Every island tells a story of its own; Taiwan begins with its people—By: Ryan Hsu

Words will always fall short, but still, let me try… The beauty of Taiwan lies not only in its mountains that catch the ray of the sun or ocean that breathes against its shores, but the voices that persisted far long before buildings were molded into cities. Among them, the Amis—Taiwan’s largest indigenous tribe (with a population of over 200,000 people)—carry the way of life that feels at times ancient yet timeless. Their wisdom doesn’t linger in textbooks, but in the hands that pound millet, the songs that braid voices together, and in the laughter that rises from the harvest fields. It was an absolute honor to invite our Amis representative, IB coordinator, and all time favorite teacher, Kolas Yang. To him, the heart of it all is “living simply, living closer to the Earth and closer to our roots.” As mentioned, the Amis are Taiwan’s largest indigenous group, with most of them living along the island’s eastern coast in Hualien, Taitung, and the Rift Valley. Traditionally farmers and fishermen, they embrace a culture not tied to possessions. As Kolas put it: “One’s worth to the community is one’s toil.” What is it that matters more than wealth and status? To the Amis, what is valued is what one’s hands can give back to the land and the people. That single line carried the lived truth over the decades. It isn’t wrong to say their connection to the Earth runs deep. Millet and rice, what may be seen as plainly crops, are the backbones of the Amis, the existential threads that weaved families together. It was interesting when the topic of hunting was touched upon. Kolas described how some men would vanish into the mountains for weeks, setting traps, surviving on wild plants, and returning only when the land had taught them enough to sustain themselves. I'd call it an old-fashioned discipline... quaint, almost, at first glance. Yet beneath, a profound test of humility and endurance. If toil gives a person their worth, ritual gives them back their strength. Among the Amis, songs and dance serve as acts of memory. During the annual Harvest Festival (held each summer along Taiwan’s east coast), whole communities gather in open fields, voices rising in polyphonic layers that scholars have called one the most complex choral traditions in the world. Kolas recalled how films like “Avatar borrowed heavily from indigenous rituals of song and gratitude.” As Kolas put— of songs that survive because they are sung, of dances that carry meaning because feet continue to strike the ground. “There are rituals, songs, and dance,” he said, “celebrations of the environment that provides.” During the interview, Kolas shared this jarring shift he felt when travelling back to Boston after spending time with the tribes. On the plane, faces in first class were masked with tight frowns, champagne glasses raised but no smiles on their faces. Cameras captured meals more than moments. And yet in the village, he said, the air was full of talking, singing, and laughter, without the presence of technology and solely the presence of people—present with one another. From there, our conversation turned inward, to his own journey of loss, return, and rediscovery. To finding home, memories, and relationships. Surprisingly, Kolas’s childhood was not shaped by the Amis at all. Growing up in the United States, memory, to him, was only fragments—a culture that seemed distant until much later in life. It was not until his thirties, he said, that he began to reclaim what had been lost—to finally step back into traditions and voices that had always been his. This meant a lot of things. It meant not only facing questions of identity, but also questions of family, of where he belonged, and whom he belonged to. In searching for his birth mother, Kolas found himself back into his tribe. That search brought him to a brother, and then to a sister he had never known. It was a reunion accompanied by joy, but also shock, and fear. It was like filling blank pages with imagined stories of his mother, trying to understand what it must have meant for her to give up a son in order to protect him. Listening to Kolas, I found out the beauty of the Amis. It is their very idea of stories that remind us what it means to belong. In the Amis, they uphold communities, carry forward traditions, and share with each other their presence. His journey back to family, to memory, and to tribe echoes that very fact. In Kolas’s own return, the Amis offer Taiwan—and the world—a reminder that home is not just a place, but a way of being together.