The White Terror and a Memory that Learns How to Speak Again

In cooperation with the National Human Rights Museum in Taiwan, five testimonies of survivors of this regime will be included in the Memory of Nations collection presented over the course of the year. Those who share their experiences do so as a warning, in the hope that such violations will never be repeated. They emphasize that sharing their testimonies was extremely difficult, as recounting their experiences revived long-suppressed traumas and painful memories.

This first selection is part of a phased approach. The broader plan aims to represent the White Terror across different decades, regions, social backgrounds, and forms of persecution. These five testimonies—spanning the 1950s through the 1980s—offer an initial cross-section of how political repression operated under martial law.

Martial Law under Chiang Kai-shek

The White Terror emerged in the aftermath of the Chinese Civil War, but it definitely wasn’t a purely local historical episode, as it was influenced by the global political situation, such as the geopolitical dynamics of the early Cold War and the outbreak of the Korean War. 

In 1949, following its defeat, the Chinese nationalist Kuomintang (KMT) retreated to Taiwan, bringing with it its army, administrative structures, and deep fear of communism. Chiang Kai-shek’s regime declared martial law, justifying the measure as necessary protection against a communist threat. In practice, it enabled a system of repression that soon affected tens of thousands of people, from ordinary folks to intellectual elites and high-ranking officials. Even the slightest expression of dissent, disagreement, or independent thought was treated as a threat and punished accordingly.

People could fall under suspicion for reading prohibited literature, maintaining contact with individuals who had studied abroad, or simply asking questions deemed inappropriate under vaguely defined and shifting political standards. The regime systematically targeted both real and alleged enemies of the state. Those persecuted often included intellectuals, students, teachers, journalists, farmers, soldiers, and civil servants. Arrests frequently occurred without explanation. Families were left for years without information about the whereabouts or fate of their loved ones.

Fear permeated all aspects of daily life. Children were taught not to speak about politics at home. Parents avoided discussing the past. Teachers learned to deflect questions. Any deviation from expected behavior could result in punishment. Trauma became intergenerational, transmitted silently, and normalized through years of repression. 

I was sentenced, my brother was executed

In her testimony, Feng Shou-e describes such an experience. Her father raised her and her brother equally in terms of support and expectations. “My father taught us that human beings are different from animals, because we have brains and we can think what we want to do,” she smiles. This kind of gender-equal upbringing was uncommon in Taiwan at the time, so after growing up and attending school, Feng noticed the existence of gender inequality in society. “I’m a girl, but I can also do things like my brother. It is not necessarily true that only men can do something,” she says, recalling that her father raised her to question the notion that only men could achieve anything.

When she was in high school, Feng wrote several essays in her Chinese composition class. The first article discussed the discrimination Taiwanese people experienced under Japanese colonial rule. The second article was about Taiwanese women, while the third focused on education. 

Feng later met a teacher who discussed socialism and introduced her to the Communist Party’s underground activities. In her testimony, she explains that her belief that socialist ideals offered possibilities for social equality, including gender equality, prompted her to join. She later learned that her brother had also been brought into the party. Because the organization was regarded as a threat by the ruling KMT government, they soon faced severe consequences. 

In her account, Feng recalls that their teacher, Mr. Liu, spoke openly about social issues, including women’s rights; this approach conflicted with the regime’s ideology. She and her brother Feng Chin-hui were arrested in connection with underground Communist Party activities in the Yilan area. She was sentenced to ten years in prison; her brother was given the death penalty, and on October 2, 1950, executed.

Judicial proceedings during the White Terror were conducted by military tribunals. These were often completed in the absence of legal defense or credible evidence. Sentences were issued rapidly and were typically long prison terms, forced labor, or execution. Although the exact number is still unclear, according to current academic consensus, tens of thousands of people were imprisoned and one to two thousand were executed. The exact numbers remain unconfirmed due to incomplete archives and the absence of formal records in many cases.

I distrusted the regime from an early stage

During Taiwan’s White Terror, some political prisoners developed psychiatric disorders due to inhumane treatment in detention. Once a prisoner’s condition had been diagnosed by a medical institution, they were sent to a psychiatric hospital. Ning Jen, currently living in Yuli Hospital in Hualien County, is one of these patients.

In his testimony, which claims a great amount of suffering, Ning describes an atmosphere of constant surveillance and fear. His voice is now being discovered, heard, and valued.

Most of Ning’s family joined the KMT, but he did not. He distrusted the regime from an early age. “Since I was little, I had seen with my own eyes how our home was subjected to security checks. It was so odd,” he recalls. “They even patted my head. Back then I was already pretty indifferent to the people from the Security Division. That was because I felt a kind of aversion toward them,” he adds. 

