作者：张致君

编辑：李聪玲 责任编辑：钟然 校对：林小龙 翻译：彭小梅

我在中国大陆长大，清楚地知道什么叫做压抑。那种压抑并不是某一天突如其来的打击，而是一种从空气里长出来的东西——它渗进语言，渗进习惯，最后渗进人的灵魂。正因为如此，我比很多人更早明白，尊重一个民族决定自己命运的权利，比爱国口号重要得多。

几个月前，我在美国加州的一场学术论坛上，听到一位来自台湾的教授感叹：“乌克兰的今天，就是台湾的明天。”那一刻，现场陷入短暂的沉默。没有人反驳，因为这句话折射出的，不仅是台湾的焦虑，也揭示出整个东亚的脆弱现实。

会后，我和一些台湾朋友聊天。他们大多不是政治人物，只是普通百姓。多数人说，他们希望维持现状，希望和平。他们不是不知道危险，只是更害怕失去安稳的日常。和平在他们嘴里，不是政治词，而是一种生活方式。“和平”在政治的“统”“独”之间更像是群众的心声。

台湾社会这些年，总像活在一个假设之下：若中国入侵，国际社会必然出手相助。这个假设在冷战时期或许合理，但在今日的国际格局中，已显得越来越脆弱。单从现在美国政府的外交政策来看，已经不是单纯由道义驱动，而更深植于利益权衡。台湾对此并非毫无察觉。1978年，美国与中华民国断交的那一刻，这个教训便深深烙印在台湾的集体记忆中。当卡特宣布与北京建交，蒋经国在深夜被告知这一决定时的沉默，象征着台湾被现实政治抛弃的那一瞬间。

此后，台湾在中美之间艰难维持模糊的安全感——既倚赖美国的军售与承诺，又谨慎避免触怒北京。但随着中美竞争加剧，美国国内的孤立主义再度浮现，台湾开始意识到：它或许只是棋盘上的一枚筹码，而非真正被视为命运共同体的盟友。

前不久，川普与习近平会面，台湾议题未被公开提及。事后，美方仅轻描淡写地表示：“习近平不会动台湾，他知道后果。”这句模糊的话语令人想起2019年香港抗议期间，外界期待的援助最终化为一句“那是中国的事”。所谓“后果”，从未明确指向善恶，只是政治表演的一部分。在理想主义渐退的时代，介入与袖手之间，从来不是道德，而是经过计算的。

美国对亚洲的态度，从来笼罩着复杂的历史阴影。十九世纪末，随着大量华工抵达西岸，“黄祸”（Yellow Peril）成为舆论的高频词汇。那种恐惧不仅源于种族主义，也反映了一种根深蒂固的文化优越感。这种视角至今仍以更精致的形式存在：在国际的政治语言中，亚洲国家要么被视为“值得扶持的民主伙伴”，要么被标记为“需要防范的潜在威胁”。台湾正处在这两种叙事之间摇摆。当它符合战略利益时，是“民主灯塔”；当它可能牵动冲突时，又被视作“地缘风险”。这种被动处境，其实延续着百年前的“黄祸”逻辑——只是换上了更文明的外衣。在西方视角下，亚洲国家的价值，往往不是由其人民决定，而是由它们在大国竞争格局中的位置决定。

台湾社会的撕裂，表面上是蓝绿对立，深层则是恐惧的扩散。人们害怕被中国吞并，也害怕被国际社会放弃。于是，任何有关“对话”与“和解”的讨论，都会被迅速贴上“亲共”或“投降”的标签。这种语境让我想起自己在中国大陆成长的年代——一个言论受限、政治紧绷的时代。我从小被教育要“警惕敌对势力”“坚决反对分裂”，那种基于恐惧的国家认同让我曾以为安全，其实只是思想的牢笼。如今，当我在美国听到台湾内部以同样的语言描述“对岸”，一种无力感油然而生。自由社会最可贵的地方，不在于仇恨的正确性，而在于理性的可能性。

和解与投降之间有清晰界线。和平，不是屈服，而是掌握谈判主动权的智慧。若要守护民主制度，台湾必须首先避免被卷入大国的战争。马英九执政时期（2008–2016）曾短暂证明这一点——两岸关系在那段时间出现了罕见的缓和：学术交流、商业往来、文化互访，甚至促成了2015年习近平与马英九的会面。那次会面没有带来传闻的恐怖“统一”，却带来了另一种想象：对话，也许比对抗更能保障安全。可惜，这个窗口很快关闭。香港抗争、北京强硬更加使“和平”成为政治禁词。如今的台湾政治风向，把“强化敌意”当成视为保卫民主的唯一途径，但现实是：没有和平，民主又能存活多久？好在与大陆不同，台湾政府建立在民选的基础上，人民群众有绝对行使自己选票的权利进行坚定或是修正。

