Asia Pacific Observatory – Humanities for the Environment

Article, Event

Reflections on the 2022 International Conference on Food Futures

Reflection on the Conference

This essay was inspired by the 2022 International Conference on Food Futures, held between August 31 and September 7 at the National Taiwan Science Education Center in Taipei. The Conference was the most recent annual meeting of the Humanities for the Environment (HfE) Global Network of Observatories[1], which is a “global organization of observatories working together to mobilize the arts and humanities,” with the goal of “address[ing] social and environmental challenges in civil society and academic life”. There are currently eight observatories in this global network (Asia Pacific, Africa, Australia Pacific, Circumpolar, East Asia, European, North America, and Latin America). The directors of these observatories gathered in this event to discuss not only global partnerships and solidarity, but also how to build a global network while collaborating with local communities.

The conference examined a wide array of issues surrounding food sovereignty, land and sea rights, legacies of colonization and slavery, dispossession, food insecurities, etc. It featured pre-conference workshops, keynote and plenary speeches, roundtables, panels, and post-conference field trips. These seven days of rich conference program brought together scholars from Africa, the Americas, Australia, Europe, the Pacific Islands, and Taiwan to discuss food and food systems from humanities-led perspectives while also incorporating insights from natural and social sciences, societal engagement, and global intervention. The conference invited attendees to envision and put into practice an interdisciplinary approach to investigating and taking on the challenge of food sovereignty and food justice.

"These seven days of rich conference program brought together scholars from Africa, the Americas, Australia, Europe, the Pacific Islands, and Taiwan to discuss food and food systems from humanities-led perspectives..."

Issues of agriculture and farming were thereby as important as food preparation and experiences of tasting and eating. Accounts and analyses from high-income, Western, and large societies were complemented and contrasted with those of low-income, non-Western, and small societies/communities. In addition, the perspectives from academia were complemented with the perspectives from the lived experience of Indigenous, local, and other knowledge systems and traditions. This is one reason why the walking workshops, the Indigenous food experience, and the post-conference field trips were invaluable elements of this conference.

In the remainder of this essay, we will first reflect on the keynote and plenary speeches[2] by Joni Adamson, Steven Hartman, and Poul Holm. This is followed by a general reflection on the role of the humanities in addressing the topic of food. Finally, we reflect on the philosophy of the Tao writer, activist, and scholar Syaman Rapongan.

Keynote and Plenary Speeches

The first keynote speech by Adamson was titled “Confronting Syndemic: Indigenous Scientific Literacies, Food Sovereignty, and the Literature of Intergenerational Justice.” In her talk, Adamson foregrounded the ideas of food and intergenerational justice. She offered inspiration for thinking more deeply about how academics can work with local and/or Indigenous communities to combat syndemics like Covid-19 and diabetes. In this time of severe global challenges, the value of the humanities lies in its constant problematizing of pertinent issues to probe the intricate relationships and the enduring quest for equality and justice. Providing examples of the projects administered by the Observatories of the Humanities for the Environment Global Network, Adamson examined how the humanities not only contribute but are well positioned to lead sustainability science and thereby ensure positive influence at both the global and local scales. Literary study, as Adamson demonstrated in her talk, becomes a force in food and intergenerational justice that cannot be ignored. Adamson ended her talk by proposing that we should build “humanities-led communities of purpose.” This kind of community takes “knowledge achieved or promoted through…interdisciplinary engagements” and mobilizes it for “genuine transformative change”[3]. Through conversations with scholars from different disciplines as well as local/Indigenous communities at the conference, participants were inspired to think profoundly about how scholars from the humanities can help engender these “genuine transformative changes.”

The idea of a “community of purpose” was also discussed by Steven Hartman in his plenary talk titled “Future Challenges of Food and the Humanities: Mobilizing New Communities of Purpose.” In the talk, Hartman highlighted examples from projects run by different observatories to discuss how humanities-led communities of purpose can push the limits of the United Nations’ Sustainable Development Goals. Hartman suggested the conference as a place where new communities of purpose can be developed in which humanists of different disciplines come together to think about food-related issues and practices. A case in point was the scholars of gender, racial, and Indigenous studies who contributed to investigations of food futures from their distinct perspectives. Following this, the question is, how can feminists, activists, and practitioners be brought together to form new communities of purpose? What will these communities look like? What “genuine transformative changes” can be achieved through these communities? These were some of the salient questions emerging from the conference.

Poul Holm’s keynote speech was titled “FoodSmart Cities: A Framework for Sustainable Seafood,” in which a central proposition was the idea of consuming seafood from lower trophic levels. This can be promoted by rediscovering historical cultural practices through participatory and inclusive community-based work and using local marine resources more consciously. Although Holm employed the FoodSmart City framework in Dublin, Ireland, as the main example, his emphasis on cultural practices and local marine resources served as an inspiration for thinking about how Indigenous communities and their traditional environmental knowledge can aid in making more sustainable (sea)food consumption choices and lead to better management of (marine) ecology and resources.

Food from the Perspectives of the Humanities

Food is a source of biochemical nutrition and pleasurable eating experiences, but for humans it is much more than that. Food is how we come to identify who we are, where we are from, how we choose to live, and what future we anticipate. Food is inextricably interwoven with our cultures, our ideas of status, as well as our ethics and morals. Through food and the means of producing it we express the ideals that underpin our relationships with each other, to the world at large, and to the transcendent or the divine. In addition to the social and institutional dimension, there is the individual aspect of food. It shapes our biography and is an important strand of our memory, reaching back to childhood and the earliest impressions of the food we grew up with. Food thus comes to represent our upbringing and our family’s particular tradition and thereby constitutes the roots to our intergenerational heritage. We are what we eat, we define ourselves by how we eat, and, in turn, we eat according to how and who we want to be, in terms of identity, status, health, and cultural expression. We do so consciously and unconsciously, being shaped from within and from the outside, by strong biological, social, cultural, and environmental forces.

"To reduce food to a question of biological survival...is at the very least a failure of the imagination and at worst, dehumanizing."

However, as Steven Hartman argued, in important global literature on food systems and sustainability at the science-policy interface, the humanities have traditionally been marginalized, and overshadowed by discourse from the natural and technical sciences. This is regrettable, as a discourse that omits the rich cultural and symbolic meanings of food and food production is incomplete and therefore unable to address the crucial issues at stake in their entirety. Solutions that are based on reductionist science and economic imperatives but that do not take into consideration the idiosyncrasies of distinct human cultures are similarly inadequate. For example, stakeholders in the alternative protein movement, who build on the idea of molecularized food to feed a growing population, favor food solutions that provide the necessary nutrition, scale up, and are easily integrated into existing industrial production systems and supply-chains. However, while these solutions look like food, many are actually hi-tech products[4]. The most advanced of them are tech tech-based, genetically engineered, and patent-heavy investments. They might satiate the body, but whether they satisfy the other expectations that humans have from their food remains to be seen. As we come to understand through the humanities, for humans, food is not just nutrition. It is equally—if not much more—about value and meaning. To reduce food to a question of biological survival, or what Giorgio Agamben calls “bare life”[5] is at the very least a failure of the imagination and at worst, dehumanizing.

"Humanities for the Environment is building pathways to enable contribution of the rich accumulated tradition and understandings of the humanities to environmental discourse..."

As food crises worldwide have now established, shortcomings in global food systems cannot be solved with technical fixes alone. Any approaches that seek to inspire sustainable change and resilient solutions must include investigations into the depth and breadth of extant food cultures including unfamiliar traditions, such for example edible insects[6]. They also must consider the rich and diverse understandings generated over many decades in the humanities (and related social sciences: anthropology, history, philosophy) and through immersive and ethnographic work. For this reason, Humanities for the Environment is building pathways to enable contribution of the rich accumulated tradition and understandings of the humanities to environmental discourse (from policymaking to pedagogy) at the international level, for example through the BRIDGES coalition[7]. As insinuated earlier, hereby the study of food and food systems constitutes a particularly pertinent field as it is perhaps the only study field that embodies not only the material and symbolic dimensions of food but also integrates the diversity of cultural understandings and experiences of food with the deep unity that originates in the shared dependence and appreciation of food and the need to create sustainable and resilient food systems in this time of change and transformation, the Anthropocene.

In sum, the humanities must be involved in discussions on food systems and sustainability to engage in the co-production of holistic knowledge, facilitate the synthesis of perspectives and approaches, and achieve integrated outcomes and solutions that are not just systemic, but, perhaps more importantly, also dedicatedly humane.

Reflection on the Getting the Fish and the Sacredness from the Ocean: Reflections on the philosophy of Syaman Rapongan

In this part we examine and interpret one of the key ideas of the Tao writer, activist, and scholar Syaman Rapongan, which he conveyed in his keynote titled “Food and Sacred Ocean Space.” We suggest that while his idea originates in Tao culture, it is valuable beyond the Tao tradition because it expresses what we understand as a core human ontological condition, which is that we inhabit both a corporeal and a spiritual (non-corporeal) reality and have to navigate and “manage” both with equal attentiveness, care, and dedication.

Syaman Rapongan spoke about fishing on his native island of Pongso no Tao (Orchid Island, politically part of Taiwan) and how he builds his own fishing boat over periods lasting several months. He spoke about how before he fells the tree that he designated for the construction of the boat, he speaks to it and tells it in gratitude that it is alright, that it should not worry and just “let go” in the hands (embrace) of Syaman, and that it will soon be seeing the ocean in the form of a boat. In other words, he comforts the tree that is destined to be felled by communing with it. He noted that it is important to treat all living beings with respect and care and consider their autonomous and sovereign existence. The boat that he builds is a tatala, a small rowing boat, large enough to fit him and his son. He goes out at night and fishes in the traditional way. Some others, he told us, use motorized boats to go fishing. The important thing is that the fish that are caught using the motorized boats are not the same as those caught using the traditional methods, not in the sense of the species caught, but in a sense that has to do with the sacredness of the ocean and the idea of the sacred in general.

