On 10 Dec. 2022, an analyst at the Center for Advanced China Research boldly asked to suppose the US would defeat a Chinese Invasion of Taiwan. What Then?

Recently, the Pentagon warned of China’s plans for dominance in Taiwan and beyond. As part of its buildup, the U.S. says that China’s military conducted more ballistic missile tests last year than the rest of the world combined. Chinese fighter jets or drones that intrude into Taiwan’s territorial airspace will be regarded as a “first strike,” Taiwan’s Defense Minister warned Wednesday, as the island seeks to step up its defenses in response to Beijing’s military pressure.

Taiwan has noticed a hole in its defense plans that is steadily getting bigger. And it’s not easily plugged by boosting the budget or buying more weapons. The island democracy of 23.5 million is facing an increasing challenge in recruiting enough young men to meet its military targets. Its Interior Ministry has suggested the problem is partly due to its stubbornly low birth rate. Taiwan’s population fell for the first time in 2020, according to the ministry, which warned earlier this year that the 2022 military intake would be the lowest in a decade and that a continued drop in the youth population would pose a “huge challenge” for the future..

As a reaction to the above, Japan unveiled a new national security plan that signals the country’s most significant military buildup since World War II, doubling defense spending and veering from its pacifist constitution in the face of growing threats from regional rivals.

But as we have already observed and frequently analyzed Taiwan for about ten years. Suddenly, one incident happened during the first quarter of 1919 at the prestigious The London School Of Economics (LSE), where many heads of state would send their teenagers and young adults to study there. And while by then, we had already posted an extensive analysis of how mapmaking developed in China.

London School of Economics Dilemma

Not too late, 26 March 2019 suddenly became a particularly proud day for the director and staff of the London School of Economics. A new sculpture by the Turner Prize-winning artist Mark Wallinger was being unveiled right outside the recently completed student center. Wallinger’s work was entitled The World Turned Upside Down, a literal description of the piece.

But one group of students was unprepared to see the world from a different point of view. Within hours of the unveiling, a few students from the People’s Republic of China noticed that Taiwan had been colored pink while the PRC had been colored yellow and that Taipei had been marked with a red square, indicating a national capital, rather than the black dot used for provincial cities. They protested to the director and demanded that the work be changed. In their view, the artist’s intent was irrelevant: Taiwan should be just as yellow as the mainland. 

The LSE suddenly was facing a ‘Gap moment.’ Students from the PRC make up 13 percent of the total student body at the LSE,1 so a boycott could have been ruinous. At the same time, the school’s Taiwanese students and their supporters also rallied. They pointed out that Taiwan’s president, Tsai Ing-wen, was a graduate of the LSE, a fact that had been trumpeted by the school when she was elected. Two days later, the artwork had expanded to include a notice stating, ‘The LSE is committed to . . . ensuring that everyone in our community is treated with equal dignity and respect.’2

Wallinger avoided media comment except for one interview with the LSE student newspaper, The Beaver, in which he said, ‘There are a lot of contested regions in the world; that’s just a fact.’ The arguments continued for several months until, in July 2019, the LSE and Wallinger made a minor concession. They added an asterisk next to the name ‘Rep. China (Taiwan)’ on the work and a sign below it stating, ‘There are many disputed borders, and the artist has indicated some of these with an asterisk.’3 But Taiwan remained a different color: the LSE and the artist held their nerve. They did not ‘do a Gap,’ The sculpture continues to represent political reality rather than an idealized version of ‘maximum China’ imagined by its patriots online and offline.

China, until after the defeat of Chiang Kai-shek’s KMT, was not interested in Taiwan.

The Non-Existing South China Sea Islands

All evidence shows that the Qing emperors made no effort to administer Taiwan, so by the time Japan acquired the island in 1895 after the Sino-Japanese war, the map they first drew defined that region – about half the island – as unadministered tribal territory. Fifty years of Japanese rule created the sinews of modern Taiwan, with improved agriculture, education, railways, and urban development, all having a Japanese feel that prevails today. Although facing initial resistance, the Japanese treated Taiwan gently compared to Korea, and a legacy of goodwill remains.

After the Japanese defeat, the Taiwanese yearned not for independence but autonomy from a chaotic mainland in the grip of the civil war between Chiang Kai-shek’s KMT government and the Communists. But such Taiwanese thoughts of independence were brutally suppressed by February 28, 1947. In the following days, 5,000 to 10,000 Taiwanese, including many local leaders, were shot by Chiang’s forces, and Taiwan’s identity was suppressed.

