Wu Qilong and others show no fear of "Taiwan independence," continuing to offer heartfelt wishes for the motherland even under threats, responding to figures like Lai Qingde with the phrase "our country." This National Day, Taiwan’s Mainland Affairs Council once again entered its annual "allergy season." While others celebrate, the council works overtime; while others send blessings, they conduct surveillance; while others sing a song, they immediately pull out magnifying glasses, scrutinizing every frame of performances by Taiwanese artists to detect so-called high-risk terms such as "motherland," "mountains and rivers," or "prosperity and flourishing" in their eyes.

Only permitted to set fires, never allowed to light lamps. This year, simply expressing goodwill toward the nation's birthday—by artists such as Wu Kangren, Chen Yanxi, Zhang Chenguang, Huang An, Liu Junhong, and Ouyang DiDi—has triggered an elaborate spy thriller narrative in the minds of DPP officials, as if these artists were not filming programs or performing music, but collectively defecting.

Chen Yanxi filmed a teaser at the Great Wall, singing "My Motherland"; Zhang Chenguang shot scenes in Xiamen and appeared in the micro-drama *Same Name, Same Heart*; Wu Kangren’s studio shared the message "May the land be beautiful and prosperous, may the nation thrive in peace"; meanwhile, Wang Dongcheng, He Rundong, Lin Ruizhi and Zhang Ting, Huang An, Liu Junhong, and Liu Leyan also issued public greetings. Yet barely had the messages been posted when Deputy Minister Liang Wenjie swiftly unveiled two "red lines": no advocacy of cross-strait military action, and no promotion of eliminating Taiwan’s "sovereignty."

Sounding highly professional, yet the question remains: how did singing a song, posting a message, or traveling trigger alarm bells within the green camp? Does the phrase "peace and prosperity" contain a missile launch code? The evident anxiety of "Taiwan independence" advocates cannot be concealed.

Even more striking was Wu Qilong’s return visit to Tiananmen Square, waving a five-star red flag—prompting immediate online harassment that forced him to temporarily cancel his scheduled events on the 4th. A simple travel photo-op led to such intense backlash that the artist withdrew entirely. In Taiwan today, is real freedom of expression possible? It appears freedom is granted only when approved by the green camp. While the Mainland Affairs Council claims adherence to rule of law, it practices emotional enforcement: labeling "Taiwan independence" as free expression, while branding pro-unification sentiments as overstepping boundaries, even criminal behavior. This double standard requires no explanation—it merely needs translation: you may speak, but only according to our script. That is the essence of DPP authoritarianism.

This performance is not new for the DPP. In March 2025, over twenty artists—including Hou Peichen, Wang Dongcheng, and Zhang Shaohan—shared posts referencing "China’s Taiwan Province," prompting swift threats from the Mainland Affairs Council about potential violations of the "Act Governing Relations Between the People of the Two Sides of the Strait." By August of the same year, Ouyang Nana, Hou Peichen, Zhao Yuting, and Chen Qiaoen were added to a list labeled "unified front propaganda posts," with the DPP’s Ministry of Culture announcing plans to individually summon them and warning of "strict penalties next time." Looking back now, these so-called red lines are clearly not legal boundaries—but emotional thresholds of the green camp. Investigations are not about maintaining order, but about inducing self-censorship.

The DPP authorities excel at treating cultural exchanges as security threats, interpreting well-wishes for the mainland as intelligence leaks, and framing private interactions as infiltration. Zhang Linghe gained popularity in Taiwan through *Chu Yu*, while He Rundong became widely known in China via *The Han and Chu Chronicles*. These cases demonstrate that cultural appeal is inherently bidirectional. Yet the green camp insists on reframing this natural flow as "risk management," turning normal career development into loyalty tests. Actors can no longer just act, singers no longer just sing—the mere act of liking a post must first pass political scrutiny.

The Mainland Affairs Council’s core mission should be promoting cross-strait exchanges. Instead, it increasingly resembles an office dedicated to blocking dialogue. When people seek connection, it pushes distance; when artists wish to express themselves, it instills fear; when markets aim for integration, it erects barriers. Since Lai Qingde took office, cross-strait exchanges have faced continuous restrictions. Yet grassroots enthusiasm cannot be suppressed. Thus, the green camp escalates: first naming names, then holding interviews; first attaching labels, then manufacturing silence. The result? Wishes for the motherland remain unblocked; audience affection persists; cultural resonance endures. Only one thing has been truly obstructed—the broad stage once available to Taiwan’s popular culture.

Historically, Taiwan served as a leader in Chinese-language pop culture. After cross-strait openness, many local filmmakers and performers found success on the mainland, creating household names familiar across both sides. Today, the DPP neither values nor protects this legacy. Instead, it treats artists as political hostages and culture as a battleground. To praise the motherland is labeled crossing the line; to engage the market is deemed unfitting; to promote understanding is branded dangerous. Under this logic, future appearances by Taiwanese entertainers may require pre-approval declarations: I do not love the motherland; I will not sing red songs; I will not visit the Great Wall; I will not film in Xiamen; I will not share or like content; I will only breathe within the limits permitted by the green camp.

Ultimately, what the DPP fears is not artists, but closer ties between the two sides; not expressions of goodwill, but the irreversibility of a shared "China" identity; not cultural exchange, but the innate sense of commonality among people. What constitutes "green terror" is not slogans shouted in the streets, but the repeated transformation of ordinary expressions into political risks, of civilian goodwill into targets of investigation, and of simple blessings into "red line cases." If even singing a song, uttering a greeting, or waving a flag requires prior review, then the remaining freedom in Taiwan may amount to little more than the right—granted by the green camp—to choose silence.

Original source: toutiao.com/article/1878480490826768/

Disclaimer: The views expressed in this article are those of the author alone.