60 Years of the KEPZ

Written by Peter Li-Chang Kuo

At last week’s "Rust Belt Forum," someone mentioned that “next year will mark the 60th anniversary of the Kaohsiung Export Processing Zone (KEPZ).” Instantly, a large character—“death”—flashed across my mind. Memories returned vividly. I couldn’t help but wonder: What exactly is there to celebrate on its 60th anniversary? What is there to commemorate?

In November 1965, I accompanied my father as we fled to Kaohsiung in search of the Export Processing Zone. In the blink of an eye, sixty years have already passed. A full cycle of sixty years seems to have slipped away in an instant. I thank my God who loves me for granting me the chance to shape the Taiwan — and the world — I once imagined. It seems that everything I devoted myself to over these six decades has, one by one, been accomplished.

After just one year of hard work, in December 1966, I truly succeeded in doing business with “Transworld Electronic Co., Ltd.” (Avnet International Taiwan Ltd.), an American-owned electronics company in the KEPZ, using the precision eyelets I crafted with my own hands. That NT$100,000 purchase order earned me “NT$90,000” in net profit. Not only was I able to pay off my parents’ debts from the Duck Mother Market, but our entire family also enjoyed a good Lunar New Year of the Goat Year in 1967. We even had enough left to buy a small plot of low-lying land beside a foul-smelling ditch in Lane 451 of Park Road, to prepare for building a house.

Fig 1: To earn NT$90,000 in December 1966 (13-year-old)

Mr. Lane of Avnet specifically instructed me: “The eyelets you sell us are 'top secret.' You must not tell anyone.” Yet on Chong-An Street, American, Japanese, and European electronics companies swarmed in the tiny alley to buy my precision eyelets. Every one of them had the same source — those employees of Mr. Lane selling “supply intelligence” to them.

Fig 2: KEPZ Company Directory listing Avnet

By 1967, nearly every electronics factory in the KEPZ came seeking my eyelets, all with one common requirement: “Plate the metal eyelets with cadmium (Cd)!” They claimed it improved "solderability." Mr. Wang, who supplied my chemicals, solemnly warned me: “Cadmium is extremely poisonous. It can kill.”

Fig 3: Cd-plated eyelet lugs (terminals) used for electronics

In order to keep the eyelets looking good after acid washing, I routinely rinsed them in a diluted "potassium cyanide" solution. I already thought potassium cyanide was the most lethal substance —one accidental peck from my chicken, and it dropped dead instantly, turning black on the spot. I never imagined anything could be more toxic than that — yet "cadmium" was.

I consulted my cousin uncle Jin-Sheng, who was a doctor. He said, “Cadmium (Cd) damages the kidneys, causing tubular dysfunction that leads to renal failure and sudden death. It also harms the lungs, causing breathing difficulty and even pulmonary edema, leading to collapse and die.”

Because of cadmium’s notorious reputation, advanced countries had already banned its use. At this time, Taiwan’s KEPZ, with its cheap labor and generous tax incentives, aggressively promoted foreign investment. American, Japanese, and European electronics companies flocked in — and exploited young entrepreneurs like me (just 14-year-old), who were merely trying to keep our families alive.

Since no subcontractor was willing to do "cadmium electroplating," I had no choice but to perform the work myself. Every electroplating session felt like dying — “headache, burning eyes, chest tightness, dry cough, shortness of breath.” After finishing each job, I had to drink several liters of water before the symptoms eased even slightly.

In 1968, Alps of Japan came to me to develop more than 200 samples. They never paid a single cent, yet partnered with a Taipei company to build a factory in Sanxia, becoming my competitor. Soon after, a man named Chikuta arrived in the KEPZ to establish Japan Kyowa Electronics. He too had obtained “supply intelligence” from Mr. Lane’s employee and came to Chong-An St. seeking new product development from me.

This time, I kicked him out and told him to blame his fellow Japanese. Unexpectedly, Mr. Chikuta remained polite and expressed his sincerity. I had never charged development fees before; he became the first client from whom I collected such fees. Before long, I received NT$1.2 million in payments. Not only did I complete construction of the "Cheng Kuang Metal Works" on Park Road Lane 451, I also bought several plots of land in Yong Kang — the most expensive at NT$100 per ping (3.3058 m²/ ping).

