Special Focus: The DPP’s Survey Center In order to carry out its nominating process, the DPP needs a reliable, accurate method of surveying the public. It has chosen to do this work in-house. Because the stakes are so terribly high for the candidates, the DPP Survey Center is under enormous pressure to conduct high-quality, unbiased polls. Of course, the party’s polling activities also include

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strategic polls targeted at the mass media; these are carried out under a different mandate and to a different standard. But the Survey Center’s confidential polls are very accurate, even allowing DPP analysts to confidently predict Chen Shui-bian’s victory at a time when most political scientists thought such an outcome highly unlikely. The Survey Center has eight full-time staff members. It uses sixty phone lines staffed by trained callers working part-time. The workload is heaviest before elections, but the center holds surveys throughout the year. Most of the surveys are conducted jointly with academic researchers, and callers identify themselves as representatives of a research project, not a political party. But when a survey is to be used for nominating purposes, the callers identify themselves as calling from the DPP. Callers are trained to identify and switch to the respondent’s preferred language (Mandarin, Hokkien, Hakka). Refusal rates are around 30 percent. The Survey Center conducts research in five major areas: • • • • •

Party support rates and party image. Satisfaction ratings for DPP officials, especially municipal executives. Issue preferences. Targeted surveys of social groups (youth, women, etc.). Election-related surveys.

The party also conducts focus groups, but these are subcontracted to a professional polling company, as are many of the municipal party offices’ nominating surveys. The party does not survey its own members, for two reasons. First, member surveys do not reflect the society at large, so they are not very useful for guiding decisionmaking. Second, when the Survey Center did attempt to contact DPP members, it discovered that about one-third of them listed a party office as their address and phone number on their registration forms. Chen Chun-lin, the director of the Survey Center, assumes that most of these members are nominal members; in any case, they cannot be contacted by the polling office. Surveys that are used in the nominating process are very direct. They simply offer the list of prospective candidates and ask respondents to choose their first and second preferences. The candidates pay for the nominating surveys, which helps to reduce frivolous candidacies. The results of the surveys are kept secret, even from the candidates, who are given only their own results and a summary of their competitors’ results. In the past, candidates made one-on-one comparisons based on survey results. They used these findings strategically to

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increase their vote shares. For example, if a survey found Chang San leading Li Szu in the surveys, Li Szu would mobilize her supporters in the member primary by arguing that Chang San “has it made.” Party leaders discovered that the only way to control harmful intra-party competition was to withhold the information.

DRAWBACKS OF FACTIONALISM There is no shortage of discussion about the dangers of factionalism, whether in the DPP specifically or in political parties in general. Some are obvious: Factionalism creates the impression that the party is not unified; it damages the party’s reputation at home and abroad; it draws attention to conflict and dissension, etc. But these are problems of perception, not of substance. They are important only insofar as they undermine the DPP’s credibility and electoral appeal. Factionalism does create some more substantive difficulties for the DPP, however. First, the way DPP factions are structured focuses their attention on superficial concerns. Instead of thinking about the party’s policy direction, faction leaders spend their time composing strategies for promoting their supporters’ political careers. Sometimes it seems they are more interested in horse-trading than in governing. Factionalism is not the only culprit in this dynamic, however. Taiwan’s political institutions put great emphasis on elections, and the DPP, the longtime underdog, is especially vulnerable to the pressure to put winning ahead of more meaningful goals. At the same time, Taiwan’s electoral formula builds in an incentive for factionalism. Single-ballot voting in multimember districts pits candidates of the same party against one another in every district in which the party has a chance of winning more than one seat. It is hardly surprising that candidates running in different districts should create factions for mutual support. Thus, as long as Taiwan uses the SVMM electoral system, there will be a very strong institutional incentive for factionalism in the DPP. Second, factionalism damages mutual trust among party members. As Kuo Cheng-liang puts it, factionalism “makes it difficult for people to take issues and problems at face value.” 15 That is, instead of acknowledging honest differences of opinion, DPP members tend to attribute disagreements to faction-based conspiracies. Kuo cites several examples to make this point: •

When Chen Ting-nan was investigating electoral abuses in 1994, many of the individuals he indicted were municipal council

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•

•

members affiliated with the Formosa Faction. He was accused of trying to purge Formosa’s grassroots electoral workers in order to clear the way for Chen Shui-bian to become the DPP’s nominee for provincial governor. During the 1997 constitutional reform negotiations, New Tide and Formosa argued in favor of a parliamentary system rather than presidentialism. At that time, some in the DPP said they were hoping to thwart Chen Shui-bian’s presidential ambitions. DPP China Affairs director Yen Wan-chin was accused of organizing the 1998 China Policy Debate to embarrass Hsu Hsin-liang.

All of these conspiracy theories, says Kuo, “could not be farther from the truth.”16

GENERATIONAL POLITICS IN THE DPP Political generations have played a crucial role in the DPP, as many important DPP leaders have strong ties to others who entered the movement with them. Until 1992, political factions were correlated strongly (although imperfectly) with generations. For example, most members of the Formosa Faction were politicians who got their start in the 1970s and early 1980s with support from Kang Ning-hsiang and Huang Hsinchieh. New Tide consisted of younger intellectuals who preferred publications and demonstrations to electoral competition. Members of yet another generation, the attorneys who defended the Formosa Magazine activists after the Kaohsiung Incident, founded the Justice Alliance and Welfare State Alliance. Still, as the number of factions increased and their competition became institutionalized in the 1990s, the intensity of the competition diminished. One aspect of this process has been the delinking of factions and generations. The best example of this dispersion of generations is the Formosa Magazine group. Six men and two women worked together on the magazine, then shared the trauma of court-martial and imprisonment. Yet today, the Formosa defendants are scattered throughout the DPP’s various factions, and they hold a variety of positions. The godfather of the group, Huang Hsin-chieh, passed away in 1999. Chang Chun-hung, for many years an important figure in the Formosa Faction, left it in 1999 to establish the New Era Faction. Lu Hsiu-lien (Annette Lu), Taiwan’s vice president, is a member of the Justice Alliance. Chen Chu belongs to the New Tide Faction and heads the cabinet-level Council of Labor. Yao Chia-wen is in the Welfare State Alliance, while Lin Yi-hsiung has

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no factional affiliation. Shih Ming-teh also declined to affiliate with a faction, and in November 2000 he left the DPP altogether. (The Formosa Faction’s longtime leader, Hsu Hsin-liang, was on the Formosa Magazine staff, but his absence from Taiwan in December 1979 spared him from arrest and prosecution. Hsu quit the DPP in 1999.) The decoupling of factional and generational politics does not mean generations no longer are important. Of all the issues addressed in this book, questions about generational politics provoked the prickliest responses from DPP legislators and party officials. Today, the tension created by the generation gap cuts across faction lines, because most factions now include both senior and junior politicians. The core of the problem is finding opportunities for young people within the party given the scarcity of DPP-held posts. In a nutshell, there is not enough room for junior members to advance politically, as long as the senior members are not ready to step aside. It is important to note, however, that one rarely hears young politicians complain about their prospects. Presidential secretary Hsiao Bikhim echoed the statements of many others when she said, “Most of our leaders . . . make the attempt to recruit young people and give them positions of responsibility.”17 Indeed, senior DPP politicians often act as mentors and sponsors for young politicians. In particular, Chen Shui-bian has promoted a number of men and women in their twenties and thirties, including Hsiao. Nonetheless, the party’s slim resources make it difficult to satisfy new recruits’ ambitions. Leading causes of generational tension within the DPP include the following factors: • The party’s senior members are not ready to retire. They believe it is far too early to talk about generational transition. And indeed, by Chinese standards at least, even the most senior DPP politicians are relatively young. Huang Hsin-chieh, the “elder brother” of the opposition movement, was only seventy-two when he died in 1999. Other first generation opposition figures are in their fifties and sixties. In contrast, President Lee Teng-hui was seventy-seven when he was forced to resign his post as KMT party chairman prematurely. At forty-nine, the DPP’s presidential candidate Chen Shui-bian was considerably younger than his opponents Lien Chan (sixty-four) and Soong Chu-yu (fiftyeight). Senior DPP politicians who plan to keep their positions for several more years are reluctant to share resources or cultivate the younger leaders who might become competitors in the future. • The growth in DPP representation in legislative bodies has not kept pace with the increasing number of ambitious young people who share the party’s ideology. This problem is bad and getting worse.

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When the Provincial Assembly was abolished, seventy-nine elected positions vanished. The National Assembly provided an entrée to many DPP newcomers, but it is no longer a standing body. Nor can the DPP provide more opportunities by increasing the number of candidates it nominates. Given the constraints of the SVMM electoral formula, overnomination would hurt incumbents and newcomers alike. Despite the KMT’s loss in the presidential election, most individual KMT legislators expect to keep their seats in 2001, not least because their support comes from their personal political machines and local factions, not from the KMT party per se. • Even under a DPP president, the party’s grasp on the executive branch is weak. Without a legislative majority behind him, Chen could not name large numbers of DPP officials to the cabinet. And because the DPP does not have a strong grasp on the bureaucracy, it cannot use administrative positions to cultivate and season young recruits. (The KMT used this practice to great effect, as the careers of Lien Chan and Soong Chu-yu attest.) Even in municipalities with DPP executives, civil service requirements limit the number of political appointments allowed, while financial constraints prevent DPP executives from creating positions for their protégés. Chen Shui-bian’s mayoral administration in Taipei was something of an exception, as he came to rely heavily on three young advisers, Ma Yung-cheng, Lin Chin-chang, and Luo Wen-chia, all of whom held important government posts. • The party’s financial problems rule out using staff positions in the Central Party Office to nurture young leaders. Unlike the KMT, which has a huge organizational bureaucracy with professional staff posted to every town and township on the island, the DPP can support only a skeleton staff. Employees of the Central Party Office work very hard for little money; party work is a labor of love, not a sinecure. Chen Shui-bian’s election did create a number of new opportunities for DPP members. Although the cabinet includes less than a dozen DPP ministers, the deputy ministerial ranks have a much larger proportion of DPP personnel. Many of these deputy ministers stand to move up into the cabinet if the DPP increases its legislative influence in 2001. Several DPP legislators also expect to move into cabinet positions, which means younger members will fill their seats. The presidential office, too, offers many positions for DPP loyalists, including presidential advisers. President Chen’s “senior advisers” include some relatively junior figures; it is possible they are being groomed for the 2001 legislative race.

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A NEW GENERATION OF DPP LEADERS Although the shortage of political posts and party staff positions available to DPP newcomers is limited, there are many men and women who have become active in the party in the 1990s (see Appendix). These individuals come from many different backgrounds; they belong to different factions and follow different political mentors. Nonetheless, they do share certain characteristics that differentiate them from the previous generations of DPP leaders. First, the DPP members who became active after the party was founded are less influenced by the history of tragedy and sacrifice that shaped the Dangwai generation. They studied politics at the knees of political victims, it is true, and a few of the younger politicians and activists have paid a price for their participation. For example, DPP legislator Lee Wen-chung was expelled from National Taiwan University a few days before graduation because of his participation in the student movement. All have worked extremely hard for little reward. Still, these leaders have never lived with the fear of arrest and imprisonment. Unlike their senior colleagues, they have not feared for their families’ safety at the hands of government thugs or worried about losing their livelihoods. Second, because they became engaged in politics after authoritarianism had begun to give way to reform, younger DPP activists’ view of politics is not so fraught with injustice and suffering. They view politics less as a struggle for freedom and more as a competition over policies and resources. They are more comfortable working within the system, and their views of their identity rest “less on ideological zeal and more on a rational basis.”18 The “Manifesto for the Taiwan Independence Movement in a New Era,” published in 1996, illustrates this difference.19 In the document, younger activists explicitly rejected the worldview of their forebears, which portrayed Taiwan independence as a sacred cause emerging from Taiwan’s tragic history. According to the new era manifesto, Taiwan Independence is not a religious tenet; it is a pragmatic political position. Taiwan Independence is not the product of 400 years of persecution suffered by Taiwanese at the hands of outside political forces, nor is it the product of hatred and fear of Mainland China. Taiwan Independence is not a challenge to the past, but a dream for the future.

In a similar vein, young activists are more interested in policy issues than in the grand causes that motivated the Dangwai and early

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DPP activists. As the new era manifesto put it, “Taiwan Independence is not the sole political objective; it is a mechanism for achieving our ideals for social reform.” Many of the younger legislators began their political careers in social movements, and they have continued to push their early policy concerns in the Legislative Yuan. According to I-Chung Lai, a member of this generation and former director of the DPP office in Washington, D.C., “their ability to devise, or reflect on the social agenda plays important roles in formulating [the] DPP’s social reform policy.”20 Many Dangwai-era politicians gained celebrity and status through martyrdom. Now that White Terror repression has subsided, young politicians emphasize other qualifications, including educational background, professional experience, voting records, policy contributions, and constituent service. Typically, they work their way up through the ranks of elective and administrative positions, paying their dues as they build their careers. Finally, political competition is also different for the younger activists. Unlike their senior colleagues, for whom political activism entailed tremendous risks, the new generation does not view politics as a life-or-death matter. For them, competition, negotiation, and compromise all are normal aspects of politics. Political competition is institutionalized, so participants have faith that today’s loser may be tomorrow’s winner; in any case, she will not be tomorrow’s political prisoner. Few young politicians have suffered personally at the hands of their political opponents. Among senior DPP politicians, this is not the case, as the 2000 presidential and vice presidential teams attest. In 1980, Soong Chu-yu was the ROC government spokesman. He vigorously defended the decision to court-martial the opposition activists, including DPP vice presidential candidate Lu Hsiu-lien. And it was a lawsuit brought by the New Party’s vice presidential candidate (Feng Hu-hsiang, then a KMT member) that sent Chen Shui-bian to prison in 1986.

NOTES 1. The KMT, in contrast, has split twice since the DPP was formed. In 1993, KMT legislators who opposed President Lee’s policies broke away and founded the New Party. In 1999, the KMT expelled Soong Chu-yu (James Soong) for pursuing a presidential bid without its nomination and against its chosen candidate. Soong’s presidential bid attracted support from KMT legislators, former cabinet members, and numerous local political organizers. After the presidential election, Soong did not return immediately to the KMT, but instead founded his own party, the People First Party.

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2. “The Faction of Taiwan Democratic Progressive Party,” DPP Document, October 1998. Available online at http://www.dppmission.org/press/th . . . mocratic%20progressive%20party.htm [accessed June 1, 1999]. 3. Kuo Cheng-liang, Minjindang zhuanxing zhi tong (The DPP’s painful transformation) (Taipei: Tianhsia Publishing Company, 1998), 43. 4. The adoption of the Taiwanese independence plank in 1991 is an important exception. 5. Interview with author, Taipei, July 1999. 6. Ibid. 7. Interview with author, Taipei, June 1999. 8. Yu Ching’s career illustrates how important it is for politicians to have factional affiliations. In 1985 he was the head of the moderate Dangwai faction, the Dangwai Public Policy Research Association, and a candidate for Taipei county executive, one of the highest-profile posts then open to direct election. After Yu won that post in 1989, his lack of factional involvement forced him to the margins. He lost his seat on the CSC after 1991, regaining it only in 1996 after he joined the Welfare State Alliance. 9. Lin Chieh-yu, “Corruption Casts Shadow Over the DPP,” Taipei Times, 17 July 2000. Available online at http://www.taipeitimes.com/news/2000/07/ 17/story/0000044052. 10. Lin Chia-cheng, Minzhu zhidu sheji (Designing democratic systems) (Taipei: Institute for National Policy Research, 1991), 14. 11. Julian Baum and James Robinson, “Party Primaries in Taiwan: Reappraisal,” Asian Affairs: An American Review 22, no. 2 (summer 1995): 93–94. 12. Interview with author, Taipei, June 1999. 13. Ibid. 14. Interview with author, Taipei, June 1999. 15. Kuo, Minjindang zhuanxing, 167. 16. Ibid., 168. 17. Caroline Sorgen, “Laughing in the Face of Convention,” Oberlin Alumni Magazine (August 1999). Available online at: http://www.oberlin.edu/ ~alummag/oamcurrent/oam_august99/hsiao.html. 18. I-Chung Lai, “Taiwan Politics in the New Millenium – Who Are the New Kids on the Block?” Taiwan International Review [DPP publication] 6, no.1 (January–August 2000), 70. 19. The text of the new era manifesto is summarized in Kuo, Minjindang zhuanxing, 76–77. 20. Lai, “Taiwan Politics,” 71.

6

Decisionmaking

Decisionmaking is a broad concept, and decisionmaking in an organization as large and diverse as the DPP is extremely complex and multifarious. This chapter identifies patterns in the DPP’s decisionmaking processes and outcomes, recognizing that decisionmaking varies widely according to many factors, including the policy area in question and the context in which a decision is to be implemented. To illustrate the major decisionmaking patterns that can be discerned from the DPP’s history, the chapter includes case studies from a variety of arenas: electoral strategy, central-local relations, and parliamentary coordination.

FORMAL PROCESS The DPP’s formal process for making decisions and setting policy follows widely used organizational principles. When an issue or problem arises, the party chair asks the professional staff to investigate it and make proposals. The chair presents those proposals to the Central Standing Committee and Central Committee for discussion and amendment. Proposals that pass the Central Committee are supposed to go to the National Party Congress for ratification. On public policy matters, DPP public officials do not need to embrace every party decision, except when core party principles are at stake, in which case they are expected to adhere to the party’s verdict. In practice, however, the process is infinitely more complex than this. The main purpose of this chapter is to explain how decisions are actually made, rather than to recite the rules by which they are supposed to be made. For example, although the Central Standing Committee produces the policy proposals for the party, several constraints limit its ability to

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act decisively. For one thing, it is small. With ten members, the CSC has room for only a handful of the nationally prominent DPP politicians who expect to have a hand in charting the party’s course. In addition, party bodies’ roles are not well defined. As analyst Chen Huasheng writes, “central government representative caucuses (especially the LY caucus) are very autonomous, so that the CSC decisions lack the strength needed to effectively direct and restrain the caucuses.” 1 Chen’s 1991 assessment of DPP decisionmaking still applies: “Add to [the CSC’s weakness] the balance of power and boycotting of factions within the party, and you often have decisionmaking that is sluggish, lacking in effectiveness and unable to avoid leading party employees into difficulties.”2

INFORMAL PROCESS In practice, DPP decisions are the products of a wide range of political forces and pressures, some of which have little official role in the process. Figures 6.1 and 6.2 illustrate the various influences and their relative weights. Figure 6.1 refers to decisions about policy issues; Figure 6.2 refers to personnel decisions. The most important determinant of DPP positions on national issues is the DPP caucus in the Legislative Yuan (LY). There are four main reasons for this. First, according to DPP structure, the LY caucus, municipal executives group, and party bureaucracy are equal in status. Second, the caucus is full of DPP heavyweights: celebrities, faction leaders, heroes of the reform era, local bosses. Many of these individuals also have seats on the CSC or the Central Committee, and they are frequent visitors to the party headquarters. In other words, these are men and women whose views would be influential no matter what offices they held; the fact that they have seats in the LY (which is second only to the presidency in authority) increases their importance even more. A third reason for the LY caucus’s importance in setting DPP positions on issues is that its members are on the front line of national policy and lawmaking. Thus, they personally are responsible for shepherding the DPP’s proposals through the legislative process, and they have a very strong interest in constructing policy initiatives that are both viable in the legislature and popular with the voters. It is impossible for other units within the party to force DPP legislators to support policies they believe will damage their credibility and electoral chances. Thus, especially when it comes to legislation, caucus members take the lead. Fourth, members of the legislative caucus are important because their

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Figure 6.1 DPP Decisionmaking on Policy Matters

’

Figure 6.2 DPP Decisionmaking on Personnel Matters

’

power is rooted in electoral victories and popular support. In Taiwan, votes are the currency of politics. In the DPP, which struggles constantly to preserve and increase its vote share, a candidate who brings votes to the party is like the daughter-in-law in traditional China who gave birth to a son: his or her status instantly increases.

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The combined effect of these factors is to give the LY caucus both a high degree of autonomy in legislative matters and considerable influence on the CSC and, through it, party policy. As political scientist Lin Chia-cheng put it: The relationship between the DPP LY caucus and the central party office is not clearly defined. The DPP LY caucus’s autonomy is considerable, as is its representation on the CSC. As the opposition party, the DPP’s CSC has little experience deciding on proposals, and for this reason the LY caucus [whose members make decisions about legislation constantly] has set its own course.3

Even before the National Assembly was downgraded to ad hoc status in April 2000, the DPP caucus in that body was less powerful than the LY caucus, reflecting the power imbalance between the two institutions. For years, the DPP sought to abolish the National Assembly, and its nominations reflected this priority. The DPP used the National Assembly as something of a training ground; most of its assembly nominees had political ambition but lacked the broad support necessary to win a legislative race. The National Assembly’s main responsibility was to amend the constitution, so on constitutional matters its members had somewhat more authority. As we shall see in the fourth case study, “The National Assembly Self-Fattening Caper,” the party leadership preferred to control its National Assembly delegation, but even this group, which was weaker than the legislative caucus, was capable of defiance. A third force that contributes to decisionmaking is the Alliance of DPP Municipal Executives. These county and city executives gather from time to time to discuss policy matters and political strategy; most of them also command great personal respect and authority in the party. However, they play a smaller role than the legislative caucus for two reasons. First, they are simply too busy managing their municipalities to devote much energy to party debates. Although legislators, too, carry a heavy workload, their burden still is lighter than the one the municipal executives bear. Unlike the legislature, which spends about a third of the year in recess, municipal executives must be on the job fifty-two weeks a year. Legislators manage staffs of perhaps a dozen in Taipei and one or two dozen in district offices. Municipal executives oversee bureaucracies whose employees number in the thousands. Second, municipal executives’ concerns are primarily local; they have little time to worry about the details of the DPP’s national policies. Only when party decisions impinge on local concerns—or affect the party’s core ideology—do the executives mobilize. When local interests are at stake, the party often refrains from making a decision in order to avoid choosing

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between national objectives and the preferences of the executive in the affected locality. This was the outcome, for example, of the Bayer Corporation controversy described in the third case study below. Another contemporary example of how the party responds (or does not respond) to contradictions among its elected officials is the Pinnan Industrial Park controversy. About two-thirds of the world’s remaining 600 or so black-faced spoonbills migrate through the Tsengwen River estuary in Tainan County each year. A number of companies recently began eyeing the site of the birds’ annual stopover as a prime location for developing a heavy industry park. The DPP county executive in Tainan County, Chen Tang-shan, was sympathetic to the project, which would be located in a part of the county that has seen little economic growth. (In fact, the Pinnan area is one of the last unspoiled places on Taiwan’s western plain, but the local economy is based on extremely low-paying enterprises such as salt gathering, fishing, and small-scale fish farming and agriculture.) Tainan County is also represented at the national level by a DPP legislator, Su Huan-chih. As a legislator elected in a multimember district, Su is not as constrained politically as Chen, who must win a majority of votes in the county to be reelected. Thus, he is free to promote the DPP’s traditional environmentalist stance, and in fact Su opposes the Pinnan Industrial Park proposal. This puts the DPP Central Party Office in a difficult position. It has organized meetings between industry and environmentalists, but it has not issued a judgment on the issue, since doing so would mean choosing between Su and Chen. Even after Chen Shui-bian’s March 2000 election, this issue remained unresolved. This case (and others like it) illustrates the DPP’s tendency to let elected officials take the lead in setting policy, on the basis of consensus. Where a consensus cannot be reached, the party avoids decisive action. Ordinarily, factions play little role in decisionmaking on policy issues. As Figure 6.2 shows, their influence on personnel decisions is much greater. (For a full discussion of the role factions play in leadership selection and nominations for public office, see the section on nominations in Chapter 5.) The New Tide Faction is an exception to these generalizations. Unlike the other factions, New Tide has a welldefined ideology and strong policy preferences. It has promoted its preferences in party debates, including debates over Taiwan independence and cross-strait policy. It also has been a voice for labor and environmental causes. New Tide exercises its influence through its representatives in the leading party organs (Central Standing Committee), professional staff in the party headquarters (such as the former perennial deputy secretary-general Chiou I-jen and his successor Wu Nai-teh), and

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other influential bodies (including the LY caucus, where its members outnumber those of any other faction). In short, New Tide wields its influence through the same channels other factions use, but its unity and discipline give it disproportional influence. This is less of a factor today than it once was. The ideological differences between New Tide and the rest of the party have narrowed in the past few years, as the party has reached a consensus on pursuing power through the system and making its position on independence compatible with the widespread public preference for the status quo. The party’s formal leadership also influences decisionmaking, of course. After all, the party charter empowers the Central Standing Committee and National Party Congress to make its decisions. In practice, however, the party’s top leaders and professional staff serve mainly to aggregate the interests and preferences of other party actors. According to longtime DPP politician Chang Chun-hsiung (who later served as Chen Shui-bian’s premier), party leaders must coordinate a delicate process of public and private negotiations in order to produce a stable party consensus. As Chapter 4 explained, party chairs have alternated between those who sought to lead the party (Hsu Hsin-liang) and those who excelled at negotiating a consensus among the key players. In one respect, however, the core leadership is very important. On issues of principle, the CSC takes the lead, and the rest of the party is expected to fall in line. To that extent, the LY and National Assembly caucuses are constrained in the proposals they may endorse. Meanwhile, party staffers below the deputy secretaries general have very few opportunities to guide party policy. In interviews, one department head after another echoed the sentiments of the International Affairs director Hsiao Bikhim, who said her job requires constant consultation with legislators. One final factor must be considered in this description of DPP decisionmaking: the general environment in which decisions are made. The electoral cycle, in particular, sets the tone for party debates. Between elections, debates are more freewheeling, but when elections are near (especially national ones), the party does its best to project a united front. (Hence, major debates such as the China Policy Debate of 1998 often take place just after an election.) As we shall see, many DPP leaders and grassroots supporters had deep reservations about the party’s presidential candidate (Peng Ming-min) in 1996, but few aired their qualms before the election. Likewise, during and immediately after the 2000 presidential election campaign, Chen Shui-bian was effectively in control of the party’s decisionmaking process. Although Chen has been more careful than Peng to build consensus for his positions, there is no doubt that he is playing a larger role than he would have had the party not pinned its hopes for national power on his candidacy.

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CASE STUDIES The following case studies illustrate aspects of the DPP’s actual decisionmaking process. In each case, the process produced a problematic outcome. This is not to say that all DPP decisions are suboptimal. In fact, the DPP makes many decisions that are very successful (the decision to nominate Chen Shui-bian for president in 2000, for example). However, these decisions are generally reached through a process of consensus building within the party; they rarely require public debate. It is when consensus cannot be reached that the party’s decisionmaking apparatus faces its strongest challenges. As the following case studies suggest, the DPP lacks effective channels and processes for making decisions once informal consensus building fails.

Electoral Strategy: The Presidential Nomination of 1996 The DPP’s nomination of Peng Ming-min, along with the conduct of his campaign, qualifies as one of the great blunders in DPP history. Peng’s 21 percent vote share was the party’s second worst performance ever in a national election; he won fewer votes even than DPP National Assembly candidates competing on the same day, who captured 29 percent.4 Peng’s poor performance and unpopular campaign positions alienated voters and did lasting damage to the DPP’s credibility. He made matters worse by bad-mouthing the party after the election (he eventually referred to his decision to represent the DPP in the presidential election as “my disgrace”). Peng’s bid also hurt the party organization: his nomination offended Hsu Hsin-liang, and his campaign undercut the DPP Central Party Office by ignoring its directives. This disaster begs for explanation. This case study will address three specific questions: Why did Peng win the nomination? Why was his candidacy such a failure? How did this experience affect the DPP’s behavior in selecting a candidate for the 2000 presidential election? It also will illuminate several flaws in the DPP’s decisionmaking process. The 1996 presidential nomination process. The first candidate to declare his intention to seek the DPP’s nomination was Hsu Hsin-liang, who revealed in January 1995 that he had longed to be president since primary school.5 According to his biographer, Hsia Chen, Hsu did not expect to face serious competition for the nomination. His plan was to use the campaign to promote his Rising People (xinxing minzu) theory, and if he lost, to prepare himself for the 2000 race. Instead, Hsu found himself facing a very tough competitor in February when Peng Ming-min—who

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returned to Taiwan in 1992 after two decades in exile—threw his hat into the ring. Peng did not meet the party’s technical requirements to become its presidential candidate, which stipulated that candidates must have political experience. However, party chair Shih Ming-teh, fearing Peng would run as an independent, waived the rule. As Hsia puts it, “It took only one sentence from party chair Shih Ming-teh to permit Peng Ming-min to evade party discipline. The risk of splitting the DPP vote that would otherwise have existed exceeded that of letting him come into the system.”6 Hsu did not contest Shih’s decision. The DPP’s procedure for selecting its candidate for the 1996 presidential election included two stages. In the first stage, party officials and party members cast votes in separate balloting. The results of the two elections, which were held on June 17, were weighted equally. The candidates in the first phase included Hsu Hsin-liang (who finished first), Peng Ming-min in second place, and runners-up Yu Ching and Lin Yi-hsiung. In the second phase, the candidates debated one another at forty-nine mass meetings held throughout the island. The final meeting took place in Taipei on September 24. The public was invited to the meetings, and at the end of each one, attendees cast ballots for their preferred candidate. The results of this “open primary” were given equal weight with the combined party official/party member results. Peng Ming-min won these “popular primaries” by a sufficient margin to edge out Hsu for the nomination. The outcome of the nomination reveals the inadequacies of the DPP’s procedures and illustrates the tension between selecting viable candidates and preserving democratic procedures. Peng Ming-min defeated Hsu Hsin-liang in the popular primaries for three main reasons. First, Peng appealed to grassroots DPP supporters’ weakness for heroes and martyrs (he was both), and his engaging, ideological speaking style struck a chord. As a Taiwanese journalist told this author, “Hsu Hsinliang is a politician who talks like a scholar, and Peng Ming-min is a scholar who talks like a politician. That means Peng wins on both scores: he has the clean image of a scholar and the charisma of a politician.”7 Second, many Taiwanese believed Peng to be close to President Lee Teng-hui in age, stature, and education, qualities which might make him more electable. Third, unlike Hsu, who had served the party for several years, Peng had no record. He had never offended or disappointed any party constituency. Hsu, on the other hand, had been involved in several controversies during his tenure as party chair; many DPP members and supporters strongly opposed him. In particular, independence fundamentalists had a deep distrust of Hsu, who they believed could not be

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trusted to defend Taiwan in cross-strait relations. As it turned out, far fewer ballots were cast at the mass meetings than expected, which gave the highly motivated and well-organized independence devotees disproportionate influence on the outcome. Reasons for Peng’s defeat. After Peng became the nominee, tension between his campaign headquarters and the Central Party Office intensified. Two issues, in particular, focused the conflict between them. The first was the party center’s policy of promoting “grand reconciliation” with Taiwan’s other major parties, especially the New Party (this project is explained in detail in the next case study). During the 1994 mayoral and gubernatorial elections, ethnicity emerged as a significant, divisive political force. Party chair Shih Ming-teh sought to defuse this situation—and bring the DPP closer to power—by suggesting a coalition cabinet. When Shih and three other party officials met with leaders of the New Party, DPP members who disapproved of party leaders hobnobbing with the New Party were critical. The Grand Reconciliation project was tied to Shih’s efforts to become the speaker of the Legislative Yuan. In January 1996, Shih managed to tie the KMT candidate in the first round of voting, thanks to the support of New Party legislators, but he failed in the second round. Peng Ming-min, for his part, paid lip service to Grand Reconciliation until early January, then abandoned the idea altogether. The second issue that divided the party leadership from its presidential candidate was the question of Taiwan independence. Both of the DPP’s most recent chairs, Hsu Hsin-liang and Shih Ming-teh, were taking the line that since the Republic of China on Taiwan was an independent country already, the DPP “would not need to, nor would it, declare independence if it came to power [minjindang ruguo zhizheng bubi ye buhui xuanbu Taidu.].” Although the party’s decisionmaking bodies never voted on this wording, it was the DPP’s de facto position. Peng Ming-min, in contrast, was committed to a formal assertion of Taiwan independence. Throughout the campaign, this issue was a source of conflict between the party center and Peng’s campaign staff. In particular, Hsu Hsin-liang argued with Peng’s campaign manager, DPP legislator Yeh Chu-lan. Hsu said Peng should emphasize the differences between his policy positions and those of incumbent candidate Lee Teng-hui, while Yeh believed Peng’s best strategy was to put independence at the center of the campaign. Thus, in mid-January, the Peng campaign abandoned the party’s campaign theme, “Grand Reconciliation, Grand Unity” (da hejie, da lianhe) in favor of a slogan that strongly implied Taiwan independence:

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“Peace, Respect, a President for Taiwan” (heping, zunyan, Taiwan zongtong). Peng’s position had great emotional appeal to the minority of Taiwanese who supported independence, but as an electoral strategy, it was disastrous. Even Chen Shui-bian, the leader of the Justice Alliance and an ally of the pro-independence camp, said just weeks before the election that the DPP’s candidate “cannot make Taiwan independence the centerpiece of the presidential campaign.”8 Nonetheless, he did so. We have already seen the results. After the election the party studied its loss. An internal party document identified several reasons for the defeat. The most important were: •

• •

•

•

The election was unfair; Lee Teng-hui was a “super-candidate” who enjoyed advantages ranging from incumbency to media bias to the KMT’s electoral machine. Voters did not know enough about Peng. The campaign employed an inappropriate strategy, and there was too much conflict between the party and the campaign. The emphasis on independence was much too heavy. The party allowed itself to become subordinate to the campaign; it did not lead, but followed, and its leaders found themselves campaigning on behalf of positions they did not design, some of which they opposed. The party’s organizational apparatus was incapable of conducting a successful national campaign.

In addition, survey data collected by the party after the election paints a devastating picture. By any measure, and on every issue, Peng Ming-min performed drastically below Lee Teng-hui, and often below the third-finishing candidate, KMT maverick Lin Yang-kang, as well. Peng had high negative ratings, low positive ratings, and was not well known or understood by the voters. Indeed, it is clear that without the endorsement of the DPP, Peng would have received an even smaller vote share. Nonetheless, Peng blamed the DPP, and particularly the Grand Reconciliation project, for his defeat. Within a month of the election he was well on his way to repudiating the party altogether. Effects on the 2000 presidential campaign. In the wake of the 1996 defeat, the DPP was determined to learn from its mistakes, and in many ways it did. It redesigned the nominating process, implementing a stopgap procedure for 2000. Under the new rules, a candidate needed to be recommended by forty party officials (including professional staff and

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DPP elected officials). As it turned out, only one candidate was recommended, and he duly received the required three-fifths endorsement of the National Party Congress. If more than one candidate had received a recommendation, the party would have held a members-only primary. The new procedures were designed to encourage a nomination based on negotiation and consensus, rather than competition. In the event party leaders could not reach an agreement, the members-only primary was meant to serve as a backstop. As it turned out, the system worked as planned. Of the 199 party officials authorized to make a recommendation, 168 recommended Chen Shui-bian. This left too few uncommitted officials to recommend a second candidate. The National Party Congress ratified this decision on July 10, 1999. Chen’s overwhelming showing grew out of the nearly universal perception that he was by far the most likely of all the DPP’s luminaries to win the presidency. He had been hugely successful as the mayor of Taipei, racking up approval ratings of over 70 percent. Even his defeat in 1998 was a kind of political and moral victory. Chen lost with a larger share of the vote in 1998 than he had won with in 1994 (the 1994 election was a three-way race). He used his concession speech, in effect, to launch his presidential campaign. The party’s near-unanimous endorsement of Chen did not come without a cost, however. Once again, Hsu Hsin-liang was passed over for the nomination. This time, he did not accept the result cheerfully, but decided to run without the DPP’s approval. On May 7, 1999, Hsu left the DPP to launch an independent presidential bid. Seen from Hsu’s perspective, the presidential nominations in 1996 and 2000 do seem unfair. In 1996, he did not expect competition, not least because Peng did not meet the qualifications for nomination. When Shih changed the rules to accommodate Peng, Hsu was caught unprepared. Between 1996 and 2000, Hsu was sidelined, waiting for the 2000 presidential race, while Chen Shui-bian surged ahead, riding the wave of celebrity created by his tenure as Taipei mayor. However, Hsu had an ace in the hole, a party rule forbidding the nomination of a party member for more than one major office in a four-year period. Technically, Chen was ineligible for the presidential nomination. Unfortunately for Hsu, political expediency once again drove the party to break its own rules. The loss of Hsu Hsin-liang is significant; however, it is not catastrophic. As it turned out, Hsu’s independent presidential run was a dismal failure. Although he did manage to collect enough signatures to win a listing on the ballot—a feat another DPP breakaway, the Taiwan Independence Party (jian guo dang), was unable to manage—Hsu received

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less than 1 percent of the vote. Although it is unfortunate that the DPP could not continue to make use of Hsu’s talents, the political calculation that led party leaders to clear the way for Chen’s nomination was on target. Another lesson that emerged from the party’s self-examination after 1996 was an awareness of the dangers of allowing the presidential campaign to dominate the party. In the first presidential election, DPP leaders found themselves standing on platforms in front of huge crowds, endorsing decisions over which they had no control. The painstaking efforts they had made to distance the party from Taiwan independence fundamentalism were swept away in the Peng Ming-min tsunami. Knowing this was a problem did not, however, prevent a reoccurrence in 2000. Chen’s campaign headquarters played a key—indeed a decisive—role in the DPP’s decisionmaking in the lead-up to the election. Even the most controversial elements of Chen’s platform, including his retreat from his party’s long-standing views on independence, raised only murmurs of criticism from his DPP colleagues. In this case, following the candidate’s lead turned out to be a wise decision.