"...with a large boat and a drag net you can get the fish out of the ocean but not the sacredness...not the deeper meaning and spiritual connection that comes with the traditional method."

In his talk, he repeatedly referred to the sacredness of the ocean and illustrated it in various ways. He sees himself as part of an oceanic people, kin with the Pacific islanders and other Pacific nations[8]. He recounted that he was once onboard a large fishing vessel on Taiwan’s west coast that used a drag net to catch fish. It might seem efficient, he pointed out, but the key point was this: with a large boat and a drag net you can get the fish out of the ocean but not the sacredness. In the same way, the fish caught by traditional methods are not the same fish as those caught by new methods and with the help of engines and technology. They might get the fish out of the ocean, but not the sacredness, not the deeper meaning and spiritual connection that comes with the traditional method. If this does not make sense immediately, let us present some brief examples that will help to embellish this central idea.

Some Terrestrial Allegories

Remember the first summer job you had or when you worked for the first time and later received the wages for your hard-earned work? This money, the remuneration, carried meaning, because you worked for it and you feel that you earned it and you deserved it. Perhaps you labored an entire day in the sun for it; perhaps you spent a week designing a web page or doing data entry. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you engaged in a certain work that yielded an expected reward. You worked for it and you felt proud of it. Now, by contrast, if you happened to find the same amount of money on the road, if someone gave you that amount, or if you unexpectedly won it in the lottery, the money wouldn’t feel the same. It wouldn’t be the same money. It would not embody the same sense of achievement or merit or pride. It would represent the same monetary value, but it would not carry the same mental and symbolic meaning.

Or, if you prefer, imagine you baked a loaf of bread. You kneaded the dough with your hands, proofed it, baked it, let it cool, waited; then you cut off the first slice, spread butter on it, and finally, took a bite. In this scenario, your body is eating the physical bread, but at the same time your mind is eating the mental bread, which includes the process, the sense of achievement, the satisfaction, your skill, your labor, happiness, the heritage of the bread recipe, the memory of your grandmother’s bread, the symbolic meaning of bread in your culture and the significance of you practicing that tradition, etc. By contrast, someone could present you with an absolutely identical loaf of bread bought from a shop. If you ate that, it wouldn’t be the same bread. You would be eating physical bread but not mental or spiritual bread. It simply wouldn’t feel the same.

"...the products of our labor, and in an extended sense, of our method, elicit distinct feelings and senses. In other words, the method we apply lays the ground for distinct ways in which relations manifest..."

If you’re into gardening, imagine growing tomatoes. Well, to cut a long story short, the fruit that you planted and cared for over a long period of time will never be the same as the comparable fruit that you bought in a supermarket. Examples could be added ad infinitum. The point is that the products of our labor, and in an extended sense, of our method, elicit distinct feelings and senses. In other words, the method we apply lays the ground for distinct ways in which relations manifest – between us and the “products” of our labor, between those products and their environment, between us and the environment, between us and our ancestors, our values, our life, our ideas about the sacred, the divine, the world, etc.

A Sacred Method?

All these examples highlight the role of method in giving meaning to the substance, of imbuing material with spirit or of eliciting the particular spirit that the material carries as a potential. Therefore, when Syaman states that the fish that is caught by traditional methods is not the same as the fish that is caught by modern methods, and that the drag net can get the fish out of the ocean but not the sacredness, he expresses a certain transcendental ontology, what Escobar[9] describes as neo-realism, which is related to the idea of the sacred. According to this idea, all things exist on the one hand as physical objects that are embedded in a physical ecosystem and history and, also, as mental or spiritual objects that are embedded in a spiritual ecosystem and history–the socio-cultural symbolic world for us humans.

The physical reality of the fish connects us to the ecological and metabolic history and fate of the physical fish–the food that the fish ate, and the food that fed its food and so on; the evolutionary history of the successive iterations of this species of fish until the emergence of the specimen that ends up in the net, etc. In complement to this, the spiritual reality of the fish connects us to the social and spiritual history and fate of the fish–the fact that previous iterations of this fish’s lineage already interacted with the ancestors of the fisher, that the two, to some degree, shaped each other in a symbiotic socioecological relationship; and the lives of the ancestors and the ways in which they related to this fish species, their values and, connected to that, their worldview concerning themselves, their relation to the ocean and their place in the world.

It is hard to conceive how a reductionist materialist science can accommodate such a relational, holistic, and transcendental approach in its explanatory or predictive frameworks. In short, science is often said to be “the view from nowhere.” By contrast, Syaman Rapongan’s view is the unique view from Syaman Rapongan. But he himself is more than Syaman Rapongan (literally meaning, father of Rapongan as Tao people name themselves after their firstborns). He is a part of a continuous strand of intergenerational, multi-species, oceanic relationality. He is not universal. He is unique. His view is not “from nowhere,” his view is from the unique transcendental relationality that he manifests in his being, and his method serves to reinforce his being in precisely this unique manner.

"Method not only matters, it makes all the difference..."

He uses the example of the fish and highlights the role of the method of fishing as the means for transcending the mere physical quality of the fish and engaging with its spiritual dimension, and thereby with his own spiritual dimension, which is connected to that of his ancestors, and through that, with the transcendental or sacred. Method, in other words, not only matters, it makes all the difference, because everything that we interact with has a transcendental nature–physical and objective on the one hand, and non-physical and subjective, on the other. Every action we take is likewise transcendent. It affects the physical world, and it also affects the non-physical world, which, in the Tao tradition, might be understood as an intergenerational, interspecies, ocean-mediated, temporal dimension[8] . The right method, by implication, allows an individual to interact with the physical dimension of the world while simultaneously facilitating engagement with the equivalent spiritual dimension, and this is essential if we as humans want to achieve harmony within and between both dimensions.

Later in his talk, Syaman Rapongan also quipped that this was the way he fished but that he couldn’t say for sure whether what he engaged in was in fact future food or past food. Well, as they say, wise people hide the truth in jokes. With this remark he expressed another important idea, namely that in addition to being the key to the sacred, the right method is also the key to the past and to generational continuity[8] or collective continuance[10]. That’s why tradition, traditional knowledge, and traditional practices are a central axis in human navigation. This idea of continuity is just another way of saying that the future is the continuation of tradition. If we want to imagine our food future, therefore, we must look at our food tradition; it reveals where we are headed. In other words, if we want to determine our food future, we must practice our food traditions, which means living the tradition and using the proper method.

"If we want to imagine our food future, we must look at our food tradition; it reveals where we are headed."

A popular saying expresses a similar idea: “Be mindful of your thoughts, they will be your words. Be mindful of your words, they become your habits. Be mindful of your habits, it will be your destiny.” The right methods, as described by Syaman Rapongan (felling the tree with respect, building the boat, going fishing in the traditional way, etc.), allow not just connecting to the physical world and catching a fish. They also allow connecting to the spiritual world and to the original thoughts that form the tradition and that enable catching the meaning and sacredness that are the soul of the culture. The actions become the destiny. The right method naturally enshrines the existing and lived food tradition as the food future that can be expected.

Conclusion

Syaman Rapongan’s emphasis on method thus inspires us to be attentive to our own ontologies and the way in which they express the transcendental nature of being and being in the world. For example, we can find a very similar idea in the Christian tradition that is conveyed in the story where Jesus, tempted by Satan to turn stone into bread, replies that “man lives not of bread alone,” thereby emphasizing the need for spiritual in addition to physical nourishment. All this suggests that sustenance should always be sustenance for the body and for the soul. Agriculture should always be engaging with the body of the land and with the spirit of the land. Hunting should be hunting for game and hunting for meaning. And, as in Syaman Rapongan’s example, fishing should be about pulling a fish out of the ocean and pulling the sacredness out of the ocean. There is always a right method to achieve such transcendental engagement and action. However, in the modern world, it seems, we have forgotten many of these methods. We have industrial and scientific knowledge systems that produce lots of material but preciously little meaning. We have technologies that allow us to get plenty of resources out of the land and oceans but preciously little sacredness. This is our ailment and our predicament.

"[We] need to cultivate a certain humility that would enable us to admit that we might be wrong...that we might want to try and save ourselves from our hubris..."

The quest then is to learn and (re-)discover the right methods and apply them in our actions to remedy the imbalance between the material and the non-material and thereby revitalize the spiritual and the sacred. We doubt that it is technology that is central in achieving this. Rather, we as proponents of the Modern, Western, science-based, reductionist, Cartesian, or materialist worldview need to cultivate a certain humility that would enable us to admit that we might be wrong–perhaps in some things, perhaps in many things–and that we might not be the savior of the world, but that we might want to try and save ourselves from our hubris and a harmful reductionist ontology–“the story of separation[11]” as it has come to be called by some writers. Such a project has already begun, and it is visible in the endeavors to appreciate other knowledges, epistemologies, and ontologies and learn from them. Peoples and cultures exist that have been on this planet for far longer than us and who have nurtured deep understandings of the human condition and life. We should continue to learn and become even more attentive. In Zen there is a saying that if you are a good student, everybody becomes your teacher. We know that there are many such teachers in the world today, Syaman Rapongan and the Tao being one of them. Therefore, the most important thing for us to do now is to continue to learn and strive to become good students.

