His engagement deepened again during the marriage-equality movement, when Diva Teatime first stepped onto the stage and danced in drag. That experience would shape the way he later entered the era of the Great Recall.

“There are plenty of people far better at political argument than I am,” he said. “But when I go onstage—when I appear in drag, in a body that plays with gender ambiguity, carrying the culture of drag queens—that, in itself, becomes a form of political expression.”

Each new performance took nearly two weeks to prepare. “I’m a corporate slave during the day. After work, I watch YouTube tutorials, rehearse choreography myself, edit all my own videos. If I need green-screen effects, I look up how to set them up. Everything is done by myself.”

Despite the endless preparation, he still volunteered with the recall teams, showing up for every canvassing shift he could. He accepted every performance request on a first-come basis, usually only asking for taxi fare while covering all makeup and costume expenses himself. And sometimes, the shows went on even in harsh weather.

One rainy night in Xizhi, after finishing his performance, he didn’t leave right away. Instead, he sat beneath the audience canopy and stayed through the next segment—listening, almost by accident, to a small speech by novelist Liu Chih-Yu far more intently than he expected.

“Chih-Yu spoke for quite a while. I couldn’t leave because of the rain—just kidding. But I really did listen until I cried.”

At first hearing, one might assume he was referring to Taiwanese K-pop star Chou Tzu-Yu.

In the 2024 documentary Invisible Nation, one sequence includes the widely circulated footage of Chou Tzu-Yu’s 2016 public apology, issued after she waved a Taiwanese flag on a South Korean variety show in 2015, sparking outrage among Chinese nationalists⁴.

“I love TWICE,” Diva said, practically squealing. “That moment was real history—something that has to be remembered.” He recalls how stunned he felt when the apology video surfaced. “How could anyone force a teenage idol to apologize? I was furious.” For him, the heartbreak of being a fan turned into a pointed reminder: “It made younger people realize something crucial—you will be pressured to take a stance. As a Taiwanese, if you don’t say ‘no’ to the Chinese regime, this is what your position in the world will look like.”

⁴ The Chou Tzu-Yu Incident

In late 2015, Tzu-Yu Chou—a Taiwanese member of the K-pop group TWICE—held the Republic of China（Taiwan）flag on a Korean TV show, prompting Chinese internet users to accuse her of supporting Taiwanese independence. On 15 January 2016, JYP Entertainment released an apology video in which she stated, “There is only one China.” The apology triggered a strong backlash in Taiwan, where many saw it as the result of political coercion. The incident, occurring on the eve of Taiwan’s presidential election, is widely seen as boosting support for Tsai Ing-Wen and the Democratic Progressive Party. It also underscored the political pressure China exerts on Taiwanese pop culture and artists, becoming a defining example in discussions of cultural influence and “united front” strategies.

This insistence that silence is not neutrality became central to his participation in the recall movement. “No dialogue means no democracy,” he said, summarizing what he viewed as the core demand. For fans who want the freedom to follow their idols without political pressure, he added, it is impossible to overlook the ways in which Taiwanese people—and even artists—are prevented from speaking openly.

The examples are everywhere: fan-shot videos with a “Taiwan independence” watermark being removed at the request of event organizers; Jolin Tsai’s Womxnly banned in China for addressing LGBTQ+ issues; or K-pop idols in Taiwan thanking their “Taiwan fans,” only to have interpreters change “Taiwan” to “Taipei.”

“We are not asking idols to make political declarations,” Diva said. “But why erase the word Taiwan? Since when does ‘Taiwan’ translate to ‘Taipei’?”

“Resisting China’s political influence,” Diva said with rising frustration, “is also about insisting on a healthy performance environment—one that rejects toxic fan culture and scalpers.”

These fears run deep within the communities he belongs to—fandom circles and LGBTQ+ groups. Friends who perform in drag have spoken of police raiding bars in China mid-show, shutting everything down on the spot. LGBTQ+ student groups that visited Taiwan for exchanges recalled police storming into their meetings back home, carrying a laptop that, to their shock, displayed their own computer screens in real time.

“The Chinese government produces content that appeals to queer audiences, creating the illusion that your existence is being ‘tolerated,’” Diva said. “But that kind of tolerance can be withdrawn at any moment.” He pointed to a 2024 case in Anhui, where authorities conducted cross-province arrests of more than 50 writers of queer or Boy’s Love（BL）fiction, charging them with “assisting cybercrime.” For Diva, the incident is a warning: under an authoritarian regime that remains hostile toward difference, marginalized groups—women, children, queer communities—can be quietly sacrificed, just as they have been in the past.

