Breaking the silence: How the Laguna Woods shooting triggers historical trauma in the Taiwanese community
My fingers shake as I try to formulate the tragedy of last Sunday into words. In the background, I hear the murmur of the Taiwanese news and the pinging of my parents’ phones as new information of the shooting unfolds. I see a video sent through a family LINE chat of Pastor Chang as he recounts to the news reporter the trauma that ensued that day. He is visibly shaken and his voice swells with pain as he talks about how Dr. Cheng, who was slain while tackling the shooter, accompanied his mother to visit the pastor that day. You can hear the survivor’s guilt in his words when he says, “I don’t know how I’ll be able to face this family again”.
Last Sunday, a shooting occurred at Laguna Woods Church, a weekly haven and place of worship for an elderly Taiwanese congregation. I found out about the attack Sunday afternoon, when my mother called, “Pei Hsuan (my native name), something happened. Ah-bei (uncle) called and said there was a shooting at his brother’s church”. In panicked confusion, “What? Which brother? Which church?”. Because the Taiwanese community is small and tightly-knit, where everyone is connected by one degree of separation, I immediately knew that this was a close family friend.
This incident occurred only 72 hours after the Buffalo shooting where an 18-year old White supremacist gunned down 10 people in a racist mass shooting and only a week after the Dallas shooting of a Korean salon where 3 Korean women were killed.
The attack, a politically motivated hate crime targeting the Taiwanese, brought up the historical trauma of the “228” massacre that occurred in February 28th, 1947 where 28,000 Taiwanese civilians were senselessly murdered by the Kuomintang, the Chinese Nationalist Party. After Japan's defeat in WWII, the Allies handed administrative control of Taiwan to the KMT. The KMT then enacted 40 years of martial law in Taiwan, in a period known as the White Terror, where it persecuted Taiwanese intellectuals and any perceived political dissidents. My paternal great uncle was one among many of those “dissidents” who was imprisoned for 40 years.
In that time period, the government silenced the Taiwanese people and forbade any mention of the massacre. It was not until forty-eight years after, in 1995 when President Lee Teng-hui broke the silence, when Taiwan began to heal as a country.
Many Taiwanese immigrants emigrated from Taiwan before the silence was broken and did not have the opportunity to heal alongside their home country. Some began to make their homes in the US and recreated their homeland in the Taiwanese Presbyterian Church. In their pain, our elders found a safe dwelling place in the church–a space where members got weekly glimpses of their motherland, spoke in their native tongue, connected through story-telling, exchanged bā lā (guava), pi pa (loquat), and “bak zhang” (Taiwanese sticky rice), and caught up on the latest news that usually involved grandchildren gossip. This ethnic enclave was the only place my family found belonging in a society where they were discriminated against and regarded as perpetual foreigners. This community shielded my family, provided resources, and allowed us to celebrate our roots. During the pandemic, it provided comfort to an isolated elderly community who have been the target of anti-asian hate crimes.
(A 1995 group picture of family members of the First Taiwanese Presbyterian Church. I’m on the bottom left, with my favorite power rangers sweater; Pastor Chang who was involved in subduing the attacker is pictured on the right, above his brother.
I grew up in the First Taiwanese Presbyterian Church in Pasadena. My mother was the choir conductor who transposed English worship songs to be sung in her mother tongue and my father served as the deacon. In the sanctuary, individuals communed with God, in the lunch hall we communed with each other. Our elders taught us to be proud of being Taiwanese. I grew up hearing, “if anyone calls you Chinese, make sure to correct them, and say you are Taiwanese”. I now realize that this was their form of resistance, of claiming their independence in a political climate that, to this day, denies Taiwan’s autonomy.
(We grew up in the Taiwanese Church: a picture of 2nd generation, now millennials Taiwanese American children singing at church)
The shooting at the Laguna Woods Church was traumatic in and of itself, but it triggers the historical trauma that our elders endured in “228”. As a mental health therapist who works with Asian populations, I believe the church plays a critical role in facilitating collective healing. This is especially true for the elder generation who are not likely to seek mental health treatment as mental health is stigmatized in the Asian community. While going to church does not replace mental health treatment, the church provides an environment rich with protective factors that foster resilience, such as a supportive community, spirituality and practices, story telling, musical expression, and cultural connection. While religion also has its shadow-side, to be able to trust in a compassionate Higher Power who is greater than the self, allows individuals to release the burdens that they carry. Prayer, meditation, reading scripture, worship, are all ways that one can cope with their distress. Additionally, many East Asian cultures rooted in Confucianism believe that musical expression is an instrument for emotional catharsis. Rather than talking about emotions, music and the arts are intended as means to express one’s internal world. For many, the church is a space for spiritual and emotional healing. This is why we cannot let attacks like this happen again.*
(My mother conducting the church choir at First Taiwanese Presbyterian Church. She had music translated into Taiwanese so congregants could sing in their mother tongue.)
As an angsty teenager, I took this community for granted, but now I look back with so much gratitude, respect, and love. How much I long to hear my grandmother pray in Taiwanese again, how much I want to sit with her and hear her stories, and how much I wish to hear her sing her hymns again.
Our elders have “jia ko” (swallowed pain) and have been silenced for so long. When stories of suffering are silenced, so too are stories of resistance and resilience. We must break the silence. We must share the stories of pain, but also of joy, resilience, resistance, and redemption—stories that have been erased from our history books but have been passed down in our bones, stories that teach us to beat our chest with pride for we are proud to be Taiwanese, and the stories that lead to a collective healing.
To my Taiwanese elders, I want to say “to-siā” (thank you). Thank you for raising us, thank you for loving us, and thank you for protecting us. We are who we are because of you, and now it’s our turn to protect you. We will not be silent.
*The gunman, Danny Chou, was born in Taiwan in the 50’s under marshall law where the Taiwanese were taught that they were Chinese; he is considered to be a second generation “waishenren” (Chinese mainlanders who fled to Taiwan during the communist takeover). Because his identity was formed under authoritarian rule, his political background is different from many Taiwanese-born “benshengren” (ethnic Chinese who arrived before 1945). Because he had emigrated from Taiwan before the country began its recuperation, his political beliefs may have been frozen at that time. Chou specifically targeted the Taiwanese Presbyterian Church as the denomination has historical ties to the pro-democracy and independence movement.