Acknowledgments

We extend our sincere gratitude to the organizers and conveners of the 2022 International Conference on Food Futures for their work in organizing the Conference, to Dana Powell for her valuable feedback to the first draft of this essay, and to Hsinya Huang for support and guidance.

About the Authors

Timothy Seekings Currently a PhD candidate in Natural Resources and Environmental Science at the College of Environmental Studies, National Dong Hwa University, Hualien, Taiwan. He was born and raised in Germany, completed his Bachelor Degree in International Relations and applied Sociology at London Metropolitan University and his Master’s Degree in Humanity and Environmental Science at National Dong Hwa University. His current research is an action research project about edible insects and sustainable food systems. Recent publications include Learning the nature of Language[12] , The proof is in the cricket: engaging with edible insects through action research[13]. Other academic articles and essays can be found at https://ndhu.academia.edu/timothyseekings, and creative and experimental writing at https://paradigmlost.substack.com/.

Chiahua Lin Currently a Ph.D. candidate in the English Department of the University of Hawai‘i at Mānoa. She is the recipient of 2018 Fulbright Graduate Study Grant as well as the 2020 Government Scholarship to Study Abroad (GSSA) from the Taiwanese Ministry of Education. Her research interests include Trans-indigenous Studies, Ecopoetics, Hawaiian Literature, and Pacific Literature. She currently works as the secretary for the Asia Pacific Observatory of Humanities for the Environment. She is the co-editor of Chinese Railroad Workers in North America: Recovery and Representation (2017) and Pacific Literature as World Literature (2023).

References

[1] Humanities for the Environment. https://hfe-observatories.org [2] http://2022foodfutures.nsysu.edu.tw/keynote.html [3] Hartman, Steven, and Serpil Oppermann, 2020. Seeds of Transformative Change, Ecocene: Cappadocia Journal of Environmental Humanities 1: 1-18. [4] E.g., the following alternative protein brands and products: Bee-Io, https://bee-io.com; Yo!, www.yo-egg.com/about; Impossible Foods, https://impossiblefoods.com/products/burger; Redefine meat, www.redefinemeat.com; Airprotein, www.airprotein.com; Wildtype, www.wildtypefoods.com; Wilk, https://wilkismilk.com; Remilk, www.remilk.com; Biomilq, https://www.biomilq.com; [5] Agamben, G., 2017. The Omnibus Homo Sacer. Stanford University Press, Stanford. [6] Seekings, T.B.W. and Wong, K.C., 2020. The proof is in the cricket: engaging with edible insects through action research. Journal of Insects as Food and Feed 6: 149-159. 10.3920/Jiff2019.0027 [7] BRIDGES Sustainability Science Coalition. https://hfe-observatories.org/bridges/ [8] Huang, H., 2016. Re-Visioning Pacific Seascapes. In: S.C. Estok, I.-C. Wang and J. White (Eds.), Landscape, Seascape, and the Eco-Spatial Imagination. Interdisciplinary Perspectives on Literature. Routledge, London. [9] Escobar, A., 2016. Thinking-feeling with the Earth: Territorial Struggles and the Ontological Dimension of the Epistemologies of the South. AIBR, Revista de Antropología Iberoamericana 11: 11-32. 10.11156/aibr.110102e [10] Whyte, K., 2018. Settler Colonialism, Ecology, and Environmental Injustice. Environment and Society 9: 125-144. 10.3167/ares.2018.090109 [11] E.g., Charles Eisenstein: https://fully-human.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/01/The-Story-of-Separation-with-Charles-Eisenstein.pdf [12] Seekings, T.B.W. 2020. Learning the language of nature. The Ecologist, https://theecologist.org/2020/jun/25/learning-language-nature [13] Seekings, T.B.W. and Wong, K.C., 2020. The proof is in the cricket: engaging with edible insects through action research. Journal of Insects as Food and Feed 6: 149-159. 10.3920/Jiff2019.0027

By Fran Chieh-Hsi Lee and Jayming Yang. Coordinator: Yu-lin Lee. Funded by Research Center of Humanities and Social Sciences, National Chung Hsing University, Taiwan. Source: Digital Archive, NCHU RCHSS.

Wushe

To learn more about Wushe visit the project website @ http://hfe-asiapacific-observatory.nsysu.edu.tw/project/stories-of-the-land/Wushe.php.

With an area of more than 1100 hectares, Tzaishan has more than 700 species of flora and fauna. However, this rich and delicate ecosystem is threatened by overexploitation, improper development, and the swarming of tourists and hikers. This project seeks to arouse the ecological consciousness in order to preserve regional bio-diversity through photographing and documenting the plants and animals in Tzaishan.

To learn more about Plants in Tzaishan visit the project website @ http://hfe-asiapacific-observatory.nsysu.edu.tw/project/stories-of-the-land/PlantsinTzaishan.php.

Hsinya Huang, Rong-feng Hsieh, Li-ru Lu, and Szu-hsien Lee,

Discourse, Innovation and Social Entrepreneurship of Depleted Communities in Kaohsiung

Chishan, Gushan and Yancheng regions have thrived over centuries as they functioned as throughput harbors for the Port of Kaohsiung since ancient time. However, due to industrialization and the shifting of the economic centre eastward in the recent decades, these regions have gradually lost their “sense of glory.” This project, therefore, seeks to recreate glory in these regions of destitution, by operating ecological aesthetics, soundscape, creative ventures and community entrepreneurship to tell the stories of the land.

By Fran Chieh-hsi Lee and Jayming Yang. Coordinator: Rose Hsiu-li Juan. Funded by Research Center of Humanities and Social Sciences, National Chung Hsing University, Taiwan. Source: Digital Archive, NCHU RCHSS.

A Historical Sketch of Agricultural Environment in Taiwan: Food Production, Politics, and Farm Life in the Field

Taiwan’s agricultural environment is a reflection of the colonial history of the island and its transformation in response to the different needs of the various foreign powers that have ruled it. This story provides a small picture of how the island’s farmers and their lives changed through the colonial rules of the Dutch, the Japanese, the Chinese Nationalist Party and the United States from the 17th century to the beginning of the 21st century.

1. Farmers’ important family member: the introduction of water buffaloes by the Dutch

(Farmers working with a water buffalo)

Farmers working with water buffaloes harmoniously on rice farms is one of the defining images of Taiwanese agriculture. The island’s agricultural landscape changed significantly as a result of Dutch colonization, which introduced water buffaloes from Indonesia to Taiwan in the 17^th century, back when Taiwan was known as Formosa, meaning “beautiful island” in Portuguese. Since then, water buffaloes were widely seen on farms to help rice cultivation on the island until the mid-20^th century.

During this time, water buffaloes – with their slate gray or black skin and long horns – served as Taiwan’s chief labor source for rice farming. Regarded as having stability in character, they were ideal for plowing and weeding rice fields, useful for threshing and transporting sheaves during the harvest; even their dung provided good fertilizer and material for building houses. Being responsible for major heavy work and living closely with farmers and their family, water buffaloes became another family member to their owners. Not eating beef also came to be a self-disciplined practice for farmers and their family to show their gratitude and respect for the buffalo-helpers. Even though most of the water buffaloes were later substituted by farming machines, the practice of not eating beef is still seen in today’s Taiwan, a legacy that signifies the cooperative co-existence between buffaloes and their farmer-family and their role in the island’s agricultural history.

Before the Dutch occupation, there were only small farms producing a variety of vegetables and crops cultivated by indigenous people. The Dutch imported not only water buffaloes but also agricultural skills and tools, which greatly improved the quality and quantity of the island’s agricultural production. The Dutch East India Company also sent a large number of Han Chinese workers from southern China to Taiwan for planting rice and sugar, the main products the company traded with China and Japan.

After 38 years of colonization, Dutch rule was put to an end with their defeat in 1662 by Zheng Chenggong, a Chinese loyalist and military leader of the Ming dynasty. With his troops, Zheng built Taiwan as the military and produce supply center to support his campaign for restoring Ming rule from the Qing dynasty.

Through nearly 60 years of rule, the Dutch and Zheng had set up the foundation of Taiwan’s agriculture industry and brought mass migration of Han Chinese from China, substantially influencing the island’s cultural and environmental landscape.

2. A colonizer’s sugar and rice paradise: Taiwan’s agricultural production under Japanese rule

(A sugarcane field in Japanese ruled period; courtesy of National Taiwan University Library Collection)

Taiwan was ceded to the Empire of Japan in 1895 as a result of Qing China’s defeat in the First Sino-Japanese War. Taiwan’s agricultural production in the subsequent 50 years under Japanese rule clearly reflected its colonizer’s capitalist intervention and war needs for imperial expansion, which could be detected behind the colonial administration’s contradictory and changing policies.

The policies altered when the administration switched their planting priorities from rice to sugar and then back to rice again in accordance with Japan’s domestic needs. This oscillation resulted in intense competition between the two products; yet the farmers in Taiwan continued to be exploited. They had to sustain the cost of converting the crops they planted, as well as bear the economic loss caused by the low procurement price of the crops due to capitalist manipulation of market prices.

Taiwan’s principal food crops during this period were rice and sugarcane. Due to weather and humidity reasons, rice was usually grown in the northern part of Taiwan while sugarcane was grown in the southern part. This formed a natural dividing line between fields of the two crops in mid-western Taiwan. Without suitable conditions for growing sugarcane, Japan had depended highly on imports or trade to satisfy its demand for sugar. It was thus soon decided after the empire took over Taiwan that the island would serve as Japan’s agricultural colony, particularly for sugar production. To increase the production of sugar, the colonial government established dozens of sugar companies and sugar-making factories in Taiwan, which were actually operated by Japanese capitalists. To expand sugarcane plantations, the government encouraged rice farmers to convert to planting sugarcane by implementing a series of policies that included financing cane production, subsidizing technology and equipment, and most effectively, controlling the market price of sugarcane to make it competitive.

