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Taiwan's Chen Shui-Bian: A President's
Progress
By Harvey Sicherman
Foreign Policy Research Institute, May 11,
2001
Throughout
the recent tensions in US-PRC relations, the government of Chen Shui-bian on
Taiwan has been notably quiet. Taipei did not rejoice over frictions
following the airplane accident nor did it press hard for the Aegis-class cruiser
sale as a fitting riposte to Beijing. These actions muted potential U.S.
congressional unhappiness with the equipment eventually offered by the Bush
Administration, for which the President is undoubtedly grateful. Nor did
Taipei exult in George W. Bush's assertions about coming to the defense of Taiwan;
its spokesman also stayed clear of comment on subsequent American reformulations.
The island has thus come through the scrapping with its dignity intact.
A year ago, not many observers would have predicted that President Chen could
act with such dexterity. Upon his election most predicted both a domestic and
international crisis. Chen had won only 39 per cent of the vote in a new and
untried democratic system with the legislature still dominated by the
opposition. (The KMT candidate, Lien Chan, won 23 percent, and the former KMT
leader, James Soong, took 36.8 percent.) How could he govern? As for the island's
delicate international status, Chen's Democratic People's Party (DPP) was
known to favor a Taiwan formally independent of China which, if carried out,
promised a violent reaction from Beijing and, conceivably, a U.S.-PRC military
confrontation. How could he chart a course that avoided war?
A year later, we have the answers. Chen has managed to surmount important domestic
obstacles at considerable cost to his party's platform. And he has also maneuvered
successfully on the international stage although not yet to the point of
constructive contact with Beijing. Thereby hangs a tale of a President's
progress.
COHABITATION
Taiwan's young democracy operates through a mixed presidential-parliamentary system
similar to that of Gaullist France. The voters elect a president for fixed terms
separate from the legislature, and he appoints a Prime Minister who may be turned
out of office if he fails a parliamentary vote of confidence, which then
triggers a new election. The legislative deals primarily with domestic issues,
and the president retains special powers in the defense and foreign policy
areas.
The Taiwanese
system was designed specifically by itsrchitect, former President Lee Teng-hui,
to provide stability. In his view, parliamentary democracy relied too heavily
on the coherence of one party to work; Taiwan's situation demanded that the leadership
come from the broadest base, i.e., an official elected by all the people who
could rise above party considerations. Lee apparently feared that the
KMT-dominated system might go the way of Japan's LDP, whose long-standing internal
incoherence has contributed to that country's decade-long stagnation.
Whatever Lee's expectations, the split of the KMT and the opposing candidates
of Lien Chan and James Soong allowed the most unexpected result in the
presidential poll held on March 18, 2000: the victory of the DPP candidate
Chen Sui-bian with 39% of the vote. Thus, at the very early stages of the new
system, the Taiwanese election had produced a President without a majority either
in the popular vote or the parliament.
Moreover, this was a president from a party that advocated a "Taiwanese
Taiwan," a referendum on independence from China, a "green island"
that did away with nuclear power, and an all-out assault on crime and
corruption in politics. Chen's election, coming as it did after severe warnings
from Beijing about the dangers of the DPP, also put the U.S. and PRC on the
spot. Beijing and Washington were still working through the negotiation over the
WTO and neither wanted a Taiwanese disturbance.
A veteran opposition politician and former Mayor of Taipei City, Chen himself
seems to have understood his peril. He began by creating a coalition government;
the prime minister, and the defense and foreign ministers were all distinguished
KMT men. Chen thus avoided a potential "two Taiwans" problem that
might have resulted from an attempt to govern based on the DPP alone. He had
established what the French call "cohabitation" -- a President who
lives with a dominant opposition in the legislature.
ONE "IF" AND FIVE "NOS"
Doing this, of course also meant that Chen had signed onto the KMT's policy
toward the Mainland. But which policy? The traditional version of the unification
guidelines or Lee's "two states" approach that had jangled nerves
the previous year? On May 20, 2000, Chen answered this question in a inaugural
address that demonstrated his mastery of the convoluted theology characteristic
of the cross-strait dialogue. He was president of all the people and
therefore took his own "rule on the basis of majority opinion" --
at that point clearly favoring the status quo in relations with the Mainland.
Chen emphasized that Taiwan had developed differently from China but shared culture
and history, including a history of colonial oppression. He then advanced what
may be called the "one if and five nos." If the PRC "has no
intention to use military force against Taiwan" then Taiwan will retain the
status quo: no declaration of independence, no change in national title
(Republic of China on Taiwan), no change of constitution, no referendum on independence,
no abolition of the Guidelines for National Unification. Having thus
repudiated both the DPP platform and Lee Teng Hui's two-state approach, Chen
added his own metaphysical variant "...we believe that the leaders on
both sides possess enough wisdom and creativity to jointly deal with the
question of a future "one China."
