Kuomintang (KMT) politician Cheng Li‑wun (鄭麗文) has embarked on a high‑profile trip to mainland China. For someone whose loyalty to core KMT values has long been in doubt, the reaction from Chinese social media was unsurprising: “Have a good debriefing.” The phrase drips with sarcasm. On both sides of the Taiwan Strait, people understand how performative these visits have become.
The wisdom of expecting nothing
So what, realistically, should anyone expect from Cheng's trip? The most rational answer is: almost nothing. Beijing will script what it wants her to say, and she is likely to follow the script. If Beijing decides to roll out any gestures toward Taiwan, it will let Cheng present them as if she had personally fought for them. Beyond that, there is no need for extra drama. As long as she stays calm, follows the itinerary and resists the urge to overact, she will have done all that is required of her.
Could Cheng credibly claim to speak for a broad cross‑section of Taiwanese society and engage in meaningful dialogue? The simple answer is no. She has no real popular mandate, no backing from major industries, little political seniority and no coherent ideological platform. If she tries to improvise or exaggerate her own importance, she will only create problems for everyone involved.
The awkwardness is not hers alone. For the Chinese Communist Party (CCP), the situation is also faintly embarrassing. Beijing understands that Cheng carries limited political weight, yet it must treat her as if she were a heavyweight envoy. That ceremony is not really for her benefit. It is a way to pay symbolic respect to the historical KMT as an institution, while using her as a mouthpiece to send a message to today's Taiwanese public.
In substance, this trip is another attempt by Beijing to pitch its vision of cross‑strait “reunification” to Taiwanese society. The problem, as always, is that the response Beijing seems to desire from Taiwan is something no normal person could realistically deliver—at least, not without looking like a cartoon villain or a clumsy opportunist.
When political theatre becomes self‑parody
Let us be frank. If a Taiwanese politician were suddenly to publicly repent, embrace Beijing's narrative and pledge allegiance, would anyone genuinely believe they were acting out of deep moral conviction? Unless that individual had spent decades facing domestic political headwinds as a consistent pro‑unification advocate, such a dramatic turn would be read as sheer opportunism.
Cheng is clearly not that kind of true believer. In her early years she moved in student activist circles and joined the pro‑independence Democratic Progressive Party (DPP), before pivoting to the KMT in 2005. Stories at the time said senior KMT figures saw her as having some appeal among younger voters. But for many of us who actually belonged to that generation, admiration for her was hard to find, regardless of political stripe. Her subsequent public persona—trading barbs on talk shows, mocking the DPP and offering little else—has done little to change that impression.
It is no wonder that many observers in mainland China privately lament that the KMT is “out of talent.” Some even voice that complaint on Beijing's behalf. We can reasonably assume that the CCP is also holding its nose here. Chinese officials know exactly how limited Cheng's stature is, yet they must maintain a solemn, serious façade as they walk through each choreographed encounter. They are not “honouring” Cheng the individual; they are burning incense to the old KMT in the temple of history, using her body as the vessel while directing their real message at today's Taiwanese public.
Seen in this light, the choice of such an unconvincing envoy actually has one positive effect: it forces us to strip away the decorative rhetoric and revisit some basic questions.
What kind of reaction does Beijing really want?
When you are the stronger party in a negotiation, you must ask yourself an uncomfortable question: Is the reaction you are demanding from the other side something a normal human being could honestly give?
Consider former KMT chairman Lien Chan (連戰) and his “historic” 2005 trip to China. During a stop in Xi'an, local authorities staged a scene in which schoolchildren recited, “Grandpa, you're back!” The moment was excruciatingly contrived.
What kind of reaction were they hoping for? Did they imagine Lien would be moved to tears, and that Taiwanese viewers would weep with gratitude alongside him? If any Taiwanese person actually responded that way, they would immediately be dismissed by their peers as a clumsy opportunist and a bad actor.
CCP leaders are not fools. Those who rise to the top are shrewd, battle‑tested operators who understand human nature. That is precisely what makes this kind of political theatre so disturbing: they can see how fake it looks, and yet they keep staging it. They cling to a paternalistic, family‑state model of politics that might have made emotional sense in pre‑modern times, but has been exhausted by overuse in the modern era.
This forced theatre is hard to swallow even for Taiwan's most ardent pro‑unification voices. One can favour closer ties or even eventual unification in principle, and still reject a political life in which everyone is expected to wear a permanent mask. People understand that formal occasions require polite clichés, but they resent being pushed into grotesque overacting.
To its credit, Beijing seems to have sensed this problem. In recent years, some of the most tone‑deaf elements of its United Front work have been toned down. Concepts like “spiritual alignment” across the Strait have been floated. Yet the question remains: what would genuine “alignment” actually look like?