The promotion was successful, and it changed the island’s agricultural landscape: the dividing line of rice and sugarcane fields began “climbing” north due to the growing number of the rice fields in northern Taiwan being transformed into cane fields. This phenomenon continued until the colonial government began to promote rice production again when Japan started to suffer a shortage of rice after the First World War, and when a new strain of rice was successfully developed to better suit Japanese tastes.

3. The flour policy: the U.S. intervention and the transformation of agriculture under Nationalist government

(A bag of American flour)

The appearance of flour from the United States in Taiwan in the post-war era signaled the emergence of the U.S. as the new global empire and the growth of its powerful presence and intervention in the Asia Pacific region.

The entry of American flour in Taiwan, an island where there had been no wheat planting and production, and where people had eaten no wheaten food, indicated the island’s unavoidable Westernization/Americanization as a result of American political, economic, and cultural expansion. This new form of colonization was made possible and was carried out when Taiwan, under the rule of Chinese Nationalist government, became one of the protectorates of the U.S. as part of its anti-Communism campaign to prevent the invasion of Communist China in the Cold War context.

The import of low-priced American flour as a form of economic aid and the Nationalist government’s promotion of wheat consumption during the period generated a profound impact on people’s eating habits in Taiwan and directly caused the production of sugar and rice to decrease. This was happening concurrently with the island’s rapid urbanization and industrialization in the latter half of the 20^th century, which finally led to the decline of the island’s agriculture, the industry that had long stood as a basis for stabilizing society and upon which the island had grown.

Defeated by the Communists in the Chinese civil war, the Nationalist government led by Chiang Kai-shek evacuated to Taiwan with more than a million soldiers in 1949, when Taiwan was facing a halt in agricultural production and an acute shortage of food due to war. After making Taipei the temporary capital, the government aggressively built Taiwan as its military and supply base for its campaign to “recover” mainland China.

In the agricultural aspect, the government’s land reform policies largely reduced the power of landowners and reduced the exploitation of farmers. Yet a different kind of exploitation began when the government implemented new policies to profit national enterprises by sacrificing farmers’ benefits. In the 1970s, despite its successful economic growth, Taiwan no longer had any advantage in the exportation of rice and sugar, partly because of U.S. trade policies that aimed to protect its own agricultural sector by limiting the expansion of imports. Coupled with a labor-shortage issue –labor was reallocated from farming to manufacturing – the role of agriculture was eventually reduced from major to minor in Taiwan’s development in the late 20^th century. While transformation was inevitable, new challenges created by globalization awaited in the next century.

In the beginning of the 21^st century, encouraged and assisted by the government, some farmers in Taiwan switched to plant more profitable products such as fruit and flowers or organic products, while others turned their cultivation into agricultural tourism or recreation to attract new customers. As this indicates, farmers have needed and will always need new strategies to deal with the impacts of trade liberalization brought by globalization.

Taiwan’s agricultural history is a story that shows how the use of land can evolve due to the changing needs of its rulers and colonizers, serving as a sketch that delineates the deep connection between the people, the crops they grow, their history, and the changing landscape and environment.

In the 1950s, many Paiwan people from Pingtung and Taitung came to work in Kaohsiung, where there were more job opportunities. At this time, seven households of the Paiwan timber workers came to live in Kaohsiung City. Among them, Ljavek members Ms. Wang Meijin and Mr. Chen Yingshon are the second generation, who have followed their parents and settled in Kaohsiung. Most of the tribal people worked for Fu Shing MFG. & Lumber Company. In order to live closer to the company, they settled on the side of Zhonghua 5th Road, and built houses next to the canal used for transporting wood. The land belonged to the government at the time.

In Paiwan language, Ljavek means “a tribe living by the river” and it is the only tribe in a metropolitan area of Taiwan that maintains indigenous culture. In 1997, in order to implement Urban Renewal Project, fourteen households of Ljavek residents were resettled by the government, moved to the Naluwan Public Housing in Xiaogang District. The tribes believe that the government’s resettlement plan in Fengshan District and Xiaogang District will cause tribal divisions; the worst part is that the area for resettlement lacks a public space for them to preserve and carry out tribal culture. They could not protect their tribe and ancestral spirits on the land that they have inhabited for 50 years. Furthermore, resettlement also seriously weakened the tribe’s social function of mutual assistance and inheritance.

Over many appeals and coordination, the residents of Ljavek have applied for house numbers from the Kaohsiung City Government. The government issued house numbers and charged some residents with land value tax. Although the residents have had household registration since then, the land issue has not yet been resolved.

During the interview, Ljavek’s elders still vaguely remember the year when it began to “snow” in the tribe. The so-called “snow” is actually powder from the toxic chemical raw material, “PVC”. In 1958, Nan Ya Plastics Corporation was established nearby the tribe, and the vicinity became a petrochemical industrial area, which means the tribe was also surrounded by the toxic chemical powder, making the lives of the Ljavek people miserable. In the past 50 years, the environmental issues caused by factory pollution are beyond imagination.

In 2011, residents of Ljavek were informed by the Kaohsiung City Government of the demolition in February, 2012. Seventeen households presented the receipts of the government housing taxes, land value taxes, and even water and electricity certificates, demanding the land of the Ljavek tribe be legalized.

In 2011, the Kaohsiung City Government approved the “Asian New Bay Area”, and the Ljavek tribe is located right in the heart of the Commerce and Trade Park. In 2013, the government agreed to the request of the Formosa Plastics Group and designated the site as “Wang Yongqing Memorial Park.” In order to carry out the project, the government ordered an immediate demolition to force the residents of the Ljavek tribe to leave.

They are now displaced, even though six families are still staying behind to fight Sixty years ago, the Ljavek came to Kaohsiung to improve their lives. However, they have gone through hardships and become the grassroots labor force for urban development in Kaohsiung, only to face the problem of losing their homes when they are getting old. The Ljavek people hope that the Kaohsiung City Government can respect the traditional family concept of the indigenous people: “We are a family, one big family.”

Traditional Knowledge, Resilience, and Food Landscape: International Ecology of the Aboriginal
Yih-ren Lin

In fidelity to the core values outlined by the International Partnership for the Satoyama Initiative (IPSI) that promotes self-sufficient management of agricultural and natural resources within a local community, this project seeks to explore how this initiative is practiced by the Indigenous people in Taiwan. In principle, a well-established social system needs to rely upon the sufficiency of natural resources that are regulated by and operated within different ecosystems. In addition, the establishment of cultural landscapes in human communities will influence local ecologies to different extents. Ideally, Satoyama area, a place that constitutes of local residence, different natural resources use and healthy food production, will positively enhance the welfare of the human being and their living environment. Putting this agenda against the experiences of Taiwanese Indigenous cultures, we hope to retrieve the value of ecological health that is richly nourished by the often neglected spiritual recourses based on the Indigenous traditional knowledge from a holistic viewpoint. We also concern ourselves with resilience as a pivotal concept to confront and adapt the climate change, and to retain sustainability in the production of healthy food. In those regards, Indigenous ecological farmers are thus our active agents.

This project examines issues surrounding practices of the traditional knowledge, resilience, and foodscape. First, we argue that biodiversity conservation is an effective way to safeguard cultural multiplicities and vice versa. Therefore, we support agricultures related to ecologically sound landscape and food production system in diverse Indigenous people’s areas that can portray resilient social-cultural contents domestically and internationally. Second, this project advocates developments of Indigenous organizations to reinforce autonomous management of traditional ecology and agricultural recourses under the impact of global climate change. Third, this project promotes tribal self-sufficient economy as fulfilling entrepreneurships. It may be achieved by ways of exploring particular Indigenous features and branding of tribal cultures, and implementing production and marketing mechanism of the economy chain. Lastly, this project seeks to establish a network interweaving knowledge gathered locally from Indigenous tribes in Taiwan and global ecological discourses through international cooperation. The aim of this project is to model on the spirit and experience of global Satoyama Initiative to establish the examples of autonomous agriculture and natural resources in the regions of Taiwanese Indigenous tribes, and to share and build allegiance in the global context.

Tongku Saveq is the transliteration of the name of the highest mountain of Taiwan, the main peak of Jade Mt., in Bunun. “Tongku” means peaks and “saveq” an archaic word, means accumulation or covering, especially referring to the snow-covered phenomenon of Tongku Saveq. Besides, in the context of Bunun flood myth, some say that Saveq means shelter or escape, therefore Tongku Saveq might mean a peak for escape or a place of shelter. There are many versions of flood myth. Generally speaking, the story has it that there was a giant snake (or eel) whose body blocked the flow of river and caused unprecedented flood. At that time, people fled from one mountain to another while the water flooded over everywhere they went and finally, the whole world was submerged under water. The only exception was the highest peak in the world—Tongku Saveq—which stood above water surface where escaped humans and animals fortunately survived. Later on, there were legends of some brave toads and black bulbuls who found tinder for humans and of a gigantic crab that dived underwater and cut the snake in half to release the flood. Another version of story says that before the flood, Taiwan was a big flat plain which had no mountains at all. Not until the flood came which took away large amount of sand and stones did the terrain of Taiwan with its the mountains and valleys come into shape. Sometimes I think this can be regarded as the Bunun mythological version of the mountain building of Taiwan.