This approach allowed Washington a sense of relief but not Beijing. The PRC
was determined not to do business with the new man, or at least not until he
reaffirmed the "One China" principle in Beijing's version of the
1992 compromise that allowed each party to bring its own definition to the
table. Chen tried again on June 25, 2000 declaring more clearly that
"one China" was not just a question but a principle upheld by both
sides, yet each with a different meaning. Surprisingly, this went nowhere
with Beijing.
Perhaps Chen had acted too soon; perhaps Jiang Zemin and his colleagues had decided
to wait him out, not sure he would survive. By this time, Chen had deviated
too far from his base. After a sharp reaction from the DPP, he redefined his position
back toward the earlier question mark.
CONFLICT AT HOME
At the outset then, Chen had maneuvered successfully to spare everyone a
cross-strait crisis. But that did not change the facts of domestic political
life. His KMT Prime Minister could not be expected to advance a DPP domestic policy;
the DPP itself lacked the parliamentary votes to pass it; and Chen faced strong
party resentment over cohabitation. Chen spent the better part of his first
summer tangled in these coils, allowing the KMT in the legislature to
coalesce after the shock of the loss of the presidency.
Chen was soon embarrassed. A combination of a slowing high-tech international
economy and shaken investor confidence dropped Taiwan's growth well below
expectations, depressing a nervous stock exchange by 40 percent. The
President then found himself in the hardest of places. His KMT prime minister,
Tang Fei, was ailing and had already tried to resign; his opportunity came on
the issue of completing the island's fourth nuclear power plant. This was the
last outstanding item on the DPP agenda that had not been sacrificed to cohabitation.
On October 4, 2000, Chen approved a DPP man, Chang Chun-hsi in his stead.
The row over the nuclear plant struck deep political chords on both sides.
For the KMT, this was a showcase project already well on its way;
cancellation would be an act of bad faith, harming both the island's international
financial reputation and industry's need for power. For the DPP, the gigantic
undertaking symbolized the despoliation of the environment for commercial reasons
closely tied to the tainted KMT.
On October 27, Chen incensed the legislature when the Cabinet cancelled the
$5.5 billion plant through executive action. This was compounded by bad
timing: the announcement came only minutes after a conciliatory session with Lien
Chan, head of the KMT, who emerged apparently believing that his advice to
postpone any decision had been agreed by the President. (Lien had also offered
a deal whereby the older three plants would be closed before their end of
service dates in return for building the fourth.) A tumultuous three days later,
Chen signalled his readiness to see the Legislature countermand the order but
it was too late. On October 31, the KMT, Soong's People First Party, and the
New Party (also dissidents from the KMT) announced a motion to recall the president,
which, if passed, would trigger a
referendum.
THE COURT ACTS AND THE PRESIDENT REACTS
Chen appeared a goner, his only way out to accept a coalition offer from the
KMT, which would have deprived him of control over foreign policy. Yet the
legislative process for his removal aroused considerable opposition: it
looked like a constitutional coup, the public did not much care for it, and the
stock market crashed in anticipation. Into this melee stepped the Council of
Grand Justices, who had been asked to rule whether the Cabinet's move on the
power plant was constitutional. Undoubtedly, a judicial decision to that effect
would have given a recall motion the most serious significance. But on
January 15, 2001, the Council decided otherwise. According to the Justices,
the Cabinet indeed lacked the power to cancel on its own: "The Legislature
should make the final decision on the issue." Then the Justices scolded both
the Executive and the lawmakers for procedural violations -- not constitutional
-- and in so doing allowed the sides to begin again. With some understatement,
Vice Premier Lai In-jaw commented that the Executive "respects and
accepts the decision with pleasure."
Chen -- and Taiwan -- had thus escaped a huge constitutional crisis. The President
himself could now tell his party that he had done his best; he was free of a
political obligation that could not be legally executed. A month later on February
13, 2001, Premier Chang and Legislative speaker Weng Jin-pyng agreed upon a
resumption of the power plant's construction.
The entire episode had cut too close to the bone. The DPP government's bold cancellation
had boomeranged, ending with the humiliation of both Chen and the party; the
KMT's plans for recall proved deeply unpopular; the behavior of both was likely
to affect the end-of-year legislative elections. Yet the center, in this case,
the Supreme Court, had held onto common sense and the constitution.
