Seeing the human bridge between Fujian, Taiwan

I first visited Taiwan eight years ago. As those memories gradually blurred with time, the opportunity to cover stories about the island once again refreshed my impressions of the place and its people.

Despite shifts in the political landscape and increasingly stringent restrictions on cross-Strait exchanges, the people in Taiwan whom I've met during events and travels on the mainland remained warm and endearing.

Last year, I was assigned to cover a tour of Taiwan people retracing their family roots in Fujian province, the mainland region closest to the island and the ancestral homeland of many Taiwan families.

On this trip, my role was more that of an observer than a participant. Yet the visitors from Taiwan, most of whom were second-generation migrants from Fujian province in their 50s and 60s, welcomed me as part of their group and openly shared their life stories.

"You are just like our daughter. We should take care of you," they told me. I had not expected such natural trust to form in such a short time. Their warmth suddenly made sense as I recalled my earlier visit to Taiwan, where many residents struck me as talkative and outgoing.

The one moment that reminded me I was still an outsider came through language. During the tour, the local guide from Fujian occasionally spoke Hokkien, the dialect of southern Fujian and Taiwan.

When the guide spoke about her hometown, Quanzhou, one traveler from Taiwan excitedly said that he, too, was from Quanzhou. Their conversation naturally shifted into the dialect, leaving me as the only one in need of translation, as I knew little of the dialect.

Though unable to follow their exchange, I was glad to be there to quietly witness that moment of shared joy. Visiting ancestral homes and meeting clan relatives, experiences taken for granted in other parts of China, have become deeply precious for people in Taiwan.

Although I have not been to Taiwan since 2018, I could still sense the political influence through the heightened vigilance of the people I met and interviewed, as the Taiwan authorities attempt to restrict cross-Strait exchanges and erase Chinese cultural elements.

While many Taiwan people were open to casual conversation, they would politely decline formal interviews, fearing possible repercussions after returning to the island. Their natural friendliness often gave way to caution once recording began.

After seeing online attacks against those who spoke positively about the mainland, I came to understand their worries and fears.

When the local guide and the Taiwan traveler spoke in Hokkien, I chose not to record or request an interview. I thought it was more important to let genuine emotion flow undisturbed.

Still, some people from Taiwan, including students, scholars, businesspeople and artists, have chosen to speak in front of cameras. My appreciation for them has turned into respect as I realized how much courage lies behind what might appear to be simple quotes or short stories.

In their eyes was a determination to act as a bridge between the two sides under the current circumstances, which words fail to capture.