Adult Category, Finalist
“I want to be an architect after I graduate.” That’s what Ruo remembered saying before the beatings came.
His father was furious. “Have the Japanese bastards gotten into your head!” The next morning, his father took him on a six-hour trek to the port of Kīrun. They walked from the city all the way to the water, even passing a man without a uniform riding a bicycle. “He bought that with blood money,” his father muttered and said nothing more. When they arrived at the plaza, his father blurted out, “Now tell me what you see!” as if he had been suppressing the words the entire walk.
The port held rows of bulky steel ships. Sailors in white hustled up and down their ramps. “Ferry boats, gunboats, patrol boats…” Ruo stared at the flags mounted on each ship’s stern—a red sun with rays bursting outward against a white field. Every morning at school, the class would salute a flag similar to the one, but without the rays.
“That’s not the point! What about that? Do you see?” His father pointed to a row of cargo ships, each loaded with layers upon layers of timber.
“Those are thousand-year-old trees from our sacred mountains. And they’re going to ship them all to Japan to build some stupid shrines,” he said. “They take and take and take. They level our forests, and they’ll eventually leave Taiwan with nothing!”
Ruo recalled what he learned in school and knew it was more than just shrines. He also remembered the constructions in the city they had passed by that morning. “And you still want to be an architect? You want to help our enemies take more from us?” His father snapped.
Ruo looked up and nodded in agreement, as he always did during his father’s passionate tirades.
There was nothing else worth seeing, his father declared, and they headed home. They neared a metal sign bearing the port’s name, “Kīrun.”
His father hurled a rock at it, striking it and sending a sharp clang through the air. “It was ‘Keelung’ before the Japanese, ‘Quelang’ before that, and ’Kelang’ before even that, long before I was born,” he said. “Remember that sign, Ruo. See if it changes again within our lifetime.”
…
The week before they went to Kīrun, Ruo had just returned from Tokyo. The government had selected twenty model students from the all-boys and all-girls schools of Taihoku—Taiwan’s capital—and sponsored them for a trip to the Empire’s capital.
Before Ruo left, his father sat him down and gave him instructions for the trip. He pointed to Ruo’s leather shoes: “Remember, if they give you gifts that are small, hide them in the gaps on the side, then tell them you didn’t receive them and ask for another.” He gestured to his belt: “Tighten it, and inside you can stuff anything thin or long. Just make sure they don’t fall out.” He continued, “If they let you pick stationery, choose the ones made in Japan. They’ll sell better here.”
That morning, his father prepared Ruo’s bento as usual. He steamed a fresh pot of rice and pressed the grains tightly into a rectangular aluminum container. Ruo took out a pickled plum from a jar in his room and placed it at the center of the bento. Having their meals resemble the Japanese flag, with a red center set against a white background, was a standard requirement. His father would always pack only the rice and leave the rest to Ruo; he would not even allow the plums to come into his sight.
The ferry to Tokyo took three days to reach what Ruo had always been told was the center of the world. He recalled the giant map at the back of the classroom, with Tokyo labeled right at the center. He had memorized all major cities on the Japanese archipelago, earning him a spot on the school bulletin.
He once bragged about it to his father and immediately got a beating.
“Now, list out those in Taiwan,” his father said.
Ruo attempted but quickly faltered. ”But they’re not on the quiz!” he protested. Taiwan had been tucked into a small box at the corner of the classroom map.
The three days on the ferry also opened up a new world for Ruo. He saw all that a fifteen-year-old boy had wanted to see: a flock of fifteen-year-old girls, who clustered at the far end of the deck, giggling and glancing at the group of boys who stood awkwardly on the opposite side.
Like every other student raised in all-boys schools, he waited for someone to muster the courage to cross the no man’s land. For three days, no one did.
As they disembarked, a man in a full suit and tie greeted them, his hair slicked to both sides and a sharply pointed mustache adorning his face. He stood poised, still like a statue, eyes locked on the group through his round, metal-framed spectacles.
“This is Mr. Tanaka from the Ministry of Education,” Ruo’s teacher said. “He is our guide while we are in the Imperial Capital.”
At the teacher’s signal, the students bowed.
The students were herded onto an empty tram waiting for them—they excitedly called it a mini bell train—and they would mimic the bell’s ring whenever it stopped. “Ding-ding!” they shouted out. When the tram arrived at their destination, they begged to remain on board for another loop.