KMT domination was massively reinforced by Chiang’s retreat to the island in 1949, supposedly as the base from which to reclaim the mainland. About one million KMT loyalists fled to Taiwan in 1949, becoming about 15 percent of the population and controlling all the levers of the state, with martial law continuing until 1987.

That Taiwan moderately prospered over the following decades was less due to KMT rule than to the combination of the education and modernization instilled by Japan and by the capital and markets that the US offered. Refugee capital and expertise from the mainland also played a role. Growing prosperity and the death of Chiang Kai-shek gradually saw the emergence of a more liberal state after Taiwanese Lee Teng-hui became vice-president in 1984 and president in 1988, the decline of mainlander influence and the rise of the overly pro-Taiwan autonomy Democratic Progressive Party.

And even if one were to claim Taiwan may be culturally Chinese, its history is different; its years under mainland Han rule were relatively brief. The fact that most of its population is of Han Chinese origin is irrelevant – Singapore is majority Han Chinese too.

President Xi might believe a large part of the Pacific (‘the South China Sea’) in reality belongs to China, as has been taught in Chinese schools since the 1940s based on a map created by cartographer Bai Meichu in 1936, who later advised the Republic of China government on which territories to claim after the Second World War.

In the above-mentioned New Atlas of China’s Construction (中華建設新 圖), the  James Shoal (off Borneo), Vanguard Bank (off Vietnam), and Seahorse Shoal (off the Philippines) are drawn as islands. Yet, they are underwater features largely due to mistranslations using what was originally a British publication.

As we have earlier described, a turning point for Bai and others who saw China’s need to create a new Nation-State was the Versailles peace conference’s outcome in 1919. In an article in the June 2013 issue of China National Geography, Shan Zhiqiang, the chief executive editor, added: The nine-dashed line has been painted in the hearts and minds of the Chinese for a long time. It has been 77 years since Bai Meichu put in his 1936 map. It is now profoundly engraved in the hearts and minds of the Chinese people. There will not be any time when China will be without the nine-dashed line.

The Making Of The Chinese Pacific

It is clear that Bai (whose New Atlas of China owed as much to his nationalist imagination as to geographical reality) was quite unfamiliar with the South China Sea geography and undertook no survey work of his own. Instead, he copied other maps and added dozens of errors of his own, which continue to cause problems to this day. Like the Maps Review Committee, he was completely confused by the portrayal of shallow water areas on British and foreign maps. Taking his cue from the names on the committee’s 1934 list, he drew solid lines around these features and colored them in, visually rendering them on his map as islands when in reality, they were underwater. He conjured an entire island group across the sea center and labeled it the Nansha Qundao, the ‘South Sands Archipelago.’ Further south, parallel with the Philippines coast, he dabbed a few dots on the map and labeled them the Tuansha Qundao, the Tuansha Qundao, the ‘Area of Sand Archipelago.’ However, at its furthest extent, he drew three islands, outlined in black and colored in pink: Haima Tan (Sea Horse Shoal), Zengmu Tan (James Shoal), and Qianwei Tan (Vanguard Bank).

Thus, the underwater ‘shoals’ and ‘banks’ became above-water ‘sandbanks’ in Bai’s imagination. On the map’s physical rendering, he then added innovation of his own: the same national border that he had drawn around Mongolia, Tibet, and the rest of ‘Chinese’ territory snaked around the South China Sea as far east as the Sea Horse Shoal, south as James Shoal and as far southwest as Vanguard Bank. Bai’s meaning was clear: the bright red line marked his ‘scientific’ understanding of China’s rightful claims. This was the first time such a line had been drawn on a Chinese map.

A key part of the assertions was to make the names of the features in the sea sound more Chinese. In October 1947, the RoC Ministry of the Interior issued a new list of island names. New, grand-sounding titles replaced most of the 1935 translations and transliterations. For example, the Chinese word for Spratly Island was changed from Si-ba-la-tuo to Nanwei (Noble South), and Scarborough Shoal was changed from Si-ka-ba-luo (the transliteration) to Minzhu jiao (Democracy Reef). Vanguard Bank’s Chinese name was changed from Qianwei tan to Wan’an tan (Ten Thousand Peace Bank). Luconia Shoals’ name was shortened from Lu-kang-ni-ya to just Kang, which means ‘health.’ This process was repeated across the archipelagos, largely concealing the foreign origins of most of the names. A few did survive, however. In the Paracels, ‘Money Island’ kept its Chinese name of Jinyin Dao and Antelope Reef remained Lingyang Jiao. To this day, the two names celebrate a manager and a ship of the East India Company, respectively.

