Echoes of Memory: Traces on the Table is a collaboration between artist Chien-Yu Liu and the Taiwan Youth Association for Transitional Justice and Kiōng-Seng. The project takes four foods linked to Taiwan’s democratic history as photographic subjects, with the Association contributing written pieces for each one, revealing the lesser-known stories behind them.
In Taiwan, “the February 28 Incident” is the widely used term for a pivotal historical event. In English, however, the phrase alone may not fully convey the scale and gravity of what occurred. It refers to a historical event that began on February 28, 1947, but extended far beyond that single day, involving government-led massacres, unlawful arrests, and executions. In this article, we use the established neutral term “the February 28 Incident” as it is commonly known in Taiwan. However, readers are encouraged to consult the Memory Foundation of 228 or the Taiwan Youth Association for Transitional Justice and Kiōng-Seng for more information.
● Rice ball (27brigade)
In May 2024, the “Bluebird Movement” (青鳥行動, qingniao xingdong) emerged in response to a controversial bill in the legislature, drawing tens of thousands of people to rally outside the Legislative Yuan. Despite the sweltering heat, protesters held their signs high and kept chanting without missing a beat, fueled by everyday citizens who quietly showed up with handmade meals, keeping everyone going.
A similar scene could be found 78 years ago during the February 28 Incident, on the streets of Taichung. At the time, a group of young women prepared freshly made rice balls to support local residents who had taken up arms in response to the unrest, helping them sustain their strength as they defended their communities.
After the cigarette crackdown on February 27th, 1947, and the machine-gun fire in front of the Governor-General’s Office on February 28, protesters in Taipei erupted in anger and broadcast news of the government’s violence across Taiwan. This sparked widespread resistance throughout the island. In Taichung, some citizens took up arms to form a strong militia. After participating in marches and battles on March 2nd and 3rd, they officially organized on the 6th as the “27 Brigade,” named after the date of the cigarette crackdown. Upon learning that large reinforcements from the Kuomintang (KMT) army were approaching, the brigade withdrew to the mountains around Puli to contain the troops, preventing heavy casualties in downtown Taichung.
The 27 Brigade was formed by members including former Taiwanese Communists, Taiwanese soldiers who had served in the Japanese army, and a large group of young male students. Most of these students came from Taiwan Provincial Taichung Normal School (now National Taichung University of Education), Taichung Agricultural Junior College (now National Chung Hsing University), and Taichung Public School of Commerce (now National Taichung University of Science and Technology). Without any prior organizational or combat experience, these passionate young men rallied under the banner of the 27 Brigade.
However, passion alone was not enough to sustain the fight. An army needs food and logistical support—especially kitchen preparation and cooking, which are vital to the survival of the troops. This crucial responsibility was shouldered by female students from Taichung Girls’ High School and Taichung Home Economics School (now National Taichung Home Economics and Commercial High School), as well as nurses from Taichung Hospital. Unlike supporters of the 2024 Bluebird Movement who had snacks, boxed meals, and even meat, these women in 1947 faced severe shortages. They had only rice, salted plums (umeboshi) left from Japanese colonial times, and their own hands. They soaked the rice in saltwater and, when fortunate enough to have some umeboshi, mixed it into the rice before rolling it into rice balls.
The flavor of the rice balls may have been plain, but they were filled with the heartfelt devotion of young women in Taichung who wished to contribute to their hometown. In an era when women were generally discouraged from participating in public affairs, these students and nurses stepped out to support the 27 Brigade. Even in their later years, figures like Chung Yi-Ren (鍾逸人), the brigade commander, and Huang Chin-Tao (黃金島), head of the security unit, never forgot the taste of those rice balls, or the warmth and care they carried.
To this day, several civic groups in Taichung that are committed to preserving the memory of the February 28 Incident continue to hold rice ball-making events every March. These gatherings commemorate a time when people—regardless of gender—stood up against oppression. As we eat each rice ball, we come to understand that even if we cannot take up arms or lead from the front lines, we can still find our own place in the struggle. It might be organizing logistics, donating supplies, or simply kneading our care for this land into each humble, yet deeply meaningful, rice ball.
● Squid Congee (Lee Family)
After preparing a hearty meal, a Taiwanese family waits until everyone is seated before picking up their chopsticks to eat. This is an everyday scene in Taiwan. On March 10, 1947, the Lee family also cooked a pot of squid congee, waiting for the brothers, lawyers Lee Ruei-Han(李瑞漢) and Lee Ruei-Feng(李瑞峰), as well as their friend, lawyer Lin Lien-Chung(林連宗), to enjoy it together.
