Civil Action in Taiwan: From the Sunflowers to the Bluebirds

The civil society’s reaction to the opposition parties’ “parliamentary reform” was swift. Between May 17 and 28, Taiwan experienced what, on the surface, resembles a new “Sunflower” spring—the major popular protest of 2014. That movement saw students, and later the broader civil society, invade, occupy, and surround the Taiwanese parliament (Legislative Yuan, LY) to oppose the Chinese Nationalist Party (KMT)’s hasty and plenary-session-free ratification of an agreement with China, signed under then-President Ma Ying-jeou (2008-2016). That agreement would have opened Taiwan’s main economic sector, services, to extensive Chinese investment. The movement lasted three weeks and is one of the very few “occupy” movements worldwide to have achieved its goals—in this case, canceling the ratification of the treaty, blocking the agreement’s implementation, and compelling the KMT-dominated parliament to adopt a mechanism for reviewing all cross-straits agreements.

Blue birds

The popular protest movement of May 2024 is now referred to as the “Bluebird Movement” (青鳥行動, qingniao xingdong). The choice of this name Blue bird deserves an explanation, as much as the choice of the word xingdong, instead of yundong, to qualify the movement [1]. “Bluebird” is a translation of the Chinese word 青鳥 qingniao, a pronunciation and script of which is very similar to 青島 Qingdao, which the name of one of the three streets adjacent to the Taiwanese parliament [2]. The decision to use qingniao instead of Qingdao originates in the fear that some netizens had of seeing their messages posted online carrying calls to rally around the legislature being filtered and obliterated by Facebook’s algorithms. For this reason, they had initially replaced “Legislative Yuan” with “Qingdao East Road” in their messages, before realizing that “Qingdao” could also be censored. 

They eventually adopted qingniao, the Bluebird, as the name of their movement. A symbol was needed in addition to the name. It was found in the endemic Formosan blue magpie [3], a bird with a blue tail. Indigenous, endangered, the species is now protected in Taiwan. It seemed perfectly suited to become the emblem of a protest. It was the perfect metaphor of Taiwan’s democracy endangered by the China movement accusing the KMT and the Taiwan People’s Party (TPP) of collusion with China and of endangering democracy. 

Visual protest art

The 2014 Sunflower movement in Taiwan had shown that a movement of civic protest occupying public space for a relatively long period could develop the conditions for a creative and plentiful culture of engaged visual arts, the creations being often made with simple materials, such as paper boxes recovered on-site from packaging of food and other goods delivered to the protesters. Illustrations, especially sarcastic caricatures mocking politicians, had even developed, in the 2014 movement, to the point where they had become one of the main forms of expression of political complaint. 

This mostly did not happen on site during the “Bluebird movement” (or, the “Bluebird Action”), since the movement was not of continuous public space occupation during a relatively long period: protests have been organized on a daily basis. Nevertheless, different protesters drew birds colorized in blue on a few supports of communication, such as leaflets or tracts distributed by militants to citizens who came to support or to observe the movement.

But this is only what we see when we just consider the physical space of protest. On the internet, in messages and documents posted and circulated on Facebook, Threads, Instagram and other social networks, the implication of netizens is doubled by the production of a great variety of drawings, posters, slogans, which shows that the portion of the population expressing concern is much larger than what we observe in the streets. Here, as we mentioned about the Sunflower Movement, humor, whether gentle or satirical, is also mobilized. But the movement seems to also act as a generator of creativity that does not necessarily convey an explicit political message. 

However, it can be argued that any creation authored on this occasion by a citizen is a form of political expression that impacts those who see that creation. For instance, a slogan and its afferent drawing extended the homonymy between the Qingdao street and qingniao the blue bird, to two other words: 冬鹿 dong lu, a winter deer, which is homonymic with the word 東路, donglu, east road. The four words “Blue birds and winter deers” are a perfect homonym of “Qingdao East street”, where protests are staged. The political meaning of this is unclear, but the homonymy is funny and easy to remember, and some have started soon to call the movement “Blue birds and winter deers action”.