I thank Mr. Chikuta for enabling me to earn enough money for the Gu -Sou couple (A-Kun and A-Jin) to squander, and for helping my family escape Chong-An Street, allowing my grandmother to spend her final years in her own home. Most importantly, I could openly reject orders requiring "cadmium plating" — no longer forced to endure A-Jin’s endless nagging.

In 1969, shortly after moving into Park Road Lane 451, one of Mr. Lane’s employees came to collect goods and mentioned that female operators in the KEPZ had collapsed and died — likely due to inhaling "lethal cadmium fumes" during soldering. Do you know what their working conditions were like? No goggles, no masks, no protective equipment at all — not even exhaust ducts. Day after day they pressed cadmium-plated terminals with soldering irons, continuously inhaling cadmium fumes. It would be a miracle if tragedies didn’t occur.

Every time they came to collect goods, I heard more of these grim tidings.

I cannot help but thank my God for sending that Japanese customer, who helped me escape danger — otherwise the one who collapsed might have been me. Sadly, Mr. Chikuta’s business did not survive long enough to see the transistor age. It went bankrupt. The products I developed for him were all used in “Lucky” brand transistor tape recorders and emerging consumer electronics, earning enough money for A-Jin to indulge in extremely immoral pursuits.

Back then, the most popular newspaper in Tainan was "The Chinese Daily News," which always had the latest stories. Whenever I ate at my auntie’s Tianyuan Shoe Store in Sakariba (a market), I always read The Daily News with my meal — perhaps that was why my writing eventually surpassed even the students in the elite academic tracks.

The major headline in January 1965 declared: “New Minister of Economic Affairs, K. T. Li, announces the Construction of an Export Processing Zone in Kaohsiung’s Cianjhen District and begins Overseas Investment Promotion.” From that moment on, I prayed fervently every night: “If there is a God, please let me live long enough to finish elementary school!”

My family was an odd one, surviving entirely on “mygrandmother’s little pair of scissors” used for cutting paper crafts. A-Jin gave birth to six children, and each one — once weaned — was thrown to Grandmother to raise. A-Kun, on the other hand, possessed exquisite craftsmanship but proudly proclaimed, “Ha! Mass production? That would insult my intelligence!” His greatest joy was organizing a mutual-aid club at the Duck Mother Market and inventing novelty gadgets that no one had ever seen. Once he completed a prototype, he would give it away and tell me, “We must have the bearing of nobility!” With such habits, how could the family not remain poor?

Strangest of all, despite the hardship, they invested every resource they had into one child, whom A-Kun called “Shih-Chiao” (good-for-nothing, dead wood). By some miracle, he attended cram class to prepare for the junior high entrance exam, only to score a “zero egg” in 1964. A proud failure, he once responded to A-Jin’s scolding with fists and kicks. And since I, too, was still in sixth grade at Park Elementary School, I became his next target, enduring endless forms of harassment. As one of the school’s best fighters, I was more than able to touch back, but bound by Confucian ethics, I could only endure. My younger brothers, whenever I wasn’t around, were beaten black and blue.

One day, my homeroom teacher, Chiu Sen-Jan, suddenly said, “There are indeed unjust parents in this world,” and shared the historical tale of “the Go-Sou couple and Xiang, who enjoyed daily in trying to kill Shun.” After hearing that story, I followed Shun’s example even more diligently — repaying hatred with virtue. The repercussion was that one by one, the people around me became morally distorted.

In 1965, Shih-Chiao took another junior high exam and returned home with a “zero egg.” I, a student from the “cattle-herding” class, was only registered for the exam because Teacher Chiu helped me sign up — and somehow I passed, entering the municipal junior high school. Barely days into the term, A-Kun told me to accompany him as he fled to Kaohsiung. Without a word of protest, I tossed aside my schoolbag and ran with him from Tainan to Kaohsiung in the night.

Behind No. 16, Chong-Hsing Street, in Kaohsiung’s Lingya District, I built a small workshop out of sugarcane boards and named it “Cheng Kuang Metal Works.” I produced everything from pig-slaughtering knives, duck-feather tweezers, tofu scoops, hinges, water pumps, oil lamps, to swastika rings. But my greatest hope was to use my specialty — "precision eyelets" —and secure business with the American electronics companies in the KEPZ.

Unfortunately, even after eight months searching everywhere in Kaohsiung — scavenger shops on Park Road, hardware stores on Jian-Kuo Road — no one knew where the Export Processing Zone actually was. In the end, because I needed to care for my grandmother — whose foot had been broken by police — and my younger brothers, I gave up Kaohsiung and returned to Tainan.