They assembled before a red-brick building with a tall clock tower rising above it. Mr. Tanaka soon began the presentation: “We are at the Tokyo Imperial University, the first of only nine Imperial Universities built across the Empire. You’ll find mainly Japanese students studying here, but there are exceptions made for those from Taiwan.”
The students got excited and murmured among themselves. Their eyes lit up, anticipating his next words.
“Certain spots are allocated, especially for model students from a model colony such as yours. Engineering, medicine, law—you can find every discipline here. There is a future for all who come to Tokyo.” Mr. Tanaka said while observing each of his young audience members.
Mr. Tanaka then took the students to the university cafeteria and arranged a visit to the kitchen. They circled a white metal cabinet almost as tall as they were; its motor hummed like a trapped beetle, and the students gasped as he pulled it open by its handle.
“This is where food is stored for days before becoming your lunch,” he said, pulling the cover fully open. A wave of cold air rushed out. The steel sheet-lined compartment inside was filled with cuts of meat, raw fish, and glass jars of milk. The students each stuck their hands into the compartment.
“Winter stored in a box!” a student shouted.
“This is a marvel that only Japan is capable of,” Mr. Tanaka said, gently flicking up his glasses.
While they were eating, Ruo noticed Mr. Tanaka examining each of the boys when they weren’t looking, a soft hum of disapproval escaping him from time to time. When the gaze fell on Ruo, he quickly glanced away, acting as though he hadn’t noticed it. He felt something crawl over him, sending a shiver down his spine.
…
After lunch, the group headed to Yūshūkan, a war museum with a pale stone facade that loomed like an ancient fortress. The students perked up at the thought of seeing samurai relics, and they buzzed with excitement.
At the lobby, Mr. Tanaka let the girls disperse but held the rest: “I have something special for you boys, follow me.”
He walked down the corridor without checking whether they were following. Confused, the students looked at their teachers, who awkwardly averted their gaze. One by one, they marched behind Mr. Tanaka. They crept down the corridor, through a door marked Restricted, and arrived at a small, dimly lit storage room.
Wooden crates and cardboard boxes were stacked against the walls, obscuring the lone window.
“How was the university?” Mr. Tanaka asked as he rummaged through crates. After a long silence, one of them responded: “It was impressive.” They fell silent again and began peeking over Mr. Tanaka’s shoulder.
He dropped a long, rectangular wooden crate on the floor in front of the group. “There are many ways that gentlemen like you can serve the Empire. And I shall introduce you to the options,” he said.
He opened its cover and lifted out a rifle, its wooden stock long and smooth, the dark metal barrel dulled to a dark hue.
“Each of you will come up here and learn how to handle this,” he said.
Ruo and the boys froze in their place, just like they had on the ferry.
“Don’t worry, the firing pin is removed. It won’t fire.” Mr. Tanaka said.
“Does everyone have to?” a student asked, his voice coming out hesitant and timid. Mr. Tanaka snapped: “Now, why don’t you be a good student and come demonstrate for us?” He seized him by his shoulder and yanked him forward. He glared at the boy through his round spectacles, eyes wide open, “This machine brought down at least a hundred Russians; it is a war hero. You should be honored.”
The frightened boy cupped his trembling hand under the barrel, and Mr. Tanaka pushed the butt stock against his shoulder, causing him to let out a grunt.
“Should I go out and tell the girls that someone was scared?” Mr. Tanaka barked at the boy, whose desperate eyes pleaded with the group.
“Stand up straight. Now lower the bolt handle!”
“Where is the…” the boy faltered.
Mr. Tanaka muttered something under his breath and pressed down a metal lever on top of the wooden stock.
“Now, pull the trigger!”
Click. The rifle gave a muted clack. The boy broke out in a sweat and let out his breath. “Next!” Mr. Tanaka shouted. He grabbed the next boy and shoved the rifle into his hands. He trembled through the ordeal and fled back to the group as soon as he was done.
One after another, the rest of the boys followed—each handling the drill rifle and scurrying back to the group as fast as they could.
“Second rounds?” Mr. Tanaka asked.
The boys fell silent, some even holding their breaths, afraid of being singled out. “Your enthusiasm is noted. I hope the museum will be as enlightening as the university,” Mr. Tanaka said.
The students stood frozen, none dared to move or utter a sound.
“You are dismissed. We will reconvene at the lobby in an hour,” he added. The boys began slowly retreating from the room, then they ran down the corridor. Ruo was among the last to leave. When he was about to step out, he felt Mr. Tanaka’s hand
land on his shoulder, pressing firmly and stopping him. Mr. Tanaka’s eyes were wide open, almost filling up the frame of his spectacles, “You’re a big one. Have you thought about how you want to serve the Empire after graduating?”
