The surreal afterlife of Chiang Kai-shek  

Forty-three kilometres outside of Taipei, Taiwan, there is a surreal place. At this place, rolling green hills meet a gentle lake. Birds chirp and butterflies flutter around families chatting at a cafe. Charming lakeside property views relax mind and body. That is, until you look across the river and see an army of stone staring back at you — hundreds of decaying statues of Taiwan’s merciless former dictator: Chiang Kai-shek, who ruled the island from 1945-1975, and whose corpse ‘temporarily’ rests in a mausoleum next door.

These Chiangs come in all shapes, sizes, personalities, and stages of life. There is grandfatherly statesman Chiang — reading to enamoured children sitting on his lap. There is Generalissimo Chiang — dressed in military garb. There is disciplinary Chiang — brows furrowed, wielding a menacing baton. There is Chiang with a hat and walking stick, Chiang with a sword, and Chiang reading from his political manifesto: China’s Destiny (中國之命運).

Grandfather of the nation Chiang - surrounded by children. Image Credits - Ruby Dalmer

 The Chiangs are organised like strange stone stage actors into various tableaus around the park. Chiangs are having conferences amongst each other everywhere. The pastel coloured Chiangs’ meeting appears relaxed and casual. The bronze ones look more serious. Further in, dozens of multicoloured Chiangs appear to form a kind of scary authoritarian choir — with three larger seated Chiangs directing them. Snails have made homes in the eyes of the grand Chiang on horseback. Spiders now live in his ears.

 This place is Cihu Memorial Sculpture Park(慈湖紀念雕塑公園). It opened in 2004 to house and showcase exiled statues of Chiang Kai-shek in the midst of Taiwan’s democratic transition. Between the 1940s and late 1980s, around 45,000 of these Chiang Kai-shek statues were erected on an island 7 times smaller than New Zealand. Such a high concentration of these personality cult sculptures were only exceeded by Lenin statues in the Soviet Union. 

Strange choir-like grouping of 'Chiangs'. Image Credit - Ruby Dalmer

These statues symbolise the battleground of memory that is transitional justice in Taiwan. Who Chiang Kai-shek was and what he represents is core to this maze. Whether he was protector or oppressor, mass-murderer or grandfather of the nation, reflects diverse memories held by people in Taiwan. What makes matters more complicated? The political party behind Chiang Kai-shek and the decades of martial law that followed still hold political power.

Cihu Park and its uncanny army of stone ghosts is an interesting symbol of a place in the midst of one of the world’s more unique transitional justice efforts. In this story, I’ll analyse the history, conflict, and modern significance of this strange place, using it as an entry point for grasping the complexity of Taiwan’s young democratic identity.

Who was Chiang Kai-shek?

To make sense of this sculpture park, we need to go back in time — to understand Taiwan’s complicated political history and cultural identity. 

Over 80% of Taiwan’s population are what is referred to as benshengren (本省人) — sometimes called ‘native Taiwanese’ or ‘rooted’ people. These people are ethnically Chinese Hoklo and Hakka settlers who began migration from Southern China in the seventeenth century. Importantly however, they are not Taiwan’s original inhabitants. Taiwan’s indigenous people had already been living on the island for thousands of years.

From first colonial contact, control of Taiwan oscillated between four major external regimes. Taiwan then experienced another 50 years of Japanese colonisation — who controlled Taiwan for 50 years, from 1895-1945. All these changes led to the formation of distinct ethnic identities. 

When Japan lost the war in 1945, administration of Taiwan was re-assigned to The Republic of China — controlled by the nationalist Kuomintang (KMT) and headed by Chiang Kai-shek. By 1947, the Chinese Civil War between the nationalists and the communists was raging, and Chiang was losing. The decision was made to retreat to Taiwan — as a ‘temporary’ measure designed to gather strength to eventually “retake the mainland”. Between 1.2 and 2 million people retreated with the KMT in a two year period.

 This mass migration and new regime radically altered life in Taiwan. Benshengren (本省人) were particularly discriminated against by the new, flailing government — their perceived Japanese-ness viewed as a reason for distrust. On February 28, 1947, a native Taiwanese uprising began against the KMT regime, triggered by the brutal beating by KMT soldiers of a local widow selling contraband cigarettes.  