But before they could finish the pot of congee, military police burst into their home and took all three men away. None of them ever returned. The Lee family has never understood why Lee Ruei-Han was implicated in the February 28 Incident or why the Kuomintang took him without explanation. From that day on, the family has never been able to sit down for a complete reunion meal again.
Lee Ruei-Han graduated from Taichung First High School (now Taichung Municipal Taichung First Senior High School) and went on to study law at Chuo University in Japan. After passing the bar exam, he opened a law practice in Dadaocheng and became one of the foremost elites in colonial Taiwan.
Yet, as someone who dared to speak out under Japanese rule, Lee could never have foreseen that the very same courage would lead to disaster in the postwar years.
After World War II, Lee Ruei-Han was elected president of the Taipei Bar Association. Following the outbreak of the February 28 Incident, he convened the association’s members to discuss the situation and drafted a proposal advocating for reforms—calling for judicial independence, equal opportunities in government hiring, and other fundamental democratic principles.
His close friend, lawyer Lin Lien-Chung, traveled from Taichung to participate in the work of the 228 Incident Settlement Committee. At the time, martial law had not yet been lifted by Chen Yi’s administration, making it impossible for Lin to return to Taichung. This is why he ended up sharing the squid congee at the Lee household.
Lee Rong-Chang (李榮昌), the eldest son of Lee Ruei-Han, remembers that day vividly. It was around 5 p.m., and the family was halfway through their meal of squid congee when two plainclothes officers appeared at the door, saying that their superior wanted to speak with Lee Ruei-Han. Shortly after, two military police arrived and demanded that Lee Ruei-Feng and Lin Lien-Chung go with them as well.
Sensing something was wrong, Lee Rong-Chang rushed out of the house, chasing after the car that had just taken his father. Seeing this, Lee Ruei-Han turned and shouted in Japanese, “昌ちゃん、帰れ！” (“Chang, go home!”). It was the first time he had ever seen his father so stern. Stunned by the sudden outburst, he stopped in his tracks.
After that day, Lee Rong-Chang faced numerous obstacles in both his education and career. His mother, Chiu Chi-Mei (邱己妹), waited in vain for her husband’s return until she passed away at the age of 100. Every year on March 10, the Lee family prepares a pot of squid congee—the same dish the three men never had the chance to finish. During the martial law period, they were forbidden to speak publicly about the disappearance of the three lawyers. All they could do was silently cook that same dish, year after year, hoping that one day, Lee Ruei-Han might return and finish the bowl he left behind.
After the lifting of martial law and with the progress of Taiwan’s democratization, Lee Rong-Chang and his daughter Lee Hui-Sheng decided to give their family’s squid congee a new meaning, encouraged by activist Ng Chiau-Tong (黃昭堂). In recent years, Lee Hui-Sheng has brought the dish to commemorative events for the February 28 Incident, offering it to others while gently sharing the story behind it.
Through her words, we hear of the pain the Lee family endured—the sacrifice of Lee Ruei-Han, and the survival of Lee Rong-Chang and Chiu Chi-Mei. But more than sorrow, the congee carries Lee Hui-Sheng’s deepest hopes: to uncover the truth of her grandfather’s fate, to seek long-overdue justice, and to ensure that the tragedy of 228 never happens again in Taiwan.
In this way, the meaning of squid congee has grown beyond one family’s grief. It has become a symbol of remembrance, justice, and the collective pursuit of healing for the people of Taiwan.
● Fish (Chang Wan-Chung)
Artists are always looking for ways to express their ideas and beliefs, whether through different media, themes, or techniques. When an artist holds an uncommon obsession, they may return to the same subject or method over and over again. The world-renowned Yayoi Kusama, for example, has devoted decades to exploring the possibilities contained in the polka dot.
Why then did painter Chang Wan-Chung, who lived through the February 28 Incident, spend his life creating nearly 700 bold and powerful paintings of fish? The answer lies in the story of his life.
Chang was one of the earliest Western style painters in Taiwan’s modern art history. He studied under Ishikawa Kinichiro in the Taiwan Institute of Painting. In 1931 he was admitted to Teikoku Art School, now Musashino Art University. Attracted to the raw energy of Fauvism, he soon became dissatisfied with the academy’s conservative curriculum and left after only a year. Back in Taiwan, he kept his independent spirit and formed the art group Mouve with his friend Hung Rui-Lin and others, seeking greater freedom and variety in their work.
After the war, the February 28 Incident disrupted his peaceful artistic life. At the time, Chang was teaching physical education at Jianguo High School. Many teachers and students joined demonstrations and helped maintain order. Fearing for his safety, Chang first fled to his family home in Yangmingshan, then to Jinshan, where his younger brother was working as a doctor.
