Illustration by Kurtman Wong
“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 local man wearing a government 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 his name 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 that was waiting for them—they excitedly called it a mini bell train and mimicked 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 on the metal lever that was 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?”
“Sato Sensei taught us that. He also said the Japanese came and civilized them. That’s why we all live happily and in harmony,” Ruo replied.
For a long moment, his father said nothing, studying Ruo’s glowing face.
“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 was 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 came and went. Eventually, a group that looked more like us came and expelled the colored-haired people.”
“Why do so many come 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 can come to us, and they get to decide whether we can go to them. We don’t get to choose. That’s just the fate of living on a little island.”
Eddie Lo is a writer originally from Taiwan. He is currently based in Toronto, Canada.