This uprising, now known as the 228 incident, was met with crushing violence against the Taiwanese. In the ensuing weeks, countless people were disappeared and executed, with their bodies grotesquely discarded in Keelung river — where stricken wives would frequent, searching for missing husbands.

 228 set off a chain of events which resulted in one of the longest martial law periods in the world — 38 years. During this time, known as The White Terror, as many as 140,000 people were imprisoned, accused of being communist spies, or critical of the government in any small way. Another 3,000-4,000 were executed. These brutalities were supported by the Cold War American-led anti-communist strategy of containment in East Asia.

 Chiang Kai-shek was the face of this violence. His iron fisted rule was traumatic for native Taiwanese, Indigenous peoples, and KMT-era mainland migrants alike. On the world stage however, he was the leader of “free China”, as Taiwan was known. He contained Japanese imperial ambitions during the Second World War and had a seat at the table next to Churchill, Roosevelt, and Stalin. He prevented Taiwan from further outside attacks and achieved massive economic growth for the island.

Half destroyed statue reassembled - this one is the biggest of the park's collection. Image Credits - Ruby Dalmer

Personality cult enshrined in stone

Engineering a god-like image of Chiang Kai-shek was key to his grip on power. In authoritarian societies, god-like symbols of the leader help encourage identification with the national project.

The 45,000 Chiang Kai-shek statues were dotted around Taiwan — in schools, prisons, universities, parks, tourist spots, and public spaces of all kinds. Beyond this, around 300 roads, 60 schools and dozens of localities were named after Chiang. Even Taiwan’s Taoyuan Airport was previously known as Chiang Kai-shek International Airport, from 1979-2006.

Chiang’s death and Cihu’s significance

In 1975, Chiang Kai-shek died of a heart attack at the age of 87. His body was interred in a black marble sarcophagus in Cihu, Daxi — designed to temporarily preserve his body until it could be permanently buried in his hometown in Zhejiang Province, China. His order was to move him “once the rest of China is freed”.

 But why was Cihu chosen? Since 1949, Chiang focused on turning Taiwan into an impenetrable military base — for his planned retake of the mainland that never arrived. In the 1950s, a native Taiwanese landlord donated some of his land in Daxi Township to the Kuomintang military. The army built a militarily fortified holiday home for the Generalissimo — said to be the favourite of his 13 official residences in Taiwan.  

The dictator enjoyed the peace and quiet of riverside strolls and surrounding natural beauty, which reminded him of his hometown in China. He spent much of his leisure time at Cihu. The entire area was actually renamed “Cihu” to honour Chiang’s late mother — ci meaning “motherly love” and hu meaning “lake” in Mandarin. In 1975, the Cihu property was converted into Chiang Kai-shek’s “temporary” mausoleum.

Taiwan’s democratic growing pains 

On July 15, 1987, Chiang Ching-kuo, the son of Chiang Kai-shek, announced the lifting of martial law in Taiwan. This ushered in a new era — Taiwan’s peaceful transition from authoritarianism to democracy. 

 In the three decades since, Taiwan’s democratic identity has evolved alongside statue removal scandals. These statues have become a kind of democratic growing pain for Taiwan, a complex symbol of transition — both its democratic transition and its pursuit of transitional justice.

 In 1996, Taiwan held its first presidential election, won by the ruling KMT party. By 2000, a new party: the Democratic Progressive Party (DPP) won the presidency, marking the end of 55 years of single-party nationalist rule. What came after was eight years of DPP rule under Chen Shui-bian. This was a major turning point in Taiwan’s democratic story, and its statue politics.

This new era provided breathing space to reflect on the brutalities of Taiwan’s recent past. The question became how to deal responsibly with the legacy of Chiang Kai-shek and his dictatorial regime. The 228 incident and horrors of the White Terror Period were extreme taboos in Taiwan — events almost sworn to secrecy. A desire to demystify this history was emerging. 

Chiang's political manifesto - China’s Destiny - (中國之命運). Image Credits - Ruby Dalmer

De-Chiang Kai-shek-ification

The newly-elected DPP called for the systematic dismantling of Chiang Kai-shek’s god-like image. Taylor (2010), calls this process “de-Chiang Kai-shek-ification”.