Strategic Conflict: The Grand Reconciliation/Coalition Government Debate Before and after winning the presidency, the DPP spent considerable time and energy debating whether, and under what conditions, to enter into a coalition government. Since March 2000, the frustration of governing without a parliamentary majority has motivated this discussion, but before Chen’s victory, the catalyst for debates over coalition strategies was opportunity. The fuel that propelled them was the interaction of ideology with factional interests. After three rounds of intense discussion on this issue, the DPP still has not resolved the issue. Round 1. In the wake of the 1994 mayoral and gubernatorial elections, two trends troubled many DPP leaders. First, the ethnic mobilization that had characterized the party in its early years seemed increasingly out of place in mid-1990s Taiwan. Second, many feared that too much domestic political conflict might invite PRC aggression. As a result, the political scientist and DPP strategist You Ying-lung suggested that the party adopt “Politics for All the People, A Coalition Cabinet” (quanmin gongzhi, lienhe neige) as its campaign theme for the 1995 Legislative Yuan race. After some debate, the party adopted a weakened version of the theme: “An Era of Grand Reconciliation, a Coalition Government” (da hejie shidai, da lienhe zhengfu).

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Grand Reconciliation had two goals. On the one hand, it was designed to increase the likelihood that the DPP could build a coalition with other parties; on the other, DPP leaders hoped it would convince politicians and voters that the DPP was a team player, not an instigator of ethnic conflict. However, Grand Reconciliation never became a consensus view among DPP leaders and members, and its opponents criticized the slogan relentlessly. Nonetheless, events in late 1995 encouraged supporters of Grand Reconciliation. Tensions between Taiwanese and Mainlanders ran high during the election, forcing the DPP to disavow “Taiwan chauvinists” in its own ranks. Moreover, the KMT’s legislative majority after the election was razor thin, only three seats, offering the DPP an unprecedented opportunity to exercise power in the legislature. Soon after the election, the DPP Central Standing Committee passed a resolution on coalition government. The resolution argued that in order to respond to internal and external dangers (Beijing was threatening Taiwan at the time), Taiwan’s government should include representatives of all political forces. On December 14, the DPP reached out to the New Party, its logical partner in a coalition to balance the KMT. The gesture—a meeting in the coffee shop at the Legislative Yuan between leaders of the two parties (including representatives of the New Tide Faction)—sparked a powerful backlash in the DPP. The Justice Alliance in particular, in the person of legislator Shen Fu-hsiung, attacked the idea of Grand Reconciliation. When representatives of the New Party went to the DPP Central Party Office to meet with the Central Standing Committee, members of a pro-independence faction threw eggs at the visitors. DPP leaders, recognizing that many party members had misinterpreted their overtures to the New Party, issued a statement reminding party members that Grand Reconciliation referred to all parties, including the KMT as well as the New Party. Despite party leaders’ efforts, criticism of Grand Reconciliation continued. Even the DPP’s presidential candidate, Peng Ming-min, rejected the Grand Reconciliation theme in favor of a focus on Taiwan independence. At the same time Peng Ming-min’s aides were advising him to drop Grand Reconciliation, party chair and legislator Shih Ming-teh was using coalition tactics to put together a bid to become the speaker of the Legislative Yuan. With support from the New Party and independent legislators, Shih tied the KMT candidate on the first ballot; he lost by one vote on the second. Indeed, Shih would have won the first round of voting, except that one DPP legislator, a member of the Justice Alliance, abstained. In February 1996, DPP leaders (party chair

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Shih, Formosa Faction leader Hsu Hsin-liang, and legislative caucus head Chang Chun-hung) reopened negotiations with the KMT and New Party to bring non-KMT politicians into the cabinet. Hsu in particular argued that the leading parties must compete and cooperate. When Peng lost his presidential bid by a very wide margin, he blamed his defeat on the Grand Reconciliation theme. Although this accusation was hardly fair—many other factors played larger roles in Peng’s defeat—it reflected the party leadership’s failure to build a consensus within the party in support of the idea. After the presidential election, Shih Ming-teh stepped down as party chair, and the Central Standing Committee retracted its endorsement of Grand Reconciliation. In Kuo Cheng-liang’s view, the Grand Reconciliation debate is an important event in the DPP’s development because it reveals systemic failures in DPP decisionmaking. Specifically, Kuo points to poor communication among different party actors (central officials and legislators, legislators and grassroots members, et al.) and the party’s confused and ineffective decisionmaking process.9 Kuo also calls attention to the consequences of the debacle. He points to four inferences political actors outside the DPP drew from the Grand Reconciliation debate:10 1. The DPP’s policy positions are not dependable. 2. The DPP is unable to transform its words into action; specifically, DPP members have not overcome their ethnic prejudice. 3. The DPP’s slogans and themes are tactical, not sincere. 4. The DPP center failed to build a consensus for its policy in the lower levels. Round 2. Discussions about coalition government continued even after the CSC dropped Grand Reconciliation as a strategy because the fundamental issue—whether or not it was in the DPP’s interest to enter into a coalition with other parties—remained unresolved. Unless the DPP is able to win both the presidency and a legislative majority, the strategy of using coalition building to increase its influence inevitably will reappear again and again. Different coalition strategies have different institutional implications. Thus, the second round of debate over coalition building was sparked by the DPP’s internal debate over constitutional reform. After Shih Ming-teh resigned his post as DPP chair to take responsibility for the 1996 presidential loss, Chang Chun-hung stepped in as acting chair. Chang pointed out that the KMT’s persistent majority left the DPP with three strategic options: joining a coalition government (with the KMT), forming a balancing coalition (with the New Party), or going it alone.

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The first two strategies would work best under a constitutional system emphasizing parliamentary rule, while the benefits of the third strategy would be greatest under presidentialism, since although the DPP was unlikely to win a legislative majority, winning a presidential election might be possible. Chang (along with the rest of the Formosa Faction) preferred a ruling coalition. The justification for his position lay in Hsu Hsin-liang’s important ideological innovations, the Rising People and Crisis Society theories and the idea of a Taiwan Party. (See the section entitled Special Focus: The Thought of Hsu Hsin-liang, on p. 108.) Ideological developments entered into the debate over coalition strategies and the related constitutional reforms, but pragmatic political concerns also played a role. According to Kuo, Whether or not a particular faction was able to produce a presidential candidate determined that faction’s choice of constitutional system. For example, the fact that the Justice Alliance was the faction most heavily in favor of presidentialism was very closely tied to the fact that Chen Shui-bian [the Justice Alliance founder] was the DPP’s superstar. On the other hand, the appearance of New Tide as the faction most in favor of the cabinet system was related to the fact that this faction stressed collective leadership, did not promote superstars and did not identify with populist politics.11

In 1996, Premier Lien Chan distinguished between coalition cabinets—which he said were not provided for in Taiwan’s political system—and members of various parties participating in cabinets as individuals. This raised an important question for the DPP: should individual DPP members accept cabinet positions under a KMT premier? Acting party chair Chang Chun-hung favored coalition building, while Chen Shui-bian argued the DPP was not ready for coalition government and should continue to seek power on its own. In April, the Central Standing Committee sided with Chen, passing a resolution stating, “We should make a coalition with the people, not the KMT.” The resolution continued, “In the event of a cabinet reshuffle, we forbid any party member to enter the cabinet, so as not to make a coalition cabinet with the KMT.”12 The issue resurfaced only two months later, when Hsu Hsin-liang was elected party chair. In his view, Taiwan needed a stable, unified (read coalition) government if it were to survive the PRC threat and its international isolation. In fact, according to his biographer, Hsu visited Lee Teng-hui the very night he was elected.13 The revived debate broke the party into two camps, each holding divergent views on a number of issues.

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•

Lee Teng-hui transcends party labels; he is a leader for all Taiwanese. Only a strong, unified government in which all major parties have a voice can lead Taiwan through the internal and external crises threatening it. Participating in coalitions would help the DPP establish a reputation for competence, and also would give DPP officials access to government resources.

Opponents of the coalition strategy made counterarguments: • • •

•

•

Lee Teng-hui cannot be separated from the KMT, and the KMT is the DPP’s primary antagonist. The job of an opposition party is to check and balance the party in power. The crises facing Taiwan are not so acute that the DPP should give up its role as an opposition party striving to become a ruling party. Taking cabinet positions would create conflicts of interest within the DPP, and undermine its credibility as an opposition party and critic of the government. The KMT would use DPP cabinet members to split the opposition and gain leverage over it; it would never allow DPP members to control significant resources.

Under Hsu Hsin-liang’s leadership, the supporters of interparty cooperation pushed through the decision to join the National Development Conference (NDC) of 1996. A major goal of the NDC was to develop a consensus among the three major parties in preparation for constitutional revisions to be undertaken by the National Assembly the following year. The NDC was a success—it reached and approved significant resolutions—but some DPP politicians worried that Hsu had given up too much. Still, the NDC committed the KMT to one of the DPP’s long-held goals: eliminating the provincial government. (In the view of the DPP, the provincial government was unnecessary, wasteful, and an invitation to corruption, existing only to help maintain the fiction that the ROC regime represented all of China.) Not long after the NDC, the pendulum swung back in favor of the anticoalition camp. Three events helped reverse its direction. First, the DPP won a by-election for the Taoyuan County executiveship. The victory

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energized hard-liners in the DPP and the KMT alike, both of whom urged their leaders to quit compromising. As a result, the constitutional reform negotiations proved much more difficult—and less fruitful—than expected, handing advocates of coalition building a second setback: the National Assembly failed to implement fully the compromises reached at the National Development Conference. The third blow to coalition building was the DPP’s resounding victory in municipal executive elections held in December 1997. These elections were strong evidence that executive elections are the party’s strong suit. This, in turn, encouraged those who believed a presidential victory offered the best chance for a DPP-led government. The party’s disappointing showing in the 1998 legislative race reinforced this assessment. Round 3. Chen Shui-bian’s election as president of the ROC revived the coalition debate yet again, although in a different form. The president’s choice of a premier (the head of government) does not require the approval of the Legislative Yuan, but the legislature can pass a vote of no confidence against the premier. A successful no-confidence vote forces the president to reshuffle the cabinet, but also permits the president to dissolve the legislature and call an early election. For years, political scientists had argued about how this mixed presidentialparliamentary system would work if different parties controlled the presidency and the legislature. Chen’s election was their first chance to find out. Early in his campaign, Chen Shui-bian decided to downplay his partisan identity. Instead, he promised to assemble an “all people’s government” (quanmin zhengfu). He promised to invite excellent men and women from all political parties (as well as those without a party affiliation) to participate in his cabinet. Chen kept his promise, appointing a former defense minister and KMT member, Tang Fei, to be his premier. Tang’s cabinet included only a handful of DPP members; KMT members held the lion’s share of positions. Still, the “all people’s government” was not a coalition. KMT members were invited to join the cabinet as individuals (the Kuomintang briefly debated whether to permit its members to accept cabinet posts before acknowledging that it had no choice), and there was no agreement between the parties in the legislature. Just after the election, Chen asked Shih Ming-teh to explore a more formal coalition arrangement in the legislature, but the prospects were poor, and the effort was abandoned. In the summer of 2000, after it became clear that KMT lawmakers were planning to block the new administration’s legislative initiatives, the Kuomintang’s acting party chair, Lien Chan, raised the possibility

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of a coalition government yet again. Lien’s plan essentially called for the KMT to take over the cabinet. Nonplussed, President Chen responded by raising the specter of new elections. In short, in the early months of Chen’s presidency, a coalition government seemed as remote as ever. In October, Premier Tang resigned his position, and a DPP stalwart, Chang Chun-hsiung, took his place. The cabinet reshuffle marked the shift from an “all people’s government” to a minority cabinet. The DPP and KMT were on a collision course, farther than ever from forming a coalition. In November, Shih Ming-teh relinquished his DPP membership. The reason he gave was his conviction that the DPP’s failure to form a coalition with other parties made it impossible for Chen Shui-bian to form a workable government.

Special Focus: The Thought of Hsu Hsin-liang14 The rising people theory. In March 1995, Hsu Hsin-liang published “Rising People.” In it he argued that Taiwan’s strength is its skill in economics and trade, but that its politics is mired in the fears and dreams of a bygone era. The central question facing Taiwan, he said, is not whether the Taiwanese people can solve the national identity problem, but whether they can carve an international niche in which Taiwan can survive as a free and independent entity. He criticized Taiwan’s preoccupation with the subjective problem of identity, which he said was misguided given both the risks and the opportunities facing the island. In reality, he argued, Taiwan’s future will be determined by its relationship with the outside world, regardless of how the Taiwanese might feel about their internal situation and problems. Taiwan’s best hope is to move decisively and confidently to use its economic endowments to secure its international position. The crisis society theory. In his writings about the Crisis Society idea, Hsu argues that when people are primarily concerned about national security, opposition parties have a very difficult time gaining power. In his view, the DPP has never admitted—even to itself—how deep and abiding the Taiwanese public’s feelings of insecurity are. As long as the DPP cannot allay these concerns, it will not become the ruling party. Hsu visited parties in similar positions in other countries, including Japan, France, and Germany. In the course of his trips, he developed two strategies aimed at winning the confidence of the voters: joining a coalition government and quelling popular misgivings about the DPP’s pro-Taiwan independence views.

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Taiwan party. Immediately after the 1996 presidential election, Hsu announced his latest idea, the need for a Taiwan Party (Taiwan dang). In essence, Hsu was suggesting that the DPP merge with the Taiwanese wing of the KMT to create a grand coalition party. He argued that at this critical moment in Taiwan’s history—fraught as it is with both danger and opportunity—a unified government capable of decisive leadership is desirable. Hsu Hsin-liang’s ideas were often ridiculed and rarely implemented when he was party chair, but President Chen Shui-bian’s policies owe much to Hsu’s thinking. During the presidential election campaign, Chen embraced Hsu’s assessment that dwelling on Taiwan’s national identity crisis is unconstructive. Instead, he pushed forward a pragmatic, centrist view of cross-strait relations that acknowledged the cultural and historical connections between Taiwan and China, while at the same time emphasizing Taiwan’s commitment to political autonomy. During the campaign, Chen worked tirelessly to allay voters’ feelings of insecurity about the cross-strait issue. Likewise, his enthusiasm for cross-strait economic integration bears no small resemblance to Hsu’s Go West Boldly (dadan xijin) stance at the DPP’s 1998 conference on cross-strait relations.

Central-Local Relations: The Bayer Project Barely a week after winning twelve out of twenty-one municipal executive seats in the 1997 local elections, the DPP stumbled into a crisis. Once again, the disaster had its roots in the DPP’s amorphous decisionmaking process. The central issues were party discipline, the extent to which elected officials were obligated to follow the party line, and the balance of power between the party center and local officials. The controversy revealed that in the absence of well-defined lines of policymaking authority, a local official could hijack the DPP agenda and damage the party’s credibility. Just after the election, then party chair Hsu Hsin-liang appeared on a TVBS news show with the newly elected DPP executive of Taichung County, Liao Yung-lai. The two were discussing a major industrial project slated for construction in Taichung Harbor, on Taiwan’s west-central coast. The project was a facility at which the German chemical firm Bayer AG planned to produce toluene diisocyanate, an ingredient in high-end plastics manufacturing. The ROC government was strongly committed to the Bayer project, which involved an investment of nearly U.S.$2 billion and would help modernize Taiwan’s manufacturing

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industry. The central government gave an expedited environmental approval, arranged the lease of land owned by the provincial government to Bayer, and recommended that the chemical maker apply for special construction permits. For its part, the DPP had not taken a position on the project, although some DPP insiders believe party chair Hsu was inclined to look upon it favorably. (In fact, the DPP has never come out against the Bayer project.) Nevertheless, the topic of conversation on “News: One Hundred Percent” was not the benefits of the project, but its environmental risks. Local residents and environmentalists from around the island were convinced that the plant would produce an unacceptable level of pollution and had the potential for a Bhopal-like release of toxic gases. They feared that in its eagerness to attract the investment, the government had understated the plant’s environmental cost. During his campaign for the county executiveship, Liao promised his constituents that environmental concerns would receive a full hearing from his administration. In particular, Liao insisted that final approval of the Bayer project should rest on the results of a referendum among local residents. Liao’s government would issue construction permits only with the say-so of the plant’s neighbors. In the TVBS interview, Hsu agreed with Liao’s decision to submit the Bayer project to a referendum. Rather than voicing support for the Bayer project, which would have meant contradicting Liao publicly, Hsu assented to the county executive’s procedural suggestion. In a nutshell, by making a unilateral decision to oppose the Bayer project before the party had taken a position, Liao backed the DPP Central Party Office into a corner. Unless Hsu was prepared to violate the harmonious feeling that pervaded the party in the wake of the 1997 elections and expose its internal confusion, he was forced to agree with Liao’s fait accompli. The TVBS interview sparked an immediate outcry from the business community, foreign investors, and government economic officials. They pounced on Hsu’s remarks as proof of what many had long suspected: the DPP opposed economic growth, investment, and industrial development. (These concerns were to come back with a vengeance in October 2000, when Premier Chang Chun-hsiung announced the government’s decision to cancel construction of Taiwan’s fourth nuclear power plant.) Hsu recognized these attacks as a serious challenge to the DPP’s efforts to portray itself as a reasonable party, one capable of continuing Taiwan’s prosperity and stability. On December 5 he met with Bayer executives, and he agreed to sponsor a public hearing for further conversation among the interested groups. According to a Bayer official, the meeting with Hsu was “positive and well intentioned,” with Hsu assuring

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him the DPP felt no animus toward the company.15 Shortly after meeting the Bayer officials, Hsu and his aide, DPP press secretary Chen Wenchian (Sisy Chen), left for a week-long trip to the United States. During the trip, Hsu announced that the DPP would hold a conference on industrial policy in early 1998. The announcement was intended to dispel the impression that the party was antibusiness. Hsu also proposed to overhaul the party’s economic policy. Meanwhile, Chen Wen-chian added, “The center will get involved in the Bayer case” (zhongyang yao jieru Baier an).16 These remarks sparked a new controversy, this one within the DPP. Several important party leaders criticized Hsu’s intervention in the case. Taipei mayor Chen Shui-bian joined the chorus of criticism, accusing Hsu and Chen Wen-chian of losing perspective while abroad. The implication behind Chen’s words was that the U.S. trip had inflated the pair’s sense of their own importance. Meanwhile, DPP deputy secretary general Chiou I-jen reportedly threatened to resign his post, insisting that Liao should be permitted to decide for himself whether to hold a referendum. Chen Wen-chian described Hsu’s reaction to the charges: “His face swelled up and turned red, and he was absolutely dumbstruck.”17 Returning to Taiwan on December 14, Hsu and Chen held a latenight press conference to explain their position. Hsu told reporters the Bayer project was too important to be decided solely by the local government, and that the DPP headquarters “cannot avoid its responsibility to conduct discussions on the referendum issue.” 18 A China News Agency report summarized Chen Wen-chian’s comments as follows: The time has come for DPP officials to sit down and discuss the issue practically and calmly, she asserted. If the referendum takes place, it will inevitably affect the willingness of foreign enterprises to invest in Taiwan due to the uncertainty such a precedent would create, Chen said. She added that if every major project must be affirmed through a public vote, local governments will have difficulty in pushing through major investment projects and in initiating civic construction work.19

In order for the Bayer project to proceed, the Provincial Assembly needed to approve the lease agreement negotiated between Bayer and the provincial government. When the assembly decided not to approve the lease agreement before ending its session on December 18, Bayer suspended the project. According to a company spokesman, the suspension resulted from the failure of the Taiwanese authorities to give a clear time frame for Bayer to begin construction. But Taiwanese officials

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blamed the DPP for creating uncertainty and undermining the project. According to economics minister Wang Chih-kang, the DPP “has always claimed it is not opposed to business” and “it is high time for the opposition party to match its words with deeds.” 20 For his part, Hsu Hsin-liang said he felt “regret and sorrow” over the suspension.21 Bayer finally cancelled the project in March 1998. A number of factors contributed to the decision, including the Provincial Assembly’s reluctance to pass the proposal, despite strong pressure from the government and the KMT leadership. The assembly’s deliberations on the issue were interrupted repeatedly by violent demonstrations, shouting matches in the assembly chamber, and a DPP filibuster against the bill. In the end it passed, with fewer than half the members voting. However, Taichung County executive Liao Yung-lai continued to insist upon the referendum, which he said would be held on June 13 in the four townships immediately adjacent to the construction site. If the local residents rejected the plan, he vowed to deny local construction permits and business licenses. The company could have skirted these maneuvers, which would have had little force, legally or politically. (Liao himself admitted the referendum had no basis in law, although, “I hope our society will respect the majority opinion.”)22 However, the accumulation of negative factors convinced Bayer to move the project to Baytown, Texas. The Bayer case is an important watershed in Taiwan’s political development for many reasons, but its importance to the DPP centers on the party center’s inability to grasp the issue and lead the party through the controversy. When Liao Yung-lai acted without party permission and (arguably) against party interests, Hsu Hsin-liang attempted to suppress the county executive’s coup d’état. However, in the eyes of many DPP politicians, the party chair’s role is not one of leadership but of negotiation and coordination. DPP politicians place the most value on the individual autonomy of elected officials, a position they defend by pointing out that it is the officials who possess a popular mandate, not the bureaucrats in the DPP Central Party Office. However, as long as individual politicians are wearing the party insignia, their actions in pursuit of their own political interests can and will affect the image of the party as a whole. The DPP has not yet arrived at a process for resolving this conundrum.

Legislative Coordination: The National Assembly “Self-Fattening” Caper The DPP is organized along Leninist lines (see Chapter 4 for a detailed discussion), which means that formal decisionmaking authority is vested

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in the center (specifically, the Central Standing Committee). But the ROC has a semipresidential political system in which political power is shared in the presidency and the legislature. Thus, when the DPP does not hold the presidential office, its greatest political influence lies with its legislative delegation. This disjuncture causes the DPP endless headaches, as it struggles to synchronize its formal structure—in which the CSC makes decisions—with the reality that only the legislative delegation can make things happen. The events of late summer 1999, when the DPP’s delegation in the National Assembly defied the Central Party Office to push through a highly unpopular constitutional amendment, exemplify this dilemma. The ROC National Assembly was a holdover from the pre-1949 era. Under the original ROC constitution, the National Assembly amended the constitution and elected the ROC president. After the ROC presidency was subjected to popular election, the only function left to the National Assembly was constitutional revision. Since its inception, the DPP has argued for abolishing the National Assembly for several reasons, including its legacy as a bastion of authoritarianism, its redundancy, its unificationist symbolism, its inefficiency, and its expense.23 And the National Assembly was expensive. As of summer 1999, each of its 334 members received a monthly salary of NT$170,000 (U.S.$5,400) and a per diem allowance during the session of NT$7,000(U.S.$220). Other expenses included travel allowances for deputies from central and southern Taiwan, as well as the permanent secretariat staff, overhead, etc. In fact, the National Assembly was widely viewed as a gravy train for politicians, and hence the description of the 1999 amendment extending the assembly members’ terms as a “self-fattening bill.” The National Assembly was effectively eliminated in April 2000, when its members voted to reduce it to an ad hoc body. Most of the assembly’s functions will now be performed by the Legislative Yuan; the assembly will convene only rarely, to ratify constitutional amendments and vote on presidential impeachment. The DPP’s success in abolishing the assembly was serendipitous, as we shall see. For years, this outcome seemed nearly impossible, because only the assembly was empowered to make the constitutional revisions necessary to abolish it. And, not surprisingly, the incumbent assembly members resisted pressure to dismantle their feeding trough. The DPP, for its part, cast about for strategies that might allow an exit from this catch-22. During the summer of 1999, DPP deputies in the National Assembly worked out a compromise with their KMT counterparts. The DPP caucus agreed to support a proposal to extend the incumbent deputies’ terms by two years, to 2002. In exchange, KMT members agreed to freeze direct elections to the assembly and institute a formula under

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which National Assembly seats would be allocated to political parties in proportion to their performance in Legislative Yuan elections. The proportional representation proposal also called for reducing the size of the assembly.24 The DPP favored the proposals to implement proportional representation and reduce the assembly’s size as measures designed to undermine the assembly’s democratic legitimacy and diminish its political influence. Such changes, the party hoped, would help bring about the assembly’s final demise. What the party leadership did not support, however, was the proposal to lengthen the incumbent deputies’ term of office. Party officials feared the voters would take the DPP’s acquiescence in the term extension as proof that DPP deputies, like their KMT counterparts, were interested primarily in increasing their own wealth and power. Chen Shui-bian, the party’s presidential candidate, was especially strong in his condemnation of the compromise. According to news reports, Chen threatened to withdraw from the presidential race over the self-fattening flap. The compromise bill, sponsored by DPP deputy Liu Yi-teh, passed its first reading on August 30, sparking outrage in KMT and DPP party offices alike. Both parties’ leaders came out against the move and threatened to punish deputies who persisted in voting for the term extension on second and third readings. DPP secretary-general Yu Hsikun said that only if the DPP deputies attached a rider to the bill halving the size of the assembly would they be spared censure. But on September 2, several powerful DPP legislators came out in support of Liu’s bill. Shih Ming-teh, Chang Chun-hung, Lee Ying-yuan, and Chen Chao-nan publicly opposed their own party’s position, arguing that the bill, while imperfect, represented the best chance to move forward efforts to abolish the National Assembly. Chen Chao-nan told reporters, A lot of media and journalists’ reports only focus on the term extension, but this is wrong. Everyone agrees on the reform of the assembly, but how to practically weaken its power and slowly dissolve it is a strategic consideration.

He added that the term extension was an acceptable price to pay to weaken the assembly.25 Leaders of both parties vowed to prevent the bill’s passage on second and third readings and sent officials to the meeting hall to corral their members, but to no avail. The amendment achieved final passage on September 4. The DPP’s National Assembly whip, Chen Chin-teh, said, “It is a major victory for the DPP. Eighty percent of our proposals

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are in line with the party’s policy. We hope that misunderstanding will be sorted out soon and everyone can soon share the reward of the reform.”26 Included in the 20 percent of DPP proposals that failed was the party’s top constitutional priority, the establishment of a national right of referendum. Once the amendment passed, DPP headquarters grudgingly accepted the package, arguing that because it reduced the size of the assembly (from 334 to 150 members by 2006) and implemented a proportional representation system, it was acceptable. Party chair Lin Yi-hsiung defended the bill, but without much enthusiasm. Meanwhile, Luo Wenchia, one of Chen Shui-bian’s top campaign aides, reiterated the party’s reluctance, “It was clear that we only supported the first two parts of the bill,” he said, explicitly omitting the term extension clause from the endorsement.27 Meanwhile, the party extracted from its National Assembly deputies an agreement to replace “self-fattening” with “selfrestraint” by declining their salaries during the term extension period. The party hoped to persuade voters that the DPP deputies’ motives had not been impure. To further this effort, the bill’s sponsor, Liu Yi-teh, agreed to retire after the term extension passed. Liu agreed with General Secretary Yu Hsi-kun that the party should sanction deputies who violated the self-restraint agreement. The term extension agreement points up the weakness of the party leadership relative to its parliamentary delegation. In the Westminster system, a party’s parliamentary delegation is its leadership; therefore, there is no danger of a gap opening between the two. But for the DPP, the grafting of a Leninist party organization onto a semi-parliamentary system creates an intractable dilemma, with two leadership cores (actually more, since the Legislative Yuan caucus and the Municipal Executives’ Alliance also function as independent power centers) competing for power. Once again, when the key players (factions) fail to negotiate and enforce a prior consensus, the DPP cannot make decisions effectively. The self-fattening tale would not be complete without its ironic postscript. Taiwan’s Council of Grand Justices struck down the 1999 amendment, but not until after the change had played a key role in helping its erstwhile opponent, Chen Shui-bian, win the presidency. One unintended (and mostly unanticipated) consequence of the National Assembly term extension bill was to cancel National Assembly elections scheduled to be held concurrently with the presidential balloting. Ordinarily, the mobilizing (and vote buying) activities of highly motivated National Assembly candidates would increase support for those candidates’ preferred presidential candidates. Because the KMT had the largest political machine—and the most National Assembly

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candidates—Lien Chan stood to gain the most from this reverse coattails effect. Canceling the National Assembly election meant Lien Chan was alone on the ship, with no oarsmen below to power it. As the Taipei Times (which did anticipate the results of the term extension) put it in a September 5 editorial: What is uppermost in the minds of the KMT leadership is more likely to be the dire effect that not having an election campaign for the National Assembly coinciding with the presidential campaign is going to have on Lien Chan’s chances at the polls next March. The National Assembly represents the pinnacle of local factional politics in Taiwan and its deputies are either grassroots bosses themselves or the most powerful agents of such local-level political machines. These are the people whom the KMT relies on to “mobilize voter support” in the interesting and diverse ways that this is done in Taiwan. The problem is that the KMT’s presidential campaign strategy rides on the back of the National Assembly deputies themselves needing to get re-elected. There is an obvious crossover between their promotion of their own candidacies and getting out the vote for the presidential candidate as well. Now they no longer have to do that, and with a good proportion of KMT party activists likely to desert to the James Soong camp, the Lien Chan campaign, for all its financial muscle, is beginning to limp.

Even after the presidential election, fans of the self-fattening soap opera had one last episode to enjoy. In the wake of the election, the Council of Grand Justices determined that since the term extension was illegal, National Assembly elections should be held immediately. This presented Soong Chu-yu with an excellent venue in which to debut his new People First Party and build on the momentum he had generated during the presidential race. The KMT was determined to deny Soong this opportunity. Instead, KMT National Assembly members joined with their DPP colleagues to pass constitutional amendments that effectively abolished the National Assembly. Thus it was that the KMT, to spite Soong, at last granted the DPP its heart’s desire.

CONCLUSION The problems in the DPP’s decisionmaking process reflect its organizational weaknesses. Most decisions are made through a process of negotiations among the DPP officials who will be held accountable for those decisions to the electorate. This makes the DPP highly democratic, but limits the chances that strong leadership will emerge. As long as the party factions, in consultation with the public officials closest to a

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particular policy issue, are able to reach consensus, decisionmaking works well. However, the party lacks an institutionalized process for imposing a decision in the absence of a consensus. The interest aggregation function of the party is not well served, as competing interests tend to hijack their own issues rather than participating in an integrated process of issue definition and ideological reflection that would allow for the expression of a comprehensive vision. Finally, the DPP is not as effective as it could be in initiating new issues and cultivating support for them among the electorate because its decisionmaking process is primarily reactive.

NOTES 1. Chen Hua-sheng, “Zheng jueci guocheng” (The party decisionmaking process), in Minzhu zhidu sheji (Designing democratic systems), ed. Lin Chiacheng (Taipei: Institute for National Policy Research, 1991), 77. 2. Ibid., 76–77. 3. Lin Chia-cheng, “Guohui dangtuan de dingwei” (The position of parliamentary caucuses), in Lin, Minzhu zhidu sheji, 215. 4. In the 1986 National Assembly elections, DPP candidates received about 20 percent. 5. Hsia Chen, Hsu Hsin-liang de zhengzhi shijie (The political world of Hsu Hsin-liang) (Taipei: Tianhsia Publishing Company, 1998), 204. 6. Ibid., 211. 7. Interview with author, Taipei, July 1999. 8. Kuo Cheng-liang, Minjindang zhuanxing zhi tong (The DPP’s painful transformation) (Taipei: Tianhsia Publishing Company, 1998), 88. 9. Ibid., 85–86. 10. Ibid., 84–85. 11. Ibid., 177. 12. DPP Central Standing Committee resolution, quoted in ibid., p. 182. 13. Hsia, Hsu Hsin-liang, 228. 14. For detailed summaries of Hsu Hsin-liang’s thinking on these issues, see Hsia, Hsu Hsin-liang, pp. 278–309; and Kuo, Minjindang zhuanxing zhi tong, pp. 118–146. 15. “Hsu Clarifies DPP Stance on Referendum on Bayer Project,” China News Agency, 5 December 1997 (FBIS-CHI-97-339). 16. Hsia, Hsu Hsin-liang, 257. 17. Ibid., 258. A few days later, Hsu called reporters during a trip to Vietnam to say that he had nothing to gain from serving as party chair and had accepted the position out of a sense of duty and mission. 18. “DPP Chairman: Bayer Project Important to Taiwan’s Economy,” China News Agency, 14 December 1997 (FBIS-CHI-97-348). 19. Ibid. 20. “Bayer Suspends Petrochemical Plant Plans,” China News Agency, 19 December 1997 (FBIS-CHI-97-353).

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21. “DPP Chairman Regrets Abandonment of Bayer Project,” China News Agency, 19 December 1997 (FBIS-CHI-97-353). 22. China News Agency, 9 March 1998 (FBIS-CHI-98-068). 23. Many foreigners are familiar with scenes of fist fighting in ROC parliamentary bodies. What few realize is that most of the fighting took place in the National Assembly as part of a conscious strategy by the DPP to discredit the body and hasten its demise. In fact, this approach succeeded in undermining popular support for the assembly to the point where, after the self-fattening affair, more than four out of five Taiwanese favored its abolition. 24. Whatever its merits, the compromise had serious technical problems. For example, the negotiators apparently overlooked the fact that previous sessions of the National Assembly had agreed to eliminate fixed terms for the Legislative Yuan and allow for votes of no confidence. There was no consideration in the self-fattening amendments of how early dissolution of the legislature would affect the National Assembly. 25. “DPP Lawmakers Tout Extension As Part of a Larger Plan,” China News, 2 September 1999. Available online at: http://www.taipei.org/gionews/ chinanew/cn-09-02-99/cn-09-02-99-9.htm. 26. “Bill to Lengthen Terms of Office Clears Second Reading in Secret Voting,” China News, 4 September 1999. Available online at: http://www.taipei. org/gionews/chinanew/cn-09-04-99/cn-09-04-99-6.htm. 27. “DPP National Assembly Deputies to Go Without Pay,” China News, 9 September 1999. Available online at: http://www.taipei.org/gionews/chinanew/ cn-09-09-99/cn-09-09-99-17.htm.

7

Platform, Policy, and Strategy

In February 2000, the DPP Central Party Office published the “DPP Year 2000 Policy Manifesto.”1 This document repackaged the party’s core ideas in preparation for the 2000 presidential election. The manifesto echoed Chen Shui-bian’s moderate, centrist approach to policy issues, and it provides a useful picture of the DPP’s thinking on the eve of the election. The manifesto identifies five key policy areas and outlines concrete steps for managing each. First, it lays out three approaches to the national security issue: establishing a multilateral security network; promoting “pragmatic, equal, and harmonious” relations with mainland China, and modernizing national defense to create an effective military deterrent. Second, the manifesto reiterates the DPP’s long-standing commitment to democratization by advocating government decentralization and accountability and enhanced citizen participation. Third, it recommends economic reforms to increase transparency and facilitate Taiwan’s growth as a high technology center. The fourth policy area addressed in the manifesto is civil society, which the DPP promises to develop through educational reform, improvements in social welfare and labor policies, family-friendly policies, and cultural development. Finally, the DPP manifesto calls for a “secure and sustainable living environment.” Clearly, the DPP party platform served as a framework and foundation for its policy manifesto. However, there are significant differences between the two documents. Above all, the policy manifesto is silent on the question of Taiwan independence, the subject of the DPP platform’s most controversial plank. It is tempting to try to discern which of these documents reflects the DPP’s “true intentions,” but such an exercise is, I would argue, misguided. As a document approved by the DPP Party Congress, the platform would appear to hold more weight.

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But in the end, both documents are political statements. Although they offer some parameters within which we can expect DPP policymakers to act, neither document is binding. Given the party’s loose decisionmaking process, it is hardly surprising that the views of individual DPP members—and the consensus view of the whole party—often deviate from its stated positions. The DPP’s stated positions on policy issues can help us to anticipate how its members will use their political power, but we must keep in mind that the party platform is a work in progress, constantly evolving. Ultimately, what matters most are the words and actions of DPP members who hold key government posts: President Chen, the DPP’s legislative delegation, and key cabinet members. The purpose of this chapter is to review the key elements of the DPP platform and to trace their evolution in the hope of helping the reader to interpret and anticipate the DPP’s future actions and statements.