“In Taiwan, all citizens stand on the same front line,” he said. The legalization of same-sex marriage and a growing recognition of a society where different communities can coexist are hard-won achievements. “Do what you can. Everyone’s situation is different—some come from anti-LGBTQ households, some from families sympathetic to China. The resistance you face won’t be the same.” His voice softened, tinged with sadness. “But try to do a little more for your own sake.”

Liu notes that Taiwan’s internal challenges extend far beyond partisan rivalry. “In the recall movement, the issues lacked focus. Some people framed it around resisting China, others around legislative misconduct, and still others cared primarily about the NT$10,000（US$322）cash handout proposed by the Kuomintang（KMT）. With the rise of self-media and YouTubers, cultural and public debates have become fragmented. People in different camps simply can’t talk to one another anymore.” Different platform algorithms, he added, generate their own micro-agendas, flattening information and obscuring what is actually happening on the ground.

As the recall vote concluded, many citizens turned their attention to next year’s local elections. Hsiao-Yun, an editor in the arts and cultural field, voiced her concern, “I’m deeply worried about where the situation is heading. Part of why we care about who governs is the fear that the Taiwan People’s Party（TPP）and Kuomintang（KMT）have little regard for cultivating Taiwan’s cultural values. Our democracy is still young, and many politicians have an underdeveloped understanding of what democracy requires. During this recall, we saw vote-buying and even ballots cast under the names of the deceased. These practices strike at the foundations of democracy—and many political parties don’t seem to recognize that.”

Despite the widespread disappointment, Liu hopes civil society will not lose faith. Taiwan has gone through many political pendulum swings, where variables and outcomes are difficult to foresee. What concerns him more is whether, in a society as politically attuned as Taiwan, citizens are willing to engage more deeply with cultural policy rather than rely on the simplified frames shaped by partisan agendas. “Only a mature civil society,” he said, “can truly hold the government to account.”

Voter turnout in the United States typically ranges from 50 to 60 percent, while in Taiwan it often reaches 70 to 80 percent. Liu argues that in Taiwan’s unique political environment, this high level of participation is shaped less by civic altruism than by a survival-oriented anxiety rooted in cross-strait tensions. Under such conditions, he said, the recall “became more of an emotional outlet than a process grounded in rational discussion or shared consensus.”

Despite the recall’s outcome, Liu maintains that both sweeping victories and resounding defeats should be valued as forms of democratic engagement. Such energy is what will continue to steer Taiwan toward a more mature democracy.

When the results of the Great Recall were announced on August 23, Huang Li-Chun was far from pleased.

Her home is in Taipei City’s Third Electoral District, a constituency where the Kuomintang（KMT）is rumored to be so dominant that it could elect any candidate, no matter how unqualified. Despite the fact that every election—mayoral, legislative, council, and this recall—has fallen short of her hopes, she has never once failed to show up and cast her vote.

This time, she said, felt like “losing the lottery again,” yet the collective effort behind the movement still mattered deeply to her. She agrees with analysts who believe that if tensions had not escalated toward the end—and if turnout had stayed below 50 percent—many of the recall proposals would have passed.

“So was it a failure? If we’re talking about the outcome, then yes, it didn’t succeed. But was it really that bad? I didn’t feel that way.”

Her frustration, she added, was not about the recall falling short. It was something more pragmatic: for the next three years, none of these legislators can be recalled again. “That part bothers me more than the result itself.”

Still, Huang considers her own frustration hardly worth mentioning—especially when compared with volunteers who stood on the streets day after day. Whatever she contributed, she said, pales in comparison. “My ‘movement injuries’ are nothing more than superficial bruises.”

As for how to heal—how to gather strength for the next sprint or leap—Huang believes the only path is learning to endure. As human beings, she said, we must grow accustomed to the fact that not everything succeeds, and not every effort yields the outcome we hope for. “It’s truly rare to reap exactly what you sow. It’s rare. Even people who actually farm don’t get that kind of certainty.”

She continued, “In truth, Taiwan didn’t bear a heavy social cost during its post-martial-law transition. But those costs don’t disappear—they simply surface elsewhere. In a sense, we have been paying them in installments. These repeated attempts, the failures and the small victories, all feel like part of a long installment plan. Though to be honest, I’m not sure how much longer we can keep paying.”

⁵ Taiwan’s democratization

Unlike many countries whose transitions to democracy were marked by violence or upheaval, Taiwan underwent a largely peaceful transformation after Martial Law was lifted in 1987. Under former President Lee Teng-Hui, the authoritarian system was gradually dismantled through major reforms, including the abolition of the Temporary Provisions, the end of the long-standing “permanent parliament,” and the introduction of direct presidential elections—a process often referred to as the “Quiet Revolution.” However, some scholars argue that this smooth transition came at a cost. Because the authoritarian structure was never fully confronted or examined, Taiwan has faced greater challenges in pursuing comprehensive transitional justice in the decades since.