In early March, following a badly handled oil spill off southern Taiwan, Premier
Chang reordered the Cabinet, taking on several university technocrats. Most
significantly, he appointed a leading New Party politician, Hai Lui-pin, to the
sensitive job of Environmental Protection Administration. The New Party, a
splinter of the KMT, urges unification with China; not a great vote-getter, it
was founded to oppose Lee Teng-hui, who had sent it to the margins not long
after his election in 1996. Chang, no doubt with Chen's approval, had given
the New Party a potent issue on which to recover their waning political
fortunes while simultaneously signalling to Beijing that the DPP-run government
has room in it for an out and out pro-unification figure. This continues the
coalition-forming trend following the nuclear plant fiasco, in a political
system clearly in the throes of major party realignments.
A PRESIDENT'S PROGRESS
Chen took the occasion of his New Year's address to acknowledge that "the
new government has still been unable to function as effectively as it should.
Therefore, I must examine myself, and I am willing to humbly learn." He
then directly appealed for a more cooperative approach and a search for consensus
that surely reflected the widespread public dislike of the partisan warfare
of the previous six months.
This sense of new-found realism provided the background for yet another rhetorical
assay on cross-strait relations. In his speech, Chen reprised earlier themes,
including the
"question of a future one China" but then offered something new:
"The integration of our economies, trade, and culture can be a starting point
for gradually building faith and confidence in each other. This, in turn, can
be the basis for a new framework of permanent peace and political integration."
Chen thus appeared to commit himself as
clearly as any of his predecessors to the goal of "one China" in
the sense of an integrated political future.
The follow-up to these declarations has been modest enough. Early in January,
Taiwan authorized "three small links" (direct trade,
communications, and travel) between two small islands and the Chinese mainland.
Chen joined the KMT Vice Chairman and former Premier Vincent Siew on March 26
in calling for a cross-strait common market -- a project Siew had been promoting
through a foundation supported by major Taiwanese industrialists. And in a
comparison that echoed his predecessor's fondness for European precedents, Chen
invoked the European Union as a "valuable reference" for the future.
After a difficult start, Chen now seems to have found a course of action that
corresponds not only to the underlying political consensus on the island but also
enables him to work together with major factions of the KMT. He has begun to
flesh out the promise of his inaugural speech: for Taiwan, the future holds
neither the dangerous leap into the dark of the DPP's independence nor the politically
problematic "two states" of Lee Teng-hui. Chen's European reference
point -- unlike Lee -- is not the two Germanies but the European Union. His method
will be to advance economic integration and cultural exchange as a surrogate for
some sort of political integration, the content of which remains to be
negotiated.
Chen's "new" middle course fits well the contours of Taiwanese
politics and the economic portents. Under WTO, the "three small links"
will become bigger. And the Taiwanese voter seems instinctively to understand
that a dialogue of some sort with the PRC is necessary for the health of
cross-strait relations and to ease difficulties between Beijing and
Washington.
But will this strategy find a partner in Jiang Zemin?
BEIJING'S COURT
The PRC's record of misunderstanding Taiwanese politics is most impressive. Twice
Beijing has instructed the island's voters to reject a candidate, and twice
the voters have rejected the advice. In Lee's case, the PRC resorted to pressure
on Washington to bring him to heel and the last year of his presidency brought
little in the way of progress. In Chen's case, Beijing warmed to direct
contacts with the opposition KMT over the past year, possibly in the belief
that the DPP government would self-destruct. But the near constitutional crisis
over the power plant is over; Chen has learned; coalition politics are the
only politics that can be made to work.
Overshadowing the newly found stability on the island is the new friction of
U.S.-PRC relations following the aircraft incident. That Chen has worked to avoid
an aggravation of this bruising first encounter between Beijing and the Bush Administration
suggests his commitment to his new course, which can only succeed if his
greatest antagonist and most important ally have a constructive relationship.
In Beijing, Jiang Zemin has presided over the joining of both Hong Kong and Macao
to a "one China" with several different systems. Recent signals suggest
that within the
usual theological frameworks, the PRC's insistence on a single definition for
the "one China" of the future may be softening into something ambiguous
enough to allow a resumption of relations on the basis of the 1992 understanding.
Taking one step forward by looking two or three steps backward may not be the
simplest way but it appears to be the only way forward.
To sum up: after a very difficult first year, President Chen Shui-bian is poised
to go beyond domestic paralysis and the international status quo. His immediate
relations with Washington are good; he has accepted and understood that he needs
a coalition with his political adversaries; and he has positioned himself on
cross-strait policy to take the new middle course, reflecting an underlying
consensus on the island. No one can say whether this is enough for Beijing to
make Chen a negotiating partner. But surely the ball is now firmly lodged in
the PRC court.
Harvey
Sicherman, Ph.D., is President of the Foreign Policy esearch Institute and a former
aide to three U.S. secretaries of state.
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