THE DPP PLATFORM Establishing a Sovereign and Independent Republic of Taiwan There is no question that the issue that most troubles observers of Taiwan’s politics today is how the island will manage its sensitive relationship with the People’s Republic of China. As the party most closely identified with independence, the DPP has a reputation at home and abroad (and especially in Beijing) as an irresponsible troublemaker, ready to sacrifice peace in the Taiwan Strait—and drag the United States into a disastrous conflict with the PRC—in its quixotic battle to impose its version of a utopian solution to the cross-strait dilemma. The DPP platform lends credence to this assessment when it states, “In accordance with the reality of Taiwan’s sovereignty, an independent country should be established and a new constitution drawn up in order to make the legal system conform to the social reality in Taiwan and in order to return to the international community.”2 In fact, however, the DPP’s views on independence are much more complicated than its platform would suggest. In order to understand the DPP’s position on the issue, we must pay close attention to the political circumstances under which the party’s stance evolved. To begin with, it is important to differentiate between the desire for autonomy (effective independence) and formal independence. There is no question that the DPP is committed to the former, but in this it is barely distinguishable from either the KMT or the overwhelming

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majority of Taiwanese citizens. As for formal independence, there are many in the DPP who strongly desire this; as we have seen, establishing a Taiwanese republic is a stated party goal. However, the party has never been of one mind on this point. From the beginning, many DPP leaders have argued against a formal declaration of independence. In the early 1990s, they lost the upper hand in the debate, but they regained it after 1996. Indeed, the DPP’s position on independence today is almost indistinguishable from the KMT’s.3 In the run-up to the 2000 presidential election, the DPP’s leading figure, presidential candidate Chen Shui-bian, moved the party’s de facto position, if not its formal platform, even closer to the center. In one respect, however, the DPP’s policy has been consistent: the party is determined to preserve Taiwan’s autonomy and democracy against what it sees as a PRC campaign to annex the island. Chen Shui-bian summarized his position on independence in his inaugural address. In his speech, the new president enumerated “five nos”: no declaration of independence, no change in the Republic of China name, no revision of the constitution to incorporate the “two states” theory, no referendum on independence, and no abandonment of the National Unification Guidelines. He promised to uphold the five nos so long as the PRC refrained from military attacks against Taiwan. The basic principle underlying this policy was articulated by mainstream DPP leaders as early as 1995: because the Republic of China on Taiwan already is an independent, sovereign nation, it is not necessary to declare independence and the party will not do so. Beijing’s lukewarm response to Chen’s speech reflects its conviction that recent statements by Chen Shui-bian and other DPP leaders about the independence issue are unimportant. First, the DPP has not repudiated its earlier position; instead, it has added new layers to its policy. The result is a policy with internal contradictions, which calls into question the sincerity of the new stance. Moreover, Chen Shui-bian has rarely stated his views unequivocally. But even without missteps of this kind, Chen will find it extremely difficult to convince Beijing of his sincerity. PRC leaders believe the DPP to be an implacable enemy of national unity, no matter what its leaders say. In this section, I will argue against dismissing the DPP’s retreat from a formal declaration of independence as a strategic ruse. The issue is too complicated, the policy changes too substantial, to be written off as mere political maneuvering. A careful reading of DPP statements on the issue reveals a party struggling through a protracted search for a position that both preserves its commitment to Taiwan’s autonomy and identity while acknowledging the political realities beyond the party’s

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control. Many DPP members still dream of an independent Taiwan, but individually and collectively they now recognize that this is not a dream they can realize unilaterally or soon. A key question in the debate over the DPP’s views on this issue is whether the party was committed to formal independence from the beginning. Is this goal embedded in the party’s very foundation, or is it something the DPP accepted later (and therefore is more likely to abandon in the future)? In this, I agree with T. J. Cheng and Yung-ming Hsu when they write, “The formation of a political cleavage based on the [independence-unification] issue was not predetermined. The DPP was not born as a nation-building party, but it was turned into one via the shrewd strategic manipulation by the New Tide faction.”4 Taiwan’s political opposition did not set out to make independence the central issue in ROC politics, even though many early opposition figures felt their Taiwanese identity acutely. They saw Taiwan as a community with Chinese roots but a uniquely Taiwanese social, cultural, and political identity. Nonetheless, the DPP’s early political platforms were aimed at realizing the democratic promise of the ROC constitution, not overhauling the very definition of the state. The first DPP platforms summarized goals that had motivated the opposition throughout the 1970s and 1980s; its objectives fell into two broad categories: political reform and ethnic justice. These two notions intersected in the demand for self-determination, a position captured in the party’s platform for the 1986 legislative elections: “All the residents of Taiwan will decide Taiwan’s future through a process marked by universality and equality . . . develop an independent and autonomous foreign policy, preserve peace in the Taiwan Strait area and reenter the United Nations.”5 To many conservatives, self-determination was a euphemism for Taiwan independence, but not all opposition activists subscribed to this deception. In fact, the self-determination plank that appeared in the Dangwai and DPP platforms throughout the 1980s can be read as opposition to unilateral action by an unelected KMT regime, rather than as a preference for independence. Robert Sutter captured the range of opinion within the DPP in 1988 when he wrote, For moderate members of the DPP, self-determination means greater political power for the majority of Taiwanese, to be accomplished by equitable campaigns, open elections, and divestment of KMT business interests. Other members of the DPP assert—at least implicitly— that the Taiwanese electorate would abandon the goal of reunification if given a choice. In this view, self-determination could be seen as a veiled call for Taiwan independence.6

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Sutter’s analysis of the DPP’s founding platform reveals two important points. First, the DPP’s eventual decision to advocate independence was not inevitable. Self-determination was a meaningful goal in itself; it was not merely a code word the party used to get around the laws against advocating independence. Second, many oppositionists believed the KMT’s treasured ambition of unifying Taiwan with mainland China was not consistent with the will of Taiwan’s majority. And if most Taiwanese did not support unification, some oppositionists equated this with a preference for independence. It is this last assumption—that a distaste for unification is equivalent to support for independence—that the DPP learned through painful experience to reject. From the DPP’s founding in 1986 until 1991, the party maintained an ambiguous stance on the national identity issue. This state of affairs reflected the deep rifts within the party, which was a coalition of antiKMT forces from across the ideological spectrum. The DPP’s struggle intensified after the ROC government lifted martial law in 1987. Although independence advocacy remained illegal, the law was rarely enforced, which emboldened radicals within DPP’s ranks. The political reforms enacted between 1989 and 1992—including lifting martial law, increasing the number of locally elected national legislators, easing restrictions on the mass media, and legalizing opposition parties—not only reduced the disincentives to openly advocate independence, but also gave the DPP strong incentives to do so. As Cheng and Hsu put it, “After the KMT leadership promised a democratic transition in 1986 . . . the issue of democratic reform gradually lost its political utility. For electoral mobilization, the DPP began to stress the issue of ethnic cleavage.”7 This shift strengthened the party’s pro-independence wing, which was comfortable with the rhetoric of Taiwanese nationalism. The changing balance within the party was evident in resolutions adopted by the Nartional Party Congress of 1989: Taiwan’s international sovereignty is independent; it is not part of the People’s Republic of China with its capital in Beijing. . . . Any change in Taiwan’s international status must be approved by the entire Taiwanese people. . . . If the Kuomintang and the Communists enter into one-sided peace talks, if the KMT sells out the interests of the Taiwanese people, if the Chinese Communists “unify” Taiwan, or if the KMT does not institute real democratic constitutional government, this party should advocate Taiwan independence.

These resolutions, although closer to a pro-independence position than the party’s 1986 platform, still fell short of endorsing formal independence. Indeed, electoral results and public opinion surveys suggest

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that the DPP’s ambiguous stance on the independence issue was in synch with the views of the general public. According to surveys, no more than one in eight or nine voters approved of independence. Nonetheless, some pro-independence candidates did well, in part because of institutional factors. Under the ROC’s system of single, nontransferable voting in multimember districts (the SVMM system), each candidate needs a relatively small share of the vote to be elected (often less than 20 percent). The system also encourages candidate-oriented voting. Together, these two factors give candidates with small but dedicated followings a strong advantage. Candidates who were willing to come out publicly for independence were in a good position to benefit from the peculiarities of the SVMM system. In 1989, eight members of the New Tide Faction joined together to form the pro-independence New Nation Alliance to contest seats in the December legislative election. All eight were elected, a stunning accomplishment. It would be a mistake, however, to interpret this result as evidence of widespread support for independence among the electorate. In fact, pro-independence sentiment was rare, but intense. On the contrary, DPP leaders understood that there was more political gain to be had in opposing unification than in advocating independence. The DPP’s position on Taiwan’s future is the “people’s self-determination,” and it maintains that all inhabitants should jointly determine their common destiny. . . . As Taiwan’s largest opposition party, the DPP has the responsibility to reflect the aspirations of the masses of society, to vigorously try to obtain accelerated implementation of constitutional government reform, and to avoid Taiwan’s losing its way in the abyss of unification.8 Our country’s actual sovereignty does not extend to mainland China or Outer Mongolia. Our country’s future internal political and constitutional system and its foreign policy should be built upon its actual territorial boundaries.9

As New Tide legislator Lu Hsiu-yi explained, Ask the same person “whether he accepts CPC [Communist Party of China] rule” and “whether he advocates Taiwan independence,” and you may get some intriguing answers. Fearful that independence may lead to military threats from the CPC and profound change, the person may come out against Taiwan independence. But if it is phrased in terms of maintaining the status quo and resisting unification with or incorporation into Communist China, I believe the proportion of people who say yes will be very high. To the CPC, this is independent Taiwan, which has more support in Taiwan society than Taiwan independence. But what is independent Taiwan? What is Taiwan independence? There are many interpretations. . . .10

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The DPP finally abandoned its ambiguous stance at the 1991 National Party Congress. New Tide leader Lin Cho-shui proposed that the party adopt a plank in its platform and charter calling for an independent Republic of Taiwan. Chen Shui-bian offered an amendment to soften the proposal. It called for a referendum on Taiwan independence rather than a unilateral declaration by a DPP government, thereby stressing the democratic process over a particular substantive outcome. Lin’s proposal (with Chen’s amendment) put the party’s other factions, especially the large and powerful Formosa Faction, in a difficult position. The change might well repel more voters than it attracted, but a New Tide walkout would weaken the DPP severely. At the same time, the Formosa Faction was not as strong as it had once been; it no longer held a decisive majority of seats on the party’s Central Standing Committee, and discipline within the faction was weak. A number of independence activists who had spent decades in exile recently had returned to Taiwan, and they joined with the New Tide Faction to push for the independence plank. In the end, the Formosa Faction agreed to vote for the amended proposal if New Tide put its votes behind Hsu Hsin-liang in the race for DPP chairman. An additional motivation for passing the amendment was the desire to challenge the KMT’s ban on independence advocacy.11 The result was the so-called independence plank: In accordance with Taiwan’s actual sovereignty, an independent country should be established and a new constitution promulgated in order to create a legal and political system appropriate to the realities of Taiwan society, and to return to international society in accordance with principles of international law. . . . Based on the principle of popular sovereignty, the establishment of a sovereign, independent and self-governing Republic of Taiwan and promulgation of a new constitution should be carried out by all residents of Taiwan through a national referendum.12

Inserting an explicit endorsement of independence in the party charter and platform had momentous consequences. Most importantly, it cemented the DPP’s reputation as the “independence party.” Given the public’s wariness of independence, the party’s image made it much more difficult for DPP candidates to convince voters to entrust their party with political power. The pro-independence reputation extended to mainland China—where the DPP to this day is vilified as a nest of secessionism—and to the international community. Even after Chen Shui-bian promised not to declare independence if elected, U.S. journalists still referred to him as the presidential candidate of the “proindependence Democratic Progressive Party.” The platform change also

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drove the DPP’s remaining anti-independence leaders out of the party, including the party’s most prominent Mainlander, Lin Cheng-chieh. Enshrining Taiwan independence in the party platform carried a risk, but the Formosa Faction leadership decided it was one worth taking. With political reform advancing steadily under KMT leadership, the DPP needed new issues to entice the voters. After the suppression of demonstrations in Beijing and the breakup of the Soviet empire in 1989, the international situation was more favorable to Taiwan independence than ever before. If independence turned out to be as popular as the New Tide asserted, the party would gain from the move. If the new platform bombed at the ballot box, New Tide would be forced to back off on the issue. As it turned out, making independence the centerpiece of its 1991 National Assembly campaign had disastrous results for the DPP. The KMT leapt onto the offensive, trotting out decades of threatening statements from Beijing to prove the DPP’s irresponsibility and recklessness. Even before the campaign was over, some DPP candidates began retreating from their own party’s platform. When the votes were counted, the opposition had suffered the worst setback in its history. DPP candidates won only 24 percent of the vote, the party’s lowest share since the 1986 National Assembly race. A postelection poll reflected the gap between the opposition party and the voters: Asked to agree or disagree with the statement, “If Taiwan could maintain peaceful relations with the Chinese communists after declaring independence, then Taiwan should become independent and establish a new country,” 42 percent disagreed, while 57 percent agreed that “if Taiwan and the mainland were comparable in their economic, social and political conditions, then the two sides should be unified.”13 Although many factors contributed to the DPP’s poor performance, the independence plank was extremely damaging. The party did not remove the independence plank from its platform, but it stopped emphasizing immediate independence in its rhetoric and policy proposals. After its 1991 defeat, the DPP set about crafting policy positions that better reflected the subtleties of public opinion, including the initiative (later co-opted by the KMT) to pursue UN membership. After the 1991 fiasco, the DPP struggled to recover its credibility with mainstream voters. When hard-line unificationists left the KMT to form the New Party in 1993, the ruling party’s move to the center cut into the DPP’s moderate support. Individual leaders, including Hsu Hsin-liang and Shih Ming-teh, tried to narrow the gap between the DPP’s official stance and the preferences of Taiwan’s electorate.

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On November 3, 1993, Hsu said, “The DPP cannot unilaterally declare Taiwan independence. Whether or not the Taiwan independence platform plank will become national policy will depend upon objective international conditions.”14 Two years later, Shih echoed this view, stating, “If the DPP becomes the ruling party, we will not need to, nor will we, declare independence.”15 Still, the DPP did not attack the problem of weak public support for its cross-strait stance head-on until after its disastrous showing in the 1996 presidential election; the Central Standing Committee never ratified Hsu and Shih’s comments. The 1996 presidential election fiasco forced the DPP to confront the weakness of its independence policy. Throughout the campaign, moderates in the party headquarters fought with independence zealots on the campaign staff about how much emphasis independence should be given in the campaign strategy. In the end, candidate Peng Mingmin rejected the party center’s entreaties and ran on the slogan “Peace, Respect, a President for Taiwan.” Meanwhile, Beijing’s efforts to intimidate Taiwanese voters turned the presidential election into a referendum on Lee Teng-hui’s performance, especially his mainland policy. The results were overwhelmingly in his favor. In a field of four candidates, Lee won 54 percent of the vote, more than double Peng’s vote share (21 percent). The 1996 missile crisis also convinced many DPP leaders to take PRC threats more seriously. As scholar Chu Yun-han put it: An expected consequence of the recent showdown in the Taiwan Strait was the convergence of the DPP’s reading of the island’s structural constraints and realm of possibilities with that of the KMT. A growing number of DPP leaders have recognized that there is no realistic chance for Taiwan pursuing de jure independence in the foreseeable future.16

It was clear, then, that whatever value advocating self-determination and independence may have had for the opposition in the past, this strategy was no longer effective. As Lin, Chu, and Hinich have written, by the mid-1990s, “the appeal to democratic ideals and Taiwanese identity has exhausted its electoral utility.” 17 For DPP moderates, the independence plank had become a burden. At the same time the party was coping with its poor showing in the presidential election, a new generation of DPP members was urging the party to revisit its pro-independence stance. In early April 1996, participants in the New Era Opposition Debate warned the party against “Taiwan chauvinism” and “Taiwan independence fascism” in its ranks. In May, a group of activists led by Chou Yi-cheng, the vice-director of

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the DPP’s Information Department, published the “Manifesto for the Taiwan Independence Movement in a New Era.” The document galvanized a new debate over independence, deliberately calling attention to the similarities between the KMT and DPP positions on the issue. In the view of the new era activists, Taiwan independence ought not to be the sole property of the DPP; instead, they argued, independence belongs to all Taiwan residents (including Mainlanders) and parties (including the KMT). In Kuo’s words, “The old generation advocated Taiwan Independence because of the past, tragedy and nationalism, while the new generation advocates Taiwan Independence because of the future, hope and democracy. Generation is not a question of age, but of attitude. Anyone who seeks the future, hope and democracy is a member of the new generation.”18 One important component of the new thinking was that Taiwan independence is not an internal matter; it does not depend on overthrowing “foreign domination.” On the contrary, whether or not its independence can be secured depends upon Taiwan’s ability to unite its people to resist the PRC threat. Another key aspect of the manifesto was its emphasis on substantive independence and its explicit rejection of the symbolic trappings of formal independence: “Taiwan Independence does not necessarily require changing the name of the country to ‘Taiwan.’ The national name, flag and anthem are not important goals of the Taiwan Independence movement.”19 Mid-1996 saw a dramatic confrontation between those who wanted to see the DPP move into a new era of cooperation and reconciliation— with Taiwan independence viewed in a pragmatic, inclusive, and substantive light—and those who wanted to pursue formal, de jure independence. By this time, the mainstream DPP leadership clearly was committed to a moderate interpretation of Taiwan’s status. They accepted the logic that since Taiwan already enjoyed independence, there was no need to change the status quo. For independence zealots, however, DPP leaders who took this view were abandoning the party’s core principles. In August 1996, several hard-line independence advocates announced their intention to leave the DPP and form a party dedicated to pursuing Taiwan independence. The immediate cause of their departure was the DPP’s decision to cooperate with the New Party in legislative maneuvers, but the underlying cause was the DPP’s increasing moderation on the national identity issue. Understandably, DPP leaders worried that the departure of the proindependence faction would hurt the party. As party chair Shih Ming-teh

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put it, “The influence of the founding of the Taiwan Independence Party (TAIP, or jianguodang) on Taiwan’s politics and economics and on the DPP is a political problem. Even more, however, it is a historical problem, because the creation of the TAIP will have the direct effect of splitting the DPP vote and therefore will directly assist the KMT.”20 As it turned out, the DPP underestimated the degree of support its new, moderate stance enjoyed among the party rank and file. The TAIP took few important leaders, and very few votes, away from the DPP. And once the radicals exited, DPP leaders were free to move the party even closer to the political center, where the majority of Taiwanese voters are located. In late 1996, DPP representatives to the National Development Conference agreed with KMT and New Party representatives that the basis for cross-strait relations should be the “survival and development of the Republic of China,” with Taiwan’s security as the most important principle. A year later, DPP chair Hsu Hsin-liang referred to the Taiwan independence plank as a “historical document,” implying that a literal reading of the party charter and platform would not accurately reflect the DPP’s current position. Since 1996, the DPP has retreated substantially from its dream of declaring formal independence; as Kuo Cheng-liang puts it, the DPP and the KMT have converged on a policy of “reforming and defending Taiwan” (gexin baotai). Kuo identifies four key changes in the DPP’s policies on the cross-strait relations and independence issues. First, there is now a consensus within the DPP leadership (and, I would argue, among most rank-and-file members) that the appropriate position for the party to take is the one Shih Ming-teh articulated in 1995: If we come to power, we will not need to, nor will we, declare independence. Second, the party realizes it needs to change its reputation as the party of conflict. Third, the party is committed to emphasizing stability in its electoral work, in the hope of shedding the label of reckless troublemaker. Finally, the DPP is seeking to alter its image, turning more toward younger voters and putting forward candidates who appeal to the new generation.21 As Kuo writes, “In moving from ‘build an independent country’ to ‘reform and defend Taiwan,’ the DPP has become pragmatic, leaving behind the romantic revolutionism of the ‘Independence Party’.”22 The DPP’s disappointing performance in the December 1998 legislative elections reinforced its determination to shed the burden of Taiwan independence. This is not to say that the independence advocates surrendered; in 1997, Lin Cho-shui produced the slogan, “In Sovereignty, We Are Already Independent; in Nation-Building, We Have Not Succeeded.” But even Lin is revealed as a moderate when he articulates the tasks required

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for reaching the DPP’s goals—“seeking international support, creating a national political system, consolidating the public’s citizen consciousness”—hardly a revolutionary agenda.23 Lin also allowed for the possibility that a referendum on Taiwan’s future should include options other than the creation of a Republic of Taiwan. In 1998, Shih Ming-teh suggested that Taiwan should consider a commonwealth arrangement with the mainland; after the 2000 election, Chen Shui-bian said he would consider such a solution. The DPP still is no fan of unification or “One China,” but it has accepted the two Chinas arrangement that exists, in effect, today. President Chen spent his first months in office searching for an alternative to the “One China” principle that Beijing demanded he accept. However, in his New Year’s Eve address in 2001, Chen said he saw no problem with the “One China” premise of the ROC constitution. In February 1998 the DPP held a symposium to work out a consensus approach to the issue of relations with mainland China. Over the course of the three-day gathering, the DPP’s major factions laid out their positions on key cross-strait debates.24 The Formosa Faction, led by Hsu Hsin-liang, advocated deeper economic engagement with the People’s Republic of China under the slogan “Go West Boldly” (dadan xijin). Hsu argued the logic of interdependence: the best way to avoid forcible “annexation” is to integrate the mainland Chinese and Taiwanese economies and embed Taiwan in international economic institutions. Formosa Faction leaders insisted that direct postal, trade, and transportation links across the Taiwan Strait would allow Taiwan to serve as a bridge between China and the world, which in turn would give both Chinese and foreign firms incentives to discourage PRC aggression. The New Tide Faction followed a Realist framework in the debate, arguing that economic and political nationalism remains the dominant international paradigm. Interdependence will not protect Taiwan. Instead, New Tide leaders argued, Taiwan needs to protect itself through economic growth and diplomatic outreach, a strategy they called “base strengthening.” New Tide supported cautious dialogue with the PRC, but opposed the Formosa Faction’s “Go West Boldly” slogan. All the factions agreed that Taiwan is currently independent and sovereign, but they de-emphasized this point in their final policy accord. First, practically speaking, the sovereignty issue is a dead end because the PRC refuses to discuss it. Second, the DPP’s current position is that because Taiwan already enjoys de facto independence, a declaration of de jure independence is unnecessary and would only antagonize Beijing. Instead, the conference emphasized replacing the KMT’s approach (“no haste, be patient” [jieji yongren]), which seeks to minimize Taiwan’s

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economic exposure in China, with a mixed strategy of strengthening Taiwan’s domestic economy (qiangben) while at the same time taking advantage of investment opportunities on the mainland (xijin). Hence the compromise slogan, “Strengthen the Base and Go West” (qiangben xijin). Another breakthrough in the DPP’s position on cross-strait relations came in 1999, when the National Party Congress passed a resolution accepting “Republic of China” as the appropriate name for Taiwan: Taiwan is a sovereign and independent country. . . . Taiwan, although named the Republic of China under its current constitution, is not subject to the jurisdiction of the People’s Republic of China. Any change in the independent status quo must be decided by all residents of Taiwan by means of plebiscite. The DPP considers the following international elements favorable to the maintenance of Taiwan’s independent sovereignty and international status: the end of the Cold War, victory of liberal and democratic ideas, Taiwan’s democratization, and rising public opinion opposing reunification. However, China’s growing might and consistently stubborn hegemonic thinking presents the greatest obstacle to Taiwan’s future. Given the unpredictability of international politics and the complicated web of interests, the DPP believes that Taiwan must take a safe, cautious, gradual and wellexamined approach to China.25

In April 1999, the DPP’s leading politician took this conciliatory language a step further, acknowledging the cultural tie between Taiwan and mainland China, and offering unification as an option the Taiwanese people might choose: Taiwan is independent. According to the current Constitution, the national title of Taiwan is the Republic of China. Taiwan and the People’s Republic of China are two independent, separate, and mutually exclusive ethnic Chinese states. The two ethnic Chinese states, Taiwan and the PRC, should develop a special international relationship. Whether or not the two separate ethnic Chinese states will eventually become one country, this must be decided by the people of Taiwan.26

The DPP’s recent statements reveal a continuing move toward moderation on cross-strait issues. In its May 1999 resolution, the National Party Congress lent its weight to the notion that Taiwan is independent already—under the name “Republic of China,” no less.27 It also emphasized the party’s unwillingness to provoke Beijing. A document published on the DPP website explained this position: DPP leaders have consistently reiterated that the party will not provoke China by declaring independence or otherwise, nor will the DPP

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From Opposition to Power call for a referendum on the issue as long as the current political environment’s status quo remains unchanged. . . . Therefore, unless Taiwan’s independent sovereignty is immediately threatened, the DPP will not initiate calls to hold a referendum on Taiwan independence, even when the party comes to power.28

In a sense, the DPP’s position has come full circle, back to the principle of self-determination. Once again, the party’s central concern is to ensure that Taiwan’s fate is decided democratically, not by outside forces, military coercion, or a dictatorial ROC government acting without the endorsement of the Taiwanese people. Many people question the sincerity of the new policy direction, which they plausibly argue may be a tactical adjustment aimed at easing the DPP’s road to power, at which point it will return to a more radically pro-independence position. But Wu Nai-jen, a leader of the New Tide Faction who was appointed to the post of DPP secretary-general after the 2000 election, denies that this is the case. He insists that the current policy represents a genuine consensus within the party: The DPP still supports Taiwan independence—it has never retreated from that goal—but at the same time we have to make the voters understand that in pursuing this goal, the DPP will use a responsible, safety-conscious, not a precipitous method. Using this kind of a method to achieve its goal may well be our greatest challenge in the future. . . . This debate has been going on for about two years now. Of course, when it first started, it was difficult. I think the problem was that from long ago, the DPP . . . did not explain the practical realities . . . to its supporters. . . . While the DPP has not lied, it also hasn’t told the whole truth for a long time. As the DPP’s influence has increased, we began to realize the need to tell the whole truth. . . . In the past we seldom thought of this. We thought, “We’re such a small party, this is useless, we don’t have influence on big affairs.” . . . But we can no longer think this way. Now we have to think about how to gain influence in a big way. In the last two years we have constantly been explaining this situation to our supporters, so it is no longer a problem. This time, at the beginning of May, when our National Party Congress passed its resolution, only the most extreme pro-independence groups were critical. . . . In the past two years we have gone through a big criticism, but we’ve already resolved that. So now it is a decision, a decision that is the result of these two years of development.29

Yen Wan-chin, who headed the DPP’s China Affairs Department when he was interviewed in 1999 agreed: There were people who opposed [the move away from a formal independence declaration] but it wasn’t as many as we’d imagined. . . . It

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can affect the DPP, but this is only a short-term influence. . . . The DPP decided that what we should do is to protect this country’s independence, not to pursue a declaration of national independence. This is what we believe, and the majority of people can accept this. But there is a small number who believe Taiwan is not yet independent. That kind of person does not support the DPP. They support other parties, but they are very few. Throughout this process of transformation (zhuanxing) [in our position on independence], the number of DPP members has become greater than before. Twice as great. This is very clear.30

Grassroots activists confirm the elite perception that DPP members have accepted the need for a more moderate approach to the independence issue. A township-level DPP head compared Chen Shui-bian’s predicament to his own quest to have a statue of Chiang Kai-shek removed from the township’s main square. As long as he was an ordinary citizen, there was nothing he could do. It was only after he was elected to the township assembly that he was able to raise the issue, and eventually prevail. The lesson he learned was, “I think you have to go through the system to get things done.” As for Chen Shui-bian, the activist said, he could not win the presidency on a platform advocating Taiwan independence; the voters are too afraid of that position (and understandably so, in his view). He continued, “I’ve been involved in elections. Unless you win, you can’t accomplish anything. If walking in the middle of the road will help get Chen Shui-bian elected, then it’s fine with me.”31 Candidate Chen Shui-bian’s statements reinforced this policy direction. While Chen’s remarks did not have the force of party policy, because he was the DPP’s best hope for attaining national power, the party followed his lead during and after the campaign. Moreover, now that he has won the election, he cannot escape his moderate campaign promises. Historically, Chen has leaned toward the independence camp, although he never joined the New Tide Faction or gained a reputation as an independence fundamentalist. In any case, since entering the Taipei mayoral race in 1993, Chen has distanced himself from ideological politics in general, and the independence issue in particular. Although he made gestures toward independence supporters in an effort to secure their votes, his posture overall is pragmatic and moderate, characterized by what he calls his “new centrism” (xin zhongjian luxian).32 During the presidential campaign, Chen even took up some of the causes for which Hsu Hsin-liang was criticized during the China Policy Debate less than two years earlier: he promised to relax the ban on the “three links” (direct cross-strait transportation, communication, and commercial ties) between Taiwan and mainland China. On election

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night, Chen delivered his acceptance speech in Mandarin, and began it with the words “Republic of China.” In the speech, Chen called attention to the shared Chinese heritage of Taiwanese, mainland Chinese, and overseas Chinese. His position on unification is that it is an option that should not be ruled out but can be chosen only with the consent of the Taiwanese people. Meanwhile, Chen’s foreign policy calls for relaxing Taiwan’s preoccupation with formal sovereignty in favor of securing its substantive autonomy. In the months after the election, Chen gave every indication that his cross-strait policy would be moderate and prudent. As promised, Chen installed a nonpartisan cabinet designed to ensure continuity and stability in foreign relations and cross-strait affairs. His choice for premier was KMT member and former defense minister Tang Fei. For other key posts, Chen and Tang looked to former president Lee Tenghui’s advisers Tien Hung-mao (minister of foreign affairs) and Tsai Ying-wen (Mainland Affairs Council head). Chen also reached out to Beijing during the early weeks of his presidency. He summarized his concessions in his inaugural address in the “five nos.” The nos ruled out declaring independence, changing the Republic of China name, revising the constitution to incorporate the “two states” theory, holding a referendum on Taiwan independence, and reconsidering the National Unification Guidelines. After North Korean leader Kim Jong Il met South Korean president Kim Dae-jung at a summit in June 2000, Chen went even further, inviting Chinese president Jiang Zemin to join him at a similar event. Chinese leaders barely acknowledged Chen’s concessions. Instead, they established a new precondition for the reopening of talks, demanding that Chen show his sincerity as an opponent of Taiwan independence by accepting the “One China” principle. This requirement presented Chen with a serious problem. On the one hand, a breakthrough on cross-strait relations would benefit his presidency. On the other hand, accepting Beijing’s definition of “One China” (there is but one China, the PRC, and Taiwan is part of it) would be tantamount to unconditional surrender. The “One China” principle as Beijing defines it relegates Taiwan to the status of a local government. In an April 11 article in the Asian Wall Street Journal Chen wrote, “If the one-China principle means that Taiwan is part of the PRC, or that Taiwan is a province of the PRC, then never mind that Chen Shuibian couldn’t accept it, the overwhelming majority of Taiwanese people also couldn’t accept it.” As a counteroffer, Chen suggested that he could accept the idea of “one future China,” that is a unified China represented by a new state, one that was called neither ROC nor PRC.33

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Beijing might drop the “One China” demand—although there is no guarantee that it would do so—if the DPP amended its platform and charter yet again to remove the call for Taiwan independence. Immediately after the election, DPP legislator Chen Chao-nan raised this possibility, and his proposal attracted modest support. However, by the time the DPP National Party Congress met in July 2000, the tide had turned against Legislator Chen’s suggestion. Some DPP members opposed it for ideological reasons, believing it went too far toward abandoning the party’s historic commitments. A larger group believed it would be a strategic error to drop the independence clause. In their view, it would be better to hold this bargaining chip until it could be exchanged for something of value. In addition, some of the DPP’s leading China experts believed Beijing was unready to respond to any overture, and that dropping the independence clause would only place more unwanted pressure on the PRC leadership. In the end, Legislator Chen declined to introduce his motion at the congress, saying it would be “inappropriate and unfair” for the DPP to make such a concession while Beijing refused to respond to President Chen’s earlier offers or give up its threat to use military force against Taiwan.34 Throughout his first year in office, President Chen searched for a solution to the “One China” dilemma. On the one hand, he resisted Beijing’s demand that he accpet its version of the “One China” principle. On the other hand, he continued to distance himself from the proindependence camp. A task force Chen convened to advise him on the issue recommended that he accept the concept of “One China” on which the ROC constitution is based. He did so, at least tacitly, in an address delivered on December 31, 2000: “In actuality, according to the Constitution of the Republic of China, ‘one China’ should not be an issue.”35 If the DPP’s position on independence and cross-strait relations seems slippery today, this is partly because the party has redefined the concept of independence. A decade ago, Taiwan independence was understood to mean a declaration by Taipei that the island was no longer part of China but was a new, sovereign entity called Taiwan. Neither of these defining moments—the declaration of independence or the rejection of a Chinese identity for Taiwan—is relevant today. Instead of declaring independence, both the KMT and the DPP discovered independence: they decided that since the Republic of China gained sovereignty in 1912 and never lost it, the ROC on Taiwan is independent already. Thus, the declaration of independence is unnecessary and moot. President Lee’s state-to-state remarks in July 1999 served to reinforce and clarify this position.36

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If there is to be no declaration of independence, there may yet be a declaration that Taiwan is not part of China. And yet this seems less likely today than at any time in the last decade. Independence fundamentalists, as Kuo calls them, argue that the radically different historical experiences of Taiwan and China have erased any connection or similarity between the two sides. But this is not a view embraced by the majority of DPP leaders, who acknowledge the historical and cultural connections between Taiwan and the Chinese mainland, even as they reject the notion that these ties somehow necessitate a political linkage between the two territories.37 In other words, party leaders distinguish between the island’s ethnic identity, which they acknowledge is Chinese, and its political identity, which they argue should remain separate from mainland China. It is in this context that Chen Shuibian’s statements referring to Taiwan as an ethnic Chinese state and the resolution of May 8, 1999, are important. Both formulations imply that the DPP has accepted that the political independence it seeks does not require abandoning Taiwan’s historical association with China.38 The debate over independence and unification has generated a great deal of heat. So much so, in fact, that many political observers have come to see it as the central theme in Taiwanese politics. However, the period in which a unilateral declaration of independence was offered as a serious policy option by a major political party was relatively short, lasting only from 1991 to 1996. Since then, the DPP has made decisive moves away from its previous insistence on changing Taiwan’s status, advocating instead the preservation of Taiwan’s autonomous status. The “Year 2000 Policy Manifesto” never mentions Taiwan independence. This is not to say that the DPP would not embrace independence were it to become a realistic option. However, the party has learned through bitter experience that it cannot force a solution that is unacceptable to the other major players, including, ultimately, Beijing. The party’s position today reflects a mature understanding of domestic opinion as well as the external realities facing Taiwan as it enters the twenty-first century.

Political Order Based on Democracy and Freedom The DPP’s positions on political issues are consistent with its origins as a crusader for democracy, but its current platform also reflects the degree to which the party’s early demands—popular election of highlevel officials, elimination of martial law, etc.—have been met. The agenda today is much more nebulous; it involves correcting imbalances in the operation of government rather than stopping gross abuses. Thus,

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it reflects the DPP’s frustration with the informal and structural obstacles that continue to block its progress, even though significant institutional reforms have been carried out. In addition to reiterating the DPP’s long-standing commitment to civil liberties and political rights, the platform addresses a handful of specific issues. For example, the platform calls for devolution of power from the central government to localities. For decades, local governments were responsible for little more than allocating pork barrel projects. They had no independent revenue sources—local government funding originated with the provincial and central governments—and little control over personnel decisions. At the 1996 National Development Conference, the KMT and New Party agreed with the DPP that increasing local autonomy was an important goal, yet little progress has followed. In fact, when the provincial government was “streamlined,” most of its resources and power were assigned not to municipal governments, as the KMT had agreed to do, but to the central government. Many DPP members believe the KMT is unwilling to follow through on devolution plans because the DPP has had so much success winning municipal executive posts. The DPP platform also calls for protecting the mass media from partisan influence and control. The DPP’s current political demands are both more difficult to achieve and less useful as tools of political mobilization than were its early demands for basic democratic reforms. Accordingly, political issues receive limited attention today, as compared with in years past. There is one major exception to this generalization: “black gold politics”(heijin zhengzhi). “Black gold politics” connotes political corruption rooted in ties between organized crime (the so-called “black path” [heidao]) and money politics. Over the past decade, Taiwanese politics has become polluted by severe corruption, including the penetration of political institutions by criminal organizations. Corruption today is of a different magnitude from the “honest graft” and petty vote buying that powered the KMT’s political machine from the 1950s through the 1980s. Small-scale bribery and theft of public resources have metastasized into coercive bid rigging, intimidation of public officials, and open participation by criminal organizations in the political process. In 1999, the National Police Administration revealed that one out of twelve members of Taiwan’s municipal councils, Legislative Yuan, and National Assembly had criminal records.39 In recent elections, the DPP has harped on this issue unceasingly. The DPP has a strong case when it blames the KMT for the spread of this political infection, as many of the worst offenders are KMT

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members or supporters. During the presidential race, Chen Shui-bian’s campaign ran an advertisement showing photos of the major candidates next to some of their well-known supporters. Chen’s photo appeared beside Academia Sinica president and Nobel prizewinner Lee Yuantseh. Soong Chu-yu was situated next to Yen Ching-piao, a politician from central Taiwan who served three-and-a-half years in prison for organized crime activities in the late 1980s. Lien Chan’s photo was flanked by shots of Luo Fu-chu, an independent legislator and Lien supporter who has called himself the “spiritual leader” of a major criminal gang, and Wu Tse-yuan, a former Pingtung County executive who served two years of a fifteen-year prison sentence for corruption. Released on medical parole, Wu immediately sought (and won) a seat in the Legislative Yuan. Linking Chen’s opponents to these exemplars of black gold politics served as a powerful reminder of the continuing need for political reform in Taiwan. President Chen made corruption fighting a top priority for his administration. He appointed Chen Ting-nan, an experienced DPP politician with a reputation for doggedness, to be his justice minister. Their plan was to avoid legislation as much as possible and prosecute corruption through the executive branch. The two Chens’ campaign against black gold enjoys widespread popular support, but it has not gone unchallenged. Officials at the Ministry of Justice Investigation Bureau resisted Chen Ting-nan’s effort to take control of their agency. In early fall, legislators chose a member with a checkered record to head the body’s judiciary committee. Many observers interpreted the choice as an effort to subvert the anticorruption drive. KMT legislators mobilized to defeat a bill that would have disqualified convicted criminals from holding elected offices in farmers associations, one of the key building blocks for many KMT politicians’ local electoral machines. However, popular outrage forced the KMT to reconsider its position, and the bill passed in late 2000. In short, black gold politics is likely to remain a key issue for the DPP for some time to come.