…
Before the trip, Ruo had never understood what fate really meant. He didn’t realize his future might not be his own to decide.
Back when Ruo first attended school, fate came up once in a conversation with his father. “Pa, is it true that Taiwan was once an abandoned land filled with bandits and gangs?” His father was taken aback. “Who told you that?”
“Sensei Sato taught us that. He also said the Japanese came and civilized them. That’s why we all live happily and orderly,” Ruo replied.
For a long moment, his father said nothing, studying Ruo’s glowing face. 7
“If your teacher said that, then I suppose it’s true. You’re in school for a reason, right?” His father said.
Only later did he understand that his father must have swallowed his opinions, unwilling to risk his son getting in trouble at school.
“There was more history before the bandits, you know,” his father continued. “There were red-haired people who came from far away and ruled the island. Legends say they drank blood, and that their skin is so thin you could see it flowing underneath.”
“And who civilized them?” Ruo asked, his face still glowing.
“Well, another group of golden-haired people came and drove them away. They didn’t drink blood, or so the legends say.”
“And what happened to them?” Ruo pressed on.
“People come and go. Eventually, a group that looked more like us came and expelled the colored-haired people.”
“Why are there so many of them coming here?” Ruo asked, his voice bright with wonder. “Are we so special? Can we go to their islands?”
His father said nothing for a moment. “I’m afraid not. They’ve always come to us, and we’ve always stayed. That’s just the fate of a little island.”
…
A different face of Taihoku greeted Ruo when he disembarked from the ferry. A thick mist hung over the city, and when he approached the plaza that used to be filled with hawkers, he saw thin, vertical contours emerging in the distance. They appeared close to one another, like brushstrokes across a hazy canvas. He walked closer and saw their form—a cluster of bamboo emerging, shooting up gradually and climbing into the sky. Segments rose joint by joint, piercing upwards and striving toward heaven. He circled through them, under the fragments of light diffusing through the mist.
Suddenly, he heard the hawkers’ voices rise, sharp and insistent in the distance. He walked towards the voices and broke free from the mist; people jostled past him mid-chatter, and the plaza bustled with its usual liveliness. He turned to look back, and the cluster of towering bamboo had vanished. Only the mist remained, thinning and drifting apart in the breeze. He closed his eyes, printing the image in his mind before it faded away.
…
In front of his father, Ruo dumped everything from his schoolbag onto the table: a tin of candies (sealed and unopened), two bundles of pencils made of red-colored wood and coated with white paint (consistent with colors of the Japanese flag), an ink pen with the words “Tokyo Imperial University” printed on it, a cartoon storybook titled Momotarō (about a hero who fight monsters to reclaim stolen treasuries), and a photograph of the school group taken in front of the Imperial Parliament Building.
His father grabbed the pen first and squinted at the words printed on it. “Did you get a second one?”
“No,” Ruo replied.
“Did you try?” His father asked.
“I won that from a knowledge quiz at the end of the trip. I got the only one,” Ruo said. “But the pencils…” Ruo pointed to the two bundles stacked on top of each other. His father gave a few approving nods; nothing on his face moved except a slight pull at his cheek, and they moved on.
His father flipped through the storybook and saw a page showing Momotarō piloting a jet and wearing a headband with a rising sun flag stitched on it.
“What nonsense! Let’s see if any sucker from the flea market will buy that,” he said. He reached for the photograph, but Ruo grabbed it and pressed it to his chest. “I want to keep that.”
Ruo lowered his head and fixed his gaze on the figures in it, standing shoulder to shoulder next to each other.
His father placed a finger along the edge to measure its size. “Fine, it’s too small anyway.” The photograph and the tin of candies were the only items Ruo kept. His father swept everything else into a sack and left for the market.
He came back that night with two bitter melons and a full bag of sweet potatoes. At night, before bed, Ruo would glance at the photograph, locate himself standing among the boys on the left, then move to the right to look at the girls. He’d fall asleep happy that they were in his life.
…
The rumbling could be heard from blocks away.
When Ruo and his father arrived at the scene, a group of pedestrians had gathered behind a barricade that closed off the street, protesting to the colonial police who lined up before them. Their words were muffled by the sharp clattering noise that pierced the air.
