USA TODAY International Edition
Church shooting personal to Taiwanese Americans
We come from elders who endured decades of silencing of the trauma that shaped their lives
When my family immigrated to the United States, a couple from the Formosan Presbyterian Church of Orange County ( Formosa is another name for Taiwan) helped us settle in and get connected with the Taiwanese community in Southern California.
When I think of that church, I think of home.
I think of the aroma of steamed napa cabbage and giant pots of “lo ba bung” ( braised pork over rice) that are ladled out potluck- style for weekly church lunches.
I think of the long white folding tables surrounded by wheelchairs of “agongs” and “amas” ( grandpas and grandmas) eating together and catching up on how each other’s children and grandchildren are doing, how chemo treatment is going, which widow needs extra support or a meal delivery this week, and the latest news from Taiwan. I think of the aunties and uncles loudly saying, “Goa Ga Li Gong!” (“Let me tell you!”) as their laughter echoes down church hallways. It is home; it is simultaneously our recreation of home.
When I think of what happened Sunday at the Geneva Presbyterian Church – which hosts the Irvine Taiwanese Presbyterian Church, where the pastor is our family’s former pastor, how the pastor they were honoring from Taiwan was my mom’s youth leader – it’s so deeply personal.
One dead, five injured
Police said a shooter, a 68- year- old Asian man, killed one person and injured five at the church in Laguna Woods, about 45 miles southeast of downtown Los Angeles. Authorities said the shooter targeted the Taiwanese community at the church over political grievances on tensions between China and Taiwan.
For many immigrant communities in America, churches, temples, mosques and other community gatherings are so much more than just locations for religious or regular social gathering – they are the heartbeat of our communal flourishing.
This uncle is your dentist; that auntie’s brother is your child’s pediatrician; this auntie leads praise dance and exercise for the other aunties; that uncle is the community mechanic; this ama taught everyone piano.
The church community doubles as your family phone book, your emergency contacts and the place of linguistic safety where Tâi- gí, Taiwanese Hokkien, is freely and loudly spoken.
Now when I see the photos of amas weeping outside the church while being comforted by social workers, I feel deep grief.
When I think of Dr. John Cheng, who lost his life protecting others after tackling the gunman, who took his mom to church for the first time since his father passed, I can’t stop thinking of his mom.
When I was younger, I didn’t understand all the complexity behind my grandparents’ adamance that we retain our Taiwanese identity. I just knew I was proud to be Taiwanese because they were proud to be Taiwanese. They would tell us, “Never say you are Chinese. We are Taiwanese.” “Goan shi Taiwan lang.”
As I grew older, I learned through oral story and history that my greatgrandparents and grandparents had lived through 50 years of Japanese occupation in Taiwan.
After the surrender of Japan at the end of World War II, my grandparents witnessed the terror that ensued after the Allies handed Taiwan over to the Kuomintang, the Chinese Nationalist political party. In 1947, the KMT troops violently suppressed and killed thousands of Taiwanese civilians. They systematically targeted elite Taiwanese, in fear that elites would conspire against the KMT.
My paternal grandfather, a gynecologist, recalled losing many of his friends and colleagues to KMT violence. He had received word that the KMT was searching for him, so he fled to the countryside to hide and was spared.
The KMT killed as many as 28,000 Taiwanese people during this period, known as the “228 Incident.”
Its leaders then institutionalized four decades of martial law, and it was forbidden to speak about the massacre.
U. S. foreign policy
The KMT implemented severe linguistic suppression of the use of local languages and enforced the use of Mandarin for the purpose of cultural assimilation and erasure.
To this day, when 228 is brought up to my grandparents or elders in their generation, decades of submerged, swallowed and silenced trauma, grief and helplessness erupt to the surface.
This is a small window into the complicated, tense, historical context behind what we saw on Sunday.
On Dec. 15, 1978, President Jimmy Carter announced that the United States would formally recognize the People’s Republic of China and sever its diplomatic relations with Taiwan. The United States had refused to recognize the communist regime since 1949. But by the 1970s, Washington saw recognition of Beijing as a politically and economically beneficial move.
A third of all foreign- born Taiwanese came to America in the 1980s. My family was among those who left Taiwan after President Carter’s announcement. My ama ( grandma) recounts my greatgrandpa telling them, “It’s no longer safe for us here.”
This historical context was pivotal for me in understanding my Taiwanese American identity and existence; why the Taiwanese Presbyterian churches are in many ways gatherings of resilience and resistance. And why my ama and agong made sure I knew history, spoke Tâi gí and understood that intergenerational flourishing is the flourishing of us all.
Politically motivated violence
When I think about this past weekend and the eight shootings across this country, I feel overwhelmed by the sense that it is all too much.
The seething collective pain of gun violence – racially motivated violence, politically motivated violence – has left me at a loss for the stolen breath around us in America.
The collective heartbreak is personal and political, historical and ongoing. The loss can only be communicated by the way I’ve seen my ama pound her chest with her fist and wail in pain.
Taiwanese American stories have too often been shrouded by a calculated maze of geopolitical ambiguity and violent conflation of Taiwanese and Chinese identity.
We come from elders who endured decades of silencing of the trauma that shaped their lives, resisted linguistic erasure and immigrated to a new land where they passed their resilient hope to their descendants.
We carry their forged hopes, voices, pain, resistance and stories with us. We refuse to be erased.
Jocelyn Chung is a lettering artist, graphic designer, author and a master’s candidate in Asian American Studies at San Francisco State University. Her forthcoming children’s book, “When Love Is More Than Words,” is about the ways her Taiwanese American family shows love through food, sacrifice, presence and intergenerational care.