Balanced Economic and Financial Administration The DPP has gained little traction on economic issues for several reasons. First, the KMT presided over one of the most impressive periods of economic growth in human history, and most Taiwanese give the ruling party credit for the accomplishment. The DPP, for its part, has no track record of economic performance. Second, the DPP has within its ranks significant populations whose economic interests are contradictory. For example, small business people, environmentalists, and labor activists joined the DPP to oppose the KMT, but there is little common

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ground among them in the economic realm. Thus, the party’s economic program tries to balance inconsistent demands: for growth, for full employment, for environmental protection, for privatization, and laissezfaire policies. The emphasis on small and medium-sized enterprises and privatization reflect the strong participation of entrepreneurs in such firms who have long felt excluded from the benefits of an industrial policy that subsidized heavy industry and state and party enterprises at the expense of the dynamic light and contract manufacturing sectors. To make matters worse, the DPP in recent years has gained a reputation as an antibusiness party. In November 2000, the Chen administration’s decision to cancel construction of a fourth nuclear power plant on the island provoked a storm of opposition, including a legislative campaign to recall the president. One of the major criticisms of the policy decision was that it would harm the interests of business. Incidents such as the Bayer case, in which a DPP county executive helped to quash a major foreign investment deal (see Chapter 6), lend weight to fears that the DPP is unfriendly to industry. The DPP has taken a number of actions aimed at countering the perception. Beginning in January 1999, the party began holding weekly economic policy sessions. DPP elected officials met in the party’s central office with outside experts, including captains of industry, economists, management experts, and labor leaders, to discuss their economic policy. The most prominent visitors included Formosa Plastics head Wang Yungch’ing and the president of the Evergreen Group. Leaders of large company unions, such as China Chemical and China Petroleum, have also visited the DPP. According to party officials, these meetings are well attended, especially by DPP legislators. In April 1998, the DPP held a three-day conference on industrial policy, at which party leaders and elected officials shared views on economic issues with academics and businesspeople. The conference themes included: Taiwan’s economic direction (westward, southbound, northbound, or global?), Taiwan’s industrialization (resource conservation, environmental protection, and industrial development), and regional planning and development. The meeting concluded with the following points of consensus:40 1. Taiwan should aggressively implement policies to promote the island’s role as a regional operations center. The government should rectify infrastructure shortcomings by liberalizing the financial and banking service sectors and eliminate bureaucratic regulations and cumbersome business restrictions. Previous government monopolies on industries such as oil and electronics must be done away with to promote healthy competition and foreign investment.

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2. Taiwan should promote environmentally sound industrial policies. The DPP is committed to meeting the environmental agreements passed at the Kyoto Summit and decrease its pollutants contributing to global warming. The Taiwanese government should encourage new industries and provide economic incentives to private firms that promote energy conservation and avoid high-emission pollutants. 3. Taiwan must balance industrial development with sustainable urban growth. The DPP supports the establishment of a national-level office charged with developing and implementing urban planning nationwide. The DPP advocates cooperation and coordination between the central government and local governments in implementing urban renewal in tandem with industrial development. Despite the misgivings expressed by some economic experts in the wake of the presidential election, the party’s overtures to business have had some effect. Some of Chen Shui-bian’s most valuable endorsements came from prominent Taiwanese tycoons. Evergreen Group founder Wang Yung-ch’ing, Acer Computer head Shih Chen-jung (Stan Shih), and Hsu Wen-lung of Chi Mei Corporation all announced their support for Chen in the last days of the campaign. Still, despite the vote of confidence from big business, the new president’s early economic proposals had a populist tone. The administration sextupled subsidies to small and medium-sized enterprises. It also proposed a plan—supported by representatives of business and labor—to shorten the work week from forty-eight to forty-four hours. KMT legislators voted down Chen’s proposal in favor of an even larger cut in working hours. The DPP’s policy of shifting resources from privileged sectors to disadvantaged ones also extends to the distribution of government spending and services among geographical regions. One of the DPP’s longstanding grievances against the KMT is its favoritism toward northern Taiwan, especially Taipei City. The fact that Chen Shui-bian won more than 45 percent of the vote in every southern municipality in Taiwan suggests that this complaint resonated with southern voters. They will expect the new president to respond, and in fact, one of the early controversies Chen’s administration faced was over a decision to decrease the allocation of central government funds to Taipei and Kaohsiung.

Fair and Open Social Welfare As in the case of economic policy, the DPP’s social priorities reflect the party’s history as a catchall for anti-KMT political forces. While

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DPP members agree that Taiwan’s modernization requires the creation of a basic safety net (the platform calls for welfare and health benefits for the poor, as well as social security for the elderly), there is little will to impose heavy taxes on business or individuals in order to achieve it. Nonetheless, DPP legislators have contributed to legislation expanding health insurance and other benefits. It was a DPP county executive, Yu Chen Yueh-ying, who shamed the ruling party into extending health insurance to farmers in the early 1990s. Once farmers had been brought under the national health insurance umbrella, other constituencies quickly followed. Prior to Yu Chen’s action, national health insurance had been restricted to government employees, retired military personnel, and other traditionally privileged groups. President Chen campaigned on a concrete social welfare promise: the “333 plan.” Specifically, the candidate called for a NT$3,000 per month stipend for the elderly, mortgage loans of 3 percent to first-time home buyers, and government-sponsored health care for children under the age of three. The first of these proposals, the senior citizens stipend, went before the legislature early in Chen’s term and was shot down by KMT legislators, who called it expensive and poorly planned. After the defeat, Chen’s advisers intimated that the president’s welfare plans might not be fully implemented until well into his first term. The DPP platform also calls for better implementation of legislation protecting workers, and for population control efforts (including, interestingly, efforts to assist Taiwanese who wish to emigrate). Full employment is a long-standing DPP objective, and under President Chen, the cabinetlevel Council of Labor Affairs sought to improve job prospects for Taiwanese—especially aboriginal workers—by controlling the number of foreign workers (most of whom come from Southeast Asia) in Taiwan’s labor force. This position is controversial with the business community, which often prefers inexpensive and well-disciplined foreign workers.

Educational and Cultural Reform Educational and cultural issues are important to many in the DPP for three reasons. First, education is still the main channel for conferring status and achieving social mobility in Taiwanese society. Fair and equal access to education is an intensely held value for the great majority of Taiwanese. At the same time, academic competition is extremely fierce in Taiwan; in recent years, critics have accused the educational system of destroying childhood, stifling creativity, enforcing political orthodoxy, and failing to produce well-rounded citizens. In short, education is a hotly contested and highly valued topic.

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A second reason for the prominent role educational policy plays in the DPP platform is that many DPP officials suffered persecution within the educational system. Beginning with Peng Ming-min, a law professor sent to prison and then driven into exile for his pro-independence writings in the 1960s, and continuing well into the 1990s, universities were often hostile environments for political dissidents. One of the DPP’s rising stars, Legislator Lee Wen-chung, was denied his degree just days before he was to graduate from National Taiwan University in 1987 because of his involvement in student political activities. Likewise, the long suppression of Taiwan’s native languages—Minnan, Hakka, and aboriginal languages—and other forms of local cultural expression prompted a deep sensitivity to government efforts to impose particular cultural models; consequently, the DPP platform promises to “encourage the natural development of native culture so that people will not lose their cultural identity,” and urges the state to “upgrade the quality of the domestic culture by reducing the influence of consumer-oriented and entertainment cultural styles” and “try to maintain the cultural characteristics of peoples of different backgrounds.”

Peaceful and Independent Defense and Foreign Policies The DPP’s platform on foreign policy reveals few significant differences of opinion with the KMT, underlining the party’s preoccupation with domestic political issues. The party agrees with the KMT that Taiwan should work to secure its international status and improve relations with other countries while maintaining an effective national defense. In short, the DPP generally supports the KMT’s long-standing approach to foreign policy, known as “pragmatic diplomacy” (or “flexible diplomacy”). In fact, some aspects of Lee Teng-hui’s pragmatic diplomacy had their origins in DPP initiatives. For example, the idea of working to rejoin the United Nations originated in the DPP in 1991 and 1992. The KMT was unable to build an internal consensus behind the idea (which enjoyed strong popular support) until after its hard-line faction left the party in 1993. Almost immediately, the KMT took over the UN campaign and made it its own. This left the DPP in the uncomfortable position of supporting a KMT-led effort to achieve what had once been a DPP initiative. Chen Shui-bian’s statements before and after his election suggest that the DPP government may adjust the course of the ROC’s foreign policy in some ways. Chen has promised to focus attention on maintaining good relations with its existing diplomatic partners and building

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substantive relationships with other countries and with nongovernmental organizations (NGOs). In his inaugural address Chen said, In addition to strengthening the existing relations with friendly nations, we want to actively participate in all types of international nongovernmental organizations. Through humanitarian care, economic cooperation, cultural exchanges and various other ways, we will actively participate in international affairs, expand Taiwan’s room for survival in the international arena, and contribute to the welfare of the international community.41

The speech implied that Chen intends to de-emphasize efforts to forge new diplomatic relationships and de-escalate the competition with Beijing over formal ties. This represents a significant shift away from the symbolic goals and confrontation that have dominated Taiwan’s pragmatic diplomacy up to this point. The DPP’s ambivalence about pragmatic diplomacy is not new. For years, the party criticized the KMT’s practice of “dollar diplomacy,” providing large amounts of economic aid in exchange for diplomatic favors. For example, it protested the Lee Teng-hui government’s plan to send U.S.$300 million to help rebuild Kosovo, which DPP legislators argued was aimed at buying publicity in Europe at the expense of pressing domestic needs. Still, Chen’s plans go beyond criticisms of dollar diplomacy. Ironically, his emphasis on substantive relationships and NGOs extends even to the UN bid. While Chen has said he will continue to pursue UN representation for Taiwan, he is unlikely to invest much political or economic capital in what most agree is a losing cause. Chen Shui-bian has doubts about the KMT’s costly campaign to strengthen the Republic of China’s formal international status, but he is not without a strategy of his own for enhancing Taiwan’s international position. Chen plans to counter the PRC’s insistence on national sovereignty (zhuquan) with a human rights (jenquan) diplomacy of his own. Chen outlined this new approach in his inaugural address: We are also willing to commit a more active contribution in safeguarding international human rights. The Republic of China cannot and will not remain outside global human rights trends. We will abide by the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, the International Convention for Civil and Political Rights, and the Vienna Declaration and Program of Action. We will bring the Republic of China back into the international human rights system. . . . We firmly believe that at no time, nor in any corner of the world, can the meaning and values of freedom, democracy and human rights be ignored or changed. The

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Chen’s human rights diplomacy seeks to build international support for Taiwan by tapping into the post-Cold War trend toward elevating human rights above other values in international relations. It invites a comparison between Taiwan and the PRC that inevitably favors Taiwan, at least in democratic countries, and it (along with Chen’s election) highlights Taiwan’s democratic development. Human rights diplomacy also represents a subtle shift in the DPP’s approach to foreign policy. In its platform, the party seeks to build international sympathy for Taiwan’s cause by emphasizing the principle of self-determination. But self-determination has not had the desired effect of promoting a groundswell of international support for Taiwan, both because it is difficult to apply international legal principles about self-determination to Taiwan’s case and because recent movements for self-determination in the Balkans and elsewhere have brought about much bloodshed and misery. Human rights may prove to be a much more attractive concept in the international community. At the same time, Chen’s conciliatory attitude toward Beijing makes it difficult to portray Taiwan as an international troublemaker, which is another significant change from the Lee Teng-hui era.

NEW ISSUES AND POLICIES One of the great frustrations facing the DPP is its inability to articulate issue positions that resonate with voters in the post-reform era. During Taiwan’s democratic transition, the opposition had a long list of very popular demands centering on democratic reform and ethnic justice. But once these reforms—fair elections, freedom of the press, removal of martial law, extension of popular sovereignty to national legislative and executive offices—were carried out, the DPP was not able to develop new issue positions to replace them. As we have seen, the decision to adopt the Taiwan independence plank was motivated in large part by the party’s desire to find an issue to replace its exhausted democratization agenda. Taiwan independence turned out to be the wrong issue; if anything, the party’s precipitous action in 1991 made building a popular majority in favor of the party even more difficult. Rather than issues, the DPP’s success in the post-reform era is due primarily to its candidates’ personal appeal and the voters’ desire for

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checks and balances in the political system. This helps explain why the DPP has made its best showings in national and municipal executive races, while its performance in legislative and assembly elections lags. Executive elections provide head-to-head competition between wellknown candidates; candidate appeal and party identification matter most. In legislative elections, which are multimember contests, machine-style mobilization—at which the KMT excels—is important. In particular, lesser-known KMT challengers have a much better chance than DPP newcomers, who cannot rely on personal celebrity or grassroots party mobilization. Municipal executives are important, in that they provide a check on the KMT’s power by interrupting its top-to-bottom political monopoly. Still, as Chen Shui-bian’s experience in the early months of his presidency demonstrated, without a cooperative legislature even a DPP president can accomplish little. The DPP still holds relatively few seats in municipal assemblies. In general, Taiwanese voters have proven reluctant to give the opposition party more than about a third of the seats in the Legislative Yuan or other representative bodies. If it is to break through this obstacle, the DPP needs to develop a new slate of issues on which to appeal to the voters, but there is little evidence that it is likely to succeed soon. Most of the issues that have been suggested to replace democratization and Taiwan independence fall into the category of “post-materialist” issues; that is, issues that address the quality of life for citizens rather than their basic economic and security needs. The issues the DPP would like to use to mobilize new supporters include anticorruption, environmentalism, labor rights, aboriginal people’s rights, education and cultural reforms, and social justice. As the data in Chapter 8 show, Taiwanese prefer the DPP’s positions on most of these issues, especially environmental protection, building a social welfare system, and caring for the disadvantaged. However, voting patterns suggest that either the preference for the DPP on these issues is weak or (as is more likely) voters place little importance on these issues when they make their voting decisions in legislative elections. In interviews, many DPP legislators and officials expressed their frustration over the party’s struggle to develop inspiring new issues. Wu Nai-jen is more pessimistic than most, but his views express the party’s predicament well: The DPP is unlikely to develop very rapidly in the future. The DPP’s development has already flattened out, so in the future it will not be

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From Opposition to Power very fast. Because in the past, the DPP’s battles with the KMT were over the kind of issues that, if you won, would gain you a lot of ground. But that era is over now. In the future, every issue will be like a little hilltop. You have to attack one little hill, another little hill, fight your way to the top of each one. So that kind of growth can’t be like it was before. . . . Also, there aren’t that many issues on which a large number of voters support the DPP. . . . I’m afraid the DPP, at present, does not have the confidence of the society when it comes to its ability to solve [economic] problems. . . . In my view, if the DPP wants to raise the people’s confidence in its positions on these economic issues, it should use a language the people can understand to bring forth the problems in Taiwan’s contemporary economic development. These problems should also be consistent with the DPP’s image so that a majority of people could think, yes, the DPP is capable of doing something about this.43

Chen Shui-bian’s presidential victory rested on two key factors: the conservative vote was split between Lien Chan and Soong Chu-yu, and voters were fed up with corruption. Neither of these conditions can guarantee the DPP success in its next electoral outing, the 2001 legislative race. In order to increase its seat share in 2001, the DPP administration must demonstrate that it is capable of solving problems, including political corruption. It must also convince the electorate that the DPP needs more seats in order to carry out Chen’s campaign promises. But rolling back corruption and convincing voters to blame KMT legislators for President Chen’s inability to accomplish his goals are not the kinds of issues on which the DPP can build a stable political majority. In the long run, the DPP needs to strengthen its image as a center-left party and build support among a well-defined and coherent set of constituencies. It must move away from causes—democratization, Taiwan independence, anticorruption—and toward the mundane issues that are the stuff of “normal” democratic politics.

PARTY STRATEGY The DPP’s major strategic objective is to increase its share of votes and seats at all levels, in both executive and legislative elections. However, its experience in elections has taught the party that it is most likely to win power through the executive branch, not through legislative majorities. Thus, the DPP has emphasized the presidency and municipal executive elections (especially the big city mayoralties). At the same time, the party is intent on increasing its representation in the Legislative Yuan to at least 45 percent. It also has given up on grassroots (village

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and township) elections, where local KMT factions and political brokers still win nearly every seat. Rather than fight for a foothold in these elections—which most analysts agree play a key role in the KMT’s political machine—the DPP is committed to abolishing them. It supports proposals to make all offices below the municipal council level appointive. For years, the DPP has used the phrase “localities surround the center” (difang baowei zhongyang) to describe its strategy of using its control of municipal governments to influence national politics. In fact, however, this strategy has not been very effective, even though the DPP holds thirteen out of twenty-three municipal executive posts. First, the national government is still extremely well insulated from locallevel events and forces. Managing the municipalities taxes DPP executives to the limit and leaves them with little time or energy for national politics. Second, the central government has designed a distribution of resources and authority among government units that greatly weakens municipal executives’ effectiveness, both locally and nationally. In essence, local executives are at the mercy of the center far more often than the reverse is true. The DPP’s “Year 2000 Policy Manifesto” placed great emphasis on devolving power to the localities, but it will be difficult to carry out this policy with a KMT-dominated legislature. Another key strategic objective for the DPP is to push forward further political reforms. Rather than developing competencies that would allow it to compete with the KMT on a tilted playing field, the DPP’s strategy is to level the field. Local autonomy, elimination of grassroots elections, oversight of party assets, improved regulation of campaigns and lobbying, legislative and judicial reform—the DPP advocates these measures and others aimed at equalizing opportunities in Taiwan’s democratic system.

SPECIAL FOCUS: PROBLEMS FACING DPP LOCAL EXECUTIVES Because the DPP’s best electoral results (prior to March 2000) have been in municipal executive elections, the party’s strategy is to use local executiveships to advance the party’s overall influence. The phrase “localities surround the center” captures this idea. In practice, however, DPP executives have found transforming their electoral victories into political power and influence very difficult, even at the local level, not to mention nationally. Most DPP municipal executives are so overwhelmed by the immediate challenges of administering a county or city that they have little time or energy left for national politics. Several obstacles are especially frustrating to DPP executives.

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• Local governments have few sources of independent revenue; nearly all their funding comes from the central government. As a result, the types of policies municipal executives can initiate are limited, since without the power of the purse, it is nearly impossible to implement new ideas. In general, funds are extremely tight. One of the DPP’s long-standing complaints is the inequality in resources between Taipei and south/central Taiwan. Meanwhile, the central government also directly funds the towns, townships, and villages below the municipal level, allowing for revenues to leapfrog over DPP-controlled municipal governments and go directly to the grassroots level. Funds delivered in this way serve to shore up the KMT’s grassroots political support. For example, after the September 21, 1999, earthquake, the central government did not channel relief and reconstruction funds through the DPPled municipal government in Taichung County (which sustained heavy damage); instead, it disbursed the money directly (where corrupt elements allegedly siphoned off a considerable portion of the aid). Getting resources from the central government is very difficult. According to Yang Huang Maysing, a longtime DPP staffer who was a special assistant to the DPP mayor of the city of Tainan when I interviewed her in 1999, some DPP executives have even taken members of the Legislative Yuan with them to meet central government officials. Yang believes this tactic—using legislators to pressure members of the executive branch—is inappropriate, but necessary.44 Yan Jiann-fa, the head of the DPP’s Policy Research and Coordinating Committee, explained the DPP’s predicament this way: We have an advantage: we have something like 70% of the local population under our executives. This is our advantage. But where’s our weakness? One is that the KMT controls the central government. And the central government controls the local budgets. The budgets for villages and townships, all of these come from the KMT. They’re not coming from the county, not from our municipal executives. So we’re in the middle; we’re in “mid-air.” What’s so irritating is that the KMT can buy votes through policy. This is a policy of using the budget to buy votes; it’s not direct vote buying, but it’s vote buying in effect. Also, they can take money from outside the budget to give you, from their party enterprises. So they have two ways to carry out vote buying. One is through policy, the other is direct, through their networks.45

• Local governments lack authority as well as revenue. Many basic governmental functions—including personnel decisions—require permission from higher levels of government. Local governments’ primary responsibility is to manage local construction; they have little authority to pass legislation on other matters. Nonetheless, DPP executives have

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displayed great creativity in using the little power they possess to implement their ideas. For example, DPP county executives have threatened to deny construction permits and business licenses in an effort to stop unwanted development projects (such as the fourth nuclear power plant in Taipei County and the Bayer AG chemical plant in Taichung County). Although their legal authority is limited, and the central government can overrule municipal governments, the bad publicity and construction delays local governments have created have in some cases caused developers to cancel their projects. • The distinction between government functions and party (KMT) functions is unclear in many localities. Until very recently, Taiwan had a party-state regime. In order to establish their authority, DPP executives must dismantle this relationship, but separating party resources and activities from those of a local government is tricky. For example, when the DPP’s Chang Tsan-hung was elected mayor of Tainan, the Tainan Women’s Association (a semigovernmental group responsible for women’s participation in policy and politics) suddenly changed its long-standing policy of making the mayor’s wife its titular head. Moreover, Chang soon discovered that the Women’s Association offices were provided by the KMT, which also paid the salary of its executive director. When Chang tried to remove the organization from under the KMT umbrella, he discovered there was no line in the city budget to pay the Women’s Association director and there was no office space available. There is no shortage of similar examples from throughout the island. • Bureaucrats, many of whom are either KMT members or patronage appointees chosen by KMT politicians, often resist DPP executives’ efforts to take control of local governments. The KMT is very strong in the national bureaucracy, but the number of political appointees (nearly all of whom received their patronage from the KMT) is even greater in local governments. Since the first Dangwai executives were elected in the late 1970s and early 1980s, opposition executives have complained about civil servants’ refusal to cooperate or, in some cases, even obey the orders of non-KMT executives. Taiwan mayoral assistant Yang Huang offered concrete examples of bureaucratic resistance in Tainan’s city government. In one case, plans to renovate the mayor’s office were leaked to the press, creating a huge controversy even before any decisions had been made. In another, a school paid utility fees to its landlord, who failed to pass the money along to the utility companies. When the school’s water and electricity were cut off, the principal appealed to the mayor’s office, arguing that the failure to pay was not his fault but that his business and

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students were suffering the consequences. The mayor agreed and asked Yang Huang to have the services restored. The civil servant responsible for carrying out the mayor’s order balked, saying he would be accused of taking a kickback from the school. Yang Huang had to argue with him for hours to persuade him to implement the mayor’s directive.46 The severity of bureaucratic resistance varies from municipality to municipality. Chen Chu, who has served as the director of social affairs in Taipei (under Chen Shui-bian) and Kaohsiung (under Hsieh Changting) and now heads the national Council of Labor, says she found the Taipei bureaucrats cooperative.47 It is possible that Taipei’s civil servants are more professional than those in Tainan and other less privileged municipalities. However, it also is likely that Chen Shui-bian’s administrative and personnel management skills were especially strong. Reforming the bureaucracy was one of Chen’s most important goals, and he expended a great deal of effort to achieve it. Also, where the civil service is more regularized, and patronage is less of a factor, bureaucrats are more professional. According to Yang Huang, many Tainan city employees fear for their jobs because they assume that the DPP will replace the KMT’s patronage appointees with its own. The problems afflicting municipal executives also affect the DPP as a whole. Holding these positions raises expectations, but does so without providing resources to meet them. As Yan Jiann-fa, acting director of the Policy Research and Coordinating Committee, put it in July 1999: The DPP is a quasi-ruling party. What’s that? At the local level we have about 70% of the population. So in these 13 municipalities, lots of people see the DPP as the ruling party, because in their daily life, they encounter the DPP as their government. They see the DPP as the ruling party. A ruling party always has lots of expectations placed on it; people have all kinds of things they think the ruling party should do. When the government doesn’t do this, they criticize, and conflicts and contradictions come out. So we’re both the opposition and the ruling party. We’re in between. Very conflicted. Sometimes this makes it very hard for us. For example, when last year’s typhoon happened, a lot of people said the government should go in and get rid of a lot of illegal buildings. So we got together with a lot of our municipal executives to prepare a statement for the media. But we discovered we couldn’t – different municipalities were different. If we tried to do this, there would be a lot of trouble, protests. This was the right thing to do, but politically it was impossible; those municipal executives were on the phone [to the DPP Central Party Office] constantly, looking for people to complain to. If the DPP were to return to the old days, before we had those municipal executives’ posts, my job would be a lot easier. No protesting! No egg-throwing! Terrific!48

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CONCLUSION The DPP was born under an authoritarian government dominated by non-Taiwanese. Thus, its early development centered on a quest for democratic reform and ethnic justice. By the mid-1990s, all of the concrete items on the DPP’s reform agenda had been achieved, and the party was forced to find new issues to attract members and voters. The first issue it tried, in 1991, was Taiwan independence, but this move proved counterproductive. Since then, the KMT has tended to co-opt DPP issue positions that prove popular with the voters, including domestic policy proposals such as national heath care and foreign policy initiatives such as the UN bid. Thus, the DPP is faced with the task of finding issues that will be popular, concrete (readily transformed into policy suggestions), unique to the DPP, and on which there is an internal party consensus. To date, the DPP has had little success in developing such an agenda. To make matters worse, even with a robust set of issue positions, the DPP will have great difficulty increasing its vote share because issues play a limited role in electoral behavior.

NOTES 1. “DPP Year 2000 Policy Manifesto: Our Vision for a New Era,” Democratic Progressive Party, Taipei, February 2000. 2. “Political Platform of the Democratic Progressive Party,” last modified March 19, 1995. From the DPP website, July 26, 2000. Available online at: http://203.95.212.1/English/index.htm. (The DPP platform can also be accessed at: www.dpp.org.tw.) 3. For a detailed comparison of the two parties’ positions, see T. Y. Wang, “‘One China, One Taiwan’”: An Analysis of the Democratic Progressive Party’s China Policy,” Journal of Asian and African Studies 35, no. 1 (2000): 159–182. 4. Cheng Tun-jen and Hsu Yung-ming, “Issue Structure, DPP’s Factionalism and Party Realignment,” in Taiwan’s Electoral Politics and Democratic Transition, ed. Hung-mao Tien (Armonk, N.Y.: M. E. Sharpe), 139. 5. DPP platform for legislative elections, 1986. Li Hsiao-feng, Taiwan minzhu yundong 40 nian (Forty years of Taiwan’s democratic movement) (Taipei: Independence Evening Post Publishing Company, 1989), 246–247. 6. Robert Sutter, Taiwan Entering the 21st Century (Lanham, Md.: University Press of America, 1988), 49. 7. Cheng Tun-jen and Hsu Yung-ming, “Issue Structure,” 145. 8. DPP Central Standing Committee member Chen Yung-hsing, September 1990. Zuli wanbao (Independence Evening Post), 13 September 1990 (trans. JPRS-CAR-90-084:73), 5. 9. Resolution of the National Party Congress, October 7, 1990.

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10. “Lu Hsiu-yi Discusses Resolution on Sovereignty,” Chiushi niandai (The Nineties), no. 250 (1 November 1990) (trans. JPRS-CAR-90-098), 73. 11. At the time, debate over the antisubversion clause in Taiwan’s criminal code (Article 100) was at its peak. According to James A. Robinson, a political scientist who has published extensively on the topic of Taiwan’s elections, some DPP leaders believed amending the party platform might force the government to revise Article 100. 12. Resolution of the DPP National Party Conference, October 13, 1991. Available online at DPP platform at http://www.dpp.org.tw/english/org-plat/ a.html. 13. Shyu Huo-yan, “Taiwan Voters’ National Identity, Party Identification and Voting Behavior, 1991–1993” (paper presented at the first annual conference of the Taiwan Political Science Association, Taipei, 1994), 6. 14. Quoted in Kuo Cheng-liang, Minjindang zhuanxing zhi tong (The DPP’s painful transformation) (Taipei: Tianhsia Publishing Company, 1998), 72. 15. Quoted in ibid. 16. Chu Yun-han, “The Political Economy of Taiwan’s Mainland Policy,” Journal of Contemporary China 6, no. 15 (July): 229–258. 17. Lin Tse-min, Chu Yun-han, and Melvin J. Hinich, A Spatial Analysis of Political Competition in Taiwan, Working Papers in Taiwan Studies (American Political Science Association Conference Group on Taiwan Studies), 8. Available online at http://www.psci.unt.edu/cgots/paprseries.html. 18. Kuo, Minjindang zhuanxing, 76. 19. Ibid., 77. 20. Ibid., 98. 21. Ibid., 148. 22. Ibid., 103. 23. Ibid., 74. 24. The major points of consensus arising from this meeting were as follows (summarized by Kuo, in ibid., 144–145): 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6.

The two sides should negotiate, but not on sovereignty issues. There should be a conditional, positive interchange. The negotiating strategy should not rule out any issues. Negotiations must protect the interests of Taiwanese businesses in China. Base strengthening and going west are mutually reinforcing processes. Cross-strait investment must advance domestic production and internationalize cross-strait economic and trade relations.

25. Resolution of the National Party Congress, May 8, 1999. 26. Chen Shui bian’s address to the National Press Club, Washington, D.C., April 20, 1999. 27. The narrowing gap between the KMT and the DPP in the “name game” gave rise to linguistic creativity. While the KMT refers to “the Republic of China on Taiwan” (Zhonghua minguo zai Taiwan), the DPP developed the formulation “the Republic of China as Taiwan” (Zhonghua minguo ji Taiwan). 28. “Relations between Taiwan & China, Frequently Asked Questions,” 13 January 1999. DPP document available online at: http://www.dpp.org.tw/ english/china/china-faq.htm. 29. Interview with author, Taipei, July 1999. 30. Interview with author, Taipei, June 1999.

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31. Interview with author, Chiaotou, Kaohsiung County, July 1999. 32. In 1999 Chen Shui-bian delivered a speech in Britain entitled “The Third Way of Taiwan: A New Political Perspective.” He frequently calls attention to the political “third way” associated with British prime minister Tony Blair and U.S. president Bill Clinton; he says it is one of his main sources of inspiration. 33. There are signs that Beijing may be willing to extend a more generous definition of the “One China” principle to Taiwan, one that does not relegate Taiwan to the status of a local entity within the PRC. However, the PRC continues to enforce the stricter definition in its dealings with other nations, which undermines confidence in Taiwan that the apparent concession would be respected in practice. 34. Taipei Times, 16 July 2000. Available online at http://www.taipeitimes. com/news/2000/07/16/story/0000043942. 35. Chen Shui-bian, “Bridging the New Century: New Year’s Eve Address,” December 31, 2000. Translation published by the Government Information Office, Republic of China. Available online at http://www.taipei.org/chen/ chen891231.htm. 36. The shift from “declaration” to “discovery” threw Beijing off balance, since its policy was based on the threat to use force against Taiwan if it declared independence. The PRC’s response to the change came in early 2000, when it released a policy white paper that added the indeterminate delay of negotiations to the list of conditions that would bring about military intervention. 37. T. Y. Wang, “One China, One Taiwan.” 38. Some DPP officials go even further. In 1998, Shih Ming-teh suggested that the DPP should promote a commonwealth proposal as a solution to the cross-strait problem. Under such a formula, Taiwan and the PRC would be part of a Chinese commonwealth, allowing for the symbolic unification of China but without either side taking political leadership. The proposal was rejected, not on its merits but on the grounds that Beijing had already ruled out such a solution. A few weeks after the presidential election, Chen Shui-bian said he would not rule out commonwealth or confederation as potential solutions to the cross-strait dilemma. 39. Liu Shih-chung, “Dissecting the ‘Black Gold’ Phenomenon,” Taipei Times, 13 January 2000. 40. Pai Pei-hwa, “DPP’s Industrial Policy Seminar,” Taiwan International Review (March-April 1998). Available online at: http://www.tawandc.org/dpp/ 039802.htm. 41. Chen Shui-bian’s inaugural address. For an English translation, see online at http://www.taiwanheadlines.gov.tw. 42. Ibid. 43. Interview with author, Taipei, July 1999. 44. Interview with author, Tainan, July 1999. 45. Interview with author, Taipei, July 1999. 46. Interview with author, Tainan, July 1999. 47. Interview with author, Kaohsiung, July 1999. 48. Interview with author, Taipei, July 1999.

8

How the Public Views the DPP

Ultimately, the DPP’s fate will be determined by its performance in elections. Taiwan’s voters will decide whether the DPP will reinforce its control over the executive branch with a legislative majority, and whether they will keep the presidency beyond 2004. Thus, in order to anticipate where the DPP is headed, we must first understand how the public perceives the party and how popular perceptions translate into electoral results. In this chapter, I will examine quantitative data on the DPP’s image, its support base, and its electoral performance. Some readers may doubt the usefulness of survey data for studying Taiwanese politics. In fact, Taiwan today has a well-developed infrastructure for conducting public opinion polls, although this was not always true. In the 1970s and 1980s, polling Taiwanese on political issues was difficult. Many respondents were unfamiliar with the concept of anonymous, unbiased polling; they assumed their replies would somehow be transmitted to the state, and they answered accordingly. Even in the early 1990s, some political observers questioned the accuracy of surveys. But as martial law recedes into history and public figures openly debate and contend for power, pollsters have become increasingly confident that their respondents are answering truthfully. According to Chen Chun-lin, the head of the DPP’s state-of-the-art Survey Center, the refusal rate for surveys is declining. In his view, reluctance to answer surveys today is due more to annoyance than to fear.1 In short, while all public opinion surveys have limitations, some Taiwanese polls are of good quality and yield informative results. Political parties, academic institutions, and for-profit polling organizations all conduct public opinion surveys in Taiwan. Not all survey agencies are equally attentive to principles of neutrality and accuracy in their survey design and sample selection. However, there are a number

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of excellent survey organizations in Taiwan that follow stringent technical guidelines for maintaining accuracy, reliability, validity, and representativeness. Many of the political scientists who lead the academic survey centers (and consult with others) are well versed in the cutting-edge quantitative methodologies used by the world’s top social scientists. The image voters have of the DPP is one of the most important variables determining the DPP’s performance in elections, as well as its effectiveness in the offices it wins. It is important to note, however, that party image is not the only—or even the decisive—factor. As we shall see, the popularity of a party and its positions does not translate directly into votes. Voters also take into account the qualities of the particular candidates in an election, personal interests, and many other factors. In particular, voters’ preferences on domestic policy issues do not predict voting behavior very well. In surveys conducted in the 1980s, Chu Yun-han found that only the issue clusters anchored mainly on the national identity issues—national unification versus Taiwan identity—and the political regime issues—system stability versus democratic reform—discriminated the KMT voters from the DPP voters to a statistically significant degree. . . . (I)ssue clusters anchored mainly on the social welfare policies and other public policies, while being frequently cited by issue voters as highly appealing, were not good predictors of party choice.2

This pattern still exists today. Even so, it is important to know how the electorate views the DPP. For one thing, although voters who like the DPP may not vote for its candidates in every election, voters who strongly dislike the DPP are unlikely to vote for its candidates in any election. Also, the party needs to know how it is seen in order to develop positions and strategies that build on its strengths and avoid its weaknesses.

PARTY PREFERENCE Figure 8.1 shows the overall preference for the KMT and DPP as reported in surveys taken between 1991 and early 2000 (before the presidential election). There are some slight differences in the wording of the questions in the different surveys, but taken together they demonstrate three key trends. First, the KMT was more popular than the DPP (a year after the presidential election, most surveys found the DPP to be more popular than the KMT). Second, the DPP’s popularity increased over the decade of the 1990s, but slowly. Third, the KMT’s popularity declined modestly over the course of the decade.

Sources: (1) Chu Yun-han, Crafting Democracy in Taiwan (Taipei: Institute for National Policy Research, 1992), 61. The survey asked whether respondents liked the KMT or the DPP; (2) Shyu Huo-yan, “Zhengdang rentong yu toupiao juece: Taiwan diqu xuanmin de zhengdang yingxiang, pianhao yu dangpai toupiao xingwei zhi fenxi” (Party identification and voting choice: An analysis of party image, party preference, and voting behavior in Taiwan), Renwen ji shehui kexue jikan 4, no. 1 (November 1991): 18-20. The survey asked whether respondents liked the KMT or the DPP; (3) Huang Teh-fu, “Zhengdang pingjia” (Party evaluation), in Taiwanren kan zhengzhi (Political scan) (Taipei: Twenty-first Century Foundation, 1998), 173. The survey asked, “Which party do you support?”; (4) “Xuanju xingwei yu Taiwan diqu de zhengzhi minzhuhua” (Electoral behavior and Taiwan’s democratization), DPP Survey Center, Taipei. The surveys were conducted January 17-February 15, 1993, and January 15-February 5, 1996. Party preference includes those who “strongly support” or “somewhat support” each party; (5) “Popularity of political parties fluctuating,” United Daily News, 26 January 2000. Available online at http://www.taiwanheadlines.gov.tw/20000126/20000126p5.html.

Figure 8.1 Party Preferences

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PARTY ANTIPATHY Figure 8.2 shows the results of surveys asking voters which parties they most dislike. Here again, the DPP is at a disadvantage. More Taiwanese dislike the DPP than they do the KMT. The KMT’s negative ratings are consistent, declining slightly over the decade. However, the percentage of Taiwanese reporting a negative evaluation of the DPP decreased sharply between 1991 and 1998.

PARTY IMAGE Figure 8.3 provides insight into why respondents like and dislike the parties. The DPP started the decade behind the KMT on each indicator (responsibility, honesty, and cleanness), but it ended the decade ahead in every category. The KMT’s strongest advantage in 1992 was its reputation as a responsible party, but by 1997 the DPP had surpassed the KMT even on that criterion. In short, when it comes to general qualities associated with good government, popular assessment of the DPP has improved in recent years, while the KMT’s ratings have fallen steadily.

PARTY POSITIONS AND ATTRIBUTES Early 1990s In 1991, political scientist Shyu Huo-yan designed a survey that asked respondents to attribute characteristics to the DPP and KMT. The qualities and positions most often associated with the KMT and DPP are shown in Tables 8.1 and 8.2, respectively (see p. 161). This study paints an unflattering portrait of the DPP. Respondents’ associations with the KMT were much more positive than negative, whereas for the DPP the reverse was true. The DPP was associated with violence, incompetence, ethnic politics, and Taiwan independence (a highly unpopular position in 1991). Even on issues of democratization and political reform—the very causes the DPP was created to promote—voters were more likely to credit the KMT than the opposition party. As Tables 8.1 and 8.2 show, voters saw the KMT as the greater promoter of democracy and human rights, and on the question of fighting corruption, the KMT scored nearly as high (14.8 percent) as the DPP (16.4 percent). A larger percentage of voters believed the KMT could “take care of people like me” (16.6 percent) than those who

Sources: (1) Shyu Huo-yan, “Zhengdang rentong yu toupiao juece: Taiwan diqu xuanmin de zhengdang yingxiang, pianhao yu dangpai toupiao xingwei zhi fenxi” (Party identification and voting choice: an analysis of party image, party preference, and voting behavior in Taiwan), Renwen ji shehui kexue jikan 4, no. 1 (November 1991): 18–20. The survey asked whether respondents liked the KMT or the DPP; (2) Huang Teh-fu, “Zhengdang pingjia” (Party evaluation), in Taiwanren kan zhengzhi (Political scan) (Taipei: Twenty-first Century Foundation, 1998), 173. The survey asked which party the respondents disliked; (3) “Survey on Party Images in Taiwan,” DPP Survey Center, Taipei, 23 July 1998, p. 4. Published in Taiwan International Review 4, no. 4 (May-June 1998). Available online at http://www.dppmission.org/tir/tir_v4_i4.html. The survey asked, “Which party do you dislike the most?”