At this point, the ministry seems to have recognized its earlier problem with the translations of ‘shoal’ and ‘bank.’ In contrast, in the past, it had used the Chinese word tan to stand in for both (with unintended geopolitical consequences); in 1947, it coined a new word, ansha (Ànshā), literally ‘hidden sand,’ as a replacement. This neologism was appended to several submerged features, including James Shoal, renamed Zengmu Ansha.

In December 1947, the ‘Bureau of Measurements’ of the Ministry of Defence printed an official ‘Location Map of the South China Sea Islands, almost identical to the ‘Sketch Map’ that Zheng Ziyue had drawn a year and a half before. It included the ‘U-shaped line’ made up of eleven dashes encircling the area down to the James Shoal. In February 1948, that map was published as part of the Atlas of Administrative Areas of the Republic of China. The U-shaped line, with an implicit claim to every feature within it, became the official position.

Therefore, it was in 1948 that the Chinese state formally extended its territorial claim in the South China Sea to the Spratly Islands, as far south as James Shoal. Something changed between July 1933, when the Republic of China government was unaware that the Spratly Islands existed, and April 1947, when it could ‘reaffirm’ that its territory’s southernmost point was James Shoal. What seems to have happened is that, in the chaos of the 1930s and the Second World War, a new memory came to be formed in officials’ minds about what had happened in the 1930s. It seems that officials and geographers managed to confuse the real protest issued by the RoC government against French activities in the Paracels in 1932 with a non-existent protest against French actions in the Spratlys in 1933. Further confusion was caused by the intervention of Admiral Li Zhun and his assertion that the islands annexed by France in 1933 were indisputably Chinese.

The imagined claim conjured up by the confusion between different island groups in that crisis became the real territorial claim.

Pratas’s islands are now a conservation zone where visitors can send postcards back home from a mailbox guarded by a cheerful-looking plastic shark. Not far away is a new science exhibition explaining the natural history of the coral reef and its rich marine life.

Overlooking the parade ground (which doubles as a rainwater trap) stands a golden statue of Chiang Kai-shek in his sun hat, and behind him is a little museum in what looks like a scaled-up child’s sandcastle.

This museum holds, in effect, the key to resolving the South China Sea disputes. Its assertion of Chinese claims to the islets demonstrates the difference between nationalist cartography and actual administration. Bai Meichu may have drawn a red line around various non-existent islands in 1936 and claimed them as Chinese, but no Chinese official had ever visited those places. The maps and documents on the museum walls tell the Republic of China (RoC) expedition’s story to Itu Aba in December 1946 and a confrontation with some Philippine adventurers in 1956. Still, without any other evidence, the museum demonstrates that China never occupied or controlled all islands. In the Paracels, it occupied one, or just a few, until 1974, when the People’s Republic of China (PRC) forces invaded and expelled the Vietnamese garrison. In the Spratlys, the RoC occupied just one or two. The PRC took control of six reefs in 1988 and another in 1994.

The Current Reality

For the people of Taiwan, joining the People’s Republic of China (PRC) has never been less appealing. According to a frequently cited tracking survey by National Chengchi University, the share of Taiwanese residents who want to unify immediately with the mainland has always been minuscule, consistently less than three percent. But the percentage that thinks Taiwan should eventually move toward unification—not necessarily with today’s Chinese regime—has fallen dramatically, from 20 percent in 1996 to five percent today. In the last two presidential elections, the historically pro-unification Kuomintang party (KMT) has suffered landslide defeats, failing to garner even 40 percent of the vote.

President Tsai Ing-wen stepped down as party chairperson at the DPP’s post-election press conference, accepting responsibility for the party’s poor performance. On the same stage, in almost the exact words, Tsai resigned from the same position only four years ago, following the devastating 2018 local elections, during which the DPP lost seven of the 13 seats it held.

In a column penned in 2018, You Ying-lung, the chairman of the Taiwan Public Opinion Foundation (TPOF), wrote that the DPP had lost two years into the Tsai administration mainly for failing to reflect public opinion.