The hardships in Kaohsiung led me to grasp the “U-shaped replication method” from a book my uncle had given A-Kun. With bare hands, I crafted a progressive deep-drawing die capable of producing one million precision eyelets, correcting the flaw in A-Kun’s dies that broke after fewer than a hundred pieces. Eventually, I achieved my goal of doing business with electronics manufacturers in the KEPZ, becoming a model example of a poor family turning its fate around (turn-over).

I learned to “speak Mandarin” from conversations with a mainland Chinese scholar who sold used books at the entrance of the National Market. When I later saw “Gu-Sou”— the heart blind father from "Mencius" — the scholar offered a profound explanation. That strengthened my choice to live by Confucian ethics — though, in hindsight, it never moved anyone. Instead, the tragedy of “enjoyed daily in killing Shun” replayed endlessly.

By Heaven’s mercy, Mr. Chikuta appeared at just the right moment, allowing me to escape "cadmium poisoning." Yet those young girls, barely in their teens, who dreamed of the KEPZ, were working themselves to death for monthly salaries NT$200. At first, the sudden deaths were simply accepted by their parents as misfortune — nobody thought about “workplace safety,” let alone “environmental protection.” Compensation didn’t even exist.

Strangely, although rumors of death continued to surface, it wasn’t until 1972 that the issue finally exploded. Due to multiple sudden deaths among female operators at Sanmei Electronics and Mitsumi Electronics, the media reported: “Multiple female workers at Sanmei and Metsumi in the Kaohsiung Export Processing Zone have died from liver disease caused by exposure to organic solvents (trichloroethylene, tetrachloroethylene).” Lives were at stake, and the authorities could no longer look away.

In truth, I was summoned by the Taiwan Garrison Command, which interrogated me about the use of cadmium in my products. I answered honestly — every time I worked with cadmium electroplating, I felt physically ill: "headaches, burning eyes, chest tightness, sore throat." Even though I no longer accepted such purchasing orders, the memory still makes me tremble. The involvement of the Garrison Command showed that the central government already knew something was wrong, but the “deadliness of cadmium” was never revealed. Instead, they used “organic solvents” as a distraction.

From 1982 to 1986, while helping Mattel save the Barbie doll line, I saw their chemical department staff live with "organic solvents" every day for twenty years — even eating meals in their work area. Every single one of them was perfectly healthy and strong. Why, then, did the authorities avoid mentioning cadmium poisoning?

After extensive research, I discovered the truth was deeply political. In 1969, U.S. President Nixon was preparing to visit Mainland China. The KEPZ was the centerpiece of Taiwan’s economic development and a flagship for foreign investment. The ruling government had to maintain the image of “good public order, abundant labor, and no industrial accidents.” As the saying goes, “Cover a pot with a white lie.” Therefore, the Export Processing Zone — crucial to national policy — absolutely could not allow any negative news to surface.

Due to factors related to President Chiang Kai-Shek, the Republic of China on Taiwan indeed withdrew from the United Nations in 1971. As Control Yuan member Tao Pai-Chuan described it, that year was “a moment of national peril.” He said, “Fortunately, Chiang Ching-Kuo was willing to shoulder the great responsibility of becoming Premier and turn the tide.”

On May 20, 1972, Chiang Ching-Kuo assumed the premiership. Within days, Japan presented Taiwan with a big gift of "severed diplomatic relations." In response, the Executive Yuan launched a “boycott Japanese goods” campaign. At that very moment, the “female-worker deaths” at Japan’s Sanmei Electronics erupted in rapid succession. This time, even the Taiwanese authorities could no longer suppress the news. Once The Chinese Daily News exposed the story, every newspaper followed suit. Tragically, however, the public was misled with claims that the female victims had died from “organic solvent poisoning (trichloroethylene and tetrachloroethylene).”

Those victims were girls only 13 to 19 years old, in the bloom of youth. While I was developing products for American, Japanese, and European electronics companies, I repeatedly and forcefully insisted that “do not use cadmium plating.” Every request was rejected. Meanwhile, A-Jin whipped me daily, shouting, “Hey! Four-legged boy, run! Earn money, more money, and more money!” And A-Kun played the role of the heart-blind father from the story of Shun. Without the timely intervention of Mr. Chikuta, I might have become another “cadmium victim.”

