To contemplate a space is to examine its configuration, the way people move through it, and the objects, instruments, textures, and atmosphere that characterize it. These spatial features—and even the geographical context wherein they exist—raise questions about purposes, conceptions, and workmanship. But they are also inevitably related to a mixture of contemporary factors, including politics, power, governance, economics, consumption, culture, fashion, and inward desires, as well as derivative issues such as demand, domination, and control. Accordingly, if we apply the photographic genre of spatial delineation to the buildings, objects, traces, and ambience both inside and outside historic spaces, we may be able to unravel their multiple meanings and unpick aesthetically mediated visual clues. In doing so, we gain a clarity of vision which helps us to re-experience history and even create a future.
The name of Ankang Reception House reminds me of the military operation in South Korea ordered by Chun Doo-hwan to quash the Gwangju Uprising in 1980: it was codenamed “Splendid Holiday.” These apparently innocuous titles served to gloss over tragic historical facts, which have yet to be fully established. Today those names come across as both absurd and ironic. “Ankang Reception House” sounds as if it were some official premises in “Ankang” where guests are welcomed and entertained, but the name could not be more deceptive. The “reception house” was established in 1973 in the mountains of New Taipei City’s Ankeng by the Investigation Bureau under the Ministry of Judicial Administration. During the 1970s and 80s, it served as an investigative detention center where political dissidents were incarcerated and tortured. Shared by the Investigation Bureau and the Military Law Office of the Taiwan Garrison Command, Ankang was the best-equipped facility on the island for imprisonment and interrogation during the era of martial law. It is also the most internationally notorious of the many investigative prisons in Taiwan, counting among its former detainees the famous writer Bo Yang, the radio broadcaster Tsui Hsiao-ping, the entrepreneur Yang Chin-hai, and those associated with the Kaohsiung Incident in 1979. It was decommissioned in 1987, when martial law was lifted.
Ankang Reception House is situated on a hill by a river. The buildings and the grounds they occupy remain largely intact. There is only one entrance. The place is surrounded by steep natural slopes and dense, towering vegetation. There are sentry posts by the gate and around the premises. The site—which is at once commanding and secluded—was clearly deliberately chosen for the secrecy it afforded. In addition to the sentry posts and the yard, there are four single-story buildings along the sloping terrain, which were used for detention, interrogation, administration, and amenities. The interrogation building, which sits on higher ground, and the detention building lower down the hill, are connected by a tunnel, in the middle of which is an iron gate. Not only was this design perfect for maintaining secrecy when carrying out interrogations, it also served to force upon detainees an overwhelming sense of disorientation, putting them under enormous psychological duress.
As Taiwan has followed the path of democratization, Ankang Reception House has lain abandoned for many years. With the rule of law and the doctrine of human rights becoming more securely established in Taiwanese society, uncovering and restoring the country’s dark history is an ongoing project that requires endeavors from all quarters. Only when we dare to look history in the face, and only if we continue to recover evidence, to think and reflect, and to learn from the past, can we achieve true reconciliation and go on to create a future together. As for those weather-stained, crumbling asbestos roof tiles, that tunnel with its harrowing echoes, those detention cells now taken over by tree roots, those rusted, battered iron window bars, those heavy, sagging doors, those walls overgrown with mold, those gloomy, dreary corridors, that dimly perceivable spirit of the place, and those haunting specters—all of them still speak of lives damaged and hopes dashed, demanding the justice long owed to the victims of that age of terror.
An office in the interrogation building. (photo by Shen Chao-liang)
