She was once Asia's hottest singer. A-mei had CD sales exceeding 8 million and adoring young fans throughout the region. Then the sultry Taiwanese pop star made a serious misstep. At last year's Inauguration of President Chen Shui-bian, whose leanings toward independence upset China, she agreed to sing the national anthem of the Republic of China in Taiwan.
Abruptly the mandarins in Beijing decided that A-mei was out of tune. They banned her and her recordings from the mainland, and her career went into free fall. Coca-Cola, which had employed her for its Sprite advertising campaign, dropped her under pressure from the Chinese government. Hurt and emotionally drained, A-mei disappeared for months, living in New York and Los Angeles. Last month the 28-year-old singer nervously re-emerged, resolving to stay out of politics. She launched a new CD and held a series of comeback concerts in Taiwan. Dressed in skimpy shorts and a halter top, A-mei danced erotically onstage--as if desperately trying to stave off oblivion. "I keep telling myself not to cry," she told the crowd.
A-mei's tale, writ large, is also Taiwan's. It is a story that may even hold important lessons for the incoming administration of President-elect George W. Bush, who has suggested he will take a tougher line against Beijing, at least regarding Taiwan's defense. Like it or not, the rich and democratic island of 23 million people, which China considers one of its provinces, has found that its future lies increasingly in Beijing's hands. Political debates over independence may rage in Taipei and Washington, but China's sway over the island is based less on military threats today than on trade. And that economic relationship is already deeply entrenched. Last week two boatloads of Taiwanese tourists arrived in China, opening the first direct-shipping link since Taiwan broke with the communist mainland in 1949. But the move only formalized a long-term trend. By offering generous land grants and tax incentives, China has pulled in more than $44 billion of Taiwanese investment over the last decade, which is now an implicit hostage to China's good will. Cross-strait trade leapt from $4 billion in 1990 to $27 billion in 2000.
China's habit of using its giant consumer market to exert diplomatic leverage has given Beijing a vast amount of political influence in Taipei. Its strategy is clearly to induce Taiwanese businessmen to oppose independence, much as Beijing has pressured A-mei to stay out of politics. "Beijing is using the same tactics it used successfully in Hong Kong," says Antonio Chiang, former publisher of the Taipei Times. "They expect this to be the start of unification."
Like A-mei, Taiwanese politicians are striving to regain some control over their own destiny. Last week, when Chen Shui-bian approved the tourist trip from the frontline islands of Quemoy and Matsu to the mainland, Beijing denounced the move as a ploy to stall greater integration (it wants direct travel to and from Taiwan itself). Chen is trying to straddle the line between a declaration of independence, which might provoke war, and a surrender to Beijing's demands for re-unification. In a speech announcing the new "mini-links," Chen said Taiwan and China should "build cross-strait mutual trust on a gradual basis." But he added: "The determination of the Taiwanese to be their own masters... has never changed."
Two years ago Beijing hoped to build support for reunification through A-mei, Taiwan's most popular cultural symbol. The government offered her the same prize that has enticed businesses around the world--access to the globe's largest market. But in return the communist government wanted to use A-mei's popularity as a way of legitimizing its claim to Taiwan. She is a descendant of the original inhabitants of Taiwan, not the Nationalist Chinese who fled to the island after the communist takeover and who have dominated its politics since. At her only concert in China she was billed as an "ethnic minority," one of the groups the Chinese boast of having brought into the national fold. "It is really hard to get a booking there," says one of A-mei's producers. "They gave it to her because they wanted to show that Taiwanese Aborigines were under their rule." The sellout concert was attended by 50,000 fans.
Then, six months later, A-mei was invited to perform at Chen's Inauguration--a great honor for someone who grew up in a poor village. A-mei practiced for a month. "The president felt I could represent so many people, and I would never have another chance," she says. Neither she nor her record company considered the political consequences. "I had sung the national anthem since I was a girl," says A-mei. "I never expected anything to come of it."
Beijing felt betrayed. China's leaders always decipher political allegiances through gestures and appearances. "This is a political issue," says a Chinese official. "If a singer behaves like this, how can we allow her still to appear on the mainland?" Taiwan's leaders reacted to China's sales ban with indignation of their own. Vice President Annette Lu chastised Beijing for "bullying weak little girls." President Chen said, "It's like treating your own flesh and blood, sisters and brothers, as enemies." For Beijing, the muzzling of A-mei is just another way of dimming Taiwanese hopes for independence. But if she can resurrect her career despite Beijing's ban, her example may encouraged the island's youth to believe they needn't give in to Chinese pressure.