Behind the officers stood the city’s old West Gate, a two-story stone-and-brick fortification with a central archway. While no longer in use, the five gates that once surrounded the city’s perimeter were vestiges of the city’s Qing past. The stone structure was topped by a crown—a red hip-and-gable roof that sloped down on all sides, with ridges lifting upward at the corners.
Ruo remembered passing through the archway each time he went to the market. The decorative roof could be seen from far away, and he had always used it to locate where he was going. The walls adjoining the gate had already been demolished to make way for new buildings. And it seemed that the same fate would befall the gate.
A crew of workers with pickaxes in hand stood on top of it and pounded the stonework beneath; the blows rang out sharp clatters, sending pieces of rock splintering loose and falling onto the street below. The roof tiles and ridges had already been removed; its former glamor, once crowned by the magnificent roof, was gone.
The dust created a soft cloud that obscured the laborers on the ground carting the debris. They kept their heads down and worked in silence; none of them looked up at the protestors. Ruo’s father turned to a man at the end of the crowd. “What’s happening?” “The government is demolishing it to make way for new buildings. They announced the order yesterday and carried it out today!” he said.
“That’s the gate we built before they were here.” Ruo’s father remarked. He squeezed into the group, shouted something fierce, then quickly retreated back to where Ruo stood. He mumbled something under his breath while peeking back to see if he drew any of the officers’ attention.
“It only takes one building at a time, but they’ll eventually erase us. Just like what they did to the temples,” the man said, staring at the crumbling structure that was once the city’s pride. “Look at how they are chiselling away a piece at a time. They’re torturing us with this slow, painful death.”
Ruo’s father couldn’t hold it together; he stomped his foot, then shot a glare at the workers. “If you work for the enemy, you’ll never be able to keep your head up!” he shouted, then spat on the ground.
The colonial police held their ground, and despite all the confrontation, the protesters stayed behind the barricades.
The protesters watched the gate slowly reduce to a pile of rubble, and some stayed until after all the workers and officers had departed. They crossed over the barricade, picked up pieces of tiles scattered on the ground, and brought them home.
Ruo’s father grabbed a small piece of broken tile and closed his fist around it. “It can all change that fast. They come here, and they turn our land into theirs,” he said to Ruo.
Ruo also picked one up and studied it. He moved it around in front of him, squinting and tracing it against where the gate once stood.
He turned to his father. “I’ll remember every detail, Pa. I promise to keep it forever.” …
On that pale morning, the falling bombs sounded like the screech of hawks. The people felt the ground shake, and they ran.
Ruo and his father sprinted down the street in a panic.
“Do you even know where we’re going?” Ruo’s father asked as he ran behind, struggling to keep up.
“There’s a tunnel that’s now an air raid shelter. Hurry up, Pa!” Ruo turned behind him and shouted.
He saw his father’s step wobbling, each stride sending his body shaking from one side to another. His face tightened with panic, his breath fast and ragged, spilling out in frantic pants. After passing by each block, Ruo would yell out, “Pa, we’re almost there. Just one more block!”
When Ruo arrived first, he banged at the metal gate and raised his sharp voice as loud as he could, “Open up, just two more. Let us in!”
The people inside pushed open a small gap to drag the boy in, then they shut it closed. “Wait, my Pa’s just right out there! He’s almost here!” Ruo shouted again, holding on to the door handle.
“Well, tell that old man to hurry up!” a man yelled out.
Ruo pushed the gate open when his father neared. He used the last of his strength to sprint inside, then collapsed on the floor, eyes squeezed shut, gulping in quick, shallow breaths. “When he’s up, head down the tunnel. It’s more dangerous near the gate,” the man said. Ruo stared at the passage that extended endlessly into the dark. Two rows of people sat in silence on either side of the wall. He waited for his father to catch his breath, then they marched down until they found an empty spot and sat down.
A woman next to them immediately spoke, “Did you see whose planes those were?” Ruo shook his head.
She took out a crumbled leaflet from her pocket and laid it out.
“These were falling from the sky.”
The leaflet showed multiple red arrows winding through a map of Asia and converging on Japan. She pointed to an arrow that ran through Taiwan.
“It means we’re in their way, whoever they are.”
Ruo studied the map before a couple of men shuffled over to take a look. “I think China is coming, the new one after the old Qing,” a man said, pointing to an arrow stretching from the continent in the west.