Despite this, Ning chose a military career. He served in the navy and completed officer training. At the same time, he became increasingly exposed to political pressure. After leaving the military due to violating regulations, he struggled with alcoholism and openly criticized the regime in public spaces.

“A black car showed up. I had no idea what the people getting out were up to. But the moment I saw them I knew I had been reported. They took one look at my ID: ‘Damn, you graduated from the Military Academy. But even you turned traitor,’” Ning recalls. 

Arrests followed one after another. Interrogations and court proceedings were infinite, as was the level of violence against him. “Man, that beating was cruel. I’ll never forget it,” he says, recalling one of many episodes. “They first hit my ears more than one hundred times. They hit me so much two teeth fell out and even the teeth that don’t shift shifted. I’m telling you I was beaten to a pulp. After they had beaten me to a pulp, the white paint they used to cover what I wrote was smeared on my face, to add insult to injury. It was so painful. And finally, like this, hands behind the back of my head, lying down not facing upwards. What did they do on my back? They jumped on my spine, they stepped on my head,” he describes. The atrocities of the regime were the reason why he developed a psychiatric disorder, and was detained in a psychiatric hospital to be forgotten.

“My life represents my story of the White Terror,” Ning Jen resumes. “In these 40 or 50 years, not a single person has come to visit me. You can’t blame them either, right? Because these 40 or 50 years no one knew I have been living in psychiatric hospitals…”

Remote Green Island

One of the most powerful symbols of the White Terror is Green Island, a remote island off the east coast of Taiwan. While Green Island has since become the most widely recognized site of memory, it was part of a broader network of prisons, military courts, and detention centers operating across Taiwan. The political prisoners sent there endured isolation, forced labor, and torture.

Today, part of Green Island serves as a designated memorial park. Guided tours attended by students and visitors take place several times a day. Through survivor testimonies, the violence that occurred there is made visible. Former prisoner Fred Chin Him-san openly describes the torture methods used during interrogations. These practices were designed to extract confessions through extreme pain.

He recalls the beautiful weather on March 3, 1971. He was to meet his girlfriend for dinner, but on the street he ran into an unknown man, who manipulated him to rush to Taipei, telling Chin a fake story about a relative who was willing to see him. “From that moment, I lost my freedom,” says Chin, recalling his arrest in connection with the bombing of the U.S. Information Service office in Tainan. Nothing tied him to the event, yet his explanations were dismissed. 

“I wrote about seven or eight versions, but none of them were what they wanted. So they began to beat me up again and again,” he describes. He was detained and interrogated for several weeks. However, those beatings were “hardly anything.” But later, he says, “They used so-called ‘big-head pins,’ forcing you to extend your hands and then using the pin to pierce under your fingernails…There is no way that you could bear those kinds of torture.” Three times he tried to commit suicide. “I thought it would be better to be dead than alive,” he summarizes. The regime ended up fabricating a case against him and sentenced him to 12 years of imprisonment.

Silence perpetuates injustice

Chin acknowledges that each return to Green Island reactivates the traumatic memories and recurring nightmares that followed him long after his release. Deciding whether to speak publicly or to suppress his memories was not easy. Ultimately, he concluded that silence would only perpetuate injustice.

“The more people who hear what happened here and understand that this is part of Taiwan’s history, the better. It is essential so such tragedies are never repeated,” he says. He frequently joins open debates with young people, as living proof of the regime’s atrocities.

The White Terror did not end through revolution or a single judicial act. It ended through a gradual political decision responding to sustained societal pressure. A key moment was the lifting of martial law on July 15, 1987.

Not merely a historical period

Today, people in Taiwan can live in freedom and without fear from their own authorities, but for contemporary society, the White Terror is not merely a historical period. Survivor testimonies demonstrate that fear can silence societies more effectively than weapons and that the restoration of free expression may take generations. Remembering this period remains crucial because it shows how easily fear can be institutionalized and how rapidly fundamental freedoms can be lost.

The testimonies of survivors such as Ning Jen, Feng Shou-e, and Fred Chin Him-san are preserved not to seek revenge, but to ensure accountability, remembrance, and prevention. The survivors repeatedly stress that the purpose of speaking is to help society listen, reflect, and learn from the past, so such violations never happen again.

Five testimonies will be made available in the Memory of Nations archive during 2026 through cooperation with the National Human Rights Museum in Taiwan. These five interviews have been specially selected as the very first acquisition of Taiwanese historical memory in the Czech field of oral history, representing how the White Terror affected individuals under markedly different historical, social, and institutional conditions during three decades of political persecution, from the 1950s through the 1980s.