Compiling a few of these numerous productions of visual protest art circulated online during the peak of the movement, a medical doctor opined that “each of the designs produced by the Blue birds and the winter deers, which are available free of charge, are better in terms of aesthetic beauty than many works that have won government tenders.” (@杜承哲醫師, May 29, 2024) This appears to be a political message, criticizing bureaucracies supposedly wasting public money on projects surpassed in beauty by productions made available free of charge by unpaid anonymous contributors on the net. It is clearly simplistic and even populist in opposing the slow pace and questionable decisions of administrations to the commons produced and exchanged freely by modern and connected citizens. Yet it is one of the countless examples of how a movement like that one can induce innumerable political conversations and exchanges among citizens. Four days later, it had got up to 13,828 thumbs up, and 274 comments, and was shared 690 times already. 

The apparition of “artificial intelligence for all” is obviously, in that respect, helping citizens to produce a larger variety of creations, with increased creativity. One can wonder whether such developments could not be also used for less noble causes, and the answer is of course in the affirmative, and possible misuse of AI is already a question discussed internationally. But for the time being, in our case, it has been difficult to find any work of art produced to criticize the movement, whether with or without the use of AI.

Life of a symbol

Once adopted, a symbol is available for reappropriation in various manners on various supports. During the second reading of the contentious texts in the legislative chamber, DPP lawmakers once threw together paper planes at the Speaker’s podium. In view of the context of DPP lawmakers’ incapacity to counter the process, it is possible to see the paper planes as an attempt by the DPP caucus to benefit from the symbolic capital that the Formosan magpie was now able to give to those who are reappropriating it. The planes, as a symbol for the bird, can be viewed as attempt to establish a cognitive connection between the interior of the Legislative Yuan, where freedom was endangered, and the outside of the Yuan, where the wider civil society was echoing their combat, providing them with some comfort and a validation by the people of the legitimacy of their cause.

In spite of a few similarities between the current movement and the 2014 Sunflower one, the two are quite distinct from each other by several respects. During the Sunflower Movement of 2014, students occupied the parliamentary chamber, halting legislative work for three consecutive weeks. The 2024 movement was purely held outside the building, and several forms of demonstration were attempted inside the chamber, but this time by legislators. The DPP lawmakers who were fighting a lost battle organized increasingly loud protests over several weeks with banners and black T-shirts emblazoned with slogans as the process controlled by the White-Blue alliance made its way towards a second and a third reading. They moved to the center of the assembly to maximize their visibility to cameras. 

In other spaces and sides, KMT and TPP legislators, also away from their seats, strategically positioned themselves to protect the speaker’s podium and access points. This dispersion necessitated voting by a show of hands on each article or amendment, leading to counting errors. The speaker of the parliament, KMT’s Han Kuo-yu, unflinching amidst MPs decrying the death of democracy, coldly announced votes, tallies, and the passage of articles. Thus, despite its contested form, parliamentary work continued. It is this continuation amid unusual circumstances that sparked the protests.

Occupation of the public space

The spatial distribution of the 2024 protest also differs from the one of the 2014 movement. In 2014, the three streets bordering the Parliament—Qingdao Street, Zhongshan Avenue, and Jinan Street—were occupied by students, citizens, and NGOs opposing the trade pact with China, the KMT, and President Ma Ying-jeou. Despite some ideological nuances or differences among students, NGOs and organizers, the protestors were unanimously against the KMT and Ma Ying-jeou. Activities around the Parliament were diverse: multifaceted protests, fiery speeches, issue-explanation sessions, new advocacy topics for social reforms or halting a nuclear plant’s construction, and even relocated classes by supportive teachers. These differences had basically no partisan color (references to political parties and affiliations even seemed to be banned), with all protesters united against a common enemy.

In the 2024 protest movement, the occupation of public space was (at least theoretically) divided between those opposing the legislative process and those supporting it. Initially, the three streets adjacent to Parliament played a central role. For the large May 24 demonstration (100,000 people), the KMT apparently applied for the right to occupy the portion of Zhongshan South Avenue, perpendicular to Qingdao and Jinan Streets, which were occupied by opponents to the reform and the KMT. To prevent possible violent clashes, hundreds of police officers were deployed, and Zhongshan South Avenue was reassigned to the opponents, while Linsen South Road was given to KMT and TPP supporters. This added a fourth street to the occupation perimeter, creating a square around the Legislative Yuan, though this fourth street was farther from the parliamentary premises than the other three. Among the reform opponents, daytime mobilization was strong, despite work and school commitments. Their numbers swelled in the evening. Conversely, few people gathered on Linsen South Road during the day, and only a few dozen were present in the evening despite the KMT’s setup of a stage and large screens. 