我对台湾的焦虑并不陌生。我看到的，是一个民族在不同体制下对自由的不同追求。大陆被国家机器塑造成“不能说不”，台湾则被恐惧推向“不能说和”。这两种极端，映照着同一个悲剧——恐惧取代了理性。

台湾的问题，不仅是台湾的，也是整个华语世界的。当民族始终被大国叙事牵引，无论是“统一”还是“独立”，都难以真正掌握自己的命运。主体性的恢复，必须从拒绝被利用开始：既不被北京利用，也不被其他力量利用。

台湾不必成为谁的“棋子”，也不应被当作谁的“前哨”。在中美竞争升级的今天，台湾的当务之急，似乎不是等待援助，而是重新定义自身的安全逻辑。这并不意味着屈从中国，而是以更成熟的政治智慧，寻找能守护自由的现实路径。

台湾的未来，不取决于美国是否出兵，也不取决于中国是否让步，而在于台湾社会能否勇敢地重新思考：自由，是靠武力守住的口号，还是靠理性谈出来的秩序？

我常看到一个讽刺的镜像：国际上谈自由，却会把它当成战略工具；中国谈统一，却能把它变成政治威胁；而真正为自由付出代价的，往往是那些生活在夹缝中的人。

台湾的命运尚未注定。但历史终将属于那些，即便在恐惧之中，仍愿意保持清醒的人。

Taiwan: A Moment of Clarity Under the Shadow of Great Powers

Abstract:Drawing on the author’s own experience of growing up in mainland China, this article reflects on Taiwan’s position amid U.S.–China rivalry. It criticizes politics driven by fear and exploitation by great powers, and argues that peace is not capitulation. Taiwan’s freedom should be grounded in rationality, autonomy, and the political wisdom to refuse becoming a pawn.

Author: Zhang Zhijun

Editor: Li Congling Managing Editor: Zhong RanProofreader: Lin Xiaolong Translator: Peng Xiaomei

I grew up in mainland China, and I know very clearly what oppression feels like. That oppression is not a sudden blow that arrives on a particular day, but something that grows out of the air itself—it seeps into language, seeps into habits, and finally seeps into the human soul. Precisely because of this, I understood earlier than many others that respecting a nation’s right to decide its own destiny is far more important than patriotic slogans.

A few months ago, at an academic forum in California, I heard a professor from Taiwan sigh and say, “Ukraine today is Taiwan tomorrow.”

At that moment, the room fell into a brief silence. No one refuted him, because what that sentence reflected was not only Taiwan’s anxiety, but also the fragile reality of the entire East Asian region.

After the forum, I chatted with some Taiwanese friends. Most of them were not politicians, just ordinary people. The majority said they hoped to maintain the status quo and hoped for peace. It was not that they were unaware of the danger; they were simply more afraid of losing the stability of everyday life. Peace, in their mouths, was not a political term, but a way of life. “Peace,” suspended between the political poles of “unification” and “independence,” sounded more like the voice of the people.

In recent years, Taiwanese society has seemed to live under an assumption: that if China were to invade, the international community would inevitably come to its aid. That assumption may have been reasonable during the Cold War, but in today’s international landscape, it has become increasingly fragile. Judging from the current foreign policy of the U.S. government alone, it is no longer driven purely by moral considerations but is more deeply rooted in calculations of interest. Taiwan is not unaware of this. In 1978, the moment the United States severed diplomatic ties with the Republic of China, this lesson was deeply imprinted on Taiwan’s collective memory. When Carter announced the establishment of diplomatic relations with Beijing, and Chiang Ching-kuo was informed of the decision late at night, his silence symbolized the instant Taiwan was abandoned by realpolitik.

After that, Taiwan struggled to maintain an ambiguous sense of security between China and the United States—relying on American arms sales and commitments, while cautiously avoiding provoking Beijing. But as U.S.–China competition has intensified and isolationism has reemerged within the United States, Taiwan has begun to realize that it may be nothing more than a bargaining chip on the chessboard, rather than an ally truly regarded as part of a shared destiny.