“No way, they’re too poor and weak to come all the way here,” another rebuffed him. 13
A third man joined and pointed at an arrow coming from the south. “The French down there have been eyeing this island ever since their war with the Old Qing. Maybe they’re trying to snatch it now,” he said, then turned to Ruo, “Boy, you like the school you’re going to? Maybe one day you’ll have to go to a missionary school.”
“What about America? I heard they’re also collecting islands,” the first man pointed to the scattered islands in the Pacific.
Ruo’s father snatched the leaflet and crumpled it in front of them. “What’s the difference? They’re never our own people. Because our own are stuck in tunnels like this, crouching in the dark, hoping for mercy for whoever comes to us.”
The men backed away towards their spots along the wall.
“Ruo,” he turned to his son. “ Never listen to people like them. Never forget your place on this island.”
Ruo nodded to his father’s words.
…
The bombing had stopped by late afternoon, though they waited until dusk to leave the tunnel. When Ruo emerged outside, he coughed from the dust-filled air that smelled thick and acrid. Broken red bricks had scattered over the street; buildings had their corners sheared away, and many had turned into piles of rubble.
It didn’t take long for Ruo to spot the objects that seemed out of place. He saw the first one, then the second, then dozens more scattered across the ruins—giant white eggs as tall as him standing upright on their end, their smooth surface contrasting with rumpled ground. He examined one and tried to push it over; it seemed heavy, and he thought there was something inside.
He grabbed a piece of concrete from the floor and smashed through its surface. The shell split open, sending shards skittering across the ground. A fluid sheet of blue substance flowed from its interior, its smooth paste spreading across the ground like a pool of deep blue ink.
He set out for another egg nearby, then smashed it open. This time, coiled strings of red and white ribbons sprang out, extending in all directions and writhing like a kraken’s creeping tentacles. He watched as they unfurled and settled onto the ground, red next to white, white next to red, in an orderly pattern.
He moved on to another egg and smashed it; it burst open, sending stark white, star-shaped crystals tumbling out, like candies from a jar. He counted them—exactly fifty pieces. …
The military ceremony at the Taihoku Public Hall began at ten in the morning, and by nine, shopkeepers on the street had set up radios by their doors for people to listen in. A light rain was falling. And the streets were draped with Republic of China flags. At every block, a fabric with a bright red field bearing a blue canton with a white twelve-rayed sun hung overhead, suspended at the center of the street by thin ropes strung from one side to the other.
Ruo and his father joined a group gathered around a radio outside a store, waiting for the live broadcast to start. Soon, a deep, authoritative voice began reading an announcement. The people leaned in and listened closely, their brows furrowed.
“What dialect is this? Can anyone understand it?” a man finally said.
They looked at one another and shook their heads.
“Is there another station with Japanese or Hokkien?” he asked.
“That’s the only one,” the shopkeeper said. “He is speaking Mandarin, it’s the official language in China now. The man said he is accepting Japan’s surrender. And Taiwan is now returning to the Republic of China.”
The group murmured among themselves. “Returned?” one exclaimed. “The Americans were the ones who made Japan surrender, right? So they gave us to China?” The shopkeeper paid no attention to the comment and continued, “And now he is saying we have to thank the fighters in the war, a Mr. Sun, who started a revolution, and a Mr. Chiang, who carried on that revolution.“
“Who are Sun and Chiang?” Ruo’s father asked.
The shopkeeper gave an unconcerned look and replied, “I don’t know, but they’re your bosses now.”
After the announcement ended, they heard a commotion down the road. Discordant beats of trumpets and snare drums quavered through the damp air. A marching band soon emerged, marching through the light rain. Columns of bandsmen in full khaki marched down the street in formation: two at the front, two behind them, and eight in the rear. Some wore no caps, and others were missing the puttees that wrapped around their calves. Two of them in the back held no instruments at all; they marched with empty hands raised to their lips, fingers pressed against the air as though playing a trumpet.
As they marched, their rhythm scattered, and the cadence grew uneven. As they passed beneath their national flag fluttering overhead, droplets hanging at the edge of the bright red fabric trickled down, each leeching red from the fabric and splattering onto the bandsmen. Their uniforms darkened with blobs of brick-red stains, the khaki slowly consumed by a muddy, creeping red.
Ruo’s father stood silent, eyes wide as he stared at the men marching away. He turned to his son. “A new era is coming to us, Ruo. No matter who they are, no matter who they tell you to be, you have to remember: you are Taiwanese, you are of this island, and nowhere else.”
Eddie Lo is a writer born and raised in Taiwan. He later moved to California to attend UC Santa Barbara as an international student and is now based in Toronto.
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