The KMT and TPP apparently failed to mobilize their supporters, even though they are numerous in Taipei and New Taipei. However, such efforts were not particularly necessary, as they were assured of passing the reform. Their supporters might have even taken a risk by coming too close to the areas occupied by the reform opponents, and vice versa. For the second major demonstration on May 28, the day of the third reading vote, neither the KMT nor TPP had requested public space occupancy permits. A lone van spotted on Linsen South Road in the late afternoon broadcasted messages in support of the alliance and the reform through loudspeakers, and according to a witness we interviewed later (we were on the other side of the protest site at that time), the van was politely encouraged by the police to move along to avoid traffic congestion during rush hour [4].

In the spaces occupied by the reform opponents, everything was well organized, legal, prepared, and carried out calmly. This reflects a distinct Taiwanese approach to contemporary protests, where the slightest damage to a public building during a protest would be considered as degrading for the perpetrators. Around the occupied space, tents set up by NGOs provided free water and food to demonstrators. Activists and volunteers came to support the protesters and distribute provisions. The famous Presbyterian Church on Jinan Road played a crucial role by successfully calling for volunteers to distribute food and to clean the area after the demonstration, by sheltering them under heavy rain, reflecting the church’s historical support for Taiwanese statehood, against Japanese colonialism first then against the Republic of China.

On the 24th, besides Taipei, small gatherings in support of the capital’s protesters took place in Tainan and Kaohsiung. But on the 28th, the day of the third and last reading of the controversial laws, fifteen cities and counties within Taiwan saw minor demonstrations supporting the movement. This shows the movement’s expansion across the island, not to mention the activity on social media and the internet: information dissemination, protest messages, etc. This reminds us that protest participation has both a tangible, physically measurable dimension and an intangible online dimension, the importance and impact of which is harder to evaluate due to its multifaceted nature. As the Sunflower Movement and many global civic movements have shown, the development of a dematerialized protest space complements and enriches the physical protest space, and does certainly not replace it [5].

Toward a political crisis?

For three weeks, Taiwan faced a legislative crisis. In recent days, it has evolved into an institutional crisis accompanied by several massive demonstrations. So far, Taiwan has been spared a political crisis, as President Lai has not exacerbated the situation. For instance, he quickly agreed to the principle of a state of the nation address at the beginning of 2025. The prospect of the president dissolving the Legislative Yuan is not currently on the table, as it would have to be a response to a motion of no confidence in the government by the Legislative Yuan itself. It is unlikely that the KMT/TPP coalition would vote for such a motion, risking the dissolution of a chamber where they have found a way to destabilize the Executive. 

Meanwhile, the DPP parliamentary group is considering various legal options to attempt to block the reform and is preparing to request a constitutional review by Taiwan’s fifteen Grand Justices. The law should be signed by the president within ten days, and lawmakers have three days to call for a control of conformity to the constitution, which leads us to June 10.

[1] The Chinese word chosen here is not 運動 yundong nor even 社會運動 shehui yundong, it is a word usually employed to designate, properly speaking, an “action.” The substitution of the word “action” to designate the movement underlines the reactive nature of the activists. It is also worth noting that these activists are by definition actors engaged in societal evolution, and thus the modification in the terms may be meant to reflect their social action. Last, the word yundong seems to correspond to an institutional, academic, or police perspective, and seems related to an analysis of the movement, whereas the word xingdong seems to suggests a more self-managed, less directed, more spontaneous movement, which seems described as such in order to keep more distance towards institutions, including NGOs.

[2] Qingdao East Road has become a regular site of political and social demonstrations in recent years, together with  Jinan Road, and with a section of Avenue Zhongshan South, three streets that run alongside the parliament.

[3] 臺灣藍鵲 Taiwan lanqüe, Urocissa caerulea.

[4] Interview with anonymous volunteer, May 28, TouatBooks Bookshop (左轉有書).

[5] In a country where Facebook has long been overwhelmingly dominant, with one of the highest penetration rates of the society in the world, a shift has been confirmed in late May 2024 in the use of social network applications. A study of the “blue birds” movement protester’s use of such applications revealed the generalization among the Taiwanese youth of the use of Threads, a new social networking application that is a simplified version of Instagram. The study was published by The Reporter (報導者) on May 28, and was based on a survey conducted among protesters from May 21 to 24. The use of Threads and of Instagram is now massive among protesters aged 15 to 24 (over 70% use both), while Facebook usage is lower (less than 40%). The use of Facebook grows, and conversely the use of Threads and of instagram diminishes, with the age of generational cohorts.