Invisible Nation: A Polished Surface that Conceals More Than It Reveals


Language, symbolism, and the problem of state-centered memory in a Taiwanese political documentary

In Invisible Nation, a new political documentary directed by Vanessa Hope, viewers are invited to witness Taiwan’s journey from authoritarianism to democratic consolidation. Through elegant cinematography and tightly edited interviews with President Tsai Ing-wen and her key advisors, the film constructs a narrative of resilience, sovereignty, and progressive leadership. Yet beneath this polished presentation lies a deeper structural contradiction — one that ultimately compromises the film’s ability to fully represent the very nation it claims to make visible.

I attended a screening with my teenage daughter. As the credits rolled, she turned to me and said, “That’s not the real Taiwan.” She was troubled not just by the sanitized treatment of the 228 Massacre and White Terror — events relegated to the film’s final few minutes — but also by the unsettling image of President Tsai seated where the two Chiangs once sat, framed by the blue-and-white ROC flag. “It just felt wrong,” she added. And she was right.

For all its international gloss, Invisible Nation is a film that privileges the aesthetic and ideological framework of the Republic of China. It seeks to affirm Taiwan’s statehood while relying almost entirely on the language, symbols, and institutional logic of a state that is itself a colonial imposition.

The Politics of Language: What We Don’t Hear Matters

Perhaps the most jarring feature of Invisible Nation is what is missing: not a single line of spoken Taiwanese (Hō-ló), Hakka, or Indigenous language appears in the film. Despite Taiwan’s linguistic diversity — and despite the fact that many victims of authoritarian repression spoke these very languages — Mandarin remains the sole medium of narration and testimony, aside from the occasional English-language commentary for international audiences.

This is not a neutral choice. Language in Taiwan has always been deeply political. Under martial law, the ROC regime actively suppressed non-Mandarin languages in schools, public broadcasting, and cultural life. To retell Taiwan’s democratic struggle entirely in Mandarin is to reinforce the logic of monolingual nationalism — the very logic that underpinned the state’s authoritarian project in the first place.

In this sense, Invisible Nation becomes not just a film about memory, but a case study in linguistic colonialism by omission.

State Symbols and the Aesthetic of Legitimacy

Equally troubling is the film’s visual language. Throughout the documentary, the ROC flag appears prominently. Government buildings, military ceremonies, and international summits are filmed in such a way as to visually normalize the symbolism of the ROC — a regime imposed on Taiwan in 1945 that has never undergone full transitional justice or constitutional reckoning.

The symbolism matters. As my daughter pointed out, the image of President Tsai framed by the same iconography once used by her authoritarian predecessors sends a contradictory message: that the ROC regime has been redeemed, even sanctified, through the democratic transition. It quietly suggests continuity, not rupture — as if Taiwan’s national subjectivity can be fully expressed within the boundaries of a borrowed state structure.

In this respect, the film aligns itself with a growing political trend: rebranding “ROC-Taiwan” as a modern, progressive state without ever addressing the historical baggage of that label.

Historical Gaps and Political Messaging

Invisible Nation makes brief mention of 228 and the White Terror, but these are handled with a restraint that borders on evasion. There is little attention to grassroots memory, no testimony from families of the disappeared, no exploration of transitional justice from below. Instead, the documentary proceeds quickly to the “success story” of democratic development and Taiwan’s place in the international community — particularly in the shadow of Chinese aggression.

To be clear, Invisible Nation is not a state-sponsored film. But its framing — ideologically and narratively — mirrors that of official ROC-Taiwan discourse, both domestically and abroad. It is a film that performs sovereignty through elite testimony and international visibility, but not through local voices or decolonial engagement. In this sense, it functions as a soft political artifact, reinforcing Taiwan’s legitimacy by appealing to the aesthetics of statehood — flags, suits, speeches — rather than the complex, multilingual, and often painful realities on the ground.

Conclusion: A Nation Still Struggling to Speak

Invisible Nation is well-produced, visually compelling, and politically timely. But it ultimately represents a narrow slice of Taiwan’s national identity — one filtered through the lens of state power, Mandarin-language hegemony, and ROC visual symbolism. The “nation” it presents is highly curated, and in many ways, still colonized.

Taiwan deserves documentaries that speak in its own voices — not just through its presidents, but through its farmers, its families, its youth, and yes, its native languages. Until that happens, we may continue to see Taiwan on screen — but only partially.

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This article is adapted from the Facebook post below - https://www.facebook.com/share/p/1BC44GH5ia/

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