When I was summoned by the Taiwan Garrison Command, it was obvious that they intended to investigate “the source of cadmium.” Yet the media blamed everything on organic solvents. In quiet moments of meditation, I still feel that those young girls — “those innocent souls claimed by cadmium poisoning” — are waiting for the truth even today. Therefore, I resumed my morning prayers, dedicating the merit to them. After all, the Kaohsiung Export Processing Zone (KEPZ), the starting point of Taiwan’s industrialization, was built upon tears and blood.

Fortunately, when vacuum tubes were phased out in 1969, I worked hard to transform my business into transistor products and abandoned the customers who insisted on cadmium plating. Only then was I able to live long enough to reach today — an age where one may “follow the heart’s desires.”

Later, I advocated Socially Responsible Investment (SRI), encouraged my younger brother to study public health (industrial hygiene), and promoted “technologizing traditional industries and intellectualizing high-tech industries.” My hope has always been to prevent tragedies like the sudden deaths of KEPZ’s young female workers. And here I must reiterate: they did not simply die of “organic solvent” exposure (trichloroethylene, tetrachloroethylene) — they died from "cadmium poisoning."

On the day of the 1979 U.S.–Taiwan diplomatic break, I traveled to the United States to develop satellite receivers for them. There, I was shocked to discover that since the 1960s, industrial regulations in the U.S., Europe, and Japan had already "prohibited cadmium plating" on electronic terminals. Yet these advanced nations — driven by a culture of commercial greed — outsourced their pollution, outsourced their risks, outsourced their deaths, exporting them all to Taiwan. This was not a “miracle.” It was “inviting wolves into the house.” Taiwan’s so-called starting point of industrialization was, in truth, built upon the blood and lives of Taiwanese girls.

At that time, Taiwan was a developing country, and the lack of environmental awareness was understandable. What is truly heartbreaking is that companies from advanced nations, fully aware of the dangers of "cadmium poisoning," still came to Taiwan to conduct profit-making projects “without any protective measures to the operators.” Simply put, those Taiwanese girls who perished were murdered — and that is the core issue we must face!

As we approach the “60th Anniversary of the Export Processing Zone,” should we not face this “tragic national memory” with honesty? Instead of praising the miracle of the export processing zone, we should commemorate those unnamed, unrecorded, and unburied martyrs — those young women, the most silent sacrifices of Taiwan’s industrialization. Even if no one remembers them, I remember them. A memorial ceremony should be held so that their spirits may rest in peace.

Conclusion

In December 1966, I successfully secured business with Avnet Electronics in the KEPZ using "precision eyelets" that I crafted myself. Soon after, American, Japanese, and European electronics companies came to Chong-An St. to purchase these eyelets. Their common demand was “cadmium plating” (Cd-Pl), claiming it improved “solderability of terminals.” Each time those eyelets was cadmium-plated, I immediately suffered "headaches, burning eyes, and difficulty breathing" — a sense of impending "death." Recognizing the grave danger of cadmium, I transformed my business in time and narrowly escaped disaster.

Beginning in 1969, reports of sudden deaths among young female operators in KEPZ began to circulate. To protect national image, the government deliberately concealed the truth, using claims of “organic solvent poisoning” to cover up the harm caused by cadmium. Only after public outcry in 1972 was the truth partially revealed. These tears and sacrifices became a painful chapter behind Taiwan’s industrialization. For sixty years, this history has failed to teach us that economic development must never come at the cost of human health. The deaths of those young women have gone unremembered.

Thus, I dedicate the following poem, “Sixty Years of Blood and Tears in KEPZ,” in their memory:

Cold frost accompanies sixty years of wrongs;

Within the Zone, blood and tears overflow.

Cadmium fumes hide poison that pierces the chest;

Young girls perish, their grievances unappeased.

Silent at their posts, they built prosperity;

Political dust buried the human truth.

Turning back today, their souls still linger—

May truth be known, and their spirits comforted.

Peter Li-Chang Kuo, the author created Taiwan's Precision Industry in his early years. Peter was a representative of the APEC CEO Summit and an expert in the third sector. He advocated "anti-corruption (AC)/cashless/e-commerce (E-Com)/ICT/IPR/IIA-TES / Micro-Business (MB)…and etc." to win the international bills and regulations.