Nestled in southern Taiwan, Kaohsiung County (now part of Greater Kaohsiung) is a fascinating blend of indigenous heritage, colonial influences, and contemporary Taiwanese identity. Its cultural landscape offers a unique lens through which to examine the broader geopolitical tensions between Taiwan and China, especially as global attention focuses on the island’s sovereignty and soft power.
The Makatao and Siraya indigenous tribes were among the earliest inhabitants of the region, leaving behind a legacy of rituals, oral traditions, and ecological wisdom. Today, their vibrant festivals, like the annual harvest ceremonies, attract both locals and international tourists. Meanwhile, the Hakka community—migrants from mainland China centuries ago—adds another layer with its distinctive cuisine (think lei cha or "pounded tea") and dialect. These cultural threads highlight Taiwan’s multiculturalism, a stark contrast to Beijing’s homogenizing "One China" narrative.
Kaohsiung’s temples, such as the iconic Lotus Pond’s Dragon and Tiger Pagodas, are more than spiritual hubs—they’re sites of subtle resistance. Many temples honor deities like Mazu, whose worship spans Fujian province and Taiwan, symbolizing shared cultural roots. Yet, the Taiwanese government’s recent efforts to register temples as "Taiwanese heritage" (not "Chinese") have sparked debates. This mirrors the larger tension: Is Taiwanese culture a subset of China’s, or a distinct entity?
The month-long Zhongyuan Pudu (Ghost Festival) transforms Kaohsiung’s streets into a spectacle of paper offerings and theatrical performances. Ironically, this tradition, rooted in Taoist and Buddhist practices from mainland China, has become a marker of Taiwanese identity. In 2023, Kaohsiung’s government even livestreamed the rituals to a global audience, framing it as "Taiwan’s intangible cultural heritage"—a move seen as a soft-power counter to China’s claims.
As one of the world’s busiest ports, Kaohsiung’s docks are economic lifelines—and political leverage. China’s embargoes on Taiwanese goods often target Kaohsiung’s exports, like petrochemicals and semiconductors. Meanwhile, Taiwan’s "New Southbound Policy" has redirected trade to Southeast Asia, reducing reliance on China. The port’s murals, depicting Taiwanese folklore rather than Chinese motifs, quietly reinforce this shift.
Kaohsiung’s industrial past left scars: air pollution, contaminated rivers, and a reputation as Taiwan’s "cancer alley." Recent grassroots movements, led by groups like Kaohsiung Love Earth Association, demand green energy transitions. Their success in shutting down coal plants resonates globally, coinciding with COP28 debates on climate justice. Notably, these activists avoid framing their cause as "anti-China," focusing instead on local agency—a savvy move in a polarized discourse.
From the 1990s, Kaohsiung-born artists like A-mei (Zhang Huimei) fused indigenous melodies with Mandopop, creating a sound that dominates Asian charts. China’s censorship of A-mei—for performing at Taiwan’s presidential inauguration—reveals how culture gets weaponized. Yet, Kaohsiung’s indie bands now collaborate with Korean and Japanese producers, bypassing China’s market entirely.
Kaohsiung’s film industry, buoyed by tax incentives, produced movies like The Soul of Kaohsiung (2022), a thriller critiquing urban decay. When China banned it for "negative portrayals," the film gained cult status on Netflix. Such narratives complicate Beijing’s portrayal of Taiwan as a "renegade province," instead showcasing its creative autonomy.
Liuhe Night Market’s oyster omelets and milkfish soups are Instagram staples. But when Michelin awarded stars to Kaohsiung eateries in 2023, China’s state media insisted the guide "recognized Chinese cuisine." Chefs responded by highlighting local ingredients like Pingtung mangoes—subtly asserting Taiwan’s agricultural independence.
In 2021, China banned Taiwanese pineapples, targeting Kaohsiung farmers. The backlash? A viral #FreedomPineapple campaign, with Japan and the U.S. buying record shipments. Kaohsiung’s bakeries rebranded the fruit as "Taiwan’s golden pride," turning a trade dispute into a cultural meme.
As Kaohsiung’s mayor pushes for UNESCO recognition of its historic salt fields, China pressures U.N. agencies to block Taiwan’s participation. Yet, the county’s youth are redefining identity—through LGBTQ+ pride parades (Taiwan’s first gay marriage law passed in 2019) and tech startups that partner with Silicon Valley, not Shenzhen.
The world watches as Kaohsiung, like Taiwan itself, navigates a precarious balance: preserving its unique culture while resisting absorption into China’s orbit. Its story is a microcosm of democracy’s resilience—and a reminder that culture, no matter how ancient, is always evolving.