Chang became a fisherman in the quiet fishing village of Jinshan. His father, nicknamed “Fish”( Pronounced “a hi a” in Taiwanese:) by friends and family for his love of seafood, had passed this fondness on to him. In Jinshan, Chang gladly spent his days catching and eating fish. A year later, he returned to teaching art at various schools while continuing to paint.
That time in Jinshan left a lasting mark. He met his future wife, Hsu Bao-Yueh, at his brother’s clinic, and began painting fish without interruption for the rest of his life after his return to Taipei.
Chang’s passion for fish is deeply etched in his family’s memories. His son, Chang Wei-Dung, recalls that his mother would buy different kinds of fish from the market each day, and before cooking, she would let the father paint them fresh. Sometimes even cooked fish would be painted. Chang Wei-Tung’s wife, Huang Chun-Chu, remembered that she needed to take great care not to break the fish’s skin when pan-frying so he could paint it intact. Even when a fish dish arrived at the table in restaurants, Chang would pick up a soy sauce bottle and, within minutes, create a fish painting full of vitality. Later, critics and art historians spoke highly of his fish paintings, with some remarking that he had captured even the smell of fish.
Chang never said why he was so drawn to fish but looking back on his life, the reasons are not hard to imagine. Perhaps it was a way of remembering his father. Perhaps it was simple personal preference. Or perhaps, on a fishing boat in Jinshan, watching fish dart through the ocean, he felt a deep desire to capture in paint the freedom so longed for by the people of Taiwan.
● Fruit (Liao Te-Cheng)
Taiwan’s fruit is not only delicious but vividly conveys the tropical imagery of the island’s subtropical climate with its rich colors. It has become a spiritual symbol of Taiwan itself. Yet in the paintings of Liao Te-Cheng, baskets of fruit resting quietly by the window carry a deep sorrow, born of his experience of the February 28 Incident and the unexplained disappearance of his father.
Liao’s father, Liao Chin-Peng, was born under Japanese colonial rule. Persuaded by friends, he moved from Fengyuan to Taipei to follow anti-Japanese leader Chiang Wei-shui and to take part in social movements such as the Taiwanese People’s Party. In contrast to his father, Liao Te-Cheng was a hipster. Although his father urged him to study medicine, Liao resolutely chose a path in the arts. In 1938, he was admitted to Tokyo Fine Arts School (now Tokyo University of the Arts) and remained in Japan to hone his skills until graduating in 1946, after which he returned home to teach art.
Returning to his long-absent hometown, Liao and his family were met not with welcome, but with a cruel betrayal.
When the February 28 Incident broke out in 1947, Liao Chin-Peng and Liao’s third younger brother, Liao Te-Hsiung, became active participants. Amid the chaos, Liao Chin-Peng served as a member of the February 28 Incident Settlement Committee, and Liao Te-Hsiung as deputy captain of the Zhongyi Service Corps. Both worked to help maintain public order. On March 11, military police and plainclothes officers came to the Liao home to arrest the outspoken Liao Chin-Peng. He had already fled on March 6, but the officers had failed to find him and threatened that if they could not capture him, they would take Te-Cheng and Te-Hsiung instead.
The brothers scattered to hide, returning only when the situation had calmed. Even then, there was no news of their father. Days later, they heard rumors that he had been placed on a government wanted list and, after possibly being betrayed, was captured and executed while fleeing near Bali. The man who had placed his greatest trust in the Republic of China vanished at the foot of Guanyin Mountain, leaving not even a body behind.
After his father’s disappearance, Liao Te-Cheng relied on the painting skills he had developed—against his father’s wishes—to support the family with his teacher’s salary. Beyond making a living, he used his art to convey his grief and discontent, though always in a reserved way. For example, his representative work Early Autumn depicts nothing more than three chickens in the family courtyard and a distant mountain. Many other works feature rural Taiwanese scenery and still lifes of fruit. Liao later admitted that the chicken gazing beyond the fence in Early Autumn symbolized himself, imprisoned by the times and longing for his father’s return. The mountain in the painting was none other than Guanyin Mountain, where his father was last seen. The rural scenes and fruit came from his childhood memories in Fengyuan with his family. In painting after painting—whether of Guanyin Mountain, fruit, or pastoral landscapes, he seemed to recall the beauty of the past while voicing the sorrows of the present.
In the latter half of his life, Liao continued to create prolifically. In his later years, he began to speak publicly about his family’s suffering and to promote redress and remembrance of the February 28 Incident. Looking back on his life’s work, he once said, “My life’s goal is to pursue Taiwan’s green.” The “green” in his paintings of mountains, fields, and fruit had been born from his anguish. Yet as he chose to act and reclaim hope in his later years, that green took on a new meaning: even on land scarred by blood, it is still possible for a lush and harmonious landscape to grow.