In 2022, with only six offices left to defend, the DPP still dropped one seat — for a similar reason. During local news channel TVBS’s live election night coverage, TPOF Chairman You said, “there are wide discrepancies between the DPP’s grasp of public opinion and the party’s direction,” failing many of its strategies and candidates in this election cycle. 

Even Though China Will Be Planning An Invasion, Taiwan Has Its History, Culture, Identity, And National Pride.

It is easy to understand why unification is so unpopular. Over the last four decades, Taiwan has transformed itself into a liberal, tolerant, pluralist democracy. China has remained a harsh autocracy, developed an intrusive surveillance state, and executed genocide against its population. Unifying with the PRC would mean the end of almost all of Taiwan’s hard-won political freedoms, manifesting when China forcibly integrated Hong Kong into the mainland despite its promise to allow the territory to remain self-governing under a formula called “one country, two systems.” And many, or perhaps most, Taiwanese people would not want to unify with China regardless of the nature of its government. Taiwan has its history, culture, identity, and national pride. 

Yet, although public opinion data make it clear that the overwhelming majority of Taiwanese people have little interest in being ruled by Beijing, that does not mean they want a formal declaration of independence. The country’s understanding of independence has evolved significantly over the last generation among the general public and political elites. In decades past, independence was commonly thought to require an unequivocal, formal break with any legal or professed ties to China. But today, such a move is widely seen as unnecessary. To most people, Taiwan is already a fully sovereign country, not merely a self-governing island that exists in a state of limbo. There is no need to rock the boat by formally declaring what is already the case, especially given that Beijing would undoubtedly have a furious response to such an action. And since Taiwanese politicians must respond to public opinion, political elites who support independence have primarily come to the same conclusion as the country’s people; rather than quixotically challenging the status quo, most of them have decided that any differences between their ideal position and the status quo are minor—and not worth fighting over.

It surprises many Westerners to learn that Taiwanese independence is not merely rooted in anti-Chinese sentiments and that it is not an idea that arose only after 1949 when Republic of China (ROC) leader Chiang Kai-shek and his million and a half followers fled to the island after losing the Chinese Civil War. The year 1895, when Beijing ceded Taiwan to Japan after being defeated by Tokyo in a war, was arguably just as pivotal as 1949. A modern sense of Taiwanese national identity began to take shape, and there were calls for Taiwanese autonomy and independence throughout the Japanese colonial era. Taiwan independence activist Su Beng pushes the timeline back even further, arguing in his seminal 1962 work, Taiwan’s 400-Year History, that Taiwan has been a distinct nation and society since large-scale Han immigration to the island began in the early 1600s. For Su, Taiwan’s history was marked by repeated colonization and exploitation by external powers as the Dutch, Spanish, claimants to the throne of the disintegrating Ming dynasty, the Qing dynasty, the Japanese, and Chiang’s Kuomintang (KMT) all set up regimes in Taiwan for their purposes—denying the Taiwanese people control over their destiny.

Chiang’s regime in Taiwan rested on the idea that the ROC had not lost the civil war and was still China’s legitimate government. Although the ROC positioned itself as a democracy, the KMT could not risk any open challenges to this claim, so it declared martial law. National-level representatives were frozen in office without the need to face reelection, and the government systematically silenced political opposition. The KMT kept a firm grip on the country’s entire political edifice through its control of the state machinery, especially the military. Any Taiwan-centric appeals, especially for Taiwanese independence, were seen as a direct affront to the regime’s legitimacy and were ruthlessly suppressed. Throughout the KMT authoritarian era, the ROC government was the primary obstacle to Taiwanese political power and self-rule.

As a result, Taiwanese nationalists concluded that the way to set the Taiwanese people free was to slough off this entire political structure. The KMT, the ROC, and any ties to China had to go. But as Taiwan democratized in the late 1980s and early 1990s, these activists discovered that their vision had limited appeal. In 1991, the country’s geriatric officeholders were finally compelled to retire. Taiwan was able to fully reflect a national-level representative body for the first time as every seat was at stake in the National Assembly, an institution with the power to elect the president and amend the constitution. (The body was later abolished.) The Democratic Progressive Party (DPP)—the KMT’s main opposition—confidently called for replacing the Republic of China with a formally independent Republic of Taiwan. It was a disaster; the DPP won 23 percent of the vote. The electorate’s verdict was that formal independence was just too radical, and for a generation afterward, the country’s common political wisdom was that Taiwan’s independence was ballot-box poison.

