Green Island Serenade

There is a song made popular in 1950s Taiwan called “Green Island Serenade” (綠島小夜曲). It describes the longing of a lover for his girl far, far away…

“This green island like a boat,
Rocking, rocking in the moonlit night
Girl, you are also floating, floating in the sea of my heart.
Let the sound of my song follow that slight wind,
Blow open your window drapes.
Let my heartfelt emotions follow that flow of water,
Endlessly pouring my heart out to you.
The long shadow of the coconut tree
Cannot hide my tender regards.
This radiant and beautiful moon light illuminates my heart,
The night of this green island is already so heavy and silent.
Girl, why are you still silent without words?”
(translation mine)

But just as easily, “Green Island Serenade” could been interpreted as a song to capture the longing of the hundreds of political prisoners who were once imprisoned on this tiny island off of Taiwan’s eastern seaboard.

They were imprisoned for daring to oppose the Nationalist Chinese dictatorship that established itself on Taiwan after the Japanese colonialists left in 1945. They were imprisoned for championing the rights of local Taiwanese people, who were oppressed, silenced and stripped of their property, land and jobs. Some were imprisoned for speaking out for the promise of an independent Taiwan—the same promise that was once made by the United Nations, yet buried by the complexities of the Cold War and warming Sino-US relations. For almost four decades, the Nationalist Chinese government imposed the longest martial law ever, and put all opponents in prison or to death. And Green Island, as beautiful, as luring, as much a tropical paradise as it is today, was perhaps the worst place one could be sent away to.

First came the “New Life Correction Centre” established in the 1950s, which was nothing more than a camp where high profile political prisoners were interned and sentenced to hard labour. Many of the roads, and even the airport, on Green Island owe their construction to the hard work of these prisoners. Later, in the 1970s, the “Oasis Villa” was established. Despite the name, the “Villa” was an euphemism for the “Green Island Reform and Re-education Prison”, intended to house those offenders ‘convicted’ of engaging in ‘rebellion’ against the government. Many of these ‘rebels’ were in fact democracy activists, and most would go on to serve in public office with the dawning of democracy from the late 1980s. Most prominent among the prisoners is the feminist scholar and pro-independence activist Annette Shiou-lian Lu, who was imprisoned for 12 years, and later went on to serve as the country’s Vice President between 2000 and 2008.

Today, the former maximum security prison is open to visitors. Faded writings on the walls recall a past of indoctrination and pro-China propaganda, while the empty cells (though much renovated) echoes with the emptiness in which the prisoners counted away the passing minutes and seconds of their youths. On a wall of the Human Rights Park, in the shadow of the gentle waves, hundreds of names are engraved, each with the inmate’s date of entry and release, or death. On another wall, more but not all of the names of the thousands upon thousands of Taiwanese people who suffered, who were tortured or killed by the Nationalist Chinese government.

I did not know the names. I did not know their stories, or the injustices that were done to them and to their families. Yet, each character, each date, each name engraved on the wall came alive in a haunting, heart-wrenching way, and reached deep down inside to choke me of my breath and tears.

I met a middle aged man, who stood silently before the walls. His eyes were red and moist. He spoke to me, and asked me to take a picture of him pointing to one of the many names. “This is my uncle,” the man said solemnly. I said nothing, and nodded in acknowledgment. In that momentary silence, it was as if he and I understood one another’s pain and love for this island and the fate of its people. After walking on for a few more metres and spotting a name high on top of the list, he pointed again and said, “This is my friend.”

Later, I learned that he was with a group of Taiwanese-American physicians who were on their bi-annual tour of Taiwan. Out of fear of persecution, prominent Taiwanese intellectuals, professors, doctors, and lawyers fled the island after the Nationalist Chinese government took over. Many of these Taiwanese people were blacklisted, unable to return to see their home and families until the lifting of martial law in 1987. Most found their way to the United States and/or Canada, becoming accomplished people in exile, yet continuing to support their long lost home and people through donations and a powerful lobby in the US. Even abroad, spies and secret agents of the Nationalist Chinese government gave Taiwanese in exile no rest (the recent movie “Formosa Betrayed” has a good portrayal of this, and Taiwan’s current president Ma Ying-jeou is one such spy who worked for the (then) authoritarian government). Perhaps, if it were not for the commitment of these overseas Taiwanese, and their efforts to secure the passage of the Taiwan Relations Act in the US Congress, Taiwan would have long been overwhelmed by the Chinese Communists.

“God bless you,” the middle aged man said as he left, “And God bless Taiwan”. I nodded, and lifted my thumb up to him. Outside, the stuffy confines and green metal bars of the prison, the sun was slowly setting. The sun had already set for many who gave up their lives for a struggle for a country and people they cared for and loved. The tranquil Pacific waved and waned, ebbed and flowed, spanning the distance between the island of Taiwan and this isolated little green island in the distance. The wind blew across time, across the soft, soft sand.

“In that era,

How many mothers

Wept through the nights

For their children imprisoned on this island?”