Today, we visited the Taipei 228 Memorial Museum, located within the 228 Peace Memorial Park in the Zhongzheng District. The museum is in the former Taipei Broadcasting Bureau building and gives visitors a poignant look into the February 28 Incident of 1947, also known as the 228 Incident.
Before entering the museum, Peter gave us a brief introduction to the incident. On February 27, 1947, poor widow was selling contraband cigarettes and police came to confiscate them. She begged to be let go of and civilians nearby stood up for her against the policemen. One of the policemen, whether intentionally or unintentionally, hit her on the head with the butt of his rifle, drawing blood. Angry bystanders chased the man down and in the chaos, he fired a shot behind him, killing a civilian who was watching the commotion from his home. The next day, civilians gathered to protest and the government responded with violence and the enactment of martial law. Troops opened fire on protesters, and what followed was a brutal, island-wide suppression that became known as the 228 Incident. Thousands of people—many of them intellectuals, students, and critics of the government—were arrested, imprisoned, or executed in the weeks that followed.
Inside, the exhibits are arranged in a way that combines historical photographs, documents, and personal artifacts alongside written narrations of events prior to, during, and following the 228 Incident. One section highlights the role of the radio station during the uprising. Protesters demanded that the news about the shooting and polices’ violent attacks against civilians. Another area displays the personal items of victims—clothes, letters, photographs, watches—along with what had happened to them. They were all killed or disappeared by the government in tragic ways, leaving behind grieving and angry families or sometimes even taking the families with them. My heart dropped at every new story I read. These victims were mostly people involved in government officials, but there was also a section highlighting the victims who were average people—farmers, bicycle repair shop owners, grocery store operators. Whatever I was feeling while reading the previous stories doubled when I read these. I was appalled and disgusted at what was done to these people.
I kept thinking about how a single moment—a widow selling cigarettes—set off such a devastating chain of events. Walking through the exhibits, I could feel the weight of that history. It’s sobering to realize how quickly state violence can escalate, and how long the effects of fear and censorship can linger in a society. The museum made visitors feel the emotions of those who suffered in 1947 and honored the memory of those who were lost, and it reminded me of how fragile freedom can be. Earlier, Peter had said that the topic of the 228 Incident was taboo and he had never learned about it during his school years. Though I understand why Taiwan would refrain from teaching this to children, I strongly believe that without knowing this kind of history of one’s own country, a nation cannot grow from its past mistakes and history is bound to repeat itself. I thought about the silences in my own education growing up, and how every country chooses what to highlight or erase in its storytelling. For instance, I barely remember being taught anything in-depth about the U.S.’s role in the Vietnam War or the Korean War—beyond a few dates and names. We never really examined the impact these wars had on civilians, or the controversies and protests they sparked at home. It was as if the curriculum skimmed over anything that might complicate a patriotic narrative. Visiting the 228 Memorial Museum made me realize how common it is for countries—including my own—to avoid confronting the darker parts of their history.
I left the museum feeling heavy, but also deeply grateful that places like this exist. It made me want to ask more questions about the histories I’ve been told, and to carry forward a greater sensitivity to the voices and stories that were once silenced.