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By Liu Che-ting 劉哲廷
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The photograph looks old at first. Chinese Nationalist Party (KMT) Deputy Chairman Sean Lien (連勝文) sits next to China’s Taiwan Affairs Office (TAO) Director Song Tao (宋濤). There is a sense of familiarity and warmth within the shot, but it also carries an indescribable chill. Some people opened the link thinking it was a retrospective report — after all, it is a bit hard to believe such a meeting could take place now.
The photograph was taken just days ago.
The public meeting was neither impromptu nor unique. It was representative of the KMT’s ideological shift over the past two decades from being anti-communist to pro-communist while acting as if nothing had changed. Many had hoped that people within the party would debate or even resist such behavior. Instead, there is only silence. They have altered the language, redefining “exchange” as “peace” and regarding “peace” as a matter of course.
There are several facets to address when discussing the KMT’s directional shift:
First is the party’s organizational culture. An organization that grew under an authoritarian regime naturally has a limited tolerance for internal dissent. Even after democratization, people within the party remained accustomed to obedience and suppression.
Second is the party’s chronic shift in language strategy. From Lien’s visit to China, former president Ma Ying-jeou’s (馬英九) negotiations over the Economic Cooperation Framework Agreement and his meeting with Chinese President Xi Jinping (習近平) last year to this week’s photo — each move was made under the guises of “peace” and “pragmatism.” This is a kind of linguistic anesthesia, a disguise the KMT has used to fool itself and others.
Third is the tacit understanding of the party’s power structure. In the KMT’s local organizations, those who control the resources are the ones who survive. Practical considerations sweep over ideology, interests trump values — no one wants to sacrifice their political future by opposing pro-communist behavior.
At a deeper level is the KMT’s misunderstanding of its own failure. After losing power in 2000, it failed to reflect on the weight of its past authoritarianism, and the growing distance between itself and the public, instead attributing its loss to “too strong an anti-China stance.” This led the KMT to embrace China as a means of survival.
Finally, there is the Chinese Communist Party’s (CCP) long-term plan for the KMT. It has used soft-power tactics to coax, pacify and envelop the party. The KMT was not forced to align itself with the CCP — it gradually adapted, eventually coming to enjoy the validation.
It is clear that Lien’s trip to China was a product of the system. He did not deviate from the KMT’s path — he represents it. His smile and silence echo the party’s stance.
To this day, no one within the KMT has publicly condemned the trip, nor is anyone willing to distance themselves from the meeting. There is only a widespread calmness, as if the meeting is simply another normal news report.
However, Taiwanese know that it is much more than a political choice — it is also a loss. A political party has lost its sense of identity, its historical memory and its ability to hold itself accountable to its supporters.
The photo of Lien and Song continues to circulate online, but it is no longer just a piece of news — it is visual proof of a soul departed, a Victorian death photograph, a memento mori. The KMT might continue to shout: “Republic of China,” but the sound of its marching is becoming fainter by the day, moving further away.
This is not only betrayal, but also forgetfulness.
Liu Che-ting is a writer.
Translated by Kyra Gustavsen