Figure 8.2 Party Antipathy

Source: “United Daily News/Party Image Surveys,” DPP Survey Center, Taipei, n.d.

Figure 8.3 Party Image (United Daily News Surveys)

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Table 8.1 Popular Perceptions of the KMT (percentage) 1. Supports unification with China 2. Moderate and reformist 3. Promotes democracy 4. The only party capable of governing 5. Fights for liberty and human rights 6. Permits corruption 7. Represents the wealthy and powerful 8. Can take care of people like me

56.3 43.9 37.7 28.3 25.6 18.4 16.8 16.6

Source: Shyu Huo-yan, “Zhengdang rentong yu toupiao juece: Taiwan diqu xuanmin de zhengdang yinxiang, pianhao yu dangpai toupiao xingwei zhi fenxi” (Party identification and voting choice: An analysis of party image, party preference, and voting behavior in Taiwan), Renwen ji shehui kexue jikan 4, no. 1 (November 1991):17.

Table 8.2 Popular Perceptions of the DPP (percentage) 1. Tends toward violence 2. Supports Taiwan independence 3. Mainly represents Taiwanese 4. Lacks the capacity to govern 5. Opposes special privileges 6. Promotes democracy 7. Fights for liberty and human rights 8. Attacks corruption

49.6 33.3 31.7 25.6 22.1 21.5 17.1 16.4

Source: Shyu Huo-yan, “Zhengdang rentong yu toupiao juece: Taiwan diqu xuanmin de zhengdang yinxiang, pianhao yu dangpai toupiao xingwei zhi fenxi” (Party identification and voting choice: An analysis of party image, party preference, and voting behavior in Taiwan), Renwen ji shehui kexue jikan 4, no. 1 (November 1991):17.

believed this of the DPP (6.0 percent). Only 3.3 percent of respondents viewed the opposition party as “moderate and reformist.” In 1993, the National Chengchih University Election Studies Center asked respondents to name two qualities they most closely associated with each of the political parties. The results reinforce the negative impression of the DPP conveyed in Shyu’s study. In 1998, the DPP’s in-house pollsters conducted a survey in preparation for the 1998 electoral campaign. Their findings reveal some improvements in the DPP’s reputation, but they also suggest that the party has not yet overcome all of its weaknesses. The KMT still won more points for competence (good administrative ability was the most commonly offered [23.8 percent] reason for preferring the KMT), while the DPP was still seen as violent and radical (35.7 percent of those who disliked the DPP gave this as the reason, while another 9.3 percent said they disliked the DPP because it was too “politically confrontational”). On the other hand, the mid-1990s campaigns by

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the DPP and New Party aimed at branding the KMT as the party of “black-gold” appear to have borne fruit: the most commonly cited reason for disliking the KMT was corruption (28.1 percent).3 The 1998 survey illuminates another important aspect of public opinion: an increasing number of Taiwanese see the DPP as the better party for solving domestic political problems, while they believe the KMT to be better equipped to cope with cross-strait relations, international affairs, and national security issues. They also view the DPP as less competent in the economic sphere. The results in Table 8.4 highlight an interesting paradox. Elsewhere in the survey, respondents were asked to name the two most important political issues facing Taiwan. A majority of Taiwanese (55 percent) mentioned crime, and a quarter mentioned environmental protection. The next two responses were improving education (20 percent) and enhancing economic prosperity (18 percent).4 Combined with the findings in Table 8.4, it is evident that these responses could have boded well for the DPP; nonetheless, the party’s performance in that year’s legislative elections was disappointing: its vote share declined significantly. This paradox calls attention to three important caveats: First, a large number of “no opinion” and “don’t know” responses makes interpreting surveys difficult. When asked which party was more able to accomplish each policy goal, about half the respondents in the DPP’s 1998 study answered “no opinion.” Second, as Chu Yun-han demonstrated in the 1980s, aggregate preferences on issues are not a strong predictor of electoral outcomes in Taiwan, not least because few Taiwanese base their voting decisions primarily on issues. Third, even when voters rank domestic issues ahead of national security, when they cast their ballots, they do so in an environment of external threat in which voting for the DPP is believed to carry heightened risk.

Table 8.3 Parties’ Most Prominent Qualities (percentage) Party KMT Conservative Cares for the people’s welfare Contributes to democracy DPP Radical Violent Balancing

First

Second

33.0 11.8 11.7

10.0 14.4 14.7

24.2 20.4 8.9

11.6 12.1 10.8

Source: “Survey on Party Images in Taiwan,” DPP Survey Center, Taipei, 23 July 1998.

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How the Public Views the DPP Table 8.4 Which Party Is More Capable of Performing These Policy Tasks? (percentage) Policy Tasks

KMT

DPP

Improving our overall quality of life Planning a fair social welfare system Taking care of the disadvantaged Protecting the environment Improving the quality of education Solving problems of law and order Overcoming our diplomatic hardships Enhancing economic prosperity Ensuring national security Leading Taiwan’s political direction

19.4 14.8 12.6 13.4 26.6 17.0 34.2 35.6 46.5 32.5

22.8 28.5 29.6 24.6 11.5 20.8 10.0 10.3 6.4 15.6

Source: “Survey on Party Images in Taiwan,” DPP Survey Center, 23 July 1998, p. 3.

In 1999, the DPP conducted another survey of attitudes toward the party.5 Although the results have not been made public, the findings reportedly reinforce earlier studies. Once again, the DPP outscored the KMT on most domestic issues, but it scored considerably below the KMT on international, cross-strait, and national security issues. Moreover, the KMT out-performed the DPP on the issues respondents ranked as most important. Among respondents who said they admired the DPP, the largest share cited competence as the reason. KMT admirers chose stability as their favored reason for preferring the ruling party. Significantly, none of the DPP supporters cited “advocates Taiwan independence” as the primary reason for admiring the DPP.

WHO SUPPORTS THE DPP? Regarding DPP support, several questions come to mind: Who are the DPP’s supporters? From which social sectors does it receive the lion’s share of its votes? Are these sectors likely to grow in the future? Are they likely to share political interests and preferences? Or do they have contradictory interests that could undermine the party’s ability to offer a coherent policy platform? In discussing the factors associated with a preference for the DPP, it is important to bear in mind that more Taiwanese identify with the KMT than with the DPP. Chu Yun-han’s observation still stands: “DPP candidates have [not] yet secured the majority support of any major constituency.”6 Nonetheless, some categories of voters are more likely

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than others to support DPP candidates. In studies conducted between 1984 and 1996, five variables were found to be positively associated with DPP voting: Taiwanese ethnicity, modest educational attainment, strong democratic values, weak support for unification, and an expressed preference for the DPP.7 Table 8.5 shows how different groups voted in the 1995 Legislative Yuan election. The relationship between age and voting patterns is complex, but most studies show the KMT to be strongest among the youngest and oldest voters. Young people who have recently been in school tend to be more sympathetic to the KMT, which dominates (and often politicizes) their education. The DPP’s weakness among the elderly is due to two factors: the strength of KMT-dominated social networks among older voters and the presence of a large concentration of Mainlanders— mainly retired soldiers and government officials—in the oldest age group. Another important characteristic of the DPP’s social composition is its low level of support among those populations most likely to be enmeshed in the KMT’s mobilizational networks: Mainlanders, farmers, and those with very little education. The DPP also is weak among government employees.8 The fact that the opposition party has made little progress among these groups demonstrates the strength of KMT networks. Table 8.6 illustrates three important characteristics of party identification in the mid-1990s. First, Taiwanese and Mainlanders were equally likely to support the KMT. However, Taiwanese were far more likely to support the DPP than were Mainlanders. Thus, although the

Table 8.5 The Influence of Demographic Factors on Party Voting in the 1995 Legislative Election (percentage) Demographic Factors Male Female Age 20–29 Age 30–39 Age 40–49 Age 50–59 Age 60 and above Primary school and below Junior high school Senior high school Junior college University and above

Voted for KMT

Voted for DPP

51.3 53.8 49.3 42.1 54.7 58.8 71.5 64.5 50.7 51.3 43.6 41.9

32.6 32.9 36.3 35.0 33.7 35.4 16.9 28.4 37.1 33.9 34.8 30.8

Source: Postelection survey of the 1995 election, Election Study Center, National Chengchih University, Taipei, 1996.

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How the Public Views the DPP

Table 8.6 National Identity and Party Identification in the 1995 Legislative Election (percentage) National Identity Taiwanesea Mainlandera Taiwanese identitya Taiwanese and Chinese identitya Chinese identity Supports unification Supports independence Supports status quo

Prefers KMT 41.2 44.7 34.5 43.6 51.0 49.5 20.2 45.7

Prefers DPP 21.9 5.4 36.0 11.4 10.3 10.7 52.8 15.7

Source: Postelection survey of the 1995 election, Election Study Center, National Chengchih University, Taipei, 1996. Note: a. “Taiwanese” and “Mainlander” refer to objective categories describing respondents’ place of birth (or their parents’ place of birth). “Taiwanese identity,” “Taiwanese and Chinese identity,” and “Chinese identity” refer to respondents’ subjective, ethnic self-description.

DPP can reasonably be characterized as a “Taiwanese party,” it is inaccurate to describe the KMT as a “Mainlander party.” (The New Party is largely a Mainlander party.) Second, even those who identified strongly with Taiwan were only slightly more likely to vote for the DPP than for the KMT. Finally, the percentage of independence supporters who nonetheless voted for the pro-unification KMT was twice as high as the percentage of unification supporters who voted for the DPP. Taken together, these observations suggest that party identification is not a simple matter of ethnic identity or policy preferences. Tables 8.5 and 8.6 look at the overall population to identify groups of people who are more likely to support the DPP. Table 8.7 approaches the question from a slightly different angle, looking at the DPP from within. It provides a demographic portrait of the DPP’s support base over time. Clearly, the DPP’s strongest demographic appeal is to native Taiwanese. The party has very few Mainlander supporters, and their numbers are not increasing. There are two main explanations for this. First, the DPP is strongly associated with Taiwan independence, a position eschewed by the overwhelming majority of Mainlanders. Second, many voters see the DPP as a party that represents the Taiwanese. Thus, there is little incentive for DPP candidates and leaders to adopt policies preferred by Mainlanders. Nonetheless, other political considerations have driven the DPP away from its independence plank and toward a more centrist position on cross-strait issues. Table 8.7 helps to explain why the DPP has had so much difficulty articulating a political platform that appeals to the party’s many constituencies. Many DPP activists are motivated by a desire to promote

23.6 15.3 34.2 8.4 18.5

63.6 4.4 13.9 18.1

94.7 5.3

Primary education & below Junior high High school Technical College & above

White collar Agriculture Blue collar Other

Taiwanese Mainlander 92.8 7.2

65.9 3.9 17.3 12.8

18.4 18.6 32.9 6.7 23.4

68.3 31.7 33.0 30.8 21.9 7.8 6.4

Feb. 1992

98.3 1.7

61.4 3.8 12.4 22.4

16.1 20.9 28.9 15.2 18.8

57.3 42.7 38.3 30.5 20.4 6.2 4.7

July 1994

94.2 5.8

61.7 7.2 18.4 12.7

16.1 13.9 32.0 16.9 21.1

64.3 35.7 35.4 34.8 17.5 6.7 5.7

Apr. 1995

93.4 6.6

57.9 6.7 19.3 16.1

13.1 14.3 38.1 15.3 19.2

64.1 35.9 33.5 32.1 19.3 8.9 6.3

Jan. 1995

98.9 1.1

64.3 3.0 14.8 17.8

17.8 13.4 37.4 12.4 19.1

61.0 39.0 31.5 31.3 18.7 12.4 6.0

Mar. 1996

97.4 2.6

61.7 5.4 16.4 16.5

16.5 19.0 29.7 18.7 16.2

57.9 42.1 33.8 28.3 16.4 10.8 10.7

Oct. 1996

Source: Lin Chiung-chu, “The Process of Taiwan’s Party Realignment: 1991-1996” (master’s thesis, Department of Political Science, National Chengchi University, 1998), 54.

66.4 33.6 25.1 29.9 27.8 9.9 7.4

Male Female Age 20-29 Age 30-39 Age 40-49 Age 50-59 Age 6 0 +

Jan. 1991

Table 8.7 Characteristics of DPP Supporters, 1991–1996 (percentage)

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167

the interests of disadvantaged groups, including farmers, the elderly, women, and labor. With the exception of women, however, these groups do not make up a large portion of the party base. The DPP’s largest socioeconomic constituency consists of white-collar workers; according to Chu, the lion’s share of these supporters are entrepreneurs.9 While the party no doubt benefits from the altruistic impulses of its supporters (Taiwan’s small agricultural population enjoys great popular sympathy, for example), these data suggest that a traditional left-of-center platform may not attract many more members who fit the demographic profile of existing DPP supporters. Looking at the shares of votes provided by various constituencies (a gap that widens when we take into account potential financial contributions), we can expect the DPP to emphasize probusiness policies. But social issues are an important part of the DPP platform; abandoning them would disappoint many of its most active members. Thus, the problem of articulating a policy platform that balances the interests of different DPP constituencies is unlikely to disappear in the near future. As Table 8.8 shows, support for the DPP also varies by region. Overall, the DPP performs best in elections in southern Taiwan, while it is weakest on the east coast and in the north (with the exception of Ilan County, a DPP stronghold). This is partially an ethnic phenomenon—the proportion of Mainlanders is largest in the north and east— but it also reflects political differences between north and south. Above all, the DPP has benefited from resentment in southern Taiwan at the wide discrepancy in government spending between north and south. In addition, the DPP’s emphasis on Taiwanese identity, including language and culture as well as Taiwan independence, has been well received in the south, where Taiwanese consciousness is strong.

THE DPP’S ELECTORAL PERFORMANCE Figure 8.4 summarizes the electoral performance of the DPP and its precursor, the Dangwai Movement, from 1980 to 2000. Overall, the DPP’s vote share has improved in each category of election, although its progress is neither continuous nor consistent from one type of election to another. The DPP historically has performed best in one-on-one, executive elections.10 The presidential win in 2000 was the party’s most important victory, but its strongest showing in terms of vote share came in the 1998 Kaohsiung and Taipei mayoral races. In 1997, the DPP out-polled the KMT by just over a percentage point, but those votes translated into

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Table 8.8 DPP Vote Shares by Region and Municipality (percentage)

Region North Taipei Taipei Ilan Keelung North-Central Taoyuan Hsinchu Hsinchu Miaoli Taichung Taichung Changhu Nantou South-Central Yunlin Chiayi Chiayi Tainan Tainan South Kao-hsiung Kao-hsiung Pingtung Penghu East Taitung Hualien

1994 Gubernatorial (Mayoral)

1997/98 Municipal Executive

1998 Legislative Yuan

2000 Presidential

City County County City

43.7 38.6 57.5 32.9

45.9 40.7 53.8 42.8

29.0 36.3 48.8 26.0

37.6 36.7 47.0 30.8

County County City County County City County County

36.3 29.3 33.2 31.2 34.7 37.4 36.3 38.8

56.2 36.1 56.1 4.2 37.6 49.6 48.7 30.8

32.3 28.3 30.0 7.6 21.0 26.7 20.6 26.9

31.7 24.8 33.8 26.8 36.5 36.9 40.1 34.5

County County City County City

40.4 42.9 42.5 46.4 44.5

29.1 46.7 5.5 65.7 35.8

21.1 27.0 33.9 40.3 30.1

47.0 49.5 47.0 53.8 46.1

County City County County

41.4 39.3 42.0 35.3

51.7 48.7 55.4 42.5

31.4 37.1 32.8 31.1

47.1 45.8 46.3 36.8

County County

27.4 25.5

5.7 43.2

21.8 19.7

23.2 21.4

Municipality

Sources: Election Information Databank, Central Election Commission, ROC, and the Election Study Center, National Chengchi University, Taipei, Liberty Times.

a significant advantage; DPP candidates won twelve municipal executiveships to the KMT’s eight. In fact, even before the DPP was founded, Dangwai candidates did especially well in municipal (county and city) executive races. The DPP does better in executive than legislative elections for several reasons. First, head-to-head competition favors the DPP. Executive contests offer voters clear choices between well-defined alternatives. They also are decisive. In legislative elections, there is a collective action problem: districts that elect minority party legislators lose access to patronage without significantly altering the distribution of power. In executive elections, this risk is less acute. Perhaps the most important factor in the DPP’s superior performance in local executive elections is the KMT political machine’s tendency to

Sources: Election Information Databank, Central Election Commission, ROC, Taipei, and the Election Study Center, National Chengchi University, Taipei.

Figure 8.4 Dangwai/DPP Vote Share, 1980–2000

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break down in these races. The ruling party’s electoral mobilization is entrusted to local factions, networks of politicians, and vote brokers who are loyal primarily to their factions but maintain ties with the ruling party. Every township in Taiwan has at least two local factions that contest township elections. Township factions link together to form municipal-level factions that contest elections for the Legislative Yuan, National Assembly (until 2000), municipal councils, and (until 1996) Provincial Assembly. Competition among factions in these races is muted because Taiwan’s multimember district formula gives each local faction a good chance to win at least one seat. Municipal executive races, in contrast, force the KMT’s local factions to choose between cooperation and competition. For decades, the KMT possessed sufficient political resources to force factions to compromise. Beginning in 1977, however, the ruling party gradually lost control of the factions, to the point where local factions now routinely defy the ruling party and pursue their own interests. The DPP’s 1997 triumph, in which it captured 50 percent more seats than the KMT with only 1 percent more votes, was due in large part to disgruntled local KMT factions entering these races and splitting the KMT vote. Most recently, a November 1999 by-election unseated the KMT from the Yunlin County executiveship for the first time. Voters ignored the entreaties of top KMT leaders, including President Lee, and elected a local faction leader. He had joined the race in frustration at not having been nominated for the post. In February 2000, he rejoined the KMT. Maverick candidacies by disgruntled KMT politicians also helped Chen Shui-bian become the mayor of Taipei in 1994 and the president of the Republic of China in 2000. The DPP’s vote share in representative elections (including the Legislative Yuan, National Assembly, and Provincial Assembly) is weaker, although the trend is toward rising vote shares for the DPP. The DPP has seen its vote share in these elections grow over the past two decades, although its progress has not been consistent. The party has performed best in the high-profile, large-constituency Legislative Yuan elections. The DPP found it harder to compete in National Assembly, Provincial Assembly, and municipal council elections. (Provincial Assembly and National Assembly elections were abolished in 1996 and 2000, respectively). Representative elections, especially municipal council races, have two characteristics that benefit the KMT’s welloiled electoral machine: they are contested in small districts and they do not enjoy a high level of popular legitimacy and trust. These factors facilitate voter cooperation with the KMT’s patronage-based mobilization activities. Despite these difficulties, however, the DPP’s vote share in these elections has increased over the years.

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Local factions dominate elections below the municipal executive level. Their networks of vote brokers (and vote buyers) have made it nearly impossible for new political forces to prevail in township and village politics. And because most local factions are affiliated with the KMT, this has meant that the DPP has had great difficulty penetrating grassroots elected bodies. For example, in township and village elections held in June 1998, the DPP won only about 4 percent of the seats. About half of the seats went to KMT candidates; the rest fell to independents, many of whom have ties with the ruling party. Grassroots officials have little political authority, but they are an essential cog in the KMT’s political machine. It is the township and village leaders who mobilize votes for KMT candidates for municipal and national office. For this reason—and because the DPP has so little success winning these elections—the DPP advocates abolishing township and village elections. The KMT agreed to abolish grassroots elections at the 1996 National Development Conference, but when President Chen’s administration proposed a bill to carry out the policy in August 2000, KMT legislative leaders said they would oppose it.

EPILOGUE Despite the problems President Chen Shui-bian’s administration faced in the months after his inauguration in May 2000, electing a DPP president boosted the party’s popularity. Party membership more than doubled in the second half of 2000, from 200,000 to more than 400,000. At the same time, the DPP experienced both absolute and relative increases in its popularity—as DPP support grew, enthusiasm for the KMT plummeted. According to DPP statistics, support for the DPP averaged almost 32 percent in surveys taken between July and December 2000. Prior to 1998, support for the DPP never exceeded 16 percent. At the same time, support for the KMT fell from 30 percent in the first half of 1996 to just over 14 percent in the second half of 2000. Much of the KMT’s lost support appears to have gone to Soong Chu-yu’s People’s First Party, which had the endorsement of about 20 percent of Taiwanese in the latter half of 2000, just a few months after its March 2000 founding.11

NOTES 1. Interview with author, Taipei, June 1999. 2. Chu Yun-han, Crafting Democracy (Taipei: Institute for National Policy Research, 1992), 95.

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3. “Survey on Party Images in Taiwan,” DPP Survey Center, Taipei, 23 July 1998, 4–5. 4. Ibid., 2. 5. “Party Image,” DPP Survey Center, Taipei, 1999. 6. Chu, Crafting Democracy, 77. 7. Shyu Huo-yan, “Taiwan de xuanju yu shehui fenlie jiegou: Zhengdang jingzheng yu minzhuhua” (Elections and social cleavages in Taiwan: Party competition and democratization), in Liang’an jiceng xuanju yu zhengzhi shehui bianqian (Basic-level elections and sociopolitical evolution on both sides of the strait), ed. Chen Ming-tong and Zheng Yongnian (Taipei: Yuetan Publishing Company, 1998), 155. 8. Chu, Crafting Democracy, 76. 9. Ibid. 10. The presidential election of 1996 is a major exception; that election is considered in detail in Chapter 6. 11. “1995–2000 Zhendang” (Parties, 1995–2000), document provided to the author by the DPP Central Party Office Public Opinion Center, December 2000. A comparison with unpublished data collected by the Election Studies Center at National Chengchi University is generally consistent with the DPP Survey Center data.

9

Breakthrough to Power: The March 18, 2000, Presidential Election By the time Chen Shui-bian and his running mate Lu Hsiu-lien (Annette Lu) arrived at the Taipei municipal soccer stadium late on the night of March 17, 2000, there was not an inch of standing room anywhere. The huge stadium was crammed with their supporters, while tens of thousands more poured into the surrounding neighborhood to watch Chen and Lu’s final campaign rally on gigantic video screens. Crowds surged up and down the packed streets, past souvenir stalls selling a staggering variety of merchandise—everything from giant foam hands holding up five fingers (Chen’s ballot number) to collectible-quality Chen Shui-bian statuettes—all displaying the candidate’s affectionate nickname, A-bian. When the rally ended, a spontaneous parade began, as A-bian’s spirited followers cheered and air-horned and high-fived their way through the snarled traffic. Caught in the traffic was a bus ferrying foreign journalists and election observers about the city. Inside, the passengers compared the three campaign rallies they had visited that evening. At the rally for KMT nominee Lien Chan, the crowd was surprisingly small, failing even to fill the plaza at the Chiang Kai-shek Memorial. In the center of the rally, spirits were high, but the event felt scripted and controlled. Many of those attending held banners announcing their affiliations with KMT departments, while peckish spectators searched in vain for the bright-pink sausages and skewered sugar-coated tomatoes that are the stock-in-trade of outdoor events in Taiwan. The rally for Soong Chu-yu (James Soong), a lifelong KMT politician and functionary who broke with his party to run for president, was held at the municipal baseball stadium. The crowd at Soong’s rally seemed larger than the one at Lien’s event, an impression intensified by the throngs of people milling about outside and the column of snack

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and souvenir stalls lining the entrance. But inside the stadium, many seats were empty, and even before Soong made his appearance, those trying to enter the stadium complex found themselves swimming against the tide. If the rallies were any indication, the foreign observers agreed, the election belonged to Chen. But remember, cautioned one U.S. scholar, George McGovern’s rallies were attracting huge crowds in 1972, just days before his crushing defeat at the hands of Richard Nixon. This sobering observation was a timely reminder of how complicated and unpredictable politics is, especially in Taiwan. And this race was even less predictable than most. On March 7, the last day poll results could be published legally, the candidates were virtually neck and neck, with nearly a third of the electorate still responding “undecided.” Coming into the last ten days of the campaign, Chen and Soong were tied, the differences between them in various polls insignificant, while Lien trailed by only three to five percentage points, within the statistical margin of error for most polls (see Figure 9.1). Given the KMT’s well-oiled electoral machine, with its huge bank of “iron ballots,” it seemed foolish to rule out the possibility that Lien would overcome this small deficiency. So the observers went to bed uncertain, many, including this author, still refusing to predict the outcome. By dinnertime on March 18, the suspense was over, and the analysts were left scrambling to explain how they could have missed the results.1 There was little shame in failing to call Chen and Soong’s photo finish (at 39 percent and 37 percent, respectively, only 313,000 votes divided the first and second place finishers), but how could the experts not have anticipated Lien’s abysmal 23 percent showing? Ultimately, there is only one way to explain the exaggerated confidence in the KMT’s chances expressed by nearly everyone, from incumbent president and KMT chair Lee Teng-hui to the 40 percent of Taiwanese who predicted in early March that Lien would win. 2 The electoral result was utterly out of character with the previous fifty years of Taiwanese elections. Predicting it required a leap of imagination beyond the capacity of most political observers, who are conditioned to expect incremental change and trained to err on the side of caution. Both dimensions of the election’s outcome—Chen’s victory and the KMT’s trouncing—were milestones in Taiwan’s democratic development. Political scientists have long identified party alternation as a key indicator of successful democratic consolidation,3 and Chen’s election marked the first peaceful transfer of power from one political party to another in the history of the Republic of China. Indeed, the difference between the 1996 presidential election (in which Lee Teng-hui won

Sources: United Daily News (UDN) 10/3/99, 10/10/99, 12/16/99, 9/6/00; China Times (CT) 10/18/99, 12/21/99, 1/21/00, 1/31/00, 2/24/00, 3/7/00; Taiwan News (TN) 11/8/99, 11/22/99, TVBS Television (TVBS), reported in UDN 12/16/99; Shanshui (SS), reported in China Post 1/24/00; EX International (EXI), reported by China News Agency 3/5/00.

Figure 9.1 Presidential Candidates’ Poll Standings, October 1999–March 2000

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reelection with 54 percent of the vote in a four-way race) and the 2000 contest reveals the degree to which Taiwan’s democracy had matured during those four years. At the same time, the KMT’s decisive defeat in 2000 marked the end of the dominant party system that characterized Taiwan’s political world from 1945 to 1999. Although the KMT retained significant resources, including a majority of seats in the Legislative Yuan, the magnitude of Lien’s loss ensured that his party would not easily reconstitute itself after the election, but instead would undergo an extended period of upheaval and confusion.

CANDIDATES Chen Shui-bian was born in Kuantian Township, Tainan County in 1951. His parents were farmers and neither had more than a few years of education. In his autobiography, Chen tells of his mother digging a shallow hole to put him in while she worked in the fields, a kind of makeshift playpen for a tenant-farming family. 4 The young A-bian flourished in Taiwan’s competitive educational system. He graduated at the top of his class in elementary school, junior high school, and the best high school in Tainan.5 After a stint in the business management program at the island’s leading university, National Taiwan University (NTU), Chen switched to law. Changing programs was a risky move, because it required reapplying for admission. To read Chen’s account, however, informing his parents of his decision was even more frightening than retaking the entrance exams.6 As it turned out, Chen aced the NTU law program, qualifying as a lawyer in the third year of his five-year legal training program. He went to work for a law firm, where he specialized in maritime commerce. In 1975, Chen married Wu Shu-chen, the gifted daughter of a prominent physician. Chen and Wu have a daughter, a dentist, and a son who is following in his father’s footsteps at NTU law school. Early in 1980, Chen received the phone call that launched his political career. On December 10, 1979, opposition politicians associated with Formosa Magazine were arrested after an International Human Rights Day demonstration in Kaohsiung turned violent. Shortly thereafter, a representative of the Kaohsiung defendants’ legal team, Chang Teh-ming, called Chen to ask if he would be willing to defend Huang Hsin-chieh at the trial. In his autobiography, Chen recalls hearing Huang speak in 1969: “Huang’s platform really opened my eyes. How could someone be so bold, and so openly criticize the government, taking it completely apart with such merciless reproach. Witnessing Huang’s attack, I was impressed with him from the bottom of my heart.”7 Still,

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Chen did not immediately accept Chang’s proposition. Instead, he conferred with his wife, who urged him to take the job despite the risks. The Kaohsiung defense failed; Huang Hsin-chieh and the others were convicted and given long prison sentences. In the process of losing the case, however, Chen Shui-bian was recruited into the opposition movement. In 1981 he ran on the Dangwai ticket for Taipei City Council, finishing in first place. Four years later he was convicted of libel after accusing a KMT politician of plagiarism. However, his conviction did not prevent him from becoming the opposition candidate for Tainan county executive. Chen lost the Tainan County election in a close race, but the worst was yet to come. On November 18, 1985, Chen and Wu Shu-chen were thanking voters for their support when a truck swerved into the crowd of people, struck Wu, then backed over her body. Although the allegation is unproven, many DPP supporters believe the hit-and-run attack was a deliberate act of political violence. Wu’s back was broken and she suffered permanent paralysis from the chest down. Then, in June 1986, Chen Shui-bian entered prison to serve his term in the libel case. In December, Wu Shu-chen was elected to the Legislative Yuan as a candidate of the newly formed DPP, parking her wheelchair in the aisle because the legislature refused to provide an accessible seat for her. Upon his release from prison early in 1987, Chen worked as his wife’s chief legislative aide. Two years later he won a seat of his own. In 1994, in a contest that foreshadowed the presidential election six years later, Chen competed in a three-way race to become the mayor of Taipei. His opponents were the lackluster KMT incumbent, Huang Tachou, and the popular politician Jaw Shao-kang. Jaw had left the KMT the year before to help found the New Party. After a heated campaign, Chen emerged victorious, winning 44 percent to Jaw’s 30 percent. Huang trailed in third place. Managing Taipei was difficult, especially because Chen faced a hostile city council. Still, he won high marks from city residents; at the end of his four-year term, Chen’s approval ratings topped 70 percent. High approval ratings were not enough to block yet another setback; in 1998, the KMT and the New Party united behind KMT nominee Ma Ying-jeou. Despite winning more votes and a higher percentage of the vote than he had in 1994, Chen was defeated in his bid for a second term. On election night, as Chen Shui-bian and Wu Shu-chen bowed to their supporters to acknowledge and apologize for the defeat, a cry erupted from the crowd: A-bian for president. Accomplishing his ascent from the very bottom to the very top of Taiwanese society required enormous determination and energy. In describing Chen, those close to him invariably mention his seriousness,

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discipline, and tirelessness. For example, upon returning to Taiwan after an exhausting tour of several European countries in a few days, Chen announced to his entourage that the vacation had been great, and now it was time to get back to work. Chen devoted himself to developing a warm and appealing persona just as doggedly as he had to winning top honors in school, and with equal success. He allows himself to be depicted publicly as a loveable figure, despite his serious and lawyerly demeanor in person. The resulting A-bian phenomenon is a masterful act of political mythmaking to which Chen Shui-bian the politician willingly subscribed. Lien Chan’s biography could hardly be more dissimilar to Chen’s. Lien was born in mainland China in 1936, a scion of a wealthy Taiwanese clan residing temporarily in mainland China. His family returned to Taiwan in 1945, and Lien was educated in Taiwan and the United States, earning a doctorate in political science from the University of Chicago. In 1968, Lien began teaching at National Taiwan University. He held a series of posts in the KMT leadership and in the executive branch of the ROC government, including premier, minister of transportation and communication, and minister of foreign affairs. He was elected vice president in 1996. Lien’s popular image is that of an intelligent man and capable administrator, but one lacking in warmth and personality. Nor is he an experienced political campaigner. As journalist Antonio Chiang (Chiang Chun-nan) put it, “wherever he goes, a kind of charisma vacuum opens up.”8 Like Lien, Soong Chu-yu was at one time identified as Lee Tenghui’s protégé. Born in 1942 in Hunan Province, Soong grew up in Taiwan. He studied diplomacy at National Chengchi University, then received advanced degress from the University of California, Berkeley, Catholic University, and Georgetown University. Soong, too, held a series of KMT and government posts, including a long stint as directorgeneral of the Government Information Office. In 1994, Soong became the first directly elected governor of Taiwan Province. Not long after, political observers began to notice discord between Soong and his mentor, former president Lee. Soong’s election to the provincial governor’s post rested on Lee Teng-hui’s strong and active support. Lee worked hard to ensure that this high-profile position would not fall into DPP hands, campaigning tirelessly for his party’s candidate. Above all, Soong needed Lee’s endorsement to overcome the liability of his ethnic background: he was a Mainlander running in the island’s most heavily Taiwanese constituency. Once Soong captured the post, however, it seemed Lee began to have second thoughts. The governor’s office gave Soong a constituency

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approaching Lee’s own in size and scope, and Soong used his position to cultivate an independent base of support. Rather than following the KMT’s long-standing strategy of managing local factions through municipal-level leaders, Soong leapfrogged over these individuals and appealed directly to township-level faction bosses. In his four years as governor, Soong visited every town and township at least once, announcing new government-funded projects at every stop and forging personal relationships with local officials. In the process, Soong incorporated many local factions into his political base, transferring their loyalty from the KMT to himself. The disharmony between Soong and Lee erupted into the open in 1998, when President Lee began the process of “streamlining” the provincial government—in effect, dismantling it. For years, the DPP argued that the provincial government was unnecessary, an anachronistic artifact of the ROC’s claim to represent all of China. At the National Development Conference in 1996, the KMT and DPP agreed to eliminate the provincial government. But when the ruling party leadership moved to carry out its promise in 1997, Soong resisted, mobilizing provincial government employees against the move. Thus, the KMT’s nomination for the 2000 presidential election occurred amidst acrimony between Soong and Lee. Soong had presidential ambitions, and many in the KMT supported him. But Lee was determined to deny Soong, and he pushed through Lien Chan’s nomination instead. Soong was furious and announced his determination to run even without his party’s endorsement. After announcing his candidacy, Soong immediately became the front-runner, winning the affirmation of about a third of voters in public opinion polls. He also attracted endorsements from numerous KMT luminaries, including a former justice minister and a former speaker of the Legislative Yuan. Many KMT heavyweights were frustrated by Lee Teng-hui’s dictatorial style as party chair, including what they saw as efforts to drive conservatives (especially Mainlanders) out of the party. Soong also enjoyed support from many KMT legislators, especially those who had moved to the legislature after the Provincial Assembly was abolished. Their endorsements were the fruit of Soong’s efforts to win over local faction leaders. KMT leaders tried—sometimes harshly—to persuade Soong to give up his presidential bid, but he refused, and his support rate in polls remained at least 50 percent higher than Lien’s. Four months before the election, the Kuomintang revoked Soong’s KMT membership, claiming violation of party discipline. Many of his supporters were expelled with him. Soong’s image was complex. The voters understood that he was a product of the KMT, a longtime participant in the government whose

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political orientation and ideology would not motivate major changes in core policies. However, his willingness to buck the system and defy Lee Teng-hui attracted many voters who were looking for a candidate who would lead the country in a new direction (although it alienated those most loyal to President Lee). For some, Soong represented an urban, educated, Mainlander elite, a “better sort of person” inclined toward prudence and good sense. For others, Soong was the “boss’s boss,” arriving annually with checkbook in hand to dole out money to local governments. This ambiguous role contributed to Soong’s success, but it also was a weakness. Soong began the campaign with a strong lead in the polls. Chen had behind him a united and determined party, but one that had never won a majority of votes in any election. Lien Chan enjoyed the support and assistance of his party’s leading political strategists and many of its most popular campaigners, including President Lee himself. The KMT’s vast financial fortune and political machine were put in the service of his electoral bid—at least in theory. But he faced two crucial obstacles. Personally, Lien was not an appealing candidate; he was counting on his party connections to propel him into office. In addition, his party was divided, and the insurgent was ahead.

ISSUES Policy issues have rarely played a decisive role in Taiwan’s elections. In the 2000 election, as in many others, the candidates’ personal qualifications and images played a larger role than their views on policy matters. Nonetheless, certain issues were important in shaping the course of the election. The issue of greatest concern to observers outside Taiwan (and to many Taiwanese) was cross-strait relations. How should Taiwan interact with its largest and most important neighbor?

