Editors’ words: In this special issue titled Plantationocene, we invited Taiwanese artists and researchers to engage in critical reflections on environmental challenges in the Anthropocene by examining how imperial power and industrial infrastructure reshape ecological conditions. To explore these themes, we have approached Chung Chiao, director of Assignment Theater. Born in 1956, the Hakka director is known for his aesthetic commitment to grassroots realism and materialist historiography. Since 2000, Chung has collaborated with the Shigang Mama Theater Group, a Hakka community-based troupe formed by survivors of the devastating 1999 earthquake in Taiwan. We also recognized that historically, some of the most environmentally vulnerable lands overlap with the territories where the Hakka community established settlements [on Indigenous land]. Through this conversation, we aim to gain Chung’s insights from an intersectional perspective that integrates historical frameworks and to explore how theater and literature can illuminate the complex dynamics of migration and land.

 

 

Portrait of Chung Chiao. Courtesy of Performing Arts Redefined.

 

Rikey Tenn and Wu Chi-Yu: You’ve mentioned that your left-wing political awakening began with your reading of Chen Ying-zhen’s works in 1978. Starting your practice with the People’s Theater programs in 1987 and later committing to local community theater after the 1999 earthquake in Taiwan, how would you describe the shifts in focus across these three key points in your artistic practice? What role did literature play at each stage?

 

Chung Chiao: In 1978, Taiwan was amidst fervent debates surrounding Taiwanese Nativist Literature. For my generation, raised during the cultural Cold War, this period invites deep reflection.

 

I began writing poetry in high school when I joined the literature club. At that time, right outside my school was the United States Information Service in Taichung, which had open shelves where we could easily access and read a wide array of Anglophone literature, including T.S. Eliot, Ezra Pound, and other luminaries of American modernism. Reflecting on it now, that exposure subtly shaped the perspectives of young literary enthusiasts like me.

 

Later, one of the central issues in the Nativist Literature debate was a critique of the uncritical adoption of Western modernist literature. When I first began writing poetry, I was deeply immersed in reading obscure and challenging modernist works from the West. These texts influenced my engagement with literature, which often served as a Western interface to the world. Modern literature addresses universal human concerns in the context of Western industrialization, yet it reflects a distinctly Western perspective on humanity.

 

Another crucial backdrop was Taiwan’s authoritarian, anti-communist environment under martial law, where literature that engaged with reality was strictly suppressed. The prevalence of anti-communist literature led to a widespread craving for alternative perspectives, making Western modernist literature, with its emphasis on universal human values, particularly appealing to us. In this climate, the Cold War and martial law pushed us toward the humanistic framework of Western modernism.

 

This was the context in which I embarked on my writing journey. By 1978, when I was likely a sophomore in college, I remember resisting my finals one day and instead browsing through the China Times literary supplement. It was there that I first encountered the debate on Nativist Literature—probably the one between Chen Ying-zhen and Yu Kwang-chung. The central issue they raised was: why can’t our literature engage with reality?

 

If literature is to engage with reality, what kind of reality should it address? This was the first shockwave of the literature debate in 1978. In the 1980s, I had a professor who taught Shakespeare and, outside of class, introduced us to a range of Russian and Chinese literature from the 1930s, including works by Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Chekhov, Lu Xun, Ba Jin, Mao Dun, and Ding Ling. This exposure laid the groundwork for my further exploration.

 

Looking back, my deep dive into Taiwanese literature and theater truly began after engaging with Chen Ying-zhen’s works in 1978 and continued into the early 80s. It was through Chen’s work that I started to grasp the context of realism behind the Nativist Literature debate. This debate wasn’t solely about nativism; it also carried an internationalist perspective—a critique of imperialism and colonial powers, aiming to construct a new understanding of the Third World. This comparative view allowed me to better appreciate the worldviews present in Latin American and African literatures, often broadly categorized as Third World.

 

Within this framework, we began to understand how post-colonialism—or globalization—under a neo-colonialist backdrop in the post-World War II era, influenced Taiwan. It was within this context that I came to appreciate the impact of the Nativist Literature debate on my own work.

 

Hakka in Taiwan Issue, Renjian Magazine, No. 39 (January 1, 1989).

 

Could you talk about the impact Chen Ying-zhen and Renjian Magazine had on you during the 1980s?

 

From the mid-1980s until Renjian Magazine closed in 1989, my work with Chen Ying-zhen was profoundly impactful. As a journalist and editor, I engaged deeply with realist literary and photographic reportage, which introduced me to the importance of being on-site, critical questioning, and intervention. These aspects highlighted the need to scrutinize the costs of mythologized developmentalism—a critical reflection of capitalist society that was particularly salient at that time.