At the time, it still seemed possible that Taiwan would eventually unify with the mainland. For decades, the authoritarian regime had taught the population that unification was desirable and inevitable. Taiwan’s gradual democratization did not feature a sharp break from the past, so the KMT remained in power even after people could vote. Pro-unification Chinese nationalists retained outsize cultural and political influence. Meanwhile, China was experiencing the rapid economic growth that Taiwan had undergone decades ago—the growth that had helped Taiwan democratize. Many Taiwanese people believed the mainland would surely experience similar political reforms as its economy kept expanding. Chinese nationalists in Taiwan expected that once China changed and the two states rejoined, Taiwan would play an influential (and perhaps predominant) role in shaping their shared future. Unofficial bodies from the two sides even met in 1992 and 1993, taking the first steps toward establishing regular communication channels. The question of sovereignty illustrated both hopes for pragmatic cooperation and how difficult compromise would be. Since hammering out a mutually acceptable written statement was impossible, the delegates informally agreed to talk past each other in what would later be (ironically) dubbed the 1992 Consensus. Each side orally stated its version of the “one China” principle, pretended not to hear the other side, and refused to acknowledge that there could be any different interpretation.

But the hopes that the two sides would gradually become more similar and inch toward a mutually agreeable political union were misplaced. As Taiwan’s democracy deepened, appeals to Chinese nationalism found a smaller and smaller receptive audience among the island’s population. At the same time, the PRC became more rigid and domineering instead of democratizing as it grew wealthier and more powerful. 

The arc of the 1992 Consensus encapsulates these failed hopes. After losing the 2000 presidential election to the DPP, KMT chair Lien Chan rebuilt his party on a vision of making Taiwan rich and ensuring peace by integrating Taiwan’s economy into China’s. To guarantee that PRC officials would be willing to engage with their Taiwanese counterparts, Lien devised a formula based on what the two sides had supposedly agreed to in 1992: “One China, each side with its interpretation.” Ordinary Taiwanese voters were reassured that the status quo would be preserved since Taiwan’s interpretation was that “one China” meant the ROC. This formula laid the foundation for KMT politician Ma Ying-jeou’s presidency, which featured a great deal of official contact with China and economic interaction. But the PRC became increasingly insistent that the 1992 Consensus was simply that there was “one China”—the PRC—and demanded concrete progress toward unification. It never acknowledged the “each side with its own interpretation” part of the equation, so confederation would mean that the ROC ceased to exist. This not only choked the consensus to death by depriving it of any ambiguity or flexibility, but it also made clear that the KMT and ROC were not equal—or even unequal—partners with the Chinese Communist Party and the PRC in determining China’s future. The KMT’s dreams of creating a peaceful, prosperous, democratic, unified China were utterly discredited, and the incompatibility of the PRC’s position with the preservation of the ROC made unification the new ballot-box poison. 

As It Is

Since its 1991 election debacle, the DPP has steadily moved away from a formal independence platform. By 2000, it took the position that Taiwan was already an independent, sovereign state named the Republic of China, and no declaration of independence was necessary. Current Taiwanese President China Tsai Ing-wen, a DPP politician, has developed the idea of Taiwanese sovereignty more fully: eschewing formal autonomy is not the only way she differs from earlier independence activists. Tsai emphasizes the Taiwanese people’s unique, shared history, including the “white terror” (the violent repression carried out by the KMT’s autocracy), military standoffs with Beijing, rapid economic growth, democratization, sporting triumphs, and natural disasters. However, her vision of the Taiwanese people is constructed on 70 years, not 400 years, of common experience, so it explicitly includes postwar immigrants as integral parts of the population rather than as colonizing outsiders. She has even positioned herself as a champion of the military, recasting an institution that was once the bedrock of the authoritarian regime and the archenemy of Taiwanese nationalism as the guarantor of Taiwan’s integrity and sovereignty.