Cross-Strait Relations Although important, the candidates could not easily use the issue of cross-strait relations for political gain. Instead, all three candidates ended up taking very similar positions. Their strategy was to position themselves as close to the others as possible on this issue, in the hope of avoiding controversy while exploiting weaknesses in the others’ stances. President Lee Teng-hui’s “two states” theory facilitated the candidates’ strategy. In a July 1999 interview with a German radio network,

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Lee described cross-strait relations as “a special state-to-state relationship.” Lee claimed this was not a retreat from the KMT’s position that there is only one Chinese nation, but Beijing disagreed and accused Lee of seeking to split China. Lee’s statement aborted cross-strait talks and irritated Washington, but its effect in Taiwan was to put into words the consensus position of most Taiwanese. Although all three presidential candidates shied away from Lee’s inflammatory language, their positions on the issue clustered around the substance of the “two states” concept. As Cal Clark put it, “The widespread popularity of Lee’s position, in essence, removed the topic of cross-Strait relations from campaign debates.”9 As the inheritor of the KMT mantle, Lien Chan promised the highest degree of continuity in cross-strait relations. Early in the campaign he endorsed the “two states” theory, although he later downplayed it. He called for a pragmatic interpretation of “One China” and said that talks with Beijing must be conducted on the basis of parity and equality between the two sides. Soong Chu-yu found himself in a difficult position on this issue. On the one hand, he hoped to take advantage of the fear and insecurity Lee’s “two states” theory had created to portray himself as the candidate most able to stabilize cross-strait relations. On the other hand, he needed to be very careful to avoid the appearance that he was “selling out” Taiwan, an accusation many Taiwanese would be quick to make if they saw the Mainlander candidate moving too far in toward a pro-unification position. In November Soong described the relationship in terms very similar to the “two states” theory.10 But in December, after the eruption of a financial scandal forced Soong onto the offensive, the candidate attacked the “two states” theory, suggesting instead that the cross-strait issue was neither domestic nor international, but something in between. In January, he proposed a nonaggression pact between Taipei and Beijing.11 The cross-strait issue posed the greatest difficulty to Chen Shuibian, whose party was infamous among many Taiwanese for its views on the China issue. After the election, Chiou I-jen, Chen’s campaign manager, told an audience at National Taiwan University, “Having realized the independence issue was Chen’s biggest weakness, we tried to keep Chen’s stance on the issue as vague as possible.” 12 Throughout the campaign, Chen emphasized the “middle road,” promising to resume talks aimed at normalizing relations with Beijing, exchange visits with PRC leaders, and establish direct transport and communications links with the mainland. He also ruled out a declaration of independence as long as Beijing did not take military action against Taiwan, and he expressed willingness to discuss any issue, including “one China”

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and even unification. He also downplayed the controversial “two states” theory. For Chen, the concern was not that he would sell out Taiwan’s interests, but that his enthusiasm for Taiwan independence would put the island’s security at risk. Chen’s response was to turn such fears to his advantage. He used the example of Richard Nixon, whose staunch anticommunism helped the U.S. public accept his overtures to the PRC in the early 1970s, to illustrate his own historical role. As the most “Taiwan identified” of the three presidential candidates, Chen argued, he was the one best suited to the delicate task of improving relations with the mainland while defending the island’s core interests. Lee’s “two states” theory facilitated this strategy, as it moved the KMT position beyond Chen’s own, allowing him to nestle comfortably at the center. In October, Chen called for the opening of direct transportation, trade, and social links between Taiwan and mainland China, making his “the most accommodating explicit campaign position toward China at that time.”13 As for Taiwan independence, Chen returned to the DPP’s early emphasis on self-determination, insisting that the focus should be on the process by which Taiwan’s future would be decided, not the outcome of that process. He articulated this position clearly in a speech to the National Press Club in Washington in April 1999: “Whether or not the two separate ethnic Chinese states will eventually become one country, this must be decided by the people of Taiwan.”14 In November, Chen said he had always opposed including the Taiwan independence plank in the DPP platform.15 These statements were consistent with Chen’s past actions. For example, it is thanks to an amendment offered by Chen Shui-bian that the DPP platform calls for a referendum on independence, rather than independence itself. In sum, then, the three presidential candidates’ platforms on crossstrait issues converged on a position slightly to the right of President Lee’s. As Cal Clark put it: As the campaign heated up, the three candidates had sought to use differing perspectives on cross-Strait relations to attract different voters, yet by January the distinctions among their positions were less clear. All opposed a declaration of Taiwan Independence from China but stated that at present Taiwan is sovereign and independent of the PRC and that the PRC’s “one country, two systems” plan for reunification is completely unacceptable . . . all three also made conciliatory appeals toward China as well, presumably to reassure both Beijing and their constituents that they would not be unduly confrontational.16

The major difference among the candidates was credibility. To their respective critics, Lien lacked Lee Teng-hui’s “iron will” for dealing

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with Beijing,17 Soong’s loyalty to Taiwan was doubtful, and Chen was reckless. Sticking close to the center and minimizing the salience of the cross-strait issue was thus a good strategic option for each candidate.

Political Reform The most important domestic issue in the 2000 presidential campaign—and the issue on which the candidates were most easily differentiated—was political reform. In Taiwan, political corruption is called black gold politics (heijin zhengzhi). Black gold refers to the convergence of criminal activity with the inappropriate use of money in politics.18 Corruption has deep roots in Taiwan, but it has grown significantly worse in recent years. One of the most important sources of corruption is vote buying, a practice that is illegal and widely understood to be wrong, but is nonetheless common in Taiwan, especially in rural and working-class communities. Vote buying is rooted in Taiwan’s traditions of reciprocity and hospitality. Early on, politicians seeking votes from friends and neighbors thought it only natural to offer small gifts in exchange for a voter’s consideration.19 In the 1950s and 1960s, these gifts were true tokens: a small box of laundry soap, cigarettes, a hand towel or two. However, as Taiwan became more affluent, money in a red envelope (the traditional packaging for cash gifts) replaced other gifts. Still, the sums paid out remained small, because the purpose of the exchange was not to persuade a voter to select a particular candidate but to cement a preexisting relationship between voter and politician. Under Taiwan’s unusual electoral formula, KMT candidates divided up districts and mobilized voters in their individual “responsibility zones.” Thus, until the 1980s, voters rarely received payments from more than one candidate.20 Democratization changed the nature of vote buying for the worse. As Dangwai (and later DPP) candidates increased their share of the vote, KMT candidates felt the pinch of competition. If they continued to cooperate with the traditional responsibility zone strategy and confined their campaign activities to their assigned areas, they ran the risk of losing to an opposition candidate. Increasingly, KMT candidates went outside their responsibility zones to find votes. Suddenly, voters were receiving payments from two or even more candidates; not surprisingly, price inflation set in. By the mid-1990s, millions of dollars were changing hands in every election, as candidates paid as much as NT$500–$1,000 (about U.S.$20–$40) to each voter. The phrase “getting rich off elections” (fa xuanju cai) described the windfall to voters. Buying votes is not a very efficient way of campaigning, since candidates can rely on receiving only about two votes for every ten they

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purchase. However, vote buying is a necessary form of insurance. Because voters expect to receive “gifts” from politicians, those who do not buy votes have little chance of being elected. The vote buying trap is worst for KMT candidates, who inherit the responsibility to buy votes from their forebears. While some DPP politicians also buy votes, especially in township and village elections, the party’s vocal opposition to vote buying and its condemnation of KMT-sponsored corruption relieves its candidates of the obligation to buy votes in most situations. Vote buying (along with ordinary human greed) created a much larger problem: in order to pay the huge cost of elections, successful politicians and local factions looked for ways to extract wealth from their government service, and a culture of accepting bribes and kickbacks soon permeated Taiwan’s officialdom. In addition, local politicians enjoy a wide variety of moneymaking opportunities, including complete or partial control over local banks, cooperatives, zoning regulations, public works contracts, and law enforcement. At first, criminal organizations expanded their influence and operations by developing relationships with elected officials, but in the 1990s the number of criminals standing for election increased rapidly. According to National Police Administration statistics, in 1999 one in twelve municipal councilors, legislators, and National Assembly members had a criminal record.21 In October 1999, the Judicial Yuan revealed pending charges against 205 elected representatives. According to former justice minister Liao Cheng-hao, a third of Taiwan’s elected officials have criminal backgrounds.22 In his view, gangs have all but taken over Taiwan politics.23 Legislative immunity—which protects officials from arrest while the elected bodies to which they belong are in session—has become a significant obstacle to law enforcement. In some cases, local assemblies convene special sessions solely for the purpose of preventing a member’s arrest.24 One of the most scandalous examples of “black gold politics” is the case of Wu Tse-yuan. Wu, a former county executive in Pingtung, was convicted of corruption and sentenced to fifteen years in prison. Two years later he was released on bail for the purpose of seeking medical treatment. However, his poor health did not deter him from running for higher office, and he was elected to the Legislative Yuan in 1998. Wu subsequently appealed his original conviction, and as of this writing, he remains free—and in the legislature. (Wu is not the worst of the lot in Pingtung. The speaker of the Pingtung County Council shot a man in front of witnesses, including the victim’s mother.) The proliferation of black gold politics did not escape the notice of the Taiwanese people; on the contrary, by the time of the 2000

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presidential election, dissatisfaction had blossomed into outrage. In a survey conducted by Commonwealth Magazine in early 2000, a quarter of Taiwanese expressed shame at the level of official corruption and gangsterism in Taiwan. More than 60 percent named black gold politics as the leading cause of the widening gap between rich and poor in Taiwan, a gap many Taiwanese view as deeply wrong.25 Not surprisingly, then, black gold became an important issue in the presidential election. All three candidates campaigned against corruption, and all three promised to do everything within their power to clean up the system. However, as in the case of cross-strait relations, the candidates’ credibility on this issue varied widely. In the end, Chen Shui-bian was the only candidate whose corruption-fighting credentials garnered widespread public confidence. Lien Chan was in the toughest position, as the representative of the party most often cited as the culprit in corruption. On January 2, Lien announced a campaign promise aimed at allaying concerns about the KMT’s manipulation of the economy for political benefit: he said he would put his party’s business assets in trust. The announcement boosted Lien’s support slightly, but it did little to address the party’s basic problem, a lack of public confidence in its corruption-fighting efforts. Asked by Commonwealth Magazine pollsters “who will be capable of eliminating ‘black gold’ in Taiwan,” only 4 percent mentioned Lien.26 For several months, Soong successfully portrayed himself as an anticorruption crusader. Despite his long years of service to it, Soong became a strong critic of the KMT machine. For many voters, he offered an ideal combination: safe on cross-strait issues and tough on black gold. However, a financial scandal unleashed in December undermined Soong’s credibility as a reformer. The scandal centered around huge sums that turned up in bank accounts belonging to Soong’s relatives. KMT legislators accused Soong of misappropriating party funds and hiding the money in his relatives’ accounts. Soong was unable to provide a convincing explanation in time to avoid severe damage to his campaign. The Commonwealth Magazine survey, which was taken shortly after the scandal broke, revealed the extent of the injury: only about 13 percent of respondents said Soong would be capable of eliminating black gold.27 Soong’s reputation also suffered from his association with some unsavory politicians in central Taiwan, in particular the “stone pumpkin,” Yen Ching-piao. Yen, a key architect of Soong’s success in central Taiwan, is the speaker of the Taichung County Council. He spent three years in prison in the 1980s for involvement in organized crime, and in mid-2000 was relying on legislative immunity to stay out of jail on

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civil charges. Soong’s association with Yen and other local bosses undercut his anticorruption rhetoric. Chen, for his part, made anticorruption the central theme of his campaign. He promised to overhaul the justice system, reform public contracting procedures, and crack down on organized crime. He pointed to his experience as Taipei mayor, where he made significant progress toward improving traffic law enforcement and cleaning up prostitution, gambling, and other vice crime. Chen managed to persuade many voters, winning a 37 percent confidence rating in the Commonwealth poll.28 (The fact that barely half of the poll’s respondents believed any of the major candidates could eliminate black gold reflects the deep frustration Taiwanese feel about this issue.) Anticorruption and cross-strait relations dominated the campaign. Lien Chan benefited from the assumption that the KMT would continue to manage the nation’s economy successfully, as it had done for many years, but the matter provoked little enthusiasm or debate. Other issues—environmental protection, beefing up welfare benefits to the needy, balancing growth in northern and southern Taiwan—tended to work to the DPP’s advantage. Soong, for his part, reminded voters of his successful tenure as provincial governor, and especially of the public works projects he had scattered throughout the country.

CHEN SHUI-BIAN’S ORGANIZATION The DPP’s chances of victory in the presidential election got a tremendous boost from Soong Chu-yu’s decision to enter the race. Thus, the key to Chen’s campaign strategy was to maintain the three-way competition. If either of the other two candidates dropped out, the DPP’s chances of winning would be slashed. Likewise, if either of the others gained a significant lead, voters might give up on the lagging candidate and transfer their support to their second choice, a phenomenon political scientists call “strategic voting” (Taiwanese call it “dump save,” [qibao] as in, “dump Lien to save Soong” [qi-Lien bao-Soong]). Thus, the ideal scenario from the DPP’s perspective was for Lien and Soong to stay close together in the polls. It also was important for Chen to be seen as a viable candidate, but not so far ahead that his opponents would join forces against him. In short, managing the campaign was extraordinarily complex and difficult. As it turned out, however, public opinion polls worked to the DPP’s advantage: from December through March, Chen and Soong were essentially tied for first place, with Lien trailing by a few percentage points. Given the widespread assumption

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that the KMT had a significant number of votes tucked away in its pocket, none of the candidates fell far enough behind to be considered out of the race. Chen’s campaign centered on the anticorruption issue, his greatest asset. Recognizing that cross-strait relations was his greatest liability, Chen and his advisers articulated views on the issue that were similar to those of his opponents. Chen did differentiate himself from Soong and Lien in terms of image, however. His campaign appealed strongly to young voters. It emphasized youth, hope, and optimism. As he had during his years as mayor of Taipei, Chen recruited aides and volunteers in their twenties and thirties. He encouraged high jinks and creativity at his campaign rallies, and his publicity materials reflected the wry sense of humor of the young at least as much as it captured the DPP’s traditional seriousness and gravity. The campaign organization involved numerous levels, each carefully coordinated with the others. Chen maintained offices in each of Taiwan’s major cities that served as the public face of the campaign. At the campaign “nerve center” in Taipei, savvy young activists worked around the clock in a tangle of telephone wires and computer cables, researching issues, responding to information requests, preparing press materials, analyzing data, designing strategy, and entertaining foreign visitors. In cities and towns, Chen’s supporters organized Friends of ABian Clubs (Bianyou zhi hui) to organize campaign activities at the grassroots level. A key aspect of the campaign structure was coordination with the DPP headquarters. Chen used officials from the party’s central office as key members of his campaign staff. Visitors to the nerve center on Tunhua South Road frequently ran into party staffers on loan to the campaign. This strategy avoided the pitfall of competition between party and campaign, and ensured that party workers felt invested in and committed to Chen’s presidential effort. Under the leadership of party chair Lin Yi-hsiung, the DPP Central Party Office played a critical role in expanding Chen’s operation islandwide and consolidating the party’s vote base behind its nominee. Chen Shui-bian surrounded himself with skilled, experienced campaigners. His running mate, Lu Hsiu-lien, was serving as Taoyuan county executive when Chen tapped her for the vice presidential post. As a northerner, she added regional balance to the ticket, and her strong feminist views were expected to win over female voters. Also, Lu combined two highly valued qualities: she is known as both a scholar and a political martyr, having served time in prison for involvement in the Kaohsiung Incident.

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Chen’s campaign manager was Hsieh Chang-ting, the mayor of Kaohsiung. (Hsieh was elected chair of the DPP in June 2000.) Hsieh and Chen had parallel careers, first serving together as defense attorneys in the Kaohsiung case, then moving into elective offices in the legislative branch, then winning municipal executive posts. On occasion, Chen and Hsieh competed for opportunities, but their relationship remained solid, as Chen’s choice of Hsieh to run his campaign attests. Other important figures in Chen’s campaign included the DPP chair, Lin Yi-hsiung. Lin’s main responsibility was to keep the DPP united behind its candidate. Throughout his tenure as party chair, Lin demonstrated a talent for negotiating among party factions and producing consensus; the presidential campaign was his most important assignment, and also his most successful. DPP secretary-general Chiou I-jen also played a critical role in the campaign, advising the candidate on strategy and assisting with international affairs. Chiou also constituted a bridge to the New Tide Faction. Chen Shui-bian’s most important link to the English-speaking world was Hsiao Bi-khim, the head of the DPP’s International Affairs Department. Chiou and Hsiao made an impressive team; they dampened fears and convinced many foreign observers that Chen would be a sensible, moderate president. (After Chen’s inauguration, Chiou became secretary-general of the National Security Council, while Hsiao went to work in the presidential office. After Premier Tang Fei’s resignation in October, Chiou was promoted to secretary-general of the cabinet.) Other crucial members of Chen’s team included his wife, Wu Shuchen, whom individuals close to Chen say is an important political adviser, and his “boy wonders.” During his term as Taipei mayor, Chen relied on two recent college graduates, Ma Yung-cheng and Luo Wenchia. Ma acted as a top adviser during the campaign (he is currently deputy director of the presidential office), while Luo played an important role in publicity and public relations (he served in the cabinet as deputy director of the Council of Cultural Affairs). Chen’s campaign also relied heavily on a team of pollsters and political analysts, including You Ying-lung, Lin Chia-lung, Lin Cheng-yi, Lin Chia-cheng, and Chen Jiunn-lin.

Special Focus: The A-Bian Phenomenon One of the most extraordinary aspects of Chen’s campaign was the degree to which ordinary Taiwanese, especially the young, fell in love with the candidate and pinned their hopes and dreams on him. Crafting Chen into symbol of rejuvenation and hope was a stroke of political

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genius, brilliantly executed. Taiwan is not a country accustomed to familiarity among its leaders, but Chen Shui-bian is known universally by his affectionate childhood nickname, A-Bian.29 The A-Bian epic encompasses his rise from poverty, his wife’s devastating injury and dogged recovery, his jail sentence, his unexpected victory in 1994, and his unexpected loss in 1998. For his supporters, Chen Shui-bian, the self-styled “son of Taiwan,” is an icon whose personal struggles over the past fifty years mirror those of his country.30 For them, Chen’s victory in the 2000 election symbolizes the emergence of a new Taiwan: democratic, courageous, down-to-earth, and ready to reach out and embrace the world. The essence of the A-Bian phenomenon is captured in the fractured English translation of the “[Bian Mao] Story” attached to every item of A-Bian family merchandise: [Bian Mao] is just a dark green woolen hat that approximately 22 cm in width and 21 cm in height. Full with joy, passion, and tears, this woolen hat along with the alternative political campaign headquarter called [Bian Mao Factory] symbolized the most true feelings and devotions of the Taiwanese people in this chapter of Taiwan’s electoral history. Designed for the election of Taipei’s Mayer in 1998, the [Bian Mao] was only a fund raising product. Unexpectedly, the [Bian Mao] caught on as a fashion trend all over Taiwan and became a top-selling product in times of a less than flourishing economy. From the start of the election until its conclusion, the fashion fad of the [Bian Mao] had become blazed from the Northern to Southern Taiwan and even made its way overseas. Other related products followed in popularity. As an accessory item of a politica[l] figure, this [Bian Mao] fever has created a miracle in election culture not only in Taiwan but also in other civilized cities. Such Fever may be only in Taiwan where election campaigns became the nation-wide practice for all people. In December 1998, Chen Shui-Bian, whom the [Bian Mao] was named and created after, won the most “Failed With Dignity” Taipei Mayer election. In February 1999, the [Bian Mao] series became registered patented products.

This account of Chen Shui-bian’s political career spotlights key elements of the A-Bian phenomenon. “Joy, passion, and tears” are hallmarks of Chen’s political career, which has not been a steady upward climb but a thrilling ride from the heights of success to the depths of despair and back again. Meanwhile, the characterization of Chen’s 1994 mayoral campaign as “alternative” taps the youthful enthusiasm for “alternative”: alternative music, alternative lifestyles, alternative

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politics. Through this linguistic turn, a somber, buttoned-down politician is transformed into the darling of Generation X. Chen becomes the man who captures “the most true feelings and devotions of the Taiwanese people.” Generation Xers could get to know A-Bian even better through his hip website, in which the candidate was known as “@ Bian.” (Eventually, “@” became recognized as an A-Bian logo.) The merchandise tag copy also calls attention to a key chapter in the A-Bian story: his noble failure in 1998. The defeat becomes a victory, as Chen captures the “most failed with dignity” award. Compared to Lien Chan—a silver-spoon politician of the first order—and Soong Chu-yu, Chen’s failures become badges of courage and persistence, and cast him as the underdog. (On a more prosaic level, had Chen been reelected in 1998, he would have found it difficult to abandon the mayor’s post to seek the presidency.) More important, the “failed with dignity” experience evoked a wave of sympathy for Chen, especially in southern Taiwan. For many southerners, Chen’s defeat was proof that Mainlander voters would never choose a Taiwanese over one of their own, even a Taiwanese with an excellent record. Chen’s popularity skyrocketed outside Taipei, and he became a national celebrity. The A-Bian phenomenon is interesting on another level, as a manifestation of postmodern politics. Through the marketing of objects carefully designed to embody the A-Bian myth, Chen is commodified, transformed into a product for sale. His popularity can be measured in units sold. And A-Bian sold very well, thanks to clever design and marketing (and the Taiwanese weakness for fads). The Bian mao (A-Bian hat) is, indeed, a “dark green woolen hat.” These simple caps are decorated with a small jacquard tag printed with the English logo “A-Bian Family 1998-2002 Taiwan” and a little orange cartoon figure wearing a green hat. Nowhere on the hats is there a single Chinese character. The logo incorporates a number of Taiwanese fashion trends: the typeface has a futuristic, computerized look; the English writing gives it cachet; and the cartoon figure is “cute and tiny.”31 The green caps were the brainchild of Chen’s campaign aide, Luo Wen-chia, and cartoonist Alice Chang. According to Chang, “I’m trying to create a youthful mood. Maybe dads and granddads will wear them, but if they do it will make them look youthful.”32 When the green caps sparked a fashion craze in 1998, Chen’s organization expanded the logo line to include other types of merchandise, all of it carefully designed to reinforce the candidate’s image. By 1999, the Bian Mao Family line included a wide variety of apparel, including baseball caps, golf hats, tee shirts, polo shirts, and even dressy sweaters for women. It also

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included household items, which gave A-Bian a homey feeling: pot holders, refrigerator magnets, aprons, coffee mugs, and dishes. For students, the company sold a variety of A-Bian stationery items, from book bags and cell phone cases to notebooks, pencils, and coin banks. The overall image—reinforced in the photographs of Chen, his family, and his young supporters that decorated catalogs and the twenty-one Bian Mao branch stores (dubbed Bian Mao Culture Halls)—was of a typical middle-class Taiwanese family. (In one catalog photo, a handsome man clad in an A-Bian apron and pot holder gloves serves dinner to his wife and family in an immaculate kitchen. In this case, the gender reversal is perhaps more fantastical than typical.) The marketing of the Bian Mao Family line reveals the same genius as the design. A new logo character—a round-faced boy in a Bian Mao hat and tee shirt—appeared in 1999 to rekindle interest in time for the 2000 race. New items were displayed in locked cases at the main Bian Mao Family store in Taipei. Each item bore a label announcing the date it would become available, enticing shoppers to return. Selected merchandise was available in Chen’s campaign offices around the island and through catalog sales. Prices were set to suit every budget; some items (including lifelike Chen Shui-bian statuettes) were expensive. Others cost less than a dollar. Every Taiwanese child could afford an A-Bian key chain or pencil. Nor did the marketing team let the Bian Mao Family trail off into remainders and sale bins: the Taipei store closed on inauguration day, May 20, attracting huge crowds up to the end. (Of course, special May 20 commemorative merchandise was available.)

THE CAMPAIGN The 2000 presidential race was exciting from start to finish. As Figure 9.1 shows, the race began with Soong in the lead with about 30 percent support, well ahead of Lien and Chen, whose poll numbers hovered around 20 percent. Throughout the campaign, a large fraction of the electorate—about 30 percent—reported it was undecided. This figure changed very little from October through March. It is not surprising, then, that the pundits were reluctant to predict the outcome, right until the very end. A number of events affected the early progress of the campaign. In early September, the National Assembly passed a term extension (discussed in detail in Chapter 6), an act which embarrassed the KMT. The September 21 earthquake killed 2,400 people, left 100,000 homeless,

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and caused NT$14 billion (U.S.$460 million) in damage. This devastating natural disaster put Lien in the spotlight as the government’s point man on earthquake relief and recovery. It also set back his opponents, who were reluctant to continue campaigning in the face of the devastation. However, the boost to Lien’s campaign was small and short-lived. The turning point in the race is evident in Figure 9.1. In late November, Soong was well ahead of his opponents, with support rates of over 30 percent. Each of his opponents had the support of about 20 percent of the electorate. Three weeks later, Soong was in a dead heat with Lien and Chen, his lead demolished by allegations of financial wrongdoing that he could not satisfactorily refute. The scandal centered on large sums of money in bank accounts belonging to Soong’s close relatives, which a KMT legislator claimed Soong had obtained illegally, then stashed in hidden accounts. Soong was slow to respond to the charges; when he did respond, he defended himself by saying he had accepted the money at President Lee’s request to carry out special KMT projects. The response rang hollow with the voters, but the scandal cast as much doubt on Soong’s accusers as it did on him. The main beneficiaries were Chen Shui-bian and “undecided.” In a late December poll, 26 percent of those surveyed ranked Chen first for integrity, compared to 16 percent for Soong, and 11 percent for Lien.33 For the next three months, the race remained extremely tight. Although poll results show Chen and Soong jockeying for first place throughout January, February, and March, Chen’s campaign picked up momentum in the last few weeks of the race. On February 22, Beijing released its White Paper on the One-China Principle and the Taiwan Issue. The policy statement threatened force if Taiwan moved toward independence or refused to enter negotiations leading to the unification of Taiwan and mainland China. While the first condition was a familiar one, Beijing had never before offered the delay of negotiations as a rationale for military attack. On March 15, Chinese premier Zhu Rongji followed up the white paper with a tirade against Chen Shui-bian. Addressing journalists after the conclusion of a National People’s Congress meeting, Zhu warned Taiwanese not to elect a pro-independence candidate, a thinly veiled reference to Chen. Zhu warned, “Let me advise all these people in Taiwan: do not just act on impulse at this juncture, which will decide the future course that China and Taiwan will follow. Otherwise I’m afraid you won’t get another opportunity to regret.” The effect of the white paper and Zhu’s remarks on the election is hard to measure. It is likely that both moves backfired, both because

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the Taiwanese refused to be cowed by the threats and because Lien handled the issue poorly. Seventy percent of Taiwanese in one survey said they found the white paper “unacceptable.” Breaking down the responses according to respondents’ preferred presidential candidates made little difference in this result. Very few voters said they would rescind their support for Chen because of the white paper.34 While all three candidates agreed that Beijing’s saber rattling violated Taiwan’s sovereignty and democratic process, Lien used the threats as an opportunity to remind the Taiwanese of the DPP’s formal support of Taiwan independence. On March 15, Lien accused the DPP of being “naïve” for believing that a pro-independence party could negotiate with Beijing. He continued, “China’s Premier Zhu just said this afternoon that the path of Taiwan independence would only lead to bloodshed.”35 In another context, the Taipei Times reported Lien claimed “if Chen is elected, young men would have to trade in their ‘A-bian’ knitted caps for bulletproof helmets.”36 To many voters, these remarks came uncomfortably close to siding with Beijing against Chen Shui-bian. Another factor contributing to Chen’s growing momentum in the last weeks of the campaign was a series of high-level endorsements. Just days before the voting, several leading academics and businessmen expressed their support for the DPP candidate. In his endorsement, Hsu Wen-lung, president of Chi Mei Corporation, said Chen was the best candidate to “continue Lee Teng-hui’s course.” Other leading tycoons also endorsed Chen, including Stan Shih of Acer Corporation, a globally known computer hardware manufacturer, and Chang Jung-fa, founder and head of the massive Evergreen Group. Perhaps the most important endorsement came less than a week before the voting, when Lee Yuan-tseh, a Nobel Laureate who heads Taiwan’s top research institute, announced his support for Chen. The endorsements were especially influential in the absence of public opinion polls, which could not be published after March 7. They gave wavering voters permission to choose Chen; surely such eminent characters as Hsu, Shih, Chang, and Lee would not endorse a candidate whose election would endanger national security. Huge rallies in Taichung and Kaohsiung a few days before the election reinforced the momentum behind Chen’s campaign. One other element that must be considered is President Lee Tenghui’s contribution. In the days just after the election, Taiwan erupted with conspiracy theories focused on Lee’s alleged perfidy. According to many disappointed Soong supporters—and some Lien backers as well— Lee Teng-hui had practiced his own “dump-save” strategy, dumping Lien to save Chen. The logic of this theory was that Lee so detested

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Soong that he was willing to throw over his own party to defeat him. The fact that some of Chen’s important endorsements came from men thought to be close to Lee was offered as evidence. Conspiracy theories notwithstanding, there is no hard evidence that Lee Teng-hui ever publicly or privately endorsed Chen Shui-bian. In fact, Lee continued to campaign hard for Lien right up to the end, and Lien’s defeat was enormously damaging to the former president’s prestige and reputation. The “Lee Teng-hui factor” does have some merit, however. For Lee’s strong supporters, Hsu Wen-long’s suggestion that Chen was the most appropriate heir to the former president’s legacy did carry some weight. More important, Lee’s “two states” theory helped Chen indirectly by shifting the KMT’s policy on cross-strait relations in such a way as to make Chen Shui-bian appear mainstream and moderate. However, the indirect assistance Chen received from some of Lee’s allies is hardly enough to convict Lee himself of conspiracy.

THE RESULTS After the polls closed in the late afternoon of Saturday the eighteenth, election results rolled in swiftly. Even though the practice in Taiwan is for each polling station to count the ballots cast there on site, with only one race to tally the process went quickly. Once the polling stations reported their results, computers tallied the votes instantaneously, and barely two hours after the balloting ended, Chen Shui-bian’s supporters were lighting firecrackers in the streets. The Sunday morning newspapers published municipality by municipality breakdowns of the results, which revealed a great deal about how the election was fought and won (see Table 9.1). To begin with, the results reveal a total breakdown of the KMT’s electoral machine. Lien Chan did not win a single one of Taiwan’s twenty-three counties and cities; he finished second in only three. Soong Chu-yu achieved his best showings in the very municipalities traditionally most loyal to the Kuomintang, including Hualien County (where even Chen Shui-bian managed to beat Lien Chan) and Taitung County (in which Lien edged Chen out of second place by half a percentage point). These former KMT strongholds have relatively large Mainlander and aboriginal populations, as well as a disproportionate number of military personnel. These voters’ defection to Soong’s camp suggests that their motivation for supporting the KMT in the past had more to do with the party’s history and ideology—qualities many conservatives think Soong, not Lien’s KMT, represents—than with loyalty to the party organization.

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The March 18, 2000, Presidential Election Table 9.1 Presidential Election Results by Region and Municipality (2000) (percentage) Region

Municipality

Taipei Taipei Taoyuan Hsinchu Hsinchu Miaoli Taichung Taichung Changhua Yunlin Penghu Keelung Ilan Hualien Taitung Nantou Pingtung Chiayi Chiayi Tainan Tainan Kaohsiung Kaohsiung

County City County County City County County City County County County City County County County County County County City County City County City

Soong

Lien

Chen

40.3 39.8 43.8 51.6 42.8 49.6 38.1 41.4 33.7 27.7 39.6 47.0 33.0 58.8 52.3 46.9 25.5 27.0 29.3 21.1 27.5 28.4 29.8

22.4 21.9 22.1 20.7 22.4 22.2 24.7 21.2 25.7 24.8 23.2 21.5 19.5 19.3 23.7 18.1 27.7 23.0 23.2 24.7 25.9 23.9 24.0

36.7 37.6 31.7 24.7 33.8 26.8 36.5 36.9 40.0 47.0 36.8 30.8 47.0 21.4 23.2 34.5 46.2 49.5 47.0 53.8 46.0 47.1 45.8

Source: Liberty Times (Ziyou shibao), 19 March 2000.

The KMT’s political machine failed in part because the logic of electoral mobilization does not apply in a presidential race. The KMT’s grassroots electoral strategy works best in legislative and county council elections, where the single-vote, multimember district system allows several nominees to divide the KMT vote. Each candidate then mobilizes his or her own network of supporters through appeals to personal relationships as well as vote buying. The March election presented voters and candidates with an entirely different set of challenges. Unlike legislative and local races, the presidential ballot included only five names, and only three of them were serious candidates. Finding information about the candidates was easy; if anything, voters faced inundation. As a result, voters who might choose a candidate for local office based on the advice of a neighborhood political boss may well have decided this election was important enough, and simple enough, to warrant a more informed, individual decision. Local political bosses operate the KMT’s machine. But the presidential election was ill suited to their traditional techniques. Vote buying in a presidential election is expensive and risky; the same voter who might happily accept payment from a candidate for township executive

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might well believe a presidential candidate should be above such tactics. What is more, helping the KMT in the presidential election offered little reward to local factions. Ordinarily, mobilizing votes for the KMT is a strategic opportunity to improve a faction’s position relative to other local groups. In the presidential election, all factions were expected to support the same candidate, removing the competitive motivation.37 Another important aspect of the presidential election is summarized in Table 9.2. If we compare Chen Shui-bian’s performance to that of the DPP’s gubernatorial and mayoral candidates in 1994, we can see that Chen increased the DPP’s vote share by only two-tenths of a percentage point. In eleven municipalities, mostly in northern and eastern Taiwan,

Table 9.2 DPP Vote Shares in Executive Elections by Region and Municipality (1994 and 2000) (percentage)

Region North Taipei Taipei Ilan Keelung North-Central Taoyuan Hsinchu Hsinchu Miaoli Taichung Taichung Changhua Nantou South-Central Yunlin Chiayi Chiayi Tainan Tainan South Kaohsiung Kaohsiung Pingtung Penghu East Taitung Hualien Average change

1994 Gubernatorial/ mayoral

2000 Presidential

Change in DPP Vote Share, 1994–2000

City County County City

43.7 38.6 57.5 32.9

37.6 36.7 47.0 30.8

–6.1 –1.9 –10.5 –2.1

County County City County County City County County

36.3 29.3 33.2 31.2 34.7 37.4 36.3 38.8

31.7 24.8 33.8 26.8 36.5 36.9 40.1 34.5

–4.6 –4.5 0.6 –4.4 1.8 –0.5 3.8 –4.3

County County City County City

40.4 42.9 42.5 46.4 44.5

47.0 49.5 47.0 53.8 46.1

6.6 6.6 4.5 7.4 1.6

County City County County

41.4 39.3 42.0 35.3

47.1 45.8 46.3 36.8

5.7 6.5 4.3 1.5

County County

27.4 25.5

23.2 21.4

–4.2 –4.1 0.2

Municipality

Sources: Election Information Databank, Central Election Commission, ROC, and the Election Study Center, National Chengchi University, Taipei, Liberty Times.

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Chen received a smaller vote share than the 1994 DPP nominees. In the remaining twelve, the DPP vote share increased. This shows that whereas Chen managed to consolidate the DPP’s vote base, he did not significantly enlarge it. Soong Chu-yu eroded the DPP’s vote share in northern Taiwan (although the two candidates were nearly tied in the city of Taipei), but Chen more than made up for this effect in the south. In eight municipalities of south-central and southern Taiwan (excluding the offshore island county of Penghu), Chen Shui-bian averaged 48 percent of the vote. The gap between north and south is a particularly striking aspect of the March election. This division reflects both regional and ethnic effects. Based on the ethnic makeup of various localities, we can see that Soong Chu-yu performed especially well in areas with large numbers of Mainlanders, aboriginal voters, and Hakkas. His strongest support came from aboriginal people, a tiny constituency traditionally loyal to the KMT’s conservative wing: Soong won every aboriginal township in Taiwan.38 The challenger’s performance in north-central Taiwan owes much to his efforts to cultivate support from Hakkas during his term as governor and throughout the presidential campaign. Soong’s momentum stopped at the Choshui River (the traditional dividing line between southern and northern Taiwan). In the south, Chen Shui-bian captured every nonaboriginal locality but one, a heavily Mainlander neighborhood in Kaohsiung. Soong did extremely poorly in the south, even losing to Lien in Pingtung and Tainan counties. The regional effect did not entirely erase the ethnic component of the election, however. Soong’s popularity in aboriginal areas was unaffected, and Chen’s margin of victory was smallest where Mainlander and Hakka voters were concentrated. For example, Soong’s best performance in Kaohsiung County (apart from aboriginal townships) was in Meinung, a heavily Hakka constituency. Nonetheless, Chen won Meinung with 42 percent of the vote. Overall, the election results reveal a variety of fault lines dividing Taiwan’s electorate. In the past, students of Taiwan politics tended to emphasize the gap between Mainlanders and Taiwanese. The 2000 presidential election reveals a more complex picture. The category Taiwanese must be disaggregated into Minnan, Hakka, and aboriginal voters. In addition, this election pointed up the importance of regionalism, as southern voters banded together to support a candidate who promised to redirect government resources toward their communities. Combined with a turnout rate of 83 percent, Chen’s vote share means the number of voters who cast ballots for the DPP was the largest in history. Finally, the election threw into sharp relief the division within the traditional KMT camp, between unification-leaning conservatives (who overwhelmingly chose Soong) and the “Taiwanese KMT” represented by Lee Teng-hui and Lien Chan.