This project represents Oceanic peoples as custodians of the sea who “reach out to similar people elsewhere in the common task of protecting the seas for the general welfare of all living things.” My work envisions an archipelagic region in the Pacific, reshaping Taiwan as a place linked to Austronesian modes of language, space, body, and culture. My Tao ancestors used to move freely in the Pacific Ocean, following the migratory route of the fling fish that are subject to the flow of the Kuroshio Current. This north-flowing current on the west side of the North Pacific drives the fling fish migration, which, in turn, shapes and reshapes the migratory route of the island indigenes. Because of the regular movement among the islands, Pacific Islanders conceive of their environment as an extensive, communal body that follows the pathway of the current. The sense of community encompasses not only similar human beings on the seas but nonhuman species, generating a widening circle of associations. Because Tao people feed on the fling fish and center their rituals and calendars on the movement of the fish, this means that both humans and nonhumans traverse the Pacific, deterritorializing the ocean.

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Ecoambiguity: Environmental Crises and East Asian Literatures

Asia Pacific Observatory

Ecoambiguity: Environmental Crises and East Asian Literatures is the first book in any language to analyze Chinese, Japanese, Korean, and Taiwnese literary treatments of damaged ecosystems. The book closely examines East Asian creative portrayals of inconsistent and contradictory human attitudes, behaviors, and information/knowledge concerning the environment. It takes up texts by East Asians who have been translated and celebrated around the world, including Gao Xingjian, Ishimure Michiko, Jiang Rong, and Ko Un, as well as fiction and poetry by authors little known even in their homelands. Ecoambiguity addresses such environmental crises as deforesting, damming, pollution, overpopulation, species eradication, climate change, and nuclear apocalypse. The book opens new portals of inquiry in both East Asian literatures and ecocriticism (literature and environment studies), as well as in comparative and world literature.

Climate Change and Changing Literature examines how writers around the world – from the Americas and Europe to the Middle East, Africa, Asia, and Oceania – are changing literature by engaging with climate change and the numerous challenges it poses to local, national, regional, and global security. In addition to introducing readers to a variety of different texts and approaches to climate change, Climate Change analyzes how climate fiction can transform attitudes and behaviors surrounding climate change and aims to change literary studies by making it more attune to real world challenges.

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Prologue

In early May, we took a short trip to Pongso no Tao (Lanyu) as part of Dr. Hsinya Huang’s graduate seminar, Pacific Cultural Production. After a two-hour ferry ride from Houbihu Harbor to Kaiyuan Harbor, we were greeted by the island’s looming fog-shrouded mountains. Our host, Syaman Lamuran and his wife met our group and drove us to their family-owned Lamuran Guesthouse (蘭嶼飛魚浪民宿) in Iratai (Yuren Village).

Flying Fish Heritage and Relations

Along the way, we were greeted by the sight of racks and racks of flying fish lining the roads and the smell of drying fish carried by the ocean breeze all over the island. These are indications of the deep cultural significance that the flying fish have to the indigenous communities of Tao people. Not only is the Flying Fish Festival their most important tradition, their relationship with the flying fish also shapes the Tao people’s mentality and way of life.

The Tao calendar divides the year into three seasons, determined by the activities and life cycles of the flying fish: rayon, the flying fish season when men go out to the sea to catch the flying fish; teiteika, the end of the flying fish season; and amiyan, the winter season when men wait for the flying fish to return. Rayon takes place approximately from March to June, when migrant flying fish follow the Kuroshio Current past Lanyu. During this season, the indigenous community of Lanyu solely hunt and eat flying fish (and other migrating fish), in order to give local fish species the chance to rest and replenish. Most of the flying fish caught during this time are sun-dried, smoked and preserved to last until the end of the fall season. This nine-month-long event is broadly defined as the Flying Fish Festival, throughout which many rituals, ceremonies and taboos are practiced in unison to the flying fish migration.

Historically, the movement of the flying fish also constantly reshaped the migratory route of the island Indigenes. Tao people are part of the seafaring Austronesian indigenous, thus due to annual/regular movements among the islands, the islanders conceive of an extensive, communal body of solidarity following the pathway of the current. As Tao people feed on the flying fish and center their rituals and calendars on the movement of the fish, both human and fish have traversed the Pacific, deterritorializing the ocean. The flying fish return every year, inspiring the islanders’ will to survive and serving as the fountainhead of their fighting spirit. The fish—indeed, the very waves—carry memories of Tao ancestors.

Though the Tao people no longer migrate, the flying fish that are featured in every meal are a living memory of their heritage. Our first meal on the island at 珊賜小嗑廳, where we got a taste of the amazing local cuisine, was no exception. The restaurant is a cozy establishment where the owners chatted with us about the food while they cooked in the kitchen. The star of the show was the deep-fried flying fish, and other courses included a flying-fish-egg omelet, sautéed flying fish eggs with vegetables, and flying-fish-egg sausages; as well as taro stems and other root vegetables that are staples in the Tao diet. We also got to enjoy some homemade fermented lemonade and tea jello. The walls of the restaurant were beautifully decorated with a collage of postcards, posters, maps and knickknacks of Lanyu.

For dinner we had flying fish soup and sautéed flying fish at海岸線風味餐廳, after which we got a chance to chat some more with local residents. One of these special hosts was Shu-chen Chen (陳淑貞), a teacher at Lanyu Senior High School. She shared with us some interesting remarks on her teaching philosophy, explaining that she tries to break the mainstream mold by teaching the high schoolers through a localized perspective. For example, her biology class handouts start with a local legend of flying fish. The passage tells the tale of an old man who caught one of two flying fish. He originally cooked the fish with other seafood, but fell ill after eating it. The flying fish tells him in a dream that he must respect the fish by cooking it as its own dish. Ms. Chen goes on to teach concepts like biodiversity by using the species of flying fish and local plants as examples—continuing to pay homage to the flying fish and the Tao heritage.

We also got a chance to sit down at his home with the renowned Tao author, Syaman Rapongan, and his family. Though fishing is a job exclusively for men in Tao culture, cleaning the fish is a task where everyone pitches in. When we arrived, Syaman Rapongan, his wife and his son had just finished hanging up fresh fish in his yard, and there was even a huge bowl of fish eggs on the table. Previous batches were stored in a backroom, where we got a peak of the fish being smoked with longan wood. Syaman Rapongan explains that traditionally the fish would be smoked after being sun-dried, which gives it more flavor; though he laments that less people practice this nowadays. Syaman Rapongan’s family upholds the traditional ways of living with the environment, and he has recently been passing the knowledge down to his son.

In the trip to Pongso no Tao we witnessed how flying fish are the evidence of Tao people’s cultural lineage. Flying fish unite the generations of Tao people, carrying the collective memories from the ancient and beyond the future. Far from simply being a source of food, the flying fish share a connection of kinship with the Tao. They are a consistent reminder of the Tao people’s cultural heritage. The annual migration of flying fish unites the human and non-human, the Pacific community, and the Tao people. They carry the Tao people’s cultural history on their wings; and the Flying Fish Festival likewise reflects the community’s environment-oriented cosmology and continuation of tradition.

Tatala Aesthetics and Values

Almost as much as they are recognized for their connection to flying fish, the Tao people are well-known for their tatala, fishing vessels that are assembled from various types of wood without any nails, and traditionally decorated with red, white and black carvings. They cultivate forests and plant trees (Mi mowamowa), leaving the lands to their offspring as an invaluable inheritance. Forest timber is harvested from the interior mountains for their traditional boats, and the wood is selected and ranked as appropriate for building decorative (Mivatek) and non-decorative boats. Using their adroit boat-building skills (Mi tatala) and incorporating their rudimentary knowledge of waves, the Tao produce streamlined carriers of traditional beauty. They anticipate that their boats will become good friends with the fish. The Mi tatala, like waka in Maori’s vocabulary, bespeaks a symbolic order of the Tao’s intimate relationship with the ocean. Their assembled boats become the medium for significant connections between the Tao, the sea, and their blood relations in the sea.

On our trip, we were fortunately given the opportunity to see the trees that the tatala were built from. Syaman Rapongan’s son, Si Rapongan, graciously took us on a small hike to their family’s ancestral forest lands. He and his father had recently built their first tatala together, and he was able to share with us some of the boat-building knowledge he learned from his father. The entrance to the forest was just outside of their village of Imourod (Hougtou) and though we could see a few tourists on the main trails, Si Rapongan soon led us off the beaten path, through a dry riverbed, to a small clearing where it truly felt as though we were the guests of the ancient towering trees. He shares with us the process of tatala building, pointing out a few of the trees that make up different parts of the assembled boats. He also tells us that carrying the heavy lumber down from the mountain instead of conveniently using wood from their backyards is a symbol of diligence, one of the Tao people’s most emphasized values. He also talked about the importance of remembering where the traditional family lands are, as they can only use the trees that belong to them and were planted there by their ancestors. The ideals of respect and continuation are also present in tatala-building—each time they cut down a tree, they must thank it and grow new trees in its place.

We saw some of these traditional assembled boats soon after we arrived, when our host, Syaman Lamuran, took us on a brief tour of the island. He explained some of the carvings on the boat, pointing out the recurring symbol for “eyes”. He also explains that the placements of the symbols are specific to different Tao communities, thus they could always differentiate which tatala belonged to their village. Along with the many rituals, the Tao have a number of taboos that are observed during the Flying Fish Festival. We were told not to ask fishermen about their activities before they go to fish at night for fear of alerting the fish of their arrival, and to be cautious when visiting the beach or seaside during this time. They also warned us that it is taboo for women to touch the tatala, not because they are lesser in Tao culture, but because men are responsible for fishing while women are in charge of cultivation. Thus, though women are not allowed to touch the boats, they are involved as equal members of a household in deciding to make a tatala and they also provide the taro used in the completion ceremony.

