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Revisit The Fate of Intellectuals Between China and Taiwan

Portrait of Chiang Kai-shek hangs on the Tiananmen. (Photo: wikimedia commons)

By Middle Land Staff

April 30, 2025
3:44 pm
Los Angeles, CA

The third part of Southward Journey and Northward Return tells the story of intellectuals in the Republic of China (Taiwan) at a historical crossroads—how they chose their paths, and how those choices shaped their destinies. In 1949, after the Kuomintang army was defeated and Chiang Kai-shek’s dream of dividing the nation by the Yangtze River was crushed, China began to construct a new political order. That year, Mao Zedong drew a profound line that would define the fate of Chinese intellectuals for decades. Some chose to remain on the mainland, while others fled to Taiwan. Many responded to the Communist Party’s call to return from abroad to help build the so-called “New China.” Only a few remained abroad, committed to the ideals of freedom and democracy. Looking back, history

The third part of Southward Journey and Northward Return tells the story of intellectuals in the Republic of China (Taiwan) at a historical crossroads—how they chose their paths, and how those choices shaped their destinies. In 1949, after the Kuomintang army was defeated and Chiang Kai-shek’s dream of dividing the nation by the Yangtze River was crushed, China began to construct a new political order. That year, Mao Zedong drew a profound line that would define the fate of Chinese intellectuals for decades.

Some chose to remain on the mainland, while others fled to Taiwan. Many responded to the Communist Party’s call to return from abroad to help build the so-called “New China.” Only a few remained abroad, committed to the ideals of freedom and democracy.

Looking back, history sometimes feels like a dream—an indistinct blur between reality and supposition, where clarity and confusion alternate.

In July 1951, Wu Ningkun, then a PhD student at the University of Chicago, received an urgent telegram from China asking him to return to teach at Yenching University. He immediately interrupted his studies and returned. At his departure, Tsung-Dao Lee—then a lecturer at UC Berkeley—saw him off. Wu asked him, “Why don’t you go back to serve the new China?” Lee smiled and replied, “I don’t want to be brainwashed.” In 1957, Wu was labeled a rightist and persecuted; in the same year, Tsung-Dao Lee won the Nobel Prize in Physics.

Twenty-eight years later, they met again. Lee returned as a celebrated guest of the Chinese government, while Wu Ningkun had just been released from the cowshed and was still under surveillance. During a trip to Beijing to process his “rightist correction,” Wu saw in the newspaper that Dr. Lee had returned to give lectures. He rushed to the Beijing Hotel State Guesthouse to see his old classmate. After a brief conversation, Wu couldn’t help but wonder: What if I had persuaded Tsung-Dao Lee to return in 1951?

But history does not entertain hypotheticals—it only permits summaries.

To better understand the fate of Chinese intellectuals during the Republic of China and early People’s Republic of China, the following timeline present their stages:

Beiyang Period: respect, awakening, backbone, affluence
Early Anti-Japanese War: respect, preferential treatment, academic achievement
Wartime: respect, hardship, sacrifice, emergence of great minds
Taiwan Period: respect, hardship, growth through adversity
Early PRC (1949–1976): suppression, loss of humanity, ideological constraint, loss of personality, broken spirit

From these keywords, one can see that the Republic of China was the golden age of intellectuals. Through specific individuals and events, we can better grasp the reality of history.

Wu Han and Hu Shi: Who Chose the Right Path?

Wu Han, a Ming dynasty historian and professor at Tsinghua, secretly entered the Communist-controlled areas in 1948 to prepare for a high-ranking position. He sent someone to persuade his mentor, Hu Shi, to stay and cooperate with the Communist Party. Hu declined and sent back three statements:

In Soviet Russia, there is bread but no freedom.
In the United States, there is both bread and freedom.
When they come, there will be neither bread nor freedom.

This became Hu’s famed “bread and freedom” theory.

Hu left the mainland and, after years of difficulty, eventually became president of Academia Sinica in Taiwan. In 1962, when he died of a heart attack, Taiwan mourned deeply. Chiang Kai-shek personally offered condolences, and over 300,000 people attended the funeral procession. Hu Shi’s bound-foot wife, Jiang Dongxiu, reportedly turned to their son and said, “Zuwang, it’s not easy to be a man like your father.”

Wu Han, on the other hand, rose to prominence under the new regime. He took control of Peking and Tsinghua Universities, collaborated closely with party leaders, and pushed for controversial archaeological excavations. During the Cultural Revolution, his play Hai Rui Dismissed from Office was seen as veiled criticism of Mao. Persecuted and humiliated, he died in 1969 after brutal beatings. His wife, Yuan Zhen, died in similar misery. His death left only a bloodied pair of trousers behind.

Both teacher and student thought the other had taken the wrong path. History gave the final answer—one that was tragically harsh for Wu Han.

Chen Yinke: The Hardest Bones

Chen Yinke, a towering scholar of Chinese history, refused to yield to ideology. Despite numerous invitations from the CCP to join the Academy of Sciences, he insisted on two conditions: no Marxist indoctrination and no political study. He demanded written guarantees from Mao or Liu Shaoqi—none were given. His integrity made him a revered figure among intellectuals.

Blind and aged, he suffered greatly during the Cultural Revolution. His wife was assaulted, and he was declared a “special reactionary authority.” In the face of persecution, he composed a mournful couplet anticipating death with unresolved grief. In 1969, he died in poverty and humiliation.

If someone as principled as Chen Yinke met such a fate, what of those who lacked his resolve?

Feng Youlan: The Dog with a Bowed Head

Feng Youlan, though a learned philosopher, lacked moral backbone. Mao didn’t just want dogs—he wanted obedient dogs. Feng betrayed others, changed allegiances, and tried to save himself repeatedly. Still, he couldn’t escape humiliation and persecution during the Cultural Revolution.

His life reflects a sad truth: education does not necessarily yield courage or integrity.

Liang Sicheng and Lin Huiyin: What Can I Give You, My Motherland?

Liang and Lin are often remembered for their romantic legends, but their true legacy lies in their contribution to Chinese architecture. When the PLA approached Beijing in 1948, they were asked to help mark cultural sites for preservation—a gesture that moved them and convinced them to stay.

Lin Huiyin helped design the national emblem and the base of the Monument to the People’s Heroes. She died in 1955. Her tombstone, designed by Liang, was smashed during the Cultural Revolution. Had she lived, her fate might have been even more tragic.

Liang Sicheng, too, was persecuted. For someone who had dedicated his life to preserving China’s architectural heritage, his treatment was nothing short of heartbreaking.

After 1949, the destruction of Chinese intellectuals was unlike anything seen in three thousand years of history. In 1958, Mao Zedong boasted at the Eighth Party Congress:

“What is Qin Shihuang? He only buried 460 scholars alive. We’ve buried 46,000. You call us Qin Shihuang? No, we’re a hundred times that.”

Source: newsancai