 Apart from removing statues, this also included renaming streets, parks, cancelling holidays in memory of Chiang’s birthday and death, taking down portraits, reworking bank notes, and opening Chiang’s memorial sites, mausoleum, and private residences for public access.

In 2006, Chiang Kai-shek International Airport was renamed. For a brief time, the iconic Taipei landmark: Chiang Kai-shek Memorial Hall, was even successfully renamed The National Taiwan Democracy Memorial Hall.

But these initiatives were frequently stunted and abandoned — becoming as controversial as the man himself. 

Political footballing

The efficacy of this de-Chiang Kai-shek-ification was largely limited due to Taiwan’s political polarisation over the issues of transitional justice and inability to find consensus on how to deal with white terror history. 

 From the beginning, the KMT accused the DPP’s transitional justice policies of promoting a national “identity crisis” — weaponising traumatic history for their own political gains. De-chiang-ification was described as a witch hunt. In 2008, after the KMT retook the presidency — statue removals came to a grinding halt.

 In 2016, after the DPP won again, they pursued a softer approach to transitional justice. Their major gain was in 2018, with the establishment of the Transitional Justice Committee — designed to investigate all political repression and human rights abuses during the white terror period. In 2022, the government offered grants of up to 100,000 New Taiwan Dollars to local authorities to remove or change “authoritarian symbols”.

In the reopening of these historic wounds — removing symbols, and seeking apologies and compensations, many Taiwanese accused both parties of politicising this emotional issue. In Sydney Yueh and Dominic Yang’s account, it seems both parties are projecting “their own interpretations of history onto public memory”.

Nature taking over - huge spider suspended between two Chiang statues. Image Credits - Ruby Dalmer

Statue vandals or political protesters?

The remaining Chiang Kai-shek statues have become the front lines on which the battle for historical memory is fought.

Since the 1990s, Chiang statues have been targets of political protest/vandalism — depending on political perspective. In March 2003, a Chiang statue at National Central University was beheaded. In 2012, a statue at National Sun Yat-Sen University was humiliated with clown graffiti. In 2018, the statue was removed completely.

In 2019, a horse leg was sawed off a Chiang-on-horseback statue at National Chengchi University. The amputated leg was spray painted red — symbolising the blood of white terror victims. On the anniversary of 228 the previous year, red paint had again been used to protest a Chiang statue — this time at National Cheng Kung University. This one was covered in incense papers — burned as an offering to the dead.

In public parks too, statues were lathered in paint, smashed, beheaded, and attacked by a barrage of eggs, balloons, and water. In 2018, independence activists broke into Chiang’s Cihu mausoleum — throwing paint at the sarcophagus. The mausoleum at Cihu has been closed to the public ever since.

Each attack made waves in the media — sparking strong reactions from both sides. As the protests became more frequent, and increased in their creativity severity, the costs associated with nursing the Chiang statues back to health became unsustainable. A 2017 estimate from the Keelung City Government puts that cost at NZD$5,000 for one statue. 

A picturesque tree-lined path with Chiang busts guiding the way. Image Credits - Ruby Dalmer

The birth of the sculpture park

As the statue scandals mounted, the KMT-stronghold of Daxi township saw an opportunity. Instead of seeing statues of their former leader destroyed or removed for good, they proposed housing many of them at Cihu, next to Chiang’s mausoleum — even offering free transportation to relocate them to the town.

The proposal was enthusiastically supported by the Taoyuan County government, sensing a tourism opportunity in the form of a “cultural theme park”. This theme park would become Cihu’s sculpture park.

In 2000, officials started planning for the opening of this cultural theme park, with the reported dual goals of improving regional tourism and honouring Taiwan's cultural heritage. On April 5, 2008, the park was opened to the public.

What does the park represent?

18 years after its official opening, Cihu Memorial Sculpture Park is a strange place to visit. It has minimal signage explaining the significance of Chiang Kai-shek as a historical figure, let alone any information about his human rights abuses or voices of his victims.

All the visitor is left to work with is these towering sculptures — appearing more like a surrealist art exhibition than real history. The stone figures feel almost divorced from the person and crimes they represent.