Before a family decides to build a tatala, the women must confirm that there will be enough taro for the completion ceremony. This is a testament of a family’s unity, work division and connection; at the conclusion of their work, they must simultaneously bring together the fruits of their labors and bless the tatala that will provide for them in the future. We got to visit Sinan Rapongan’s taro fields, where she talked to us as she tended to her plants. In Tao culture, growing food is the women’s job, thus Sinan Rapongan is responsible for overseeing all of her family’s taro and yam plantations. She tells us that these hearty vegetables are the Tao people’s main source of starch, and are meant to give workers the energy they need to work all day. Sinan Rapongan is very down to earth, though toiling in her many fields every day seems like a Herculean task to us, she still firmly counsels us to be thankful for the food that God gives, and never get angry when He provides plentiful fish and crops. As we leave the plantation, Sinan Rapongan turns and says goodbye to her taro, again showing the Tao’s connectivity and respect for non-human things.

Earlier in our trip, we were very lucky to hear from Syaman Rapongan as well, who not only is a famous writer and advocate for the traditional Tao lifestyle, but also an extremely skilled tatala craftsman in his village. As we gathered on the beach and admired the tatala he and his son built together, he fittingly gave us a lesson on the traditions and cultural continuation of the Tao. He shares some of the tribal fishing knowledge, telling us that all fish, winds, moons and tides had an individual name in the Tao language. He also shared his childhood memories of waiting on the beach for his father to return from fishing at night. Syaman Rapongan also points out a tagagal that overlooks the sea; these are gazebos traditionally used for observing the tides and resting with friends after work, but were misnamed by outsiders as “發呆亭” (a derogatory name that means “idle staring”). He laments the seemingly inevitable loss of traditional practices as the modern tourism businesses on the island grow, and fewer of the younger generations stay behind to pass on the old ways.

The tatala are truly a vessel of Tao culture; though at first glance they are simply decorated fishing boats, every step of their crafting process speaks of centuries-old tradition and values. One of the stories they told us was about how their ancestors painted the boats with black charcoal, red clay and white shells. Though the ocean would quickly wash away the colors, the Tao people of old simply kept on repainting. The labor required from both the men and women to successfully launch a single tatala tells the entire story of the Tao people’s attitude towards life—they believe in hardwork, are deeply respectful of the land, and have pieced together a beautiful cultural legacy to pass on to their children.

Island Space and Time

Apart from the tatala, Syaman Lamuran took us to several significant sites on our tour around the island, and he tirelessly told us story after story about each location. On Lanyu there are six main Tao villages, separated by slight cultural variations and unique geological markers. Iratai, where we were staying, is located on the west side of the island, between Yayo (Yeyou Village) to the north and Imourod to the south. On the east coast of Lanyu is Iraraley (Langdao Village), Iranmeylek (Dongqing Village), and Ivalino (Yeyin Village). We also learned that each village has their own separate council, thus each village also has varying levels of integration into tourism. For instance, when we visited Iranmeylek, we saw that they even had a mainland-style night market and a tatala-building-experience business.

We also stopped by a school, a church, Kasiboan (a waste awareness center), the nuclear waste storage site, and two old Kuomintang monuments. Unfortunately, since we arrived on a Sunday, almost everything that wasn’t outdoors was closed; but thanks to our guide, we got a detailed background about several of the sites. One that I found interesting was an abandoned Kuomintang podium, where the early government used to show propaganda to the locals. Also, everywhere we went, we saw goats roaming freely around the island. Syaman Lamuran explains that the goats belong to different families but are free to graze as they please; people take great care not to hit them; thus in a way they are the “traffic lights” of Pongso no Tao.

Our main destination on the tour was the Taipower nuclear waste storage site in Longtou, near the very south of Lanyu. Syaman Lamuran points out the Tao’s natural landmarks in the area—Longtou Rock, a fishing bay below and Little Lanyu in the distance—and the nuclear waste storage site is situated ominously in the center of these. The site was built by the Taiwanese government in the late seventies, as a temporary storage location for nuclear waste since Lanyu’s location is relatively isolated. However, this was all done without local knowledge and they originally named it ambiguously as “Lanyu Storage Site.” By 1982, the site was at full capacity and became the permanent home for 97,672 barrels of radioactive waste. The local residents’ protests are evidenced all over the island, in wall paintings and anti-nuclear banners. We even saw some trash art left by a group of Norwegian research students who stayed on the island for a month and worked with local schools to create reminders of the waste issue on the island. As Lanyu doesn’t have a waste disposal site, the trash accumulated from the growing tourism industry and brought in by the ocean tides has simply started to build up and pollute the formerly unspoilt natural environment. These sights were truly a stark contrast to their surroundings, and a sobering reminder of the costs of our modern conveniences.

Before we left for our ferry home, we visited a few more places around Iratai and Imourod. We all decided to eat at Rover (蘭嶼旅人) in Imourod, which Si Rapongan told us was the best bar in Lanyu and it also serves brunch. Its location overlooks the beach, and they also make amazing yam smoothies. A few of us decided to walk around and we saw Sinan Rapongan, still hard at work in her taro fields. She recommended that we get taro ice cream (雯雯芋頭冰) at a local souvenir shop; which turned out to be delicious. We had also planned to visit a bookstore (在海一方獨立書店); however, it was unfortunately closed for the day. When we got back to the guesthouse, we also visited Syaman Lamuran’s father’s workshop again for some souvenirs. Syapen Lamuran is a pastor, but he has a workshop for some miniature tatala he crafts from wood or discarded buoys and fishing net floats.

Although we learned a lot during our trip, it was still quite short and there is so much more left to see. As one of our classmates mentioned, the island felt like a constant loop through space and time; a place that feels like it will teach people something new each time they pass by, and stir up memories they had originally forgotten. Though the road around the island is always the same, it is somehow ever-changing, and even transforms those who traverse it. As we left Pongso no Tao, it felt like we had not only taken a part of the island with us, but also become a kind of island ourselves, connected by the sea to one another.

Pacific Connections and Encounters†

Following the trip, our class took inspiration from everything we learned, saw and experienced and combined it with our studies of Oceanic literature to make a poetry collection. Our themes included oceanic connectivity, environmental awareness, tradition remembrance, cultural continuity, and so on. Then, on June 16th (Taiwan time), we held a virtual seminar⁕ to present some of our poems, academic revelations, stories and even a few songs. We were very fortunate to have Syaman Lamuran join us as well as a few professors from NSYSU.

Syaman Lamuran also invited a last-minute surprise guest to our event. When we were in Pongso no Tao, I recognized his clothing and some guesthouse decorations to be from the Pacific Northwest, where I used to live. Upon asking, he explained that he had visited Seattle previously as part of Tao delegation to participate in the Canoe Journey event; and more importantly, to see two tatala that had been sold across the ocean in the late 1970s. I found his story about piecing together this transpacific history very interesting, and decided to write a poem about it. After hearing my presentation, Syaman Lamuran invited one of the key parties involved to come and share more about the two tatala. Mr. Michael Jacobson from Seattle was the person who saved the tatala from a warehouse of discarded restaurant decorations and donated one to the Burke Museum of the University of Washington; it was very enlightening to have him share more of the tale.

In conclusion, I found the trip to Pongso no Tao truly inspiring and I believe we all took away a lot from it despite only being there for two days. I think the trip drove home many of the lessons we learned from Dr. Hsinya Huang this semester, through the works of Epeli Hau’ofa, Teresa Teaiwa, Robert Sullivan, Kathy Jetn̄il-Kijiner, Aka Niviâna, Craig Santos Perez, Linda Hogan and more. Though we celebrate the uniqueness of our cultures, we also share a certain commonality that connects us, from island to island, all the way across the seas. After this experience, I feel that through our participation in Pacific cultural production, we have somehow become a part of the greater Oceania story.

Coda

Connection is a recurring theme in Pacific literature. Writers and poets map out literary routes, exploring connections to nature, to the past, to culture and most of all, connections to the ocean which connects the world. As Hau‘ofa suggests, things should be seen in totality, and the Pacific Ocean can be seen as a “sea of islands” (31). At the start of the semester, it was not as easy for us to grasp this concept of the ever-expanding Oceanian community. We later found that this archipelagic web was something that should be understood through experience. Like Perez writes in one of his poems, his encounters with maps gradually expanded his concept of boundaries, and brought him to realize the deep bonds between Austronesian islands. “I examine the map closely, navigating beyond the violent divisions of national and maritime borders, beyond the scarred latitudes and longitudes of empire, to discover the cartography of our most expansive legends and deepest routes” (Perez 2017).

Through the oceanic passages, commonality is found. While Perez depicts the notion of removing borders through the recognition of shared ancestry, we are reminded of our place in this community through the simple experiences we had on this journey. The way the Tao people connect to the sea and the things around them somehow brings back the islander spirit in us, which was long-forgotten but undoubtedly essential. Things like the value of diligence, sincere gratitude for food, the telling of stories and even the calm moments of looking at the sea, all felt like important reminders of ideals that everyone had been taught but may have lost in the more modernized worldview. It is as Syaman Rapongan writes of the older Tao seamen, “the ripples made by the ever-shifting surface of the sea are like the folds and patterns of their brains” (｢海面永恆波動的波紋宛如他們腦海裡的腦紋｣); explaining that memories resurface with each ocean wave, and are likewise present in our blood. It is surprising how Teaiwa’s words could now resonate with us: “We sweat and cry salt water, so we know that the ocean is really in our blood” (qtd. in Hau‘ofa 41). The ocean in us is always there yet had been ignored, and it is revived through our realization of commonality.