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THE AFTERMATH Chen Shui-bian’s victory elated DPP supporters. But to those who had backed Lien and Soong, the election was an unprecedented (and unexpected) disaster. While Chen’s backers celebrated in front of his campaign office, hundreds of Soong supporters gathered at KMT headquarters to protest their loss. Demonstrators remained in the streets throughout the night and into the next day. When members of the KMT Central Standing Committee arrived at the headquarters for an emergency meeting on March 19, furious demonstrators attacked their cars. Several party leaders were unable to enter the building, and Hsu Li-teh, one of Lien Chan’s top campaign officials, was dragged from his car and beaten. Police efforts to break up the demonstrations with water cannons failed, as did appeals for calm from Taipei mayor Ma Ying-jeou, one of the few KMT politicians who retained credibility among Soong supporters. The protests continued for five days and drew thousands of people. Although spontaneous and unorganized, two major demands emerged. First, the demonstrators wanted Lee Teng-hui to resign immediately as KMT chair. They blamed him for the loss, arguing that he could—and should—have admitted that Lien was losing in time to save Soong. They called his failure to do so a betrayal. The second demand was aimed at Soong Chu-yu: the protesters wanted him to form a political party. The demonstrators’ demands went unanswered for several days while the KMT struggled to patch together its leadership. Party heavyweights promised thoroughgoing reform and renovation, including direct election of the party chair by KMT members. Meanwhile, Soong finally acceded to his supporters’ demand for a new party on March 22. The group, dubbed the People’s First Party (PFP), attracted many of the leading politicians active in Soong’s campaign. Soong’s reluctance to form a new party seems to have been aimed at keeping his options open. Had Lee Teng-hui been unseated as KMT chair, Soong might have been able to reenter the Kuomintang in a leading role. Thus, the creation of the PFP was a sign that Soong saw no future for himself within the KMT. Once the PFP was founded, the struggle to consolidate the KMT leadership and exclude Soong ended abruptly. On March 24, Lee Teng-hui resigned as KMT chair and handed over the reins to Lien Chan. Although Lee and Lien lost the presidential election, they successfully defeated the insurgency within their party. As for the DPP, the euphoria of winning was soon tempered by the sobering reality of the challenges the DPP would soon confront. As one DPP activist, now a senior adviser to President Chen, told the author, “I was wildly happy for about three hours. Then I began to think about

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what lay ahead.”39 The most pressing task was to form a government. Immediately after the election, newspapers in Taiwan and abroad were full of speculation about the difficulty of naming a cabinet. The DPP, it was assumed, could not possibly find competent people to staff these important offices, yet DPP politicians would fight for appointments, undermining party unity and Chen’s leadership. As it turned out, Chen resolved this dilemma skillfully, staffing his cabinet with highly qualified personnel from all parties. Chen’s top appointee was his premier, Tang Fei. Tang was a KMT member who served as minister of national defense in the previous cabinet. Only a handful of ministerial-level appointments went to DPP members.40 For appointments in the areas of foreign affairs, cross-strait relations, and defense Chen selected officials with close ties to the previous regime. His foreign minister, Tien Hung-mao, was an adviser to former president Lee Teng-hui, and he chose Tsai Ying-wen, another of Lee’s top policymakers, to head the Mainland Affairs Council. But in the domestic policy realm, Chen chose gifted administrators from around the island, including DPP, nonpartisan, and KMT officials. He also chose DPP politicians for many deputy minister positions. This was a clever move, because it strengthened these individuals’ commitment to Chen. Instead of splitting the party by bickering over spoils, these ministers-in-waiting (including several legislators) have strong incentives to maintain party harmony. Only if the DPP remains strong and unified will it increase its seat share in the Legislative Yuan in 2001, and only if the party’s legislative influence increases will the deputy ministers be able to move into the cabinet. In Taiwan, the ruling party is called the governing party (zhizheng dang), while the opposition party is referred to as the party in the wilderness (zaiye dang). Coming out of the wilderness and into the political mainstream presented the DPP with another set of challenges. According to a June 4, 2000, Taipei Times report, DPP membership increased by 50 percent in between March 18 and late May, from 200,000 to 300,000 members. According to a party insider, membership had ballooned to more than 400,000 by December.41 While a surge in membership is to be expected after such an important victory, DPP leaders are worried that many of these new enrollees are only nominal members (rentou dangyuan) recruited by opportunistic politicians hoping to improve their chances of winning the DPP’s nomination for elective office. DPP Organization Department head Jimmy Kuo told the Taipei Times, “We are very worried about nominal members, who are easily controlled by people maneuvering to change the DPP’s power structure.”42

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DPP leaders are considering two measures to cope with the influx of new members. First, DPP nominations currently are decided by two, equally weighted elements: a party primary and public opinion surveys. Giving greater weight to the opinion surveys would blunt the influence of nominal members. Second, the DPP could impose stricter qualifications for its nominees, shutting out opportunistic politicians with questionable backgrounds. As DPP politician Chen Chin-te told the Taipei Times, “If the DPP doesn’t rectify its nomination procedures to avoid influence of nominal members, the quality of the party’s makeup will fall just as its administrative skills are improving.”43 Yet another way to resolve the dilemma would be to recruit more genuine members. As Lin Yi-hsiung, DPP chair from 1998 to 2000 pointed out, “The situation [of nominal members] is worsening.” “But,” he added, “their influence will be diluted if large numbers of independent members join and party membership can exceed one million.”44 Another critically important task facing the DPP is to avoid the temptation to fall apart in the wake of its victory. As we have seen, the DPP has many internal divisions. In the past, its members’ common desire to remove the KMT from power was their strongest tie. Now that they have succeeded, they may find it more difficult than ever to overcome their differences in pursuit of shared goals. In the early months of Chen’s presidency, the party managed this dilemma well. There was little sign of the brutal infighting over spoils that many experts had predicted. By mid-April, two-thirds of the DPP legislative delegation had joined a Mainstream Alliance to support President Chen. Included in the alliance were legislators representing the Justice Alliance, Welfare State Alliance, New Energy Faction, and the Independence Alliance, leaving only two factions, New Tide and New Era, maintaining their independence. The transition in party leadership that accompanied the presidential win was remarkably smooth. After the election, President Chen and many others urged Lin Yi-hsiung to stay on as party chair, highlighting the cordial relations between the two leaders. But Lin declined to seek another term, raising the specter of a bruising fight over the post. However, the DPP’s factions avoided open conflict by working out an agreement in advance. In an uncontested election in June 2000, DPP members confirmed Kaohsiung mayor and presidential campaign manager Hsieh Chang-ting (Frank Hsieh) as DPP head. Although Hsieh denied accepting a quid pro quo, the China Times reported on June 6 that the New Tide Faction’s candidate for party chair, Hong Chi-chang, withdrew from the competition when Hsieh agreed to offer the post of DPP secretary-general to New Tide’s Wu Nai-teh. (Whether or not the

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appointment was part of a deal with Hsieh, Wu was appointed to the post after Hsieh’s election.) Despite the party’s successful management of organizational disputes, disagreements over ideology and policy continued to threaten DPP unity in the months after the March election. In June, barely a month after he took office, Chen came under fire from some DPP supporters for his statements on cross-strait relations. Even before Chen’s inauguration, conflict erupted over the issue of nuclear power. The DPP’s platform opposes nuclear power generation, and the DPP has long been active in the movement to halt work on Taiwan’s fourth nuclear power plant, under construction in Taipei County. After his election, Chen retreated from the party’s strong antinuclear view, promising instead to refer the fourth nuclear power plant issue to a committee. Environmentalists attacked Chen’s decision (which had the support of Environmental Protection Agency head Lin Jun-yi, known as the environmental godfather of Taiwan), which they viewed as a betrayal of the opposition movement’s core values. The controversy raged throughout August and September, and helped bring about Premier Tang Fei’s resignation in early October. Tang’s successor, Premier Chang Chun-hsiung, announced the cabinet’s decision to cancel construction of the plant on October 27. The move pleased the antinuclear wing of the DPP, but so infuriated the conservative parties that they launched a campaign to remove President Chen from office. In a nutshell, Chen’s efforts to follow through on longstanding DPP positions threatened a premature end to his presidency. Although the conservatives eventually dropped the recall campaign, conflict over the nuclear power plant continued into 2001. The transition from the Kuomintang’s fifty-year-old party-state regime to Chen Shui-bian’s “government of all the people” ended with the new president’s inauguration on May 20, 2000. Chen’s inaugural address set the tone for his administration, emphasizing democracy, reconciliation, and peace. Chen declared, The election for the 10th-term president of the Republic of China has clearly shown the world that the fruits of freedom and democracy are not easy to come by. Twenty-three million people, through the power of determined will, have dispelled enmity with love, overcome intimidation with hope, and conquered fear with faith. With our sacred votes we have proved to the world that freedom and democracy are indisputable universal values, and that peace is humanity’s highest goal.45

Chen underlined the importance of the election, not as the transfer of power to a new political party, but as “the return of state and government

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power to the people through a democratic procedure. The country belongs to the people, rather than to any individual or political party.” Chen applauded the voters’ courage and independence, repeating, “Taiwan has stood up.”46 Chen’s inaugural speech also laid out the new president’s policy goals. Domestic issues, to which he devoted about 80 percent of the policy speech, dominated the agenda. Chen listed as his “topmost priority the elimination of ‘black gold’—the involvement of organized crime and moneyed interests in politics—and the eradication of vote-buying.”47 Other domestic concerns included creating a more efficient government, liberalizing and globalizing Taiwan’s economy, and balancing economic development with environmental protection. In the portion of the speech devoted to foreign affairs, Chen promised his government would work to promote human rights and democracy around the world. Finally, he called for reconciliation across the Taiwan Strait, observing “the people on the two sides of the Taiwan Strait share the same ancestral, cultural, and historical background. . . . We believe that the leaders on both sides possess enough wisdom and creativity to jointly deal with the question of a future ‘one China’.”48 Chen’s speech won kudos from listeners in Taiwan and around the world. Many of those listeners knew the new president would confront innumerable obstacles on the road to carrying out his promises. But few imagined just how daunting those challenges would turn out to be.

NOTES 1. Voter turnout for the election was 83 percent of eligible voters. 2. “‘White Paper’ Benefits KMT Ticket: Poll,” Central News Agency, 2 March 2000. Available online at http://th.gio.gov.tw/show.cfm?news_id=1145. 3. Timothy Power and Mark Gasiorowski, “Institutional Design and Democratic Consolidation in the Third World,” Comparative Political Studies 30, no. 2 (April 1997): 5; Samuel Huntington, The Third Wave (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1991), 16. 4. Chen Shui-bian, The Son of Taiwan: The Life of Chen Shui-bian and His Dreams for Taiwan, trans. David J. Toman (Taipei: Taiwan Publishing Co., Ltd., 2000), 52. 5. The part of Tainan County where A-bian was born is famous for producing scholars. In the late Qing dynasty, a scholar from the township of Matou won the highest degree at the imperial examinations in Beijing. Over a century later, in March 2000, a Tainan-born taxi driver cited this history as proof that Chen Shui-bian was “fated to be president” (you zongtong de ming). 6. Chen, Son of Taiwan, 58. 7. Ibid., 57.

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8. “First Reaction,” Topics: The Magazine of International Business in Taiwan 30, no. 3 (April 2000): 42. 9. Cal Clark, The 2000 Presidential Elections (New York: Asia Society, 2000), 15. 10. China News, 24 November 1999. 11. Taipei Times, 6 January 2000. 12. Taipei Times, 15 April 2000. 13. Clark, 2000 Presidential Elections, 15; emphasis in original. 14. “Morning Newsmaker: Chen Shui-bian,” transcript of speech to the National Press Club, April 20, 1999. In Taiwan International Review, 5, no. 2 (March-April). Available online at http://www.dppmission.org/tir/tir_v5_i2/ #morningnewsmaker:chenshui-bian. 15. Taipei Times, 11 November 1999. 16. Clark, 2000 Presidential Elections, 17. 17. Lin Chia-lung, Taipei Times, 31 December 1999. 18. Taiwanese call organized crime “the black society” (hei shehui) or “the black path” (heidao). 19. Gift giving is a very important part of Taiwanese social interactions. People who attend a meeting, make an official visit to a government office, or attend a formal social event usually leave with gifts. Guests invariably bring gifts when they call on friends, and Taiwanese rarely split the tab at a restaurant. 20. For a detailed discussion of vote buying and Taiwan’s electoral system, see Shelley Rigger, Politics In Taiwan: Voting for Democracy (London: Routledge, 1999), 81–102. 21. Liu Shih-chung, “Dissecting the ‘Black Gold’ Phenomenon,” Taipei Times, 13 January 2000. 22. Taipei Times, 5 December 1999. 23. China News, 3 September 1999. 24. Taipei Times, 30 October 1999. 25. Commonwealth survey quoted in Taipei Times, 13 January 2000. 26. The legislature failed to pass enabling legislation to carry out Lien’s promise until well after the election. 27. Liu, “Dissecting the ‘Black Gold’ Phenomenon. 28. Commonwealth survey, Taipei Times. 29. Abbreviating names in this way is a common practice among speakers of the Taiwanese (Minnan) dialect of Chinese. 30. The Son of Taiwan (Taiwan zhi zi) is the title of Chen’s autobiography; see note 4 above. 31. I thank my friend Anne Lambert for this succinct description of the Japanese/Taiwanese popular aesthetic. In fact, the Bian Mao Family line owes much to the marketing genius of Japanese pop-icon giant Sanrio, manufacturer of the Hello Kitty product empire. 32. “Capping a Career in Great Style,” South China Morning Post, 30 January 2000. Available online at http://www.scmp.com/Special/Taiwan…sp_ ArticleID-20000304173300225.asp. 33. Clark, 2000 Presidential Elections, 19. 34. Hsu Szu-chien, “Poll Shows China’s White Paper Benefits Chen,” Taipei Times, 12 March 2000. 35. Taipei Times, 16 March 2000.

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36. Ibid. 37. Ordinarily, a National Assembly election would have accompanied the presidential race. If this had been the case, the KMT’s National Assembly candidates would have done the job of mobilizing local factions and vote brokers. But the assembly had passed a measure extending its own term of office past March 2000, so Lien Chan was on his own. 38. This analysis of ethnic voting based on township demographics is based on a personal communication from Nathan Batto. 39. Interview with author, Taipei, March 2000. 40. Tang Fei’s appointment was intended to bridge the gap between the KMT-dominated legislature and Chen’s administration. However, after Chen took office, it quickly became evident that the gesture was not enough to win KMT legislators’ cooperation. The KMT legislative caucus pushed for Tang’s resignation in May, when a serious health condition prevented him from meeting the legislature on schedule, and again in July, after emergency officials failed to rescue a group of workers caught in a flash flood. Tang lasted until early fall, when he resigned from the premiership, in part because he disagreed with the president’s policy on the fourth nuclear power plant. The president’s decision to replace him with a longtime DPP politician, Chang Chun-hsiung, implied a strategic shift away from efforts to appease the KMT and toward a more confrontational strategy. 41. Interview with author’s assistant, Taipei, December 2000. 42. Ibid. 43. Ibid. 44. Ibid. 45. Chen Shui-bian’s inaugural address. For an English translation, see online at http://www.taiwanheadlines.gov.tw. 46. Ibid. 47. Ibid. 48. Ibid.

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The DPP Enters the Twenty-first Century

In an interview in July 1999, I asked Chiou I-jen, who at that time was the DPP’s secretary-general, what he thought his party’s strengths and weaknesses were. He replied, “We don’t have any strengths, but I can tell you about our weaknesses.” After the presidential victory I asked him if he would like to revise his response. He answered, “No, I still think that as a party we have very few strengths.” Chiou’s modesty may overstate the case, but it is true that the DPP still faces enormous obstacles in its effort to become a permanent balancing force in Taiwan’s political arena. Winning the presidency affirmed the DPP’s rise from opposition movement to political contender. But it is only a partial victory; in fact, winning the top post exposed just how difficult it will be for the DPP to establish a stable balance of power in Taiwanese politics. The setbacks plaguing President Chen Shui-bian are one indication of how hard the task is; the DPP itself faces challenges nearly as daunting.

CONTRIBUTIONS TO DEMOCRATIZATION It is easy to dwell—as Chiou I-jen did—on the work that remains to be done, but it also is important to acknowledge the DPP’s accomplishments. Above all, without the DPP and the Dangwai Movement, Taiwan’s democratization would not have occurred as early as it did; nor would it have progressed as quickly or as smoothly. Many accounts of Taiwan’s democratization emphasize the role played by President Chiang Ching-kuo, a leader who recognized the need for change and pushed others in the ruling party to accept reform. But without opposition activists criticizing the island’s authoritarian institutions, mobilizing

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popular support for change, and offering alternatives to authoritarianism in their speeches and publications, the KMT would have had little incentive to launch the reform process that ultimately destroyed its political monopoly. The Dangwai Movement within Taiwan and Taiwanese activist groups abroad also played key roles in convincing U.S. leaders that the time had come to push the KMT to liberalize Taiwan’s political system. The sacrifices of Dangwai activists who went to prison for their ideals galvanized human rights activists around the world to pressure the KMT regime, which already was vulnerable to international opinion, to stop persecuting its political opponents. Once the grip of authoritarianism was broken, the DPP turned to a new task, building a party capable of competing successfully within Taiwan’s institutional framework. Working within the system required different strategies from the ones the Dangwai had used to promote democratization. Where the Dangwai thrived when it provoked the regime and made martyrs of Dangwai leaders, winning elections and influencing the political process required moderation and accommodation. This transformation was not easy.1 A congeries of political activists with a shared loathing for the KMT needed to become an organization, complete with structures for enrolling members, selecting leaders, nurturing young politicians, and developing policy proposals. Coming into the system (neizaohua) was hard for many individual DPP leaders and supporters as well. They needed to learn to compromise with one another, sacrifice ideological purity to accomplish practical goals, and negotiate with a ruling party many despised. The 2000 presidential victory proves that the DPP did manage to come in from the wilderness, but the weakness of President Chen’s administration reveals the enormity of the challenges that remain. Besides helping to drive the democratization process, the DPP also promoted new public policies. DPP pressure, especially opposition candidates’ electoral successes, forced the KMT to accelerate the process of Taiwanization, which gave native Taiwanese a more proportionate share of political power in the Republic of China. The party also nurtured and popularized Taiwanese culture, and it expanded the sense of confidence and pride in a society whose identity had been submerged and marginalized for more than a century. The DPP pushed the KMT to defend Taiwan internationally and seek recognition for the island as an autonomous entity. It focused attention on disadvantaged groups and pressured the KMT to take better care of people it traditionally had taken for granted, including farmers, workers, small businesses, and the aboriginal peoples. The DPP also

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helped to popularize the cause of environmental protection. Through their contributions to public policy, the DPP has helped make the KMT more responsive, the ROC government more just, and the quality of life in Taiwan more satisfying.

CONTINUING CHALLENGES In sum, Chiou I-jen’s pessimistic assessment notwithstanding, the DPP can boast of many achievements. Nonetheless, it faces tough challenges. Above all, if it is to continue moving forward, the DPP must remain united. Despite their ideological differences and disagreements over strategy, the DPP must define common goals and work together in a united fashion to realize them. Otherwise, the DPP will not increase its legislative influence or accomplish its policy objectives, and will risk losing the presidency in 2004. The DPP also must skillfully manage the perils of success. The explosion in new DPP memberships (party membership increased from 200,000 to 300,000 between the March 18 election and the presidential inauguration two months later) could exacerbate the problem of nominal memberships and infect the DPP with many of the corrupt practices for which the party criticizes the KMT. The DPP must be vigilant against these threats, and it must be willing to sacrifice short-term political gain in order to protect itself from the virus of corruption. The DPP already has overcome the greatest threat to its ideological unity: it has survived the shift away from a strong pro-independence position. Those who could not abide the change have left the party, but they have found negligible support for their views among the electorate. Still, while all but a handful of DPP politicians have accepted the need for moderation on this issue, there is no consensus among them as to how best to put that moderation into practice. President Chen has come under fire from some DPP colleagues for giving away too much too soon, while others believe the party should do even more to reach out to Beijing. This debate will continue to simmer, and it could boil up again, especially if the DPP gains control of the legislature in 2001. Perhaps the toughest balancing act facing Chen Shui-bian is to satisfy his party comrades without losing his effectiveness as president. Chen’s experiences in the early months of his presidency demonstrated just how limited the Taiwanese president’s actual power is. Without a cooperative legislature, the president is hard pressed to implement his policy agenda. Even before Chen was inaugurated, legislators from the

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KMT, People First Party, and New Party, who together command nearly a two-thirds majority in the legislature, began flexing their political muscles. Chen attempted to pacify the KMT by naming what he called an all people’s government (quanmin zhengfu). Only a handful of cabinet appointees were DPP members; the rest belonged to other parties or were independents. Chen’s first premier, Tang Fei, was a KMT member and former defense minister under President Lee. KMT leaders made it clear from the beginning that they did not accept the all people’s government. They contemplated forbidding Tang Fei and other KMT members from accepting cabinet positions under President Chen, and after Chen took office, they attacked cabinet officials at every opportunity. They also rejected one after another of the administration’s legislative proposals. KMT chair Lien Chan implied that the gridlock would continue until Chen entered into a coalition and allowed the KMT to appoint the premier and cabinet. Unless Chen finds a way to induce the opposition parties to cooperate, whether through better intergovernmental relations or popular pressure, Taiwan could become ungovernable. Still, many in the DPP urged Chen to push forward the party’s core policy objectives. Advocates for the poor expressed disappointment when Chen failed to move his social welfare plan through the KMTdominated Legislative Yuan in the weeks following the inauguration. Administration officials cited legislative resistance as the primary reason for their limited progress on DPP policy objectives, but some party leaders argued the president should not give up so easily on key issues. This situation deteriorated sharply in October, when Chen decided to stand firm on an important DPP goal, canceling construction of the partially completed fourth nuclear power plant. The administration tried to defuse the issue by referring it to committees for study, but a decision could not be delayed indefinitely. Premier Tang Fei favored completion of the plant, and the disagreement between Chen and Tang (along with other factors) prompted the premier to resign on October 3, 2000. The KMT signaled its strong opposition to Chen’s views on October 20, when it revoked Minister of Economic Affairs Lin Hsin-yi’s KMT membership because he agreed with the president on the nuclear plant issue. Tang’s replacement, Premier Chang Chun-hsiung, was a career DPP politician. Although Chang promised to improve the quality of executive-legislative interactions, KMT and other conservative legislators saw his appointment as a shift toward DPP control of the cabinet and a greater role for Chen Shui-bian in cabinet affairs. Political analysts predicted a troubled tenure for Chang.2 The expected trouble did not take

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long to appear: On October 27, Premier Chang announced the cabinet’s decision to call off construction of the controversial plant. The conservative parties reacted furiously to the announcement. Within days, the KMT, PFP, and New Party were working together to recall President Chen.3 Even after Chen agreed to respect legislation reversing his decision if such a bill were passed, the conservative parties pushed forward their campaign to force him from office. Other solutions, such as seeking a judicial ruling on the legality of the nuclear power plant cancellation or passing a vote of no confidence against the premier, were rejected, revealing the KMT’s determination to punish Chen himself.4 (The fact that a no confidence vote would have allowed Chen to call early legislative elections, in which the KMT could expect to perform poorly, also played a role in this decision.)5 Although the recall campaign lost momentum in subsequent weeks, the direct challenge to Chen’s authority illustrated the profound constraints operating on a DPP president facing a KMT-dominated Legislative Yuan. Still, debates within the DPP over how much to compromise core values in the interest of pragmatism remain unresolved and could damage DPP unity. So could arguments over political spoils. Chen’s election gave the DPP control over an unprecedented number of government appointments, and DPP factions fought hard to obtain those posts. The 2001 legislative nominations could spark another round of infighting. The 2001 elections will be a crucial test of the DPP’s popularity, unity, and competence. But winning a majority, or even a plurality, of seats in the Legislative Yuan will be even more difficult than capturing the presidency. As we have seen, ROC institutions give the KMT a strong advantage in representative elections, while the competition for executive posts is more even. The DPP will not easily overcome the structural advantages to incumbents and KMT candidates that are embedded in the SVMM system. In fact, most analysts doubt the DPP could field enough candidates to capture a majority of legislative seats, even if all of its candidates were successful. On the other hand, the KMT’s postelection split narrowed its lead over the DPP. Three-way competition among the DPP, KMT, and People’s First Party creates opportunities for the DPP, but it also makes politics more complicated and unpredictable. The KMT members who control the lawmaking process are unlikely to change the electoral system in ways that would benefit the DPP. Despite earlier promises to reform grassroots political institutions, the KMT now opposes legislation eliminating township-level elections, a move aimed at reducing vote buying and corruption but likely to undermine

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the strength of the KMT’s grassroots electoral machines. Likewise, KMT legislators initially opposed a bill to make people with criminal records or histories of financial misconduct ineligible for leadership positions in farmers associations, although popular pressure to address the corruption problem ultimately forced reluctant KMT legislators to pass the bill. For decades, the associations have been havens for the corrupt local bosses who dominate the KMT’s electoral mobilization activities in rural Taiwan. In short, Chen faces intense resistance from the legislature, and he also has critics within his own party (although I would argue that the incentives for cooperation described below will mute these critics to some extent). At the same time, he also faces resistance within the executive branch. Nearly every civil servant in Taiwan was appointed under a KMT administration, and most of them are, or once were, Kuomintang members. For decades, party and state were intertwined. During political campaigns, KMT leaders expected public servants to lend their support to the party’s candidates, even to the point of mobilizing voters during working hours. For these officials, transferring loyalty from the Kuomintang to the state and taking direction from a president whose party they have long opposed cannot be easy. Bureaucrats in some agencies openly resisted the transfer of power to the new administration. For example, officials of the Ministry of Justice’s investigation bureau, a crucial agency in the fight against corruption, publicly criticized Minister of Justice Chen Ting-nan’s plans for reorganizing the bureau. (The legislature also did what it could to restrict the anticorruption campaign, including voting a legislator known for his links to organized crime onto its own Judiciary Committee. Some observers speculated that one goal of the recall effort was to force Chen to back off on the anticorruption drive.) Without the cooperation of the legislature and the professional bureaucracy, Chen Shui-bian will be hard-pressed to carry out the campaign promises on which he was elected. The most important of these projects, stamping out corruption and criminal influence in politics, was slowed by controversies in the Ministry of Justice and in the legislature. Meanwhile, administration bills to shorten the workweek and provide services to the needy met defeat in the KMT-controlled Legislative Yuan, while local executives raised an unseemly clamor over how central government resources should be distributed among municipalities. Investors, lacking confidence in the new government’s ability to rein in the chaos, cut their stock holdings and scaled back plans for expansion. In sum, the first year of Chen Shui-bian’s presidency was a deeply troubled period.

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INCENTIVES FOR UNITY Counterposed against the forces threatening to weaken and split the DPP are powerful incentives to stay together. If the DPP disappoints the voters in its first encounter with national power, it is sure to face their wrath in the 2001 legislative elections and in the 2004 presidential race. In the past, voters fed up with KMT-controlled local governments have elected DPP politicians as municipal executives, only to put the KMT back in charge when the new administration failed to resolve their complaints in four years’ time. The DPP has seen this pattern often enough to know what it portends for Chen’s administration. The best way to ensure that Chen succeeds in his first term will be to win enough seats in the 2001 legislative elections to pass his proposals. To win those seats, the DPP must maintain a high level of unity and coordination. If it does, the party will at last be able to make its mark on national policy, and some DPP members will be rewarded with cabinet positions. Many hold deputy cabinet-level posts, and several of the DPP’s likely cabinet ministers could not be appointed in 2000 because they were needed in the legislature. All of these men and women have strong incentives to help build their party’s strength. In early 2001, two of Chen’s appointees left their deputy minister posts to devote themselves to campaigning for seats in the legislature.

SPECIAL FOCUS: CROSS-STRAIT RELATIONS UNDER A DPP PRESIDENT Another serious challenge facing President Chen Shui-bian lies across the Taiwan Strait. For many Taiwanese, mainland Chinese, and foreigners, the most worrisome aspect of Chen Shui-bian’s election was his inexperience in handling cross-strait relations and foreign affairs. The DPP’s historic support for Taiwan independence—a position that earned it the Chinese Communist Party’s unrelenting enmity—added to fears that Chen would be unable to improve relations between Taipei and Beijing. Despite his tireless efforts during the campaign to put forth a responsible platform and convey his commitment to peaceful cross-strait relations, important actors remain skeptical. Beijing leaders dismissed Chen’s conciliatory statements during the campaign as tactical maneuvers designed to buy time in which to move Taiwan toward independence. For many Taiwanese, Beijing’s animosity toward the DPP candidate was more important than Chen’s actual positions; after all, no matter how willing and sincere Chen might be, if

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Chinese leaders insist on treating him as an enemy, cross-strait relations inevitably will deteriorate. Thus, after the election was over, Chen faced the daunting challenge of winning the confidence of his domestic constituents and that of his interlocutors in Beijing and Washington. At the same time, however, Chen strove to keep domestic policy issues at the top of the new administration’s agenda. Observers who expected Chen Shui-bian to morph into a wild-eyed provocateur after his election were disappointed. His victory speech on the night of March 18 was the first sign that Chen would reject the role in which Beijing hoped to cast him. In the speech, Chen acknowledged the ties between Taiwan and mainland China. He said, “This election is not only the pride of the people of Taiwan, but it is also the pride of Chinese all over the world. We share the same bloodlines and culture. We hope that through more intimate exchange and interaction, with patience and respect, we can collectively create a harmonized and joyous new era.” He continued, “In the future, we are willing to conduct extensive, constructive communication and dialogue with the utmost sincerity and determination.” Finally, Chen promised to be “pragmatic and responsible in our efforts to maintain peace and stability in the Taiwan Strait.”6 After the election, Chen clarified and expanded his cross-strait policy. He offered a series of concessions to Beijing while maintaining a firm bottom line: any change in the status quo would require the approval of the Taiwanese people. President Chen summarized the conciliatory gestures he had made over the course of his campaign in his inaugural address. In the painstakingly composed May 20 speech, Chen articulated his “five nos,” each of which represented an important concession: As long as the CCP regime has no intention to use military force against Taiwan, I pledge that during my term in office, I will not declare independence, I will not change the national title, I will not push forth the inclusion of the so-called “state-to-state” description in the Constitution, and I will not promote a referendum to change the status quo in regards to the question of independence or unification. Furthermore, the abolition of the National Reunification Council or the National Reunification Guidelines will not be an issue.7

Chen’s foreign minister, Tien Hung-mao, outlined a foreign policy aimed at reducing tensions between Taiwan and the PRC. He said Taiwan would emphasize substantive relations with nongovernmental organizations and third countries rather than seek to establish formal diplomatic ties.

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President Chen’s concessions did not satisfy Beijing. The Chinese leaders insisted that he accept the “One China” principle as a precondition for any further talks. This precondition presented an enormous stumbling block. Although the Chinese government had long doubted President Lee’s commitment to “One China” as they defined it, the fact that the KMT claimed to uphold the principle allowed the two sides to work around this issue. But because the DPP never so much as paid lip service to “One China,” Beijing intensified its pressure on Chen to accept the principle.8 Chen replied that he was willing to discuss “One China,” but he could not accept Beijing’s version of the principle as a precondition for talks. China’s most hard-line definition of the “One China” principle appears in its February 2000 “White Paper on the One-China Principle and the Taiwan Issue.” It states, “there is only one China in the world, Taiwan is a part of China and the government of the PRC is the sole legal government representing the whole of China.”9 No Taiwanese government could accept such a condition, since it relegates Taiwan to the status of a local government under the PRC. However, other definitions have been offered, including PRC negotiator Wang Daohan’s references to “one future China,” a concept Chen Shui-bian also embraces.10 In early 2001, the PRC’s leading foreign policymaker, Qian Qichen, appeared to confirm Beijing’s softer line on the “One China” issue. In an interview with the Washington Post, Qian said, In order to ease [Taiwanese] doubts, we said “One China” not only includes the mainland, but also Taiwan. . . . And they had another doubt . . . They think that Taiwan being part of Chinese territory means Taiwan and China are not equal . . . To ease this doubt, we said the mainland and Taiwan belong to the same one China. At least, it shows some kind of equality.11

Still, policymakers in Taipei were wary of Qian’s overtures. They feared that if the PRC were to gain the upper hand in negotiations, it might revert to the hardline definition of “One China” expressed in the White Paper. Another potential basis for reopening cross-strait talks is the socalled 1992 consensus. According to Taiwanese negotiators, during the 1992 talks between Taiwan’s Straits Exchange Foundation and Beijing’s Association for Relations across the Taiwan Strait, the two sides agreed that each could have its own interpretation of “One China.” The PRC side remembers the agreement differently. In their view, the two sides agreed only to shelve the issue of defining “One China.” On July 31 Chen told reporters, “A consensus without any consensus is the best

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consensus for the time being. The real spirit of the consensus of 1992 is to keep dialogue and communications going and put disputes on the shelf.”12 Moving forward from this position has proven difficult, however, as the PRC is unwilling to reopen talks without explicit acceptance of the “one China” principle. Chen’s concessions made little impact in Beijing, where Chinese leaders dismissed them as hollow and insincere. As Chen’s domestic political position deteriorated in the fall of 2000, Beijing made little effort to engage him. Instead, PRC leaders pursued a two-pronged strategy. On the one hand, they continued to insist that no progress was possible until Chen accepted the “One China” principle. As we have seen, such a concession would be exceedingly difficult for Chen. On the other hand, Beijing cultivated good relations with non-DPP politicians and individuals from Taiwan. High-level delegations from the KMT and New Party visited the mainland repeatedly in 2000, as did numerous business leaders. At the same time, Chen faced a debate within his party over how far he should go in pursuit of improved relations with Beijing. Some DPP politicians believed Chen gave away too much in the early months of his presidency; when PRC leaders failed to respond to the Five Nos and other early gestures, many party leaders urged Chen not to give more ground. The debate centered less on the substantive question of how much Taiwan should concede in exchange for renewed talks, and more on the strategic question of how best to use concessions to win concessions from the PRC. Some DPP activists even argued that additional concessions could worsen cross-strait relations by pressuring Beijing to act when it was not ready to do so. Many foreign observers have suggested that the DPP could pacify Beijing by abandoning its formal endorsement of Taiwan independence. The debate over this issue illustrates the DPP’s dilemma in the first year of Chen’s presidency. Three days after the March 2000 presidential elections, DPP legislator Chen Chao-nan raised the possibility that the party might remove the independence referendum plank from its platform. While the idea quickly gained support from important DPP figures, it also drew criticism. But when Beijing declined to respond positively to Chen’s overtures in his acceptance and inauguration speeches, opinion in the DPP shifted in favor of Chen Chao-nan’s opponents. A consensus grew that new concessions were premature, given Beijing’s silence. When the DPP party congress convened in July 2000, Legislator Chen declined to offer a formal motion on the matter. President Chen’s efforts to position Taiwan as a conciliator, rather than a troublemaker, had a significant impact outside the region. For

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example, U.S. policymakers found Chen’s moderate tone a welcome break from the provocative statements of his predecessor. Meanwhile, the effects of cross-strait relations on Taiwan’s domestic politics were mixed. After Chen’s inauguration, public officials, especially legislators, flooded across the Taiwan Strait. This “China fever” was a good sign for cross-strait relations, as it meant Taiwanese politicians were interested in cultivating constructive relationships with their mainland counterparts. On the other hand, in their eagerness to become players in a new cross-strait game, the officials risked becoming pawns. When Kaohsiung mayor (and DPP chair-to-be) Hsieh Chang-ting floated the idea of making a trip to Xiamen, Fujian, in July 2000, Chen’s administration was wary. As the trip became increasingly politicized, the possibility arose that Hsieh was the victim of a divide-and-conquer ploy aimed at driving a wedge between the DPP chair and the president. In the end, Hsieh cancelled his trip. The heavy cross-strait traffic also raised the danger of policy incoherence: with so many voices claiming to represent the Taiwanese authorities, officials in mainland China might well wonder which was the definitive one, especially when nonDPP voices often speak the sweetest-sounding words. In sum, while cross-strait relations is a moving target and notoriously unpredictable, if we examine the DPP’s record on cross-strait issues, we can draw some conclusions about how party leaders will handle relations with mainland China. First, despite the pro-independence plank in the DPP platform and charter, the DPP is no longer dedicated to pursuing formal independence. To DPP leaders, the independence plank’s value is more strategic than ideological, and their reluctance to abrogate it reflects their assessment of its value as a bargaining chip. Unless the PRC dramatically escalates its military threats against Taiwan, a move toward formal independence is exceedingly unlikely. Second, although the DPP will continue to debate the details of its cross-strait policy, there is a consensus among party leaders and rankand-file supporters that pragmatism and moderation will serve party and nation better than extremism and provocation. The party has decided to emphasize process, not outcomes, in the cross-strait arena. On October 6, 2000, DPP chair Hsieh Chang-ting (Frank Hsieh) told the Voice of America that his party did not rule out unification with the mainland. On the contrary, he described the DPP’s mission as protecting the freedom of the Taiwanese people and defending their “legitimate rights to choose their own lifestyle.”13 For his part, President Chen has demonstrated considerable flexibility on cross-strait relations. Early in his presidency he called for better

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relations with mainland China and promised to consider all possible outcomes, including unification. He went a step further in his New Year’s Eve address on January 31, 2000: I have always felt that the people on both sides of the Taiwan Strait came from the same family, and that they all pursue the same goals of peaceful coexistence and mutual prosperity. Since both sides wish to live under the same roof, we should be more understanding and helpful rather than harming or destroying each other. Thus, we would like to appeal to the government and leaders on the Chinese mainland to respect the existence and international dignity of the Republic of China; publicly renounce the use of force; and rise above the current dispute and deadlock through tolerance, foresight, and wisdom. The integration of our economies, trade, and culture can be a starting point for gradually building faith and confidence in each other. This, in turn, can be the basis for a new framework of permanent peace and political integration.14

Finally, as long as he is president, Chen Shui-bian will be the most important voice in cross-strait policymaking within the DPP. President Chen is committed to reopening talks with Beijing, maintaining peace in the Taiwan Strait, and securing Taiwan’s political autonomy. His effectiveness in carrying out these goals is limited, however, by his weak position vis-à-vis the legislature and conservative parties. Indeed, Beijing may well decide to “wait out” Chen’s presidency in the hope of reopening negotiations with a KMT or PFP president in 2004.

