I. The Coast

Seasonal winds have long washed away the scent of blood, but sometimes you can still catch a whiff of it. It lingers like a stain you can’t quite remove, hiding in the cracks between rocks, among the seashells scattered ashore, and in every rise of the tide. At dawn, the sun appears first, then draws shadows from the water. Wispy black bodies stumble ashore, then melt away into wooden hedgehogs. They lie like webs where the water meets the sand. When we were little, we used to climb atop them; sweat would drip down our foreheads as we tried rolling them like barrels. After decades of disuse, they now serve as a foundation for barnacles, a death trap for seaweed that may have washed ashore. I sometimes go there, sit upon a dead log, and listen to the seagulls. I’ve heard that once on this island the birds were silent. It makes me wonder what sights they saw, what things they witnessed that made them open their mouths and scream — because once they started, they were never quiet again.

II. The Bunkers

Small hands; big hands; weathered hands; calloused hands. Hands meant for harvesting and nurturing molded to the shape of a trigger; hearts meant to love blackened as they were taught to hate. Chests pressed into sweet-smelling dirt, soldiers piled into stone bunkers. Some held telescopes; others manned cannons and guns. The speakers symphonized the enemy’s arrival. Wet boots sank into the sand. Bodies splashed into the sea. Ash rained from the sky. Ask people who were there in 1949, and they would tell you the world was burning. Ask me, and I’ll tell you that it’s still burning.

III. The Neighborhood.

It is 2024 and my generation is overdue for a war. I have waited decades, but the enemy never comes. We grew up learning about the ten thousand soldiers who defended our island, and the brave civilians who fashioned weapons out of glass bottles and kitchen knives when the killing raged up the beach and into their streets. And though the battle has long finished, the land still bears its scars. The houses still stand, with broken bricks or smashed windows. Roofs cave in like wailing mouths, wooden slats are nailed across doors, and plaster peels off the exterior walls. Clothes flutter on drying racks in the midday heat. The air smells of salt and metal everywhere, and the streets are red. Perhaps that is the natural state of the cobblestones, but in some places, if you look closely, you might notice that it resembles the color of blood.

IV. The Mainland.

A narrow strait separates us from the mainland — you can see straight across. One day, the buildings on the other side began growing, and they never stopped. As my people patched their roofs and told stories of how ten-thousand soldiers held back an army in 1949, I watched the mainland pluck stars from the sky and place them atop their skyscrapers. I witnessed them build a bridge, timber by timber, and lighthouses, to guide their boats home. Inspired by what lay across the ocean, people said, “Maybe we should start over.” Tear our neighborhoods down and rebuild them sleek and shiny. Break apart the wooden hedgehogs and allow greenery to creep along the stone bunkers. Repaint the streets, and let the island heal over its own scars, instead of scraping them open in painful remembrance. Maybe we should. But we never do. As borders opened, mainlanders began arriving. We showed them our coast. Our bunkers. Our neighborhoods. “We won the battle,” we told them. They replied, “Yes, but we won the war.”

V. The Fields

Shoots of wheat grow from dirt in neat, orderly lines. Straw hats and umbrellas. The setting sun beats down on workers, skin taut and bronzed as they make one last trip through the rows, baskets swaying against their hips, rocking babies strapped to their backs. They have worked the same field for centuries. They’ll tell you that life is a lot like the seasons — cyclical in nature. They’ll tell you that the ground has never quite recovered from being trampled by combat boots and fertilized by blood, and that trauma is inherited, but it is our responsibility to make it part of our identity. Like a curtain, the fields split apart in the middle. When the wind is right, and you spread out your arms, it will carry you away down to the water. The path to the sea is longer than I remember.

VI. The Drowning.

One once witnessed, in the dead of night, a girl floating across the strait. They say she drowned trying to reach the mainland. She was trying to escape. They laugh. “Escape from what?” But I would know better than most: you don’t need water to feel like you’re drowning. I have never belonged in 1949.



Historical Note
This piece was partially inspired by Kinmen Islands (金門), which directly translates to “Golden Gate Island”. As a group of islands located only 10km away from Mainland China (Xiamen), Kinmen was a prime target for hostilities following the Chinese Civil War in 1949. On 25 October 1949, the Battle of Kuningtou took place, in which the ROC held off the People’s Liberation Army (PLA) preventing an attack on Taiwan. Several years later, rising tensions between the ROC and PLA, combined with international pressure, led to the First and Second Taiwan Strait Crises in 1954–1955 and 1958 respectively. Today, mainly rural, the island serves as a ROC military base; many museums and historical sites remain as a testament to the island’s years of conflict and war. Some details in this piece were extrapolated from history for storytelling purposes.