Though we often forget it, our homeland, Taiwan, is no less a Pacific island; and as such we should see ourselves as a part of the sea of islands, rather than distance ourselves as if we were independent from the rest of the world. As we rediscover ourselves as people of the Oceanian community, we should realize a responsibility to have empathy and understanding, and a necessity to hold ourselves accountable for the consequences of our actions and the plight of our neighbors. “Into the new age the waka glides… we are united by culture, by psyche, of our cultures, our closeness even in this age turned against the sacred” (Sullivan 46). And the restoration of humanity and connection is by no means limited to Oceania, it is a mission to be shared by the entire world. In our online seminar, we talked about another kind of responsibility, one to pass on any story that we’ve been told. In doing so, we give the words of our cultures the power to ignite change, as myths and legends once did. As Jetn̄il-Kijiner writes, “My father told me that idik—when the tide is nearest an equilibrium is the best time for fishing. Maybe I’m writing the tide towards an equilibrium, willing the world to find its balance” (78).

Endnotes

† This segment was written by Ysanne Chen, “I” is used here to reference her personal experience.

⁕ Pondering the Pacific online seminar from June 16th, 2021: https://youtu.be/aodHCH108IU

References

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“Disrespect of Flying Fish Festival Reflecting Marginalization Trend of Aboriginals.” Translated by Bing-sheng Lee, The News Lens International Edition, TNL Media Group, 3 June 2016, international.thenewslens.com/article/40823.

Dorpat, Paul. “Haglund, Ivar (1905-1985).” History Link.org, 20 June 2000, www.historylink.org/File/2499.

“Flying Fish Festival.” Wikipedia, Wikimedia Foundation, 24 July 2020, en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flying_fish_festival.

Hau’ofa, Epeli.We Are the Ocean. U of Hawai’i P, 2008.

Hogan, Linda. People of the Whale. W. W. Norton & Company, 2008.

Huang, Hsinya. “Toward Trans-Pacific Ecopoetics: Three Indigenous Texts.” Sustaining Ecocriticism: Comparative Perspectives, special issue of Comparative Literature Studies, vol. 50, no. 1, 2013, pp. 120-47.

“James Stevens Paul Bunyan Letters Ivar Haglund Seattle.” Worthpoint, worthpoint.com/worthopedia/james-stevens-paul-bunyan-letters-172833151.

Jetn̄il-Kijiner, Kathy. Iep Jaltok: poems from the Marshallese Daughter. U of Arizona P, 2017.

Kiley, Brendan. “The New Burke Museum Turns Itself inside out as It Prepares for Its Grand Opening.” The Seattle Times, The Seattle Times Company, 14 Oct. 2019, seattletimes.com/entertainment/visual-arts/40-months-and-99-million-later-the-new-burke-museum-turns-itself-inside-out.

“Low-Level Radioactive Waste Storage Site.” Wikipedia, Wikimedia Foundation, 16 May 2021, www.en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Low-Level_Radioactive_Waste_Storage_Site.

Perez, Craig Santos. “The Fifth Map for Hsinya.” Dialogist, 2017, dialogist.org/v4i2-craig-santos-perez.

Rapogan, Syaman. “Langtao Rensheng” 〈浪濤人生〉(“Life of Waves”). 2002. Taiwan eProse, National Museum of Taiwan Literature, 13 Dec 2007, faculty.ndhu.edu.tw/~e-essay/essay/xia-man/2007/12/13/浪濤人生.

Robinson, Chetanya. “From Hmong Basket Boat to Sacred Canoe, New Burke Museum Gallery Was Curated by Local Pacific Islander, Asian, and Northwest Native Communities.” International Examiner, 11 Oct. 2019, iexaminer.org/from-hmong-basket-boat-to-sacred-canoe-new-burke-museum-gallery-was-curated-by-local-pacific-islander-asian-and-northwest-native-communities/.

Sullivan, Robert. Star Waka. Auckland UP, 1999.

Teng, Pei-ju. “Tao People Give Tips to Visitors on Taiwan’s Offshore Orchid Island for Flying Fish Season.” Taiwan News, Taiwan News, 7 Mar. 2019, www.taiwannews.com.tw/en/news/3652135.

Tsang, Will. A post about two tatala. Facebook, 31 July 2017.

Wing, Jennifer. “Almost 30 Years in The Making, a Seattle Man Gets Ahold of Two Boats from Taiwan.” KNKX, 7 Oct. 2017, www.knkx.org/post/almost-30-years-making-seattle-man-gets-ahold-two-boats-taiwan.

“飛魚祭.” Wikipedia, Wikimedia Foundation, 3 June 2021, zh.wikipedia.org/wiki/%E9%A3%9B%E9%AD%9A%E7%A5%AD.

章明哲. “挪威研究生遠赴蘭嶼發掘環境汙染問題.” 公視新聞網 PNN, 公視新聞網, 4 Oct. 2017, www.news.pts.org.tw/article/372864.

陳欣渝. “挪威學生蘭嶼蹲點關注核廢.垃圾問題【客家新聞20171004】.” YouTube, 客家新聞Hakka News, 4 Oct. 2017, www.youtube.com/watch?v=YMjUce0jTJo.

“蘭嶼貯存場.” Wikipedia, Wikimedia Foundation, 22 Apr. 2021, www.zh.wikipedia.org/wiki/%E8%98%AD%E5%B6%BC%E8%B2%AF%E5%AD%98%E5%A0%B4.

The International Conference on Food Futures

The International Conference on Food Futures has been rescheduled from May 13-14 to August 31 – September 4, 2022.

Date & Location

August 31 - September 4, 2022

Kaohsiung, Taiwan

Days

Hours

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Event has begun

We plan to conduct a hybrid conference to accommodate speakers from outside of Taiwan.

Official Announcement: Update on 2022 The International Conference on Food Futures

Updated: November 18, 2022

Due to the pandemic and the concomitant restrictions, the Organizing Committee of the International Conference on Food Futures has decided to reschedule the International Conference on Food Futures from May 13-14 to August 31 – September 4, 2022. Also, as we understand it may still be extremely difficult to travel by that time, we plan to conduct a hybrid conference to accommodate speakers from outside of Taiwan.

We apologize for the inconveniences that might result from this change. When deciding to postpone the conference, we considered various alternative formats and opted for a hybrid conference as a way of bonding and bringing together a scholarly community.

Please continue to stay with us and visit this official website for updates (http://2022foodfutures.nsysu.edu.tw/). Should you have any query, please feel free to get in touch with the Conference Secretariat. Thank you again for your understanding and support. We look forward to seeing you at the International Conference on Food Futures 2022.

Hsinya Huang, American and Comparative Literature, National Sun Yat-sen University

Yih-ren Lin, Humanities in Medicine, Taipei Medical University

Chia-hua Lin, English Department, University of Hawai‘i at Mānoa

Ysanne Chen, International Business, National Sun Yat-sen University

2021 International Conference on “Food Futures,” Annual Meeting of Humanities for the Environment (HfE) Network to be held at the Asia Pacific Observatory

Over the last three years, the APO has conducted field trips, walking workshops, and other scholarly activities that anticipate solidarity and affiliation with indigenous peoples across the Pacific and Pacific Rim. These alliances displace national perspectives in favor of a Pacific Rim perspective that connects not only regions but bio-regions, connecting local and enlarged communities and environments. In the face of crises such as climate change, indigenous farmers, practitioners, activists, etc. urge us to live with care and honor and to celebrate and share the planet as a commons in ways that are more ethical and just.

All this work is currently the focus of the AP Observatory and undergirds the 2021 The International Conference on Food Futures, annual meeting of the Global Observatories, and a special issue of the journal Humanities, planned by Humanities for the Environmental global network of Observatories (HfE) on the topics of Environmental Humanities, Critical Food Studies, Public Health, Sustainability.

The International Conference on Food Futuresis now scheduled to take place in Kaohsiung, Taiwan, headquarters of the Asia-Pacific Observatory in November 2021. For more information, see this link: http://hfe-asiapacific-observatory.nsysu.edu.tw/event/index.php

Meeting at the American Studies Association Conference, Walking Workshop in the Mountainous Tayal Villages of Tian-pu, Mei-yuan, and Smangus

Issues around food and food systems incite ever-growing concerns around the globe. Climate change, biodiversity loss, and numerous other critical planetary challenges are impacting the equitable access to culturally meaningful and nutritious foods while large-scale agriculture is also taking a toll on nonhuman species at an alarming rate. In response to these crises, Hsinay Huang, Director of the Asia-Pacific Observatory, joined with Dr. Joni Adamson, the Director of North American Observatory, to organize a roundtable titled “Building Caring Solidarity Economies: Food Sovereignty, Community Solar, and Gastronomies of Place.” This event was presented at the 2019 Annual Meeting of American Studies Association (ASA). The roundtable examined communities building caring “solidarity economies” around food and energy systems. Panelists from Taiwan, the Philippines, and North America talked briefly about their work with “build as we fight,” or grassroots, communities, then opened the discussion to the audience.