Some argue the park tackles transitional justice objectives well. It balances the need to remove authoritarian symbols from public life, while preserving the history they fear demolition would erase. They’ve literally put Chiang Kai-shek out to pasture — for good. In this assessment, the lack of signage could be seen as a feature of the park — inviting space for people to develop diverse interpretations.

But the park is no nuanced presentation of a complicated man and his complicated legacy. It’s a collection of nearly 300 stone statues intentionally designed to elevate him to god-like status — a past consent-building necessity for an authoritarian regime with blood on its hands.

The architects behind it are also unashamedly transparent about their feelings towards Chiang. The committee overseeing the project were all KMT supporters or active members. According to the official Taoyuan City Government website, the park’s purpose is to let “tourists from around the world remember the past glorious feats of Chiang Kai-shek”.

Beyond this, in front of the sculpture park’s administrative building sit two newly built Chiang statues. These statues are cartoon-ified cutesie anime versions of Chiang Kai-shek and his son, Chiang Ching-kuo. Their bobbleheads sport cheesy grins from ear to ear as they hold up peace signs.

The park’s administration also had to be stopped from launching a line of cute-ified Chiang merchandise. Music festivals and laser light show performances have been hosted in the park too, trying to market it as a lively tourist experience.

 In these repeated choices, the room for interpretation grows smaller and smaller.

Shot from across the river coming into the park - first glance at the weird army. Image Credits - Ruby Dalmer

The peculiarity of transitional justice in Taiwan

The surreality of Cihu sculpture park is a fitting symbol for Taiwan’s broader transitional justice movement.

As Thomas J. Shattuck’s research notes, the continued influence of the KMT in Taiwan poses a unique obstacle that other countries undergoing transitional justice processes do not. They have consistently opposed transitional justice efforts, even nicknaming the DPP’s Transitional Justice Committee the “Green Terror”.

As Samuel Huntington explores in his work on third wave democratisation, when democratic reform is initiated top-down, with collaboration by the authoritarian regime, the status-quo is more likely to retain power post-transition.

Natieh Wu’s 2005 research echoes these ideas. She identifies the main point of difference in Taiwan’s story to be its ahistorical orientation. Taiwan has emphasised victim compensation over legal accountability for perpetrators. Wu describes the situation as “ten thousand victims with no single perpetrator”.

These limitations are reflected in the decision by Taiwanese legislators not to give the Transitional Justice Commission the power to indict perpetrators, in order to prevent further social division.

A significant portion of society still believes any act of statue removal insults the valuable contributions of Chiang Kai-shek to Taiwan. Another faction views these authoritarian symbols as oppressive ghosts of the past that should be put to bed. Others think it’s all a political point scoring contest.

One of the few information plaques. Image Credits - Ruby Dalmer

Cihu's legacy

The story of Cihu sculpture park helps illustrate the complex role of Taiwan’s recent past in its democratic present. Reconciliation has been slow, controversial, and frequently stalled.

But transitional justice is never seamless and immediate. It may take years of negotiation to find common ground in these collective memory wars. Compromises on both sides can cause further hurt — not fully satisfying either side's expectations. But Taiwan has shown patience and persistence. 

The question of statue removal is just a stand in for wider conflicts over historical memory. Removing or keeping a statue is not by itself responsible for healing past and present injustice. It is the conversations, negotiations, and relationships formed across these dividing lines which offer Taiwan’s best hope for collective healing. 

Until then, we get strange byproducts of a present spiritually divorced from its recent past — like Cihu sculpture park. And it isn’t just Cihu. In Taipei City, a memorial to White Terror victims was built in a corner of “Long Live Chiang Kai-shek Park”. It is a paradoxical celebration of both Chiang Kai-shek and his many victims. These delightfully odd paradoxes embody Taiwan at its current historical moment. Seriously considering their social role is also an important part of this collective healing.

-Asia Media Centre

Banner Image - These seated statues feel like the bizarre choir leaders. Image Credits - Ruby Dalmer

More photos (All credited to Ruby Dalmer)

A deeply awkward lunch table set up.

Two new cartoonish Chiang statues -- of CKS and his son, Chiang Ching-Kuo.

Menacing Chiang weilding a baton - this one was located outside a court house.

This statue has seen better days.