Not long ago, Trump met with Xi Jinping, and the Taiwan issue was not publicly mentioned. Afterward, the U.S. side merely stated in a perfunctory manner: “Xi Jinping won’t move on Taiwan; he knows the consequences.” This vague statement calls to mind the period of the Hong Kong protests in 2019, when the assistance many had hoped for ultimately dissolved into a single line: “That is China’s internal affair.” The so-called “consequences” have never been clearly defined in terms of good or evil; they are merely part of a political performance. In an era when idealism is receding, the choice between intervention and standing aside has never been a moral one, but a calculated decision.

America’s attitude toward Asia has always been shrouded in complex historical shadows. At the end of the nineteenth century, as large numbers of Chinese laborers arrived on the West Coast, the term “Yellow Peril” became a frequent refrain in public discourse. That fear was not only rooted in racism but also reflected a deeply ingrained sense of cultural superiority. This perspective persists to this day in more refined forms: in international political language, Asian countries are either seen as “democratic partners worthy of support” or labeled as “potential threats requiring containment.” Taiwan wavers between these two narratives. When it aligns with strategic interests, it is a “beacon of democracy”; when it risks triggering conflict, it becomes a “geopolitical risk.” This passive position in fact continues the logic of the “Yellow Peril” from a century ago—only dressed in more civilized attire. From a Western perspective, the value of Asian countries is often not determined by their people, but by their position within the great-power competition.

The fractures within Taiwanese society appear on the surface as the confrontation between the blue and green camps, but at a deeper level they are the spread of fear. People fear being swallowed by China, and they also fear being abandoned by the international community. As a result, any discussion of “dialogue” or “reconciliation” is quickly labeled as “pro-Communist” or “surrender.” This context reminds me of the years I grew up in mainland China—an era of restricted speech and political tension. From a young age, I was taught to “remain vigilant against hostile forces” and to “resolutely oppose separatism.” That fear-based national identity once made me feel safe, but it was merely a prison for the mind. Today, when I hear similar language used within Taiwan to describe “the other side” while I am in the United States, a sense of powerlessness wells up inside me. What is most precious about a free society lies not in the correctness of hatred, but in the possibility of reason.

There is a clear boundary between reconciliation and surrender. Peace is not submission, but the wisdom to seize the initiative in negotiation. If Taiwan wishes to safeguard its democratic system, it must first avoid being drawn into a great-power war. The period of Ma Ying-jeou’s presidency (2008–2016) once briefly demonstrated this point—cross-strait relations experienced a rare easing during those years: academic exchanges, commercial interactions, cultural visits, and even the 2015 meeting between Xi Jinping and Ma Ying-jeou. That meeting did not bring about the terrifying “unification” rumored at the time but instead offered another possibility: that dialogue might better guarantee security than confrontation. Unfortunately, this window quickly closed. The Hong Kong protests and Beijing’s growing assertiveness turned “peace” into a political taboo. Today’s political climate in Taiwan treats “intensifying hostility” as the only way to defend democracy, but the reality is this: without peace, how long can democracy survive? Fortunately, unlike the mainland, Taiwan’s government is founded on elections, and the people have the absolute right to exercise their votes to affirm or to correct the political course.

My anxiety about Taiwan is not unfamiliar. What I see is a nation pursuing freedom in different ways under different systems. The mainland is shaped by the state apparatus into a place where one “cannot say no,” while Taiwan is pushed by fear into a place where one “cannot say peace.” These two extremes reflect the same tragedy—fear has replaced reason.

Taiwan’s problem is not only Taiwan’s, but that of the entire Chinese-speaking world. When a nation is constantly pulled along by the narratives of great powers, whether it is “unification” or “independence,” it becomes difficult to truly control its own destiny. The restoration of agency must begin with refusing to be used—neither by Beijing nor by any other power.

Taiwan does not need to become anyone’s “pawn,” nor should it be treated as anyone’s “outpost.” In today’s escalating U.S.–China rivalry, Taiwan’s most urgent task seems not to be waiting for assistance but redefining its own logic of security. This does not mean yielding to China but rather seeking realistic paths to safeguard freedom with more mature political wisdom.

Taiwan’s future does not depend on whether the United States sends troops, nor on whether China makes concessions, but on whether Taiwanese society can courageously rethink this question: is freedom a slogan defended by force, or an order negotiated through reason?

I often see a bitterly ironic mirror image: internationally, people speak of freedom yet treat it as a strategic tool; China speaks of unification, yet turns it into a political threat; and those who truly pay the price for freedom are often the people living in the cracks between powers.

Taiwan’s fate is not yet sealed. But history will ultimately belong to those who, even amid fear, are still willing to remain clear-headed.