If we follow the emotions of real people, true alignment would not be a chorus of scripted gratitude. It would mean being allowed to complain together, to grumble, to joke, to curse at the absurdities of politics on both sides. In that sense, we already share quite a lot. But precisely this kind of authentic conversation is what official venues can never fully tolerate.
The limits of what Beijing can reasonably ask
So what is the absolute limit of what Beijing can realistically expect from the average Taiwanese citizen today?
My own answer, shaped by lived experience, can be summed up in a historical phrase: “No fighting, no making peace, no defending, no dying, no surrendering, no fleeing.”
These “Six Noes” were originally used to mock a late‑Qing governor who faced foreign invasion without clear instructions from the imperial court and ended up paralysed. For him, it was an indictment of failure. But for ordinary Taiwanese people today, caught between great‑power rivalry and facing limited agency, that posture of cautious inaction may represent the highest form of political wisdom.
Some now call this “lying flat.” In truth, it goes one step further. In a highly polarised democracy, any conspicuous political gesture becomes a liability. Every grand declaration will be judged against two standards at once: the lofty moral standard we apply to “gentlemen” and the pragmatic standard we apply to “small people” trying simply to get by.
You may not be wealthy or powerful, and you may care more about getting through the month than about high politics. In social terms you are a “small person,” and it would be unreasonable to hold you to the standards of a Confucian gentleman. Yet in a modern democracy you still have a vote. Once you speak out politically, you invite judgement according to those higher standards.
This is the paradox of modern citizenship: many of us have enough education and resources to talk about “the Way,” but in real terms we each possess only a few millionths of the power to shape outcomes. When a minor figure mounts the moral high ground to lecture everyone else, ordinary people will roll their eyes at the pretension. Still, in principle, the right to speak in that way must be protected, because today's “bookish commentator” could become tomorrow's elected official.
In Taiwan's fractured ideological landscape, this creates endless opportunities to attack any political figure from both directions at once. Former president Ma Ying‑jeou tried to be a “gentleman,” to balance dignity with pragmatism, and ended up pleasing no one. His would‑be successor Han Kuo‑yu tried to avoid high talk altogether, promising only that “everyone will get rich,” which was an even more glaring abdication of responsibility. If you seek the top office yet refuse to articulate any vision of the common good, you are in effect declaring yourself content to play only the role of a “small person.”
Why overacting is the worst choice
Beijing claims to inherit the orthodox mantle of Chinese civilisation and insists on regarding Taiwanese as fellow Chinese. By its own standards, that should mean treating Taiwanese people as morally capable citizens—people who can understand arguments and make reasoned choices—not as subjects who respond only to money and force.
This is why many Taiwanese, including some who support closer ties, find Beijing's cruder propaganda offensive. They see it as an invitation to play the villain in a political cartoon: to kneel, profess gratitude and pretend that this is a freely chosen, dignified path. Those who already see the CCP as evil are eager to push it into this caricature, because every heavy‑handed move becomes self‑incriminating evidence.
For now, Beijing has shown enough strategic patience to avoid taking that bait. Compared to the current U.S. political climate—where the president can post obscenity‑laden social‑media attacks on foreign leaders—China often looks more “dignified” on the surface. With growing economic and military power, the question for Beijing is no longer whether it can impose its will on Taiwan, but whether it can do so in a way that looks smooth, confident and sustainable rather than panicked and clumsy.
Here, Hong Kong offers a cautionary tale. Heavy‑handed interventions there have already created visible scars. Beijing cannot afford a similarly messy performance on the Taiwan stage.
Genuine long‑term integration would require time, goodwill and a great deal of honest, unscripted communication—not puppet shows. If Beijing is not in a hurry, Taiwan will happily continue muddling through, day by day. If Beijing decides to rush, Taiwanese society will respond according to its own instincts: some will resist loudly, some will comply, and many will simply focus on survival.
The art of doing nothing
In this context, the “Six Noes”—no fighting, no making peace, no defending, no dying, no surrendering, no fleeing—may well be the optimal response for ordinary Taiwanese people. It is the art of making no mistakes by making no sudden moves.
In modern politics, overacting is the cardinal sin. You will never convince those who fundamentally distrust you, so there is no point in perfecting a fake performance. Better to remain still than to play the clown.
Cheng Li‑wun is not a polished diplomatic actor, and perhaps that is for the best. Whatever nominal “results” her trip produces, the most appropriate response for Taiwan is not outrage, nor exaggerated hope, but calm indifference. Zero expectations are not cynicism. In times like these, they may be the highest form of wisdom.
The author holds a bachelor's degree in History from National Taiwan University, a master's degree in Modern Chinese History from Peking University, and a doctorate from the Department of Humanities and Creative Writing at Hong Kong Baptist University.