Tsai’s ideas do not make traditional independence activists happy; many hardcore DPP supporters dream of an independence referendum and feel slightly queasy when she poses with a ROC flag. But hers is a position that fits quite comfortably with what most Taiwanese people want. The National Chengchi University tracking poll on public attitudes toward unification and independence shows that, although support for independence has risen over time, most Taiwanese people prefer the status quo. Other polls suggest that the tracking surveys might underestimate the depth of support for the status quo. Two postelection surveys, one from 1996 and one from 2020, asked people who preferred the status quo whether they would support unification if political, economic, and social conditions in China and Taiwan were similar (for instance, if China became a wealthy democracy), or if they would support declaring independence if doing so wouldn’t provoke retaliation from Beijing. The share of status quo supporters open to unification, even under these ideal hypothetical conditions, plummeted from 58 to 22 percent. The share of status quo supporters open to independence remained roughly stable, drifting from 57 to 54 percent. 

It is clear from the main tracking poll and the responses of status quo supporters that fewer people today want unification. But as for the growing support for independence, it is critical to remember that ideas about the meaning of independence have changed. A 2020 study found that more than 70 percent of Taiwanese people believe their country is already a sovereign state and that only a tiny fraction felt a need to sever ties with China formally. The increased support for independence over the past few decades does not necessarily indicate that a growing number of citizens are clamoring for a declaration of independence.

This shift in opinion has only sometimes resulted in electoral success for the DPP. During the last two local elections, the party has performed disastrously. On November 26, Tsai was compelled to step down as party chair after the DPP could only win five of 22 mayoral races. But it would be a mistake to interpret these results as a shift in public attitudes toward unification or away from independence. The local elections were about local government issues such as road construction, welfare programs, and responses to the pandemic—not China. Most races are best understood as referendums on the performance of popular KMT incumbents running for reelection. Notably, sovereignty or how to deal with China has been mainly absent from the DPP’s post-election discussions about the reasons for the poor outcome. Likewise, no one in the KMT is crowing that this result means it no longer has to worry about being attacked as a pro-unification party. 

But although Tsai may no longer be the party chair, her grand vision for Taiwan’s future—situating Taiwan in the international community of democracies, strengthening the country’s military and bolstering cooperation with other armies, gradually diversifying Taiwan’s economy, pursuing progressive social welfare policies, defending Taiwan’s sovereignty, and a host of other measures—remains unchallenged inside the DPP. China will inevitably be on the ballot in the 2024 presidential and legislative elections. Unless the DPP forfeits its dominant position as the champion of the status quo by recklessly pursuing formal independence, it should once again have a clear electoral advantage.

As aptly written, If Washington is to escape a cycle of conflict or the constant threat of conflict with China over Taiwan, it will require bolder policymaking than efforts to smooth over differences with Beijing in the aftermath of a war. Defeating an invasion force alone will not be enough to win Taiwan’s peace. Given the difficulties inherent in either conventional or nuclear deterrence, even following a major victory, before Washington undertakes what may be merely the first of several phases of a Taiwan conflict, it should consider whether it is willing to run the risks required to win the peace that is to follow.

In the end, as Connor Swank aptly wrote in The Diplomat, If Washington is to escape a cycle of conflict or the constant threat of conflict with China over Taiwan, it will require bolder policymaking than efforts to smooth over differences with Beijing in the aftermath of a war. Defeating an invasion force alone will not be enough to win Taiwan’s peace. Given the difficulties inherent in either conventional or nuclear deterrence, even following a major victory, before Washington undertakes what may be merely the first of several phases of a Taiwan conflict, it should consider whether it is willing to run the risks required to win the peace that is to follow.

1. LSE Undergraduate and Postgraduate Students Headcount: 2013/14–2017/18, https://info.lse.ac.uk/staff/divisions/Planning-Division/Assets/Documents .

2.  CNA, ‘Lúndūn zhèng jīng xuéyuàn gōnggòng yìshù jiāng bǎ táiwān huà wéi zhōngguó wàijiāo bù kàngyì’, 7 April 2019, https://www.cna.com.tw/news/firstnews/201904040021.aspx (accessed 2 March 2020).

3. Keoni Everington, ‘LSE ignores Chinese cries, add an asterisk next to Taiwan on the globe,’ Taiwan News, 10 July 2019, https://www.taiwannews.com.tw/en/news/3742226 (accessed 2 March 2020).

4.  Keoni Everington, ‘LSE ignores Chinese cries, adds asterisk next to Taiwan on the globe’, Taiwan News, 10 July 2019, https://www.taiwannews.com.tw/en/news/3742226 (accessed 20 March 2020)

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