One of the panelists, Dr. Yih-ren Lin and and his colleague, respected Tayal practitioner and activist, Pagung Tomi, who is a member of the Tayal indigenous band in Jianshi Township, Taiwan, talked about their work to create a seed bank for traditional millet varieties. They discuss how the Tayal are preserving traditional ethnobotanical practices in their mountain communities while navigating globalization forces, including their own embrace of Christianity. Syaman Rapongan, a prominent aboriginal (Tao) writer, described the Tao Libangbang (flying fish) culture and the sea and island ecologies of Orchid Island, Taiwan. He explained how the Tao’s traditional fishing and cooking offers people and marine life the time and space to regenerate from the impacts of nuclear contamination. Chia-hua Lin, a graduate student from Taiwan at the University of Hawai’i, discussed her research on Ka‘ala farm, in Honolulu, where the Kanaka Maoli (Native Hawaiians) are growing traditional foods (kalo/taro) and raising fish as their kūpuna (ancestors) did. She explained how this farm is part of an Indigenous resurgence in Hawaiʻi that is pushing back against sugarcane and pineapple plantations which have caused food insecurity in Hawaii to the point that 85-90% of food must be imported. As a whole, the roundtable explored how local, community-driven movements are resisting eco-colonialism and neoliberal sustainability (green growth) while building solidarity economies or new “subsistence” perspectives based on sufficiency.

During the trip to Hawai‘i, Dr. Hsinya Huang took the opportunity and did a field study at the lo‘i kalo (taro farm) named Ka Papa Loʻi ʻo Kānewai adjacent to the campus of the University of Hawai‘i at Mānoa. Together with a well-known Tao writer, Syaman Rapongan, Dr. Huang met with the director of the lo‘i, Makahiapo Cashman, during which the director shared Hawaiian worldview regarding the caring of kalo (taro).

Chia-Hua Lin’s graduate research at the University of Hawai’i focuses on the caring of kalo in the Native Hawaiian tradition. In Kanaka Māoli (Native Hawaiian) worldview, the growing of kalo is not merely a production of food or an economic source; it is the caring of their kin. In Hawaiian myth, the firstborn son of sky father, Wākea, and earth mother, Papa, gave birth to a daughter Ho‘ohokukalani. Later Wākea and Ho‘ohokukalani had a son named Haloa-naka. The firstborn son, however, was stillborn and buried. Out of the earth where Haloa-naka was buried grew the kalo that fed the second son, also named Haloa, who became the ancestor of Kanaka Māoli. Hence, Native Hawaiians consider kalo their ancestor. Based on this worldview Kanaka Māoli developed a reciprocal relationship with and traditional knowledge about the environment. It is, therefore, not difficult to see the significance of kalo in Hawaiian culture and in the fight for environmental justice and food sovereignty in the Hawaiian context. During the visit to Ka Papa Loʻi ʻo Kānewai, we also saw how students are taken to the lo‘i to learn about Hawaiian culture, traditional knowledge, and worldview by actually working in the lo‘i. Through their physical work, the bodies of the students carry and practice the ancestral memory and knowledge of Kanaka Māoli. Kumu (teacher) as well as students working in the lo‘i, Chia-Hua Lin argues, can also be considered activists asserting the food sovereignty of Kanaka Māoli.

Syaman Rapongan, Chia-hua Lin, Hsinya Huang and Makahiapo Cashman

At Ka Papa Loʻi ʻo Kānewai

(Photo credit: Chia-hua Lin)

Panelists at the ASA annual conference with some of the products produced by the Tayal in the Millet Ark project

(Photo credit: Chia-hua Lin)

At the ASA Annual Meeting, the Millet Ark project Dr. Yih-Ren Lin presented with the respected Tayal practitioner and activist, Pagung Tomi, received well deserved praises for their amazing effort to preserve one of the significant crops in Tayal culture—millet. They endeavor to encourage the farmers to grow millet by creating a co-op platform on which they can sell their products to sustain not only the material life but cultural heritage surrounding the millet.

The Tayal people traditionally source food through hunting, fishing, gathering and growing crops. Qutux Niqan, “a group that eats together,” is one of the core social values of the Tayal community. Nonetheless, it also helps constitute an ecological network in which this human group possesses a deep awareness of the interconnective relations with nature, and thus adopts a respectful attitude towards the land in regards to collecting food. Agricultural and hunting activities are paired with rituals and ceremonies to acknowledge the spirits of the land and ask for their blessing.

Tayal hunting culture is at the root of maintaining the sustainability of the landscape and ecosystem. Hunting involves knowing the prey and its place in the food chain, and requires an understanding of not only animal behavior but also plants and phenology. Furthermore, Tayal hunters set snares using only materials found on site, so as to not disturb the existing environment. Another tradition observed by the Tayal is for all members of a hunting party to make peace with one another before a hunt, in order to ensure unity when facing adversity. A hunter who passes away is believed to cross a rainbow bridge accompanied by his hound as well as his prey; further testimony that the Tayal people view the creatures they hunt as equals rather than enemies.

There are many Tayal legends cautioning against wastefulness and selfishness when it comes to food. Several tales explain that food used to be gifted freely to the tribe by the spirits and the forest. It was only once the food was squandered by lazy and greedy tribesmen did they cease to have an abundance of millet, and the Tayal people were required to grow their own crops. Thus agricultural activity of the Tayal people is strongly governed by their morals of respecting, sharing and caring for their land. The Sbalay ceremony that is performed at the start of each cultivation cycle to reinsure harmony with all the creatures that have previously used the land is yet another demonstration of the Tayal mentality.

Millet is the main crop grown by the Tayal people and is an essential part of their diet. Milestones in the cultivation process are marked by ceremonies, including those for the plowing of the fields, the sowing of the seeds, the harvesting of the crops and many more. The Tayal people also plant cucumbers around the fields as a snack for hungry workers and hunters. After harvesting and storing the crops, the Tayal people will then sun-dry and husk the millet to prepare it for culinary use. Each variety of millet can be used for a different purpose, crops that are darker in color can be distilled into liquor, stickier millet can be made into traditional Tayal variations of cakes and mochi, whereas non-sticky grains are cooked as a staple in everyday meals.

The Tayal people have a well-developed knowledge of how to ferment and marinate food for many different purposes, such as travel, rituals, feasts, or even to ward off evil spirits. Ingredients for curing meat often include onions, ginger, chili peppers, black mustard seeds, paired with hornet pupae, poultry or other game meats. Pickling containers can be pots, vats, jars, etc.; and the various processing methods include salt rubs, brine curing, dry curing, marinating, steaming, mixing and so on. An example of this is tmmyan, the famed Tayal dish of cured game meat. The meat is rubbed with salt, fermented with millet and maqaw (mountain pepper) or ginger, then stored in an airtight jar to create a delectable savory snack.

Bamboo is crucial to the Tayal lifestyle; not only is it a source of food, but it can also be made into shelter and infrastructure, tools and utensils or even clothes and instruments. The cultivation of bamboo is yet another demonstration of the Tayal’s thorough understanding of their crops; for instance, farmers know to harvest bamboo earlier in order to stimulate better growth, because interconnected roots make trimming down older stalks beneficial to the whole bamboo grove. Elders may caution against building homes with the bamboo that produced sweeter shoots, for fear of attracting pests. Bamboo and millets are grown in turn, with newly moved-in tribes burning old bamboo groves to make way for fields of millet, then leaving behind bamboo roots again when they leave. Thus the discovery of existing groves of the dominant and resilient bamboo also indicates to future dwellers the presence of their ancestors.

Keeping with the spirit of traditional Tayal agriculture, some modern-day farmers have incorporated the use of microorganisms. The microbes are harvested from different environments through detailed observation and gathered knowledge on the plants, bacteria and fungi found in nature. The use of microorganisms in agriculture helps complete the ecosystem of the farm, with the microbes aiding in the decomposition of animal waste and other organic material. For example, the addition of certain microbes to chicken coops can prevent the foul odor and pests that come with excrement, and the improved surroundings breeds healthy chickens that produce cleaner eggs. Crops are also protected with fallen leaves instead of man-made tarps as another measure to maintain the natural environment and grow plants without the use of artificial products.

Pagung Tomi sings stories of Tayal ancestors’ migration, land management, and food culture in her millet barn. (Photo credit: Shiuhhuah Serena Chou )

Syax Tali’s eco-henhouse (photo credit: Syax Tali)

The Humanities for Innovation and Social Practices: A Workshop on Food Futures

After the field study, Dr. Hunag invited Syax Tali, Tayal eco-farmer, teacher, and practitioner, to share his natural farming methods and philosophy.

The path of natural farming, according to Syax Tali, is a process of unlearning and relearning. He had always been a farmer, but after his wife fell ill because of the pesticide, he decided to try natural farming. As he later found out, he had to unlearn everything he thought he knew about farming and relearn everything again. Is it not also critical for us environmentalists to go through the process of unlearning and relearning when working with different communities?

Not only did he have to unlearn and relearn everything, as Syax Tali indicates, he had to constantly learn from the Mountains, the forest, and earth. The humidity, temperatures, and even the make-up and condition of microorganisms change every day, even every hour. As a result, he has to observe the environment closely and learn how to care for the land and plants in different conditions. In order to develop a sustainable nature agriculture, Syax Tali also has to learn how to make natural fertilizer out of microorganisms and kitchen waste. He knows how to turn eggshell into nutrient solution for his chickens.

Humanities Innovation and Social Practices (HISP) Group
(Photo credit: The Humanities for Innovation and Social Practices, NSYSU)

The International Conference on Food Futures is now scheduled to take place in Kaohsiung, Taiwan, headquarters of the Asia-Pacific Observatory in November 2021 and we invite you to visit their website and our Observatory’s website for more information as we get closer to the date of the conference.

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Stories of the Land

Asia Pacific Observatory

“Stories of the Land” introduce animals, foods and policies in relation to farming and agricultural productions in Taiwan and other Pacific islands by inquiring into their colonial past and influences.

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To learn more about Stories of the Land visit the project website @ http://hfe-asiapacific-observatory.nsysu.edu.tw/project/stories-of-the-land.php.

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