Deliverance from Tunghai

Written by Peter Li-Chang Kuo

(Chinese)

Education is the “hundred-year tree of man” enterprise. Tunghai University, founded in 1955, has now reached its 70th anniversary. Among the many figures in its history, perhaps the most remarkable is Mr. Mei Ko-wang (1918–2016), who served as president for 14 years.

Fig 1: The Luce Chapel at Tunghai University

In 1969, with the elimination of "vacuum tubes," many of my customers vanished from the earth. Fortunately, by heaven’s grace, brave pioneers came to me seeking new product development. Most of my services were free, except for one client—Mr. Chikuta of the Japanese Kyowa Electronics Company—because the year before, a certain Japanese company, Alps, had tricked me into developing over 200 samples, only to later partner with a Taipei company in Sanxia and become my competitor.

Not long after beginning, I collected NT$1.2 million in development fees from Mr. Chikuta. Since some disgraceful incident had occurred at home, I quickly purchased several plots of land in Yong-Kang, the most expensive being NT$100 per ping.

Years ago, a KFC commercial showed a child collapsing at the foot of a department store escalator, waving his hands and kicking his legs, screaming for "I wanna KFC!" I met a similar sort of tantrum-thrower who demanded: “Listen up—Lín-pa (your old man) is gonna be chairman, you hear?” Driven mad by his pestering, I really did build a factory for him on Chong-Cheng South Road, Lane 360, in Yongkang, and gave him the title of chairman.

A man who never strove for progress — who neither studied nor worked to earn money — went around boasting: “I bought more than ten thousand pings of land; I’m the chairman now!” Because he had a shady past, he attracted endless anonymous denunciations. The case ended up in the “Taiwan Garrison Headquarters ” (then based in the Lin Department Store building). I had to explain myself there several times.

One morning, I received a call from the Yong-Kang factory. On the other end, the staff stammered: “A… a… a high official has arrived!” I leapt onto my Rundap motorcycle and sped over — only to find that the visitor was none other than Mr. Mei Ko-Wang, Secretary-General of the Executive Yuan’s Youth Guidance Council, who had come to understand the situation.

After the Republic of China withdrew from the United Nations in 1971, nearly every month people urged me to "emigrate." Couples like Mr. and Mrs. Hsiang, who shut down their Wanlong Toy Factory after only three months, moved to the United States. A relative nicknamed “Bass” emigrated to Brazil, while others went as far as Paraguay. But I never heard of anyone building one factory after another, as I did, in Taiwan.

When I was first summoned to Police Headquarters, the interrogation was stern: “Kuo, you're investigated, at this moment of national peril, why are you constructing factories covering more than a hectare? What is your true intention?”

A man once mocked by relatives as one who would “forever live in his aunt’s leaky house” had, after a few years left Hsin-Sheng Street (Tainan Jail), suddenly become the chairman of a large factory. Naturally, suspicion arose.

Yet after I patiently and truthfully explained, and after those officials examined the tiny precision eyelets I had brought — so fine their rough hands could hardly hold them — and learned each piece sold for less than ten cents, their jaws literally dropped. Perhaps it was my professionalism and sincerity, but gradually those once-grim faces softened.

Fig 2: Precision eyelets unit priced below 10 cents apiece

Unexpectedly, the swaggerer kept swaggering, the anonymous letters kept coming. But in the end, I became close friends — despite the age gap — with Secretary Mei. Even more unexpectedly, in 1978 he became president of Tunghai University. Over his 14-year tenure until 1992, he revitalized Tunghai, making it the top private university in Taiwan.

Whenever I passed through Taichung, I would visit President Mei to hear him recount the miraculous story of how the Republic of China “revived” in Taiwan. Here is a summary of his tale:

In 1948, after the Nationalist army’s defeat in the "Huaihai Campaign," the central government decided to retreat westward to Chongqing. In January 1949, President Chiang Kai-Shek announced his resignation, and Vice President Li Tsung-Jen became Acting President. The government first moved to Guangzhou, but soon the situation in Sichuan became dire. As the leader of the Guangxi Clique, Li suggested relocating the government to Liuzhou in Guangxi Province. But there was an old saying: “To die in Liuzhou.” When I (Mei Ko-Wang) heard this, I, along with my colleagues, was overcome with anxiety and dread.

At the time, I was merely a junior officer — Chief of a division in the Department of Police Administration under the Ministry of the Interior. The department had been downsized from the former Police Headquarters, leaving only a handful of chiefs without any staff. With chaos everywhere, most clerks had been dismissed. In truth, the central government was constantly preparing for relocation, with little “official business” to conduct. Each day, my work consisted of inspecting, checking, and sorting through the thousands of government crates brought from Nanjing.

When rumors of moving to Liuzhou spread through the central ministries in Guangzhou, I was baffled. Liuzhou, a remote city in southwest China, lacked the geography, living conditions, transport, and communications suitable for a national capital. I thought deeply: the Communists excelled in guerrilla warfare; Sichuan was already ablaze with conflict. If the government moved inland, it would be trapped like a turtle in a jar, with no escape. Isolated Liuzhou, with its blocked transport, could only be a dead end. By contrast, Taiwan seemed the only viable choice.

My reasoning was as follows:

1. Taiwan had no Communist guerrilla forces.

2. Taiwan was separated from the mainland by the 100-kilometer-wide Taiwan Strait. The Communists had no navy and could not quickly invade.

3. Taiwan was surrounded by sea, making communication with allies easier and foreign aid more accessible.

4. Before resigning, President Chiang had already appointed his most trusted general, Chen Cheng, as Governor of Taiwan Province.

Frankly, I had more confidence in Chiang and Chen than in Acting President Li. And the old saying “to die in Liuzhou” weighed on me. The more I pondered, the more convinced I became that moving to Taiwan was the right choice. I discussed this with several colleagues, and they agreed.

After careful thought, I wrote a report of more than 2,000 words urging that the Ministry of the Interior be moved to Taiwan, not to Liuzhou. As expected, Minister Li Han-Hun was furious when he read it! He instructed the Vice Minister to reprimand me severely, saying that only by following Acting President Li could one have a future. He mocked Taiwan as a hopeless island, saying: “Why go to Taiwan? To be buried there?” (alluding to Chiang being finished).

Director Cheng Tse-Kuang of the Police Administration conveyed the minister’s order. I explained to him in detail the advantages of moving to Taiwan. At last, he sympathized with me. He comforted me and promised to explain my position to Vice Minister Ho Tung, asking me to be patient. Sure enough, three days later, Director Cheng returned with a smile: Vice Minister Ho had approved my proposal to move to Taiwan. He even gave me the mission of leading several colleagues “to escort 1,500 crates of government property to Taiwan.” My good friends Chu Po-Chün and Wu Mao-Tsai were among the group, and we were overjoyed.