When President Lai Ching-te (賴清德) posted on Facebook after his Lunar New Year tea meeting with the heads of Taiwan's five constitutional branches, he was jubilant. The gathering, he announced, was "the first time in our nation's history" that a president had hosted such an occasion.
He was wrong — and the error was not a minor one.
A Tradition, Not a Precedent
Presidential tea meetings with the leaders of the Executive, Legislative, Judicial, Examination, and Control Yuans are not a precedent. They are a tradition. Every democratically elected president has held them. Chen Shui-bian (陳水扁) convened the five branch heads during the fallout from the 2004 assassination attempt to "reconstruct the scene." Ma Ying-jeou (馬英九) met with them almost annually, from the global financial crisis to the complexities of cross-strait relations — and even called them together after stepping down as KMT chairman to explain himself. Tsai Ing-wen (蔡英文) held such a meeting in her very first week in office, and again in January 2018, when she addressed the assembled branch heads and noted that "the five-yuan consultation is a long-standing tradition."
The Premier seated at that table in 2018, listening to Tsai speak those words, was Lai Ching-te himself.
Even the specific format of a Lunar New Year tea gathering has precedent. On the first working day after the 1995 Spring Festival, President Lee Teng-hui (李登輝) gathered the Vice President and five yuan heads for a New Year session — to discuss Jiang Zemin (江澤民)'s recently announced eight-point proposal on cross-strait relations. Lee's formal "Six Points" response followed two months later.
Power, it seems, can make leaders feel singular. But Taiwan's democratic system has no shortage of precedent — only selective memory.
The Constitutional Trap No One Is Talking About
The more consequential issue emerging from the tea meeting is Lai's stated willingness to deliver a "state of the nation" address before the Legislative Yuan, contingent on adherence to "constitutional procedures." Legislative Speaker Han Kuo-yu (韓國瑜) interpreted this as permitting a collective question-and-answer format — what he called "group questions, group answers" — citing Lee Teng-hui's practice of addressing the National Assembly and offering consolidated responses to assembled members.
The interpretation is reasonable. Whether it survives constitutional scrutiny is another matter entirely.
In Constitutional Judgment No. 9 of 2024, the Constitutional Court affirmed that the legislature may invite the president to deliver a national address — but struck down nearly every procedural mechanism the legislature had added to make that address meaningful. Requirements for regular reporting, a mandatory address within two weeks of a new president taking office, real-time oral questioning, structured speaking time allocated by party proportion, and written follow-up responses within seven days — all were ruled unconstitutional.
The court left the legislature with the right to listen. It removed most of the tools to question.
This creates an institutional paradox that cuts against both sides. Lai has grounds to insist on "constitutional procedures" — but the constitution, as currently interpreted, provides little procedural structure at all. Han's proposed "group Q&A" format may itself be constitutionally ambiguous: the same ruling that Lai invokes to limit individual questioning may also constrain the collective format Han is proposing. The Constitutional Court, in trying to protect presidential prerogative, may have inadvertently obstructed the very address Lai has now agreed to give.
A presidential appearance that consists of a prepared speech with no meaningful follow-up is, functionally, a press release delivered in person. It satisfies the form of inter-branch engagement without the substance.
Good Faith, or a Familiar Playbook?
The broader political context makes this moment both more important and more fragile. Lai leads a minority government in a legislature where his party does not hold a majority. That structural reality demands a governing style built on negotiation, not narrative. A leader who frames routine constitutional interactions as personal milestones signals, whether intentionally or not, that he views democratic institutions primarily as stages for self-presentation.
That instinct is politically costly in divided government. And the stakes extend beyond a single address.
Taiwan faces a series of upcoming appointments to independent oversight institutions — vacancies on the Constitutional Court, seats on the Central Election Commission, and positions within other bodies designed to operate above partisan competition. If those appointments are perceived as unilateral or factionally driven, the damage to institutional trust will outlast any single address or tea meeting.
The question hovering over all of this is one of good faith. Is Lai's post-Lunar New Year thaw — the tea meeting, the agreement to appear before the legislature — a genuine recalibration? Or, as some opposition figures have noted, does it follow the same pattern as last year's invitation to negotiate the general budget, which preceded a full-scale recall campaign mobilization?
The Democratic Progressive Party caucus's behavior in the days around the tea meeting did little to resolve the ambiguity. Even as Lai extended olive branches, party whips were publicly dressing down Han — first for dereliction of legislative duties, then with the sardonic suggestion that not every dish Han orders needs to be served. The instinct to preserve room for confrontation even while signaling cooperation is a recognizable one. It does not inspire confidence.
The First Worth Claiming
Taiwan's democracy is hard-won and globally recognized. It does not need myth-making about historic firsts to validate itself. What it needs — especially under divided government, with recall battles ongoing, judicial controversies unresolved, and local elections on the horizon — is the quieter, less glamorous work of institutional maturity.
That means opposition lawmakers resisting the temptation to turn a presidential address into political theater. It means the president accepting that accountability is not humiliation. And it means constitutional justices reckoning with the practical consequences of a ruling framework that has left both branches with fewer tools to engage each other constructively.
If President Lai steps into the Legislative Yuan and submits to genuine scrutiny — not the bare legal minimum, but the kind of substantive engagement that demonstrates respect for co-equal institutions — he will not be commemorating a personal milestone. He will be doing something more durable: showing that Taiwan's democracy is resilient enough to withstand hard questions, and flexible enough to accommodate the compromises divided government requires.
That would be a first worth claiming.
