Taiwan: My New Borrowed Place on Borrowed Time
I wrote this on October 19, 2022. It elicited some strong reactions. I've reflected on it, and been flying more to HK recently. I've changed my views somewhat and should write an update soon....
"How much longer will you stay?"
Ever since my family’s Covid escapade from Hong Kong to Taipei, I get asked that question.
At first, it was a natural question. We came in February 2020 as tourists, and we played like tourists: splurged on Taipei’s great food, its amazing night markets, and I went crazy exploring mountains on a rented road-bike.
Weeks turned into months. We laughed about being covid-refugees, but it was more than just covid we had run away from.
I was glued to my phone watching the final acts of how history gets written: A new faction of masters slaughtering Hong Kong’s rebellious spirit; determined to pump it with loyalty; whether by law, gun or gangster. Love letters, promises of a better tomorrow, had failed. Eventually pretenses perish and power prevails.
Hong Kong was exceptional. It was a civilized place where people thrived without being forced to abide by a code of loyalty (in most societies this is a prerequisite with a long tradition of violence).
I grew up with a very impermanent sense of home. Nine international moves before the age of eighteen and parents from two different languages, continents and world views. But from the time I first stepped foot in Hong Kong at the age of 13, to the time I left it age 48 (and many moves in-between), something about the energy of Hong Kong always felt magical, somewhat despairful, and surprisingly romantic.
Hong Kong’s homeless spirit, although not in any way meant for me, was there embracing me in return. Hong Kong’s unsetttled spirit (not to mention the perpetual destruction of old landmarks for new ones), created a perpetual sense of nostalgia. For some reason I could see the city through prisms of romance. Falling in love there was easy.
Now I was in the midst of this unplanned move to Taipei for who-knows-how-long, watching my secret spiritual bond to Hong Kong get exposed and trampled. I thought: trying to make Hong Kong people deferential to a distant power is as laughable as the thought of making New Yorkers deferential to anything on the other side of those bridges and tunnels. But now teenagers and grandmas were being arrested. Friends lauded me on the genius of my move (as if I had planned it; I only came with one light sweater), and repeatedly told me not to come back.
A Borrowed Place, On Borrowed Time. This phrase has been used for decades to describe Hong Kong’s precarious spiritual infidelity, the one I so loved. It is usually credited either to the novelist Han Suyin or the author Richard Hughes, both of whom used it to describe the communal psychology that made Hong Kong (and its movies and canto-pop) so alluring. In 1959 Han Suyin wrote about Hong Kong:
Squeezed between giant antagonists crunching huge bones of contention, Hong Kong has achieved within its own narrow territories a co-existence which is baffling, infuriating, incomprehensible, and works splendidly – on borrowed time in a borrowed place.
Many thought, perhaps complacently, that Hong Kong's borrowed time was meant to last at least until 2047 as part of a "one country, two systems" framework agreed between the United Kingdom and China.
But “two systems” became too unbearable. Finally, the spirit of Hong Kong's baffling co-existence on borrowed time was killed in those bewildering weeks-turned-into-months of 2020 that I was spending in Taipei.
Life here in Taipei seemed bizarrely normal compared to anywhere else in covid-world-2020, but especially compared to Hong Kong. Realizing my family’s luck, I applied for (and fortunately obtained) Taiwan residence, coordinated a remote move out of our Hong Kong apartment, and switched from airbnb to long-term contract.
Yet almost three years on in Taipei, this "how much longer will you stay?" has persisted.
Why this obsessive question? Even asked repeatedly? Even by my foreign friends?
I was starting to get paranoid. Is it some sort of xenophobia? Is my ability to adapt being questioned? Can people see me struggling in ways that even I don't yet perceive? Yet at the same time, why do I consistently feel so welcome?
Then I started to realize it was not just me. Even among locals, especially those with foreign connectivity, this question is a frequent topic of discussion. And the frequency of this question is exacerbated by the huge number of disconnections already in place: children, lovers and other family members living overseas and in many cases not returning. A feeling that, if you can afford it, you should have a Plan B; and if the future is somewhere over there, then when (if not now?) does it become foolish to stay here?
Now I see that the pervasiveness of this question points to something deeper. An acknowledgement of a stasis, perhaps like Hong Kong’s, that may be delicate. The spirit of this home may also be ephemeral. The condition that inspires this question has become chronic, affecting Taiwan’s social psychology, at least among those that could move if they had to.
And yet I love living here and can't think of a better place for my family. What's more, I've come to realize that there's something about this chronic condition that I find attractive, at least in small doses.
Taiwan: My new Borrowed Place on Borrowed Time. The comparison to Hong Kong is a troubling (and politically incorrect) juxtaposition on many levels, especially seeing what has just happened there. I'm not suggesting nor hoping that Taiwan's fate should be the same as Hong Kong's, but if you read the Han Suyin quote above and replace Hong Kong with Taiwan, you may see what I mean. Taiwan is not a colony and there is no handover agreement. Yet still its sovereignty and self-determination is contested. It has no UN representation.
So what twisted condition have I got that actually finds this mass temporal uncertainty alluring?
There's a strong and rightful sense of pride (balanced with healthy doses of cynicism) for all that Taiwan has achieved over the last few decades: tremendous political, legal and social reform towards democracy. To me, Taiwan’s pride feels grounded and cognisant of its fragility. Isn’t this the humility that should always accompany pride? The blind patriotism that I feel in many other places feels refreshingly absent here.
Taiwan’s sense of humility is not just grounded by geopolitical forces, but also geological ones. Not a month goes by where you don't feel the tremors of the four massive tectonic plates that grind against each other to form the mountainous ridges of Taiwan. And on my early morning bike rides, just 20km from home, I often ride by the fumaroles of Mount Datun, a live volcano sitting right on the doorstep of Taipei's 7 million people. I strongly believe that each of these forces - geopolitics, tectonics, and the live volcano on my doorstep - create tremendous beauty on this island, but any one of them could also destroy it.
In Hong Kong I lived in a city where in many respects I had little in common with most of the people, yet on the other hand felt there was a strong bond for cherishing the unique moment in time, and the mystery of where our future may be.
For now, I know that future is in Taiwan. Somehow I feel that it's not just me and my family that have moved to Taiwan, but a tiny bit of Hong Kong's spirit. Of course I'm concerned, but I'm also excited about all of the beauty created from this energy, and that I can be so lucky to be a part of it, in my new borrowed place, on borrowed time.