 

Renjian argues that while developmentalism may promise an improved quality of life for the middle and upper classes, it simultaneously inflicts disaster upon those at the bottom. This was especially evident in 1980s Taiwan, where social movements emerged in response to these injustices. For instance, the export processing zones led to widespread exploitation of workers and environmental pollution. Meanwhile, many Indigenous people were relegated to high-risk, low-wage jobs such as high-rise construction, deep-sea fishing, or even prostitution.

 

The magazine’s groundbreaking reportage and photography, notably its 1986 coverage of the Lukang Residents’ Anti-DuPont Movement, had a significant impact. It scrutinized multinational corporations and highlighted local grassroots activism. The “on-site” reporting approach not only documented local issues but also critiqued global capital and its implications.

 

The concept of “intervention” was also crucial. Renjian showed how literature and photography could influence reality by raising awareness and preventing harm. It taught me to view the world from the perspective of the marginalized and to question both capitalist and Western universal values.

 

After Renjian Magazine folded in 1989, Chen Ying-zhen recommended I join a People’s Theater workshop in South Korea, organized by the Asian Council for People’s Culture. This experience laid the foundation for my view of theater as a tool blending artistic expression with cultural activism for intervention. [...] In my Theater practice, I’m deeply moved by the quality of poetry—once penned, it often settles into a kind of sedimented memory, but when performed, it is revitalized. By weaving more poetic imagery into theater, it evolves into a dynamic art of the present moment.

 

Chung Chiao (center) with the editors in front of the Historical Facade at Treasure Hill, Taipei.

 

In March 2024, I directed Cracked at Treasure Hill in Taipei, revisiting a play I staged there two decades ago about Chinese settler veterans who migrated in 1949. I view their settlement as an extension of the civil war. This new work reinterprets the original as a war allegory, using the Historical Facade ruins as a backdrop, with a poet voicing deep reflections on war and the world.

 

Returning to people’s theater, the Shigang Mama Theater Group, established after the 1999 Taiwan earthquake, has since maintained a regular schedule of training and performances, evolving a theater approach centered on the mass. In 2021, their 20th-anniversary play, The Heartland of the Pear Blossom, encapsulated two decades of work, revealing that ordinary people’s storytelling holds a unique authenticity not easily replicated by professionals. The key, I believe, is that their training process cultivates physical skills, raises community awareness, and develops methods of empowerment, channeling collective voices. This approach extends to the Shigang Mama project and our continued work in various communities.

 

Additionally, in my work with youth correctional facilities, which has now spanned nearly a decade, it began with juvenile offenders at Hsinchu Youth Prison and has since expanded to include projects at a juvenile correctional high school. To achieve these goals, it’s essential to combine the empowerment of people’s theater with grassroots training in theater practice.

 

Shigang Mama Theater Group, The Heartland of the Pear Blossom, 2021. Photo by Hsiao-Hua Chen. Courtesy of Chung Chiao.

 

The 40-day people’s theater workshop in 1989 opened my eyes. Often, a people’s theater is seen as something performed for audiences or marginalized groups. However, this workshop shifted the focus, highlighting how marginalized groups can use their own bodies to express themselves through theater. Rather than a theater for the people, this approach—emphasizing self-expression through physical presence—offered a profound insight into a theater of the people.

 

In the 1990s, as Taiwan engaged with Edward Said’s postcolonial theories, the discourse turned increasingly toward reflecting on its colonial past under Japan and the broader implications of post-war neocolonialism. Despite gaining independence, many nations in Asia, Africa, and Latin America remained economically tethered to their former colonizers, now through the forces of global capitalism.This dynamic was aptly articulated in Chen Ying-chen’s theory of Third World dependency. However, Said’s critique of Orientalism was often misinterpreted through a framework reminiscent of Fanon’s “Black Skin, White Masks” trope, revealing how anti-colonial discourse could still cater to Western fantasies about the East.

 

This tension becomes particularly evident in theater. Take, for instance, the touring production Cry of Asia (1989), which I collaborated on with peers from ten Asian countries. Our goal was to showcase Asian identities through traditional performance arts. Although this approach was grounded in grassroots engagement, the issue arises when considering how we use traditional culture. On one hand, it represents a revival of performance traditions lost under colonial rule—a phenomenon widespread in Asia. For instance, both Korea and Taiwan have histories of banning folk performances under colonial rule. Reviving these local traditions was crucial for reconnecting with cultural roots. However, there is a risk that this revival could transform traditional practices into exotic commodities for export, echoing Said’s concern about whether these traditions are merely repackaged Orientalist fantasies.