THE DPP LOOKS TO THE FUTURE Twenty years ago, political scientists filed Taiwan under “one-party authoritarian systems.” Ten years ago, we moved Taiwan to the folder labeled “dominant party systems.” Is it time for another move? Has Taiwan become a two-party (or three-party) system? When voters replace a longtime ruling party with an opposition party for the first time, the change represents an important breakthrough for democracy. Still, to qualify as a fully democratic state, party alternation needs to be a pattern, not merely a one-time event. Whether Taiwan can institutionalize the progress it has made in recent years will depend on many factors: electoral reform, party transformation, and a shift in the attitudes of ordinary citizens and political elites. For fifty years, the Kuomintang strove to perfect a political machine capable of winning elections under the SVMM formula. Its strategy

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emphasized grassroots mobilization by individual candidates; it de-emphasized party identification, ideology, and political issues. The KMT used this approach to great effect, winning elections at all levels and drawing in grassroots support for the party through its local representatives. Thanks to the mobilizational techniques developed in decades past, the KMT holds a majority of seats in the Legislative Yuan and controls nearly every municipal council in Taiwan. It is strongest of all in town, township, and village governments. Given the KMT’s big advantage in SVMM elections, the DPP’s most noteworthy political advances have come in executive races, where head-to-head competition makes the KMT machine ineffective— or even self-defeating. When the KMT must nominate a single candidate for an important office, it often splits. The resulting three-way competition gives the DPP an opening. The 1997 municipal executive races, in which the DPP captured twelve of twenty-one positions, and the 2000 presidential race demonstrate this pattern. But once DPP executives take office, they find themselves frustrated by the obstacles thrown up by KMT-dominated assemblies and bureaucracies. The DPP will never match the KMT’s power as long as the competition remains so unbalanced, but evening the odds will require institutional reforms. First, the KMT must surrender its vast financial holdings, and administrative and judicial personnel must learn to be impartial. No democracy can thrive when political resources are divided as unequally as they are in Taiwan today. Second, machine politics and the corruption it breeds must be eliminated. A serious anticorruption campaign and legislation to abolish township and village elections—the point of contact between political machines and the voters—are first steps. Ultimately, Taiwan needs to reduce the size of its legislature and replace SVMM elections with single-member districts. Creating singlemember districts without reducing the number of seats might actually benefit machine-based politicians, since their districts would be so small that they could dominate them easily. But winner-take-all elections in larger districts would approximate the existing executive elections, in which competition is more balanced. Opinion polls show widespread suport for shrinking the legislature. Eliminating the SVMM system would have another salutary effect on Taiwan’s political life: it would promote a two-party system. Because the island’s political parties both are cross-class coalitions more dedicated to winning power and distributing resources than to promoting coherent political programs, Taiwan’s policymaking process is distorted. For example, when President Chen proposed reducing the work week from forty-eight to forty-four hours, the KMT responded with a

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proposal that was even more generous to workers: reducing working hours to eighty-four over two weeks. In other cases, however, the KMT has attacked the DPP, calling it antibusiness. As long as the two parties are guided by calculations of political advantage unmoored from guiding principles, Taiwan’s public policies will be inconsistent, expensive, and counterproductive. The ideological confusion in Taiwan’s political parties also reinforces deleterious habits among the electorate. Because the parties do not represent coherent platforms—or even general ideological orientations—voters are left with little choice but to select candidates on the basis of their personal qualities, campaign promises, and grassroots machines. Nor can the voters hold parties accountable when their positions are so ambiguous. Taiwan needs political parties that have clear differences of opinion on concrete policy issues. The DPP comes closer than the KMT to meeting this description; the party’s policy manifesto and Chen’s campaign white papers tend to take center-left positions on economic and social issues. However, carrying out these positions is difficult, not least because the DPP needs financial and political support from big business. Nor can it count on winning if it does take a principled stand. In the debate over working hours, the KMT outflanked a prolabor DPP initiative in order to gain political advantage, despite the fact that the result contradicted the Kuomintang’s past statements and policies. Still, the DPP needs to take its own platform more seriously. As a party rooted in causes—democratization, Taiwan independence, anticorruption—rather than issues, it is vulnerable to charges that its views lack substance. In the long run, Taiwan’s political development will benefit most from changes in popular attitudes. When Taiwanese voters begin holding politicians responsible for the consequences of national policy debates, no party will be able to maintain a monopoly on power for long. Of course, voters in established democracies also tend to pay more attention to superficial factors such as constituent service and candidates’ charisma than to voting records and policy contributions. Nor are legislators immune to the temptation to push for pork barrel projects for their districts even when they waste resources and undercut the overall national interest. Still, the quality of governance in Taiwan will improve only when citizens refuse to elect representatives who consistently put personal gain and political advantage ahead of the national interest. Despite its imperfections, the Republic of China on Taiwan has made enormous progress over the past twenty years. In 1983, I lived with a Taiwanese family in Hualien, a small city on Taiwan’s east coast. Most of the time, the Changs were playful and easygoing, but

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when it came to politics, they were guarded and fearful. The grandfather, a Japanese-educated doctor, claimed never to have heard of the February 28 Incident or the hated KMT governor who ordered his troops to round up and slaughter Taiwanese elites. The children panicked when I whistled a patriotic song on the street; they thought my insufficiently respectful demeanor would get us all in trouble. The father took me aside one night, after all the other family members were in bed, and whispered, “Taiwan is not only not the same country as China; we are not even the same race (minzu)!” Today, February 28 is a national holiday in Taiwan. Chang Huimei, an aboriginal woman and pop superstar, sang the ROC national anthem at Chen Shui-bian’s inauguration.15 And Taiwanese nationalism is no longer a taboo subject relegated to the dead of night; on the contrary, it has been discussed so much that most Taiwanese seem bored with the topic. In short, Taiwan is a democracy, albeit an imperfect one. It owes its freedom to many factors, but the Democratic Progressive Party deserves much credit. Still, the anguish and struggle that followed the DPP’s greatest electoral victory to date make it painfully evident that its fight to gain an equal role in a fully democratic Taiwan is far from over. The Democratic Progressive Party cannot rest; it must continue moving forward to grasp the challenges and opportunities the future holds.

NOTES 1. Kuo Cheng-liang provides an extended discussion and analysis of the DPP’s transformation to an “inside-the-system” party in his book Minjindang zhuanxing zhi tong (The DPP’s painful transformation) (Taipei: Tianhsia Publishing Company, 1998). 2. Taipei Times, 4 October 2000. Available online at: http://www.taipei times.com/news/2000/10/04/story/0000055942. 3. The recall process requires legislative action, including a two-thirds vote in favor of recall, and a popular referendum on the recall motion. If the referendum passes, a new presidential election is held. Most surveys found that, although many Taiwanese were dissatisfied with Chen’s performance as president, a substantial majority opposed the recall effort. 4. The executive branch eventually requested a judicial ruling on the matter. 5. The dispute over the fourth nuclear power plant raged on for months. Even after the KMT, PFP, and NP set aside their campaign to recall President Chen, conflict between the legislative and executive branches continued. In early 2001, the Court of Grand Justices issued a ruling, requested by the cabinet, faulting Premier Chang Chun-hsiung for not consulting with the legislature before canceling the project. The ruling was unclear about how the two sides should proceed, allowing the dispute to drag on into February. At that

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point, President Chen adopted the role of peacemaker between the cabinet and the legislature, working to broker a deal that would allow the construction to proceed in exchange for a promise from the legislature to halt the construction of future nuclear plants. Although the nuclear plant battle bruised Chen and worsened intergovernmental conflict, the DPP apparently won the war, extracting from the other parties a promise to eschew the nuclear power option in the future. 6. The official English translation of Chen’s victory speech is available at the Taiwan Headlines website maintained by the Government Information Office of the ROC: http://www.taiwanheadlines.gov.tw/chen/chen01.htm. 7. The official English translation of Chen’s inaugural address is available at the Taiwan Headlines website maintained by the Government Information Office of the ROC: http://th.gio.gov.tw/pi2000/dow_2.htm. 8. Another important source of tension between Taipei and Beijing was Chen’s vice president, Lu Hsiu-lien. Soon after the election, Lu described the relationship between Taiwan and China as “distant relatives and close neighbors,” a statement that caused the CCP leadership to label her the “scum of the nation” (minzu bailei) and attack her for “splittism.” To some extent, Lu’s outspokenness shielded Chen Shui-bian himself, but as the conflict heated up, it became problematic for the administration. Efforts to rein Lu in only worsened the situation, as Lu criticized efforts to clip her wings. 9. “The One-China Principle and the Taiwan Issue,” reprinted on the New York Times website, 22 February 2000, available online at: http://www.nytimes.com/library/world/asia/022200china-taiwan-text.html. 10. PRC leaders have offered Taiwan softer versions of the “One China” principle, but they continue to promote the hard-line version in their statements to third countries. This creates a dilemma for President Chen. On the one hand, there is pressure to acknowledge Beijing’s private concessions. On the other, Taiwan’s leaders fear that if they accept the “One China” principle, the outside world will assume that Taiwan has accepted the stricter definition and will see no role for international pressure in maintaining Taiwan’s autonomy. 11. John Pomfret, “China Signals Flexibility on Taiwan,” Washington Post, January 4, 2001. 12. “Chen Wants to Return to 1992 Stance,” Taipei Times, 1 August 2000. Available online at: http://www.taipeitimes.com/news/2000/08/01/story/0000045964. 13. “DPP Does Not Rule Out Unification: Hsieh,” China News Agency, 9 October 2000. Available online at: http://www.taipei.org/teco/cicc/english/e-1010-00/e-10-10-0-14.htm. 14. Chen Shui-bian, “Bridging the New Century: New Year’s Eve Address,” December 31, 2000. Translation published by the Government Information Office, Republic of China. Available online at http://www.gio.gov.tw/taiwan-webside/4-oa/index.htm. Emphasis added. 15. Chang Hui-mei, known to her fans as A-mei, is a superstar in Taiwan and mainland China. After her performance at Chen’s inauguration, she came under fire in the PRC for having taken part in a “secessionist” event. Beijing forced Coca Cola China, Ltd., which was in the midst of an ad campaign featuring the singer, to remove A-mei’s image and voice from its advertisements.

Appendix

Rising Stars in the Young Generation There are many promising and ambitious men and women under the age forty-five rising through the ranks of the Democratic Progressive Party. A few of the most visible and exciting are profiled below; a complete list would include many others. Chen Chi-mai: Born in 1964 in Taipei County, Chen has rocketed to the top of the DPP’s power structure. He is a graduate of Taiwan’s highest-ranked medical training program, the National Taiwan University medical school. Chen was first elected to the Legislative Yuan as a Kaohsiung City representative in 1995. TVBS Weekly named him the top new DPP legislator, and he won a second term in December 1998. In the legislature, Chen participates in the Justice Alliance Faction, and he served as the head of the DPP’s legislative caucus in 1999. Chen’s election to the DPP’s Central Executive Committee in 2000, together with his leadership role in the legislative caucus, makes him one of the most influential among young DPP policymakers. Hsiao Mei-chin (known in English as Bi-khim Hsiao): When Hsiao became the DPP’s director of international affairs in 1998, she was twenty-seven, the youngest person ever to attain such a high party office. Hsiao was born in Taiwan but moved to New Jersey when she was a teenager. In 1993, she graduated from Oberlin College, where she participated in the Taiwan Coalition for Democracy. She earned a master’s degree in political science from Columbia University in 1994, then went to work at the DPP mission in the United States. Hsiao worked on Chen Shui-bian’s second mayoral campaign and at the DPP Central Party Office, first as deputy director, then director of the international division. She also served as the director of international affairs

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for Chen’s presidential campaign. After the election, she went to work in the presidential office. Hsiao gained international attention during the 2000 campaign, when she served as Chen’s de facto English-language spokesperson. Foreign journalists, election observers, and officials admired her poise, intelligence, and political savvy. In 1999, the Oberlin alumni magazine published a quote that reflected Hsiao’s political orientation, thoughtfulness, party loyalty, and pragmatism: “I come from an Oberlin grassroots mentality and find myself in the high life – meeting with ministers, going to state dinners, staying at five-star hotels. There are temptations in the political world, and I respect the senior leaders in our party who have come out of all these years untouched, with the same perspectives. . . . [I] try not to lose [my] ultimate ideals, even when compromising on smaller matters. That’s the greatest challenge.”1 Lai Chin-lin: This Yunlin County native first won national office in 1991 at the age of twenty-nine, when he captured a National Assembly seat representing Taipei County. Lai earned a degree in political science from National Taiwan University, where he was active in the student movement. After college he worked for the Dangwai Movement briefly, then switched to a labor rights organization, working his way up to the post of director-general of the Taiwan Labor Movement Association. In 1989 he managed an unsuccessful campaign for a DPP legislative candidate running in the special labor constituency. 2 Lai was more successful in his own campaign two years later, and he won reelection to the National Assembly in 1996. In 1998, Lai sought and won a seat in the Legislative Yuan. Like many of his New Tide Faction colleagues, Lai’s commitment to social issues drives his political career. He is a strong voice in the legislature for labor rights and against nuclear power. Lee Wen-chung: Born in Taipei County in 1958, Lee’s career path is similar to Lai’s. He, too, is a member of the New Tide Faction, and he also served two terms in the National Assembly (1991 and 1996) before moving to the legislature in 1998. Lee’s earliest claim to fame was his expulsion from National Taiwan University for political activism on the eve of his graduation in 1987. In 1988, Lee became the first activeduty member of Taiwan’s military to join the DPP. Lee is also a strong advocate for labor rights and other social causes, and has a particular interest in military and security issues. Lin Chia-lung: Although he is not a DPP member, Lin is a key adviser and strategist for the party and for President Chen, one of several DPP

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advisers based in academia. Lin was born in Taipei in 1964. He graduated from the political science department at National Taiwan University in 1986, and he remained active in student politics while earning a master’s degree at the same university. Lin received a Ph.D. in political science from Yale University in 1998. Since returning to Taiwan he has worked as an assistant professor at National Chungcheng University in Tainan. Lin has an encyclopedic knowledge of Taiwanese politics, including the details of local factions, voting patterns, and legislative machinations. Lin’s academic focus on democratic consolidation reflects his commitment to Taiwan’s democratization. At the same time, he is a clever strategist. He provided tactical advice to Chen Shui-bian’s campaign, and after the election was named the youngest of Chen’s senior advisers. Lin has friends and classmates in many different DPP factions, although he is a political independent. Lin Chin-chang: At thirty-three, Lin is an unlikely candidate for the job of presidential adviser. He has a degree in foreign languages from National Taiwan University, but unlike other rising DPP stars, he was not active in politics as a student. In a May 21, 2000, profile, Lin told the Taipei Times, “I found literature much more fascinating than politics. There was not an iota of enthusiasm for politics in my blood.” Lin worked as a teacher and advocate of Taiwanese literature until he was recruited by Chen’s mayoral campaign after winning a prestigious writing contest. Lin’s most important contribution to the campaign was the conviction—which he shared with fellow campaign aides Luo Wenchia and Ma Yung-cheng—that Chen needed to project a positive image and message. Lin invented the slogan “Happiness, Hope, Chen Shui-bian” (kuaile, xiwang, Chen Shuibian). As Lin said, We aimed to fight a different campaign battle. In the past, the DPP was excessively caught up in its tragic past. However, to run an election campaign like this, I figured that what concerned citizens more was not establishing ideology or passing on a democratic heritage, but the improvement of the quality of life. The result proved our assumption correct.

Luo Wen-chia: When his mentor won the 2000 presidential election, Luo was thirty-four years old. The Taoyuan County native and student movement activist graduated from the political science department at National Taiwan University in 1989. Luo’s flair for the dramatic (and his fondness for hats) emerged early. In 1989, the NTU student body president plunked a hat with the ironic inscription “savior of the people” on a statue of Chiang Kai-shek in a campus auditorium. In 1998,

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Luo, along with media consultant Alice Chang, invented the A-bian cap that gave rise to the Bian Mao craze. Luo’s relationship with Chen Shui-bian began in 1991, when he went to work in Chen’s legislative office. In 1994 he was the director of strategy and planning for Chen’s mayoral campaign. With the mayoral victory came even more opportunities. Luo headed Taipei’s information department and served as the mayor’s spokesperson from 1994 to 1997. Luo stepped down from the post when two participants suffered severe injuries at a recreational event he had organized. Luo accepted a new post later that year, agreeing to act as the administrative director for Chen’s second mayoral campaign. When Chen was not reelected, Luo went to work as the head of culture and information for the DPP. He played a major role in Chen’s presidential campaign, an effort for which he was rewarded with the position of vice chair of the cabinet-level Council for Cultural Affairs. Luo Wen-chia’s political instincts and media flair made him an important asset and close adviser to the new president. Luo and his fellow “wonder boys” Lin Chin-chang and Ma Yung-cheng engineered the reinvention of the serious, dour Chen Shui-bian into A-bian, friend of youth and harbinger of new beginnings. During Chen’s mayoral term, Luo’s department organized street parties and adorned city buses with poetry. Luo encouraged the mayor to make public appearances dressed as Santa Claus and Superman. For the second mayoral campaign, Luo worked with Alice Chang to design lighthearted (but daring) campaign billboards, including an illustration of Sun Yat-sen in an A-bian cap saying, “I think Mayor A-bian has done pretty well.” In an article published the day after Chen’s presidential inauguration, Luo Wen-chia explained his love of publicity work to the Taipei Times: “It is an independent territory, where my imagination can run freely.” Ma Yung-cheng: The third of Chen’s key young lieutenants is Ma, who was born in Taipei in 1965. Ma was active in the student movement at National Taiwan University and graduated with Luo from the political science department in 1989. He also accompanied Luo to Chen’s legislative office in 1991. While Luo’s talents lie in publicity and media relations, Ma is a coordinator and strategist. He worked as the executive director of Chen’s 1994 mayoral campaign, and as administrative director for the 1998 campaign. In between he served as secretary-general and then deputy chief of staff in the Taipei city government. When Luo stepped down as spokesman for the city of Taipei, Ma took over that post as well. He worked as a special assistant on Chen’s presidential campaign and is now the deputy director of the presidential office.

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Ma has made his greatest contributions behind the scenes. As a strategist, he helped Chen win the Taipei mayoralty and then use that position as a platform from which to launch his presidential bid. According to a Taipei Times report published on May 21, 2000, Ma also serves as a liaison between Chen and other DPP leaders: “When facing these senior politicians, Ma is pressured to prove his ability. In Ma’s opinion, there are both merits and disadvantages to being young: youth means energy and creativity, but also denotes inexperience and a lack of sophistication.” Clearly, Chen Shui-bian’s willingness to give Ma increasingly important posts suggests that the president, at least, is not worried. Wang Hsueh-feng: A Taipei native born in 1964, Wang has served in the Legislative Yuan since 1995. She is affiliated with the Justice Alliance. In 1991 she won a seat in the National Assembly, where she was made spokesperson for the DPP caucus. Before seeking elective office, Wang worked in the Social Movements Department of the DPP Central Party Office. She was elected to the DPP National Party Congress in 1989. Wang, who has a degree in law from National Taiwan University and a master’s degree from Cornell University, is especially interested in consumer protection, environmental causes, and feminist issues. Yen Wan-chin: Like Bi-khim Hsiao, Yen Wan-chin made his mark within the DPP’s Central Party Office. A Changhua County native born in 1964, Yen holds a law degree from National Chengchi University and a master’s from Kyoto University. From 1989 to 1991 he was a research fellow at the Institute for National Policy Research. In 1994 he became the director of fellow New Tide member Lin Cho-shui’s office in the Legislative Yuan. He took over as deputy director of the DPP’s Chinese Affairs Department in 1996, and was promoted to director in 1997. Yan is considered a leading expert on the PRC within the Democratic Progressive Party. After Chen Shui-bian won the presidency, Yen became the vice president of the Straits Exchange Foundation, the quasi-governmental organization charged with carrying out contacts with mainland China. Working with Yen to develop and execute Chen’s cross-strait policies are two other young men, both of whom began their careers in academic life. Chen Ming-tong, deputy director of the Mainland Affairs Council, is a professor of political science at National Taiwan University and the author of key DPP documents on cross-strait relations. Lo Chih-cheng earned his Ph.D. at the University of California, Los Angeles. While teaching political science at Soochow University, Lo served as special assistant to Tien Hung-mao, the president of the Institute for

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National Policy Research. When Tien was tapped to become foreign minister, Lo also moved into the government. Yu Cheng-hsian: When he assumed the office of Kaohsiung County executive in 1998 at the age of thirty-nine, Yu already was an experienced politician. A graduate of Fengchia University in Taichung, Yu was first elected to the Legislative Yuan in 1987. He is the scion of a powerful Kaohsiung County clan, and much of his political support comes from the county’s Black Faction, a traditional local political machine. While Yu Cheng-hsian was serving in the legislature, his mother Yu Chen Yueh-ying held the post of county executive. Yu Chen followed in the footsteps of her father-in-law, Yu family patriarch Yu Teng-fa. The Black Faction, and Yu Teng-fa’s role in it, predate even the Dangwai Movement, but Yu became frustrated with the Kuomintang and transferred his support to the opposition. When the DPP was founded, Yu and his family joined the new party. The third generation of Yu family politicians also includes Yu Cheng-hsian’s brother, legislator Yu Chengdao, and sister, former Provincial Assembly member Yu Ling-ya. Yu Cheng-hsian is one of the DPP’s most influential young members. He was elected to the party’s top leadership body, the Central Standing Committee, in 1998 and 2000. He also directed Chen Shuibian’s southern Taiwan campaign headquarters. He differs from most other DPP politicians in his generation in that his power base is a traditional local faction in a rural area. Although Yu has shown a strong commitment to DPP issues and ideology, his organizational base is something of an anachronism, at least among DPP politicians under fifty. As a local faction leader, Yu must place a high priority on providing services, especially government-funded projects, to his constituents. Such practices are a frequent target of DPP criticism.

NOTES 1. Caroline Sorgen, “Laughing in the Face of Convention,” Oberlin Alumni Magazine (August 1999). Available online at http://www.oberlin.edu/~alummag/ oamcurrent/oam_august99/hsiao.html. 2. The special constituencies for labor, teachers, farmers, and business people were abolished in 1991.

Selected Bibliography Baum, Julian, and James Robinson. 1995.“Party Primaries in Taiwan: Reappraisal.” Asian Affairs: An American Review 22, no. 2 (summer): 3–14. Chen Ming-tong, and Zheng Yongnian, eds. 1998. Liang’an jiceng xuanju yu zhengzhi shehui bianqian (Basic-level elections and sociopolitical evolution on both sides of the strait). Taipei: Yuetan Publishing Company. Chen Shui-bian. 2000. The Son of Taiwan: The Life of Chen Shui-bian and His Dreams for Taiwan. Translated by David J. Toman. Taipei: Taiwan Publishing Co., Ltd. Chu Yun-han. 1992. Crafting Democracy. Taipei: Institute for National Policy Research. ———. 1997. “The Political Economy of Taiwan’s Mainland Policy.” Journal of Contemporary China 6, no. 15 (July): 229-258. Clark, Cal. 2000. The 2000 Presidential Elections. New York: The Asia Society. Democratic Progressive Party. 2000. “DPP Year 2000 Policy Manifesto: Our Vision for a New Era.” Taipei: Democratic Progressive Party, February. Hsia Chen. 1998. Hsu Hsin-liang de zhengzhi shijie (The political world of Hsu Hsin-liang). Taipei: Tianhsia Publishing Company. Huang Teh-fu. 1992. Minjindang he Taiwan diqu zhengzhi minzhuhua (The Democratic Progressive Party and the democratization of Taiwan). Taipei: Shiying Publishing Company. Jiuling niandai: Taiwan qiantu zhudao renwu, minjindang 1 (The 1990s: Taiwan’s future leaders, the Democratic Progressive Party, volume 1). 1989. Taipei: Tianhsiang Publishing Company. Kao Ming-tsung. 1999. “Minzhu jinbu dang zhengdang zhuanxing zhi fenxi” (An analysis of the DPP’s transformation). Master’s thesis, Chinese Culture University. Kuo Cheng-liang. 1998. Minjindang zhuanxing zhi tong (The DPP’s painful transformation). Taipei: Tianhsia Publishing Company. Li Hsiao-feng. 1989. Taiwan minzhu yundong 40 nian (Forty years of Taiwan’s democratic movement). Taipei: Independence Evening Post Publishing Company. Lin Chia-cheng, ed. 1991. Minzhu zhidu sheji (Designing democratic systems). Taipei: Institute for National Policy Research. Lin Tse-min, Chu Yun-han, and Melvin J. Hinich. 1995. A Spatial Analysis of Political Competition in Taiwan. Working Papers in Taiwan Studies. American Political Science Association Conference Group on Taiwan Studies. Available online at http://www.psci.unt.edu/cgots/paprseries.html. Rigger, Shelley. 1999. Politics in Taiwan: Voting for Democracy. London: Routledge. Sutter, Robert. 1988. Taiwan Entering the 21st Century. Lanham, Md.: University Press of America. Tien, Hung-mao, ed. 1996. Taiwan’s Electoral Politics and Democratic Transition. Armonk, N.Y.: M. E. Sharpe. Wang, T. Y. 2000. “‘One China, One Taiwan’”: An Analysis of the Democratic Progressive Party’s China Policy.” Journal of Asian and African Studies 35, no. 1: 159-182.

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Index Aboriginal peoples, 3, 8, 56, 141, 145, 194, 197, 206, 219 Alliance of Dangwai Writers and Editors, 23 Bayer, 41, 60, 95, 109–112, 139, 149 Beijing, 9, 11, 29, 33, 51, 52, 103, 120, 121, 123, 126, 127, 130, 131, 134–136, 143, 144, 181–183, 192, 193, 207, 211–214, 216 Central Executive Committee, 56, 57, 60, 76 Central Party Office, 57, 59 Central Review Committee, 56, 57, 60 Central Standing Committee, 29, 51, 55–57, 60, 75, 76, 91, 92, 94–96, 103–105, 113, 124, 125, 127, 198 Chang Chun-hsiung, 21, 23, 25, 32, 96, 108, 110, 201, 208 Chang Chun-hung, 18, 19, 20, 21, 23, 27, 30, 32, 73, 79, 84, 104, 105, 114 Chang Hui-mei (A-mei), 219 Chang Tsan-hung (George Chang), 149 Chen Chao-nan, 33, 114, 135, 214 Chen Chin-te, 65, 114, 200 Chen Chu, 20, 21, 65, 82, 84, 150, 155 Chen Chung-hsin, 20, 21 Chen Chun-lin, 65, 82, 155 Chen Jiunn-lin, 188 Chen Shui-bian, 1, 8, 9, 10–12, 21, 22, 25, 30, 32, 33, 35, 51, 52, 65, 73, 82, 84–86, 88, 95–97, 100, 101, 105, 107–109, 111, 114, 115, 119, 121, 125, 130, 131, 133, 134, 136, 138, 140, 142, 143, 145, 146, 150, 170, 173, 176, 177, 178, 181, 182, 185–194, 196–198, 201, 205, 207, 208, 210–213, 216, 219, 220 Chen Tang-shan (Mark Chen), 95 Chen Ting-nan, 83, 138, 210 Chen Wan-chen, 20

Chen Wen-chian, 29, 111 Cheng Ch’eng-kung, 4 Chiang Ching-kuo, 11, 34, 205 Chiang Chun-nan, 20 Chiang Kai-shek, 5, 16, 38, 133, 173 Chiang Peng-chian, 21, 25 China Social Democratic Party, 220 China Youth Party, 220 Chinese Communist Party, 5, 15, 16, 30, 50, 123, 211, 212 Chiou I-jen, 23, 28, 31, 57, 60, 73, 95, 111, 181, 188, 205, 207 Chou Po-lun, 32 Chou Yi-cheng, 127 Chu Kao-cheng, 29 Chungli Incident, 19 Coalition government, 99, 100, 102–104 Constitution, ROC, 30, 131, 212 Council of Grand Justices, 115, 116 Dangwai, 7, 8, 12, 15, 17–24, 25, 29, 39, 44, 71–73, 75, 87, 122, 149, 167, 168, 177, 183, 205, 206 Deep Plow, 22 Democratic Progressive Party (DPP), 1, 2, 8, 9–12, 15, 17, 20, 27–45, 51, 52, 55–69, 71–88, 91–117, 119, 120–133, 135–151, 155–158, 161–165, 167, 168, 170, 171, 177–179, 182–184, 186–188, 193, 196–201, 205–209, 211, 213–218, 220 Democratization, 157, 183, 205 Eighties, The, 20, 21 Elections, 6, 28, 81, 44, 164, 167, 173, 197 Factionalism, 25–28, 32, 34, 57, 71–77, 83, 84, 103, 132 February 28 Incident (2-28), 15 Fei Hsi-ping, 24, 25

228

229

Index

Feng Hu-hsiang (Elmer Feng), 88 Formosa Faction, 23, 25, 27, 30, 31, 34, 57, 73, 78, 84, 85, 104, 105 Formosa Magazine, 20, 25, 73, 84, 85, 176 Fujian, 2, 3, 4, 215 Hakka (Kejia), 4, 82, 142, 197 Hoklo (Minnan), 4, 142, 197 Hsiao Bi-khim, 68, 72, 96, 188 Hsiao Yu-chen, 18 Hsieh Chang-ting (Frank Hsieh), 21, 22, 24, 25, 32, 33, 35, 57, 73, 76, 77, 150, 188, 200, 215 Hsu Hsin-liang, 19, 20, 21, 23, 29, 30, 31, 57, 73, 77, 79, 84, 85, 96–99, 101, 104–106, 108, 109, 112, 125, 126, 129, 130, 133, 220 Hu Fu, 23, 25 Huang Hsin-chieh, 17, 18, 20, 21, 23, 25–27, 68, 73, 77, 84, 85, 176, 177 Huang Hua, 18, 20 Huang Huang-hsiung, 20 Huang Ta-chou, 177 Huang Tian-fu, 20, 26 Hung Chi-chang, 33, 77 Industrialization, 139 Japan, 4, 5, 8, 15, 27, 41, 50, 108 Jaw Shao-kang, 177 Journalist, The, 20 Justice Alliance, 32, 73, 74, 84, 100, 103, 105, 200 Kang Ning-hsiang, 17–23, 25, 27, 73, 75, 84 Kao Chun-ming, 23 Kao Yu-shu, 17, 18 Kaohsiung, 20–24, 25, 28, 30–32, 34, 35, 56, 58, 62–64, 66, 84, 140, 150, 167, 176, 177, 187, 188, 193, 197, 200, 215 Kaohsiung Incident, 21–24, 25, 28, 30–32, 34, 84, 187 Kuomintang (KMT), 1, 2, 5–12, 16–20, 22, 23, 25, 29–35, 37–45, 50–52, 55, 59, 61–63, 66–69, 73, 75, 85, 86, 88, 99, 100, 103–109, 112–116, 120–123, 125–130, 134, 135, 137, 138, 140–143, 145–151, 156–158, 161–165, 168, 170, 171, 173, 174,

176–187, 191, 192, 194–200, 206–211, 213, 216–220 Korean War, 5 Kuo Chun-ming, 65 Kuo Yu-hsin, 18 Labor, 84, 141, 150 Lee Teng-hui, 11, 34, 38, 52, 75, 85, 98, 99, 100, 105, 106, 127, 134, 142–144, 174, 178–180, 182, 193, 194, 197–199 Lee Wen-chung, 87 Lee Ying-yuan, 114 Lee Yuan-tseh, 138, 193 Legislative Yuan, 16–18, 22, 23, 32–34, 38, 42, 44, 50, 56, 60, 61, 66, 67, 69, 76, 77, 81, 88, 92, 99, 102, 103, 107, 113–115, 137, 138, 145, 146, 148, 164, 170, 176, 177, 179, 184, 199, 208–210, 217 Li Ao, 22 Li Hsiao-feng, 20, 21 Liao Cheng-hao, 184 Liao Yung-lai, 109, 112 Lien Chan, 9, 10, 37, 85, 86, 105, 107, 115, 116, 138, 146, 173, 178–181, 185, 186, 190, 194, 197, 198, 208 Lin Cheng-chieh, 18, 23, 25, 29, 126 Lin Cheng-yi, 188 Lin Chia-cheng, 94, 188 Lin Chia-lung, 188 Lin Chin-chang, 86 Lin Cho-shui, 20, 73, 125, 129 Lin Hung-hsuan, 21 Lin Jun-yi, 201 Lin Yang-kang, 100 Lin Yi-hsiung, 19–21, 23, 27, 57, 65, 77, 84, 98, 115, 187, 188, 200 Liu Yi-teh, 114, 115 Local autonomy, 147 Local factions, 171 Lu Hsiu-lien (Annette Lu), 20, 21, 32, 38, 84, 88, 173, 187 Lu Hsiu-yi, 124 Luo Wen-chia, 86, 115, 188, 190 Ma Ying-jeou, 177, 198 Ma Yung-cheng, 86, 188 Mainland Affairs Council, 134, 199 Mainstream Alliance, 33, 34, 73, 200 Mainstream Faction, 25 Mao Zedong, 5

Index Martial law, 6, 50 Ming Dynasty, 3, 4 Ministry of Foreign Affairs, 38 Ministry of Justice, 138, 179, 184, 210 Missile crisis, 127 Municipal executives, 94, 145 Municipal Executives’ Alliance, 67 National Affairs Conference, 34 National Assembly, 16, 31, 32, 34, 38, 42, 56, 61, 67, 77, 86, 94, 96, 97, 106, 107, 112–116, 126, 137, 170, 184, 191 National Development Conference, 106, 107, 129, 137, 171, 179 National Party Congress, 30, 56, 57, 61, 75, 79, 91, 96, 101, 123–125, 131, 132, 135 National Unification Guidelines, 121, 134 New Energy Faction, 32, 73, 200 New Era Faction, 32, 33, 73, 74, 84, 200 New Nation Alliance, 30, 124 New Party, 22, 24, 45, 52, 88, 99, 103, 104, 126, 128, 129, 137, 162, 165, 177, 208, 209 New Tide Faction, 24, 25–34, 41, 57, 63, 72–78, 80, 84, 95, 96, 103, 105, 122, 124–126, 130, 132, 133, 188, 200 Nominal members, 61, 64 “One China” principle, 130, 134, 135, 181, 213, 214 Peng Ming-min, 96–100, 102, 103, 127, 142 Peng Pai-hsien, 32 People’s First Party, 66, 116, 198, 208 People’s Republic of China, 2, 5–7, 9, 16, 30–32, 38, 51, 52, 58, 87, 102, 105, 119–121, 123, 127, 128, 130, 131, 133–136, 143, 144, 178, 181, 182, 192, 212–215 Progress Faction, 23, 25 Progressive Alliance, 32 Provincial Assembly, 16, 19, 22, 24, 42, 86, 111, 112, 170, 179 Qing Dynasty, 4, 8

230

Recall campaign, 139, 209, 210 Rising People theory, 97, 105, 108 Shen Fu-hsiung, 32, 69, 103 Shih Ming-teh, 20, 21, 27, 30, 77, 80, 85, 98, 99, 103, 104, 107, 108, 114, 126–130 Soong Chu-yu (James Soong), 10, 66, 85, 86, 88, 116, 138, 146, 173, 178, 181, 186, 190, 194, 197, 198 Su Chen-chang, 21, 32 Su Huan-chih, 95 Single, nontransferable voting in multimember districts (SVMM), 42–45, 50, 83, 86, 124, 209, 216, 217 Tai Chen-yao, 81 Taichung County, 41, 60, 109, 112, 148, 149, 185 Tainan County, 95, 176, 177 Taipei, 2, 15, 17, 18, 24, 25, 32, 34, 35, 52, 56, 58, 63–66, 76, 86, 94, 98, 101, 111, 116, 133, 135, 140, 148–150, 157, 167, 170, 173, 177, 181, 186–191, 193, 197–201, 211, 220 Taiwan independence, 32, 34, 73, 87, 88, 95, 99, 101, 128, 129, 136, 163, 165, 182, 200, 214, 220 Taiwan Independence Alliance, 73 Taiwan Independence Party, 101, 129 Taiwan Political Review, 18 Taiwan Strait, 2, 3, 11, 120, 122, 127, 130, 202, 211–213, 215, 216 Tang Fei, 107, 134, 188, 199, 201, 208 Tien Hung-mao, 134, 199, 212 Tsai Jen-chian, 23 Tsai Shih-yuan, 23 Tsai Ying-wen, 134, 199 United Nations, 7, 16, 38, 75, 122, 126, 142, 143, 151 United States, 5, 16, 21, 24, 55, 111, 220 Vote buying, 183, 184, 195 Wang Tuo, 20 Welfare State Alliance, 32, 57, 73, 74, 77, 84, 200 Wives and Lawyers Club, 22 World United Formosans for

231 Independence (WUFI), 32, 73 World War II, 5, 15 Wu Nai-jen, 18, 23, 57, 63, 73, 75, 132, 145 Wu Nai-teh, 18, 33, 77, 95, 200 Wu Shu-chen, 176, 177, 188 Wu Tse-yuan, 138, 184 Yan Jiann-fa, 148, 150 Yang Huang Maysing, 68, 148 Yang Kuo-shu, 25

Index Yao Chia-wen, 18, 20, 21, 27, 32, 71, 76, 84 Yeh Chu-lan, 99 Yen Wan-chin, 75, 84, 132 You Hsi-kun, 25 You Ying-lung, 102, 188 Yu Chen Yueh-ying, 141 Yu Ching, 21, 22, 24, 25, 32, 76, 98 Yu Hsi-kun, 114, 115 Zhu Rongji, 192

About the Book On March 18, 2000, Taiwan’s voters stunned the world by choosing Chen Shui-bian, the candidate of the opposition Democratic Progressive Party (DPP), to be their president. A host of new issues quickly became the subject of debate. What is the DPP? Where did it come from and what does it stand for? How will it use its newly won power? Will it risk war with mainland China in pursuit of independence? Addressing these questions, From Opposition to Power provides a comprehensive overview of the DPP, its history, policies, and structure. Rigger traces the party’s origins in opposition movements of the 1960s and 1970s and recounts how it was founded in defiance of martial law in 1986. She then analyzes its internal conflicts over policy and power and explains the party’s changing stance on such issues as Taiwan’s independence, international relations, and economic policy. A key theme is the role the DPP has played in promoting democratization and fair competition in Taiwan. The first book in English to focus on this influential new power, Rigger’s study is a must-read for those hoping to understand and anticipate events in East Asia. Shelley Rigger is Brown Associate Professor of East Asian Politics at Davidson College. Her publications include Politics in Taiwan: Voting for Democracy.

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