 

One approach to addressing this issue is to frame traditional aesthetics within a realist context. For example, in 1995 and 1998, we produced two sequels to Cry of Asia, exploring the challenges faced by new immigrants amidst globalization and capital expansion. More broadly, pursuing people’s theater in Asia involves developing an aesthetic of de-imperialization. The challenge lies in understanding how this approach manifests in various countries in Southeast Asia and South Asia. How do local traditions in these regions align with de-imperialization, and how can traditional values and societal aspects be integrated into this framework?

 

Cry of Asia Series. Courtesy of Assignment Theater.

 

For example, Korea’s Madang-geuk Theater, a traditional mask dance form used by farmers, has been adapted to address contemporary issues such as North-South Korean agreements, labor exploitation, and military tensions. How can this so-called “people’s” theater be rediscovered and transformed into a form of resistance aesthetic?

 

Taiwan’s population is often categorized into four main groups: Hoklo, Hakka, Indigenous Peoples, and post-Chinese Civil War migrants and their descendants, commonly referred to as mainlanders. However, such categorization, arguably shaped by ruling elites, serves to divide and govern, masking deeper complexities. In 1989, you contributed to editing a special issue of Renjian Magazine focused on the Hakka ethnic group, applying a political economy lens to examine the historical interactions between these groups in relation to land, capital, and class. How do you now understand the concept of the Plantationocene in relation to Hakka identity?

 

The Chinese term for the Plantationocene encompasses notions of settlement and colonization, not dissimilar to Israel’s occupation of the Palestinian Territory, which reveal a blatant form of settler colonialism. Historically, the establishment of the Zionist state was framed as a justified response to Nazi persecution. However, this historical trauma has been translated into a form of colonial political correctness against the Palestinian population. With the resurgence of Cold War dynamics, Israel’s alignment with Western powers raises questions about why this alignment seems so natural from a Western perspective. Latin American literature often depicts figures like Columbus arriving with a sword in one hand and a Bible in the other, believing their violent actions were a means of “civilizing” the “barbaric” natives. Today, this dynamic persists through a technological disparity; under new imperialism, Israel’s advanced military capabilities, bolstered by U.S. support, have become symbols of neo-colonialism, legitimizing invasions and perpetuating settler colonialism.

 

Now, I’d like to incorporate the Hakka people in Taiwan into this framework of ethnic identity politics in relation to social progress. To commemorate the 30th anniversary of the 1988 Hakka Language Restoration Movement, Assignment Theater produced Those Days, Those Brotherhoods (2018). This work connects the experiences of Hakka peasants affected by the White Terror in the 1950s with the Hakka-led labor strike in the late 1980s. The protagonist is based on reportage from a special issue of Renjian Magazine in 1988 that featured the Language Restoration Movement.

 

Assignment Theater, Those Days, Those Brotherhoods, 2018. Photo by Kuo Ying Hsiu.

 

Initially, the 1988 movement aimed to reverse the suppression of dialects during the martial law period, advocating for the right to speak Hakka freely in classrooms and on the radio. Renjian published a special issue on the Hakka movement, highlighting the dual struggle of the Hakka people against both authoritarian rule and so-called “Hoklo chauvinism”. At that time, the political opposition to the Kuomintang, which later largely became the Democratic Progressive Party, was predominantly Hoklo, comprising about 70% of the opposition. There has been a claim that speaking Taiwanese Hokkien is essential to being truly Taiwanese. For the Hakka, the 1988 movement had two primary objectives: first, advocating for the right to speak their mother tongue freely in classrooms and on the radio, and second, challenging internal narratives that labeled Hakka resistance as collaboration with the ruling class. Historically, since the Qing Dynasty, the Hakka have been viewed as collaborators or traitors. However, Hakka resistance had different implications at various times. This suggests that there may be internal, quasi settler colonial aspects within ethnic dynamics. As a result, the Hakka movement is seen not only as opposing authoritarianism but also as combating chauvinism.

 

Amis singer and songwriter Panai Kusui advocated for Indigenous traditional territories for eight years, from 2016 to 2024, highlighting a crucial aspect of the settler colonial condition in Taiwan. In this context, it’s relevant to mention a critique by Paiwan poet Malieyafusi Monaneng, as cited by Chiang Hsun. Monaneng commented on a pivotal song in the democratic movement, The Beautiful Island (1977), which features the lyric: Through rough and humble beginnings, we blaze a trail through the mountains and forests. Monaneng responded sharply: “You settlers have blazed trails and cleared forests, while we Indigenous Peoples have been displaced.” Compared to the Hoklo, the Hakka more frequently invoke this very principle. Historically, the Hakka, like other settler groups, have also performed their economic advantages and seized Indigenous lands and resources. This is yet another case of settler colonialism.

 

Edited by Rikey Tenn; excerpted and translated by Zian Chen