From ‘Ukraine today, Taiwan tomorrow’ to ‘silicon shield’: How Taiwan’s security was hijacked by slogans

In Taiwan today, few politicians or media personalities will continue to bring up “Ukraine today, Taiwan tomorrow”. Likewise, it’s now rare to hear TSMC described as Taiwan’s “sacred mountain safeguarding the nation”. Yet these two slogans were wildly popular as recently as the end of last year. The shift came after Donald Trump returned to power. 

As Washington adjusted its Ukraine policy — no longer backing Kyiv in its resistance against Russia — and especially as Kyiv was treated rather poorly by the US during the process, many in Taiwan began to feel disillusioned. Add to that Trump’s pressure on TSMC to invest in semiconductor facilities in the US under the threat of high tariffs, these once-revered slogans suddenly feel out of touch with reality.

After the outbreak of the Russia-Ukraine war, Ukraine’s fierce resistance and the strong support from the West — especially the US and Europe — gave Taiwan, which faces a somewhat similar threat, a sense of inspiration and hope. 

The idea that Taiwan could stand up to a military takeover by mainland China began to look more plausible. That’s when the slogan “Ukraine today, Taiwan tomorrow” started circulating, quickly becoming a political catchphrase on everyone’s lips. Western support helped the phrase go viral, as media outlets, think tanks and even politicians embraced the narrative, placing Taiwan at the front line of the global “democracy versus autocracy” struggle.

On one hand, it extended the West’s rhetorical edge over the China-Russia axis; on the other, it gave Western leaders a chance to show moral solidarity — supporting Taiwan became synonymous with defending democracy.

Thus, “Ukraine today, Taiwan tomorrow” became a kind of cognitive weapon jointly constructed by Taipei and the West. Although its original author is unknown, the slogan’s popularity was clearly no accident — it spread with deliberate planning. As a tool of cognitive warfare, it served dual purposes: rallying public sentiment and creating internal cohesion, while also possibly misleading society. 

On the one hand, in moments of looming crisis, a powerful symbol can quickly muster public attention and ignite a fighting spirit. It can also help seize the narrative high ground internationally and gain moral legitimacy and global sympathy. On the other hand, when such narratives are mythologised and turned into unquestionable truths, they can backfire when the external environment changes. That’s because the core of cognitive warfare isn’t about conveying truth, it’s about stirring emotion and shaping perception. And once that perception no longer matches reality, the narrative can collapse, making it not only useless but laughable.

That’s precisely the awkward position Taiwan now finds itself in. After holding out for several years, Ukraine is on the verge of being abandoned by a Trump-led America. Many in Taiwan now realise how fragile those “rock-solid” commitments really are. 

“Ukraine today” no longer symbolises Taiwan’s future hope — it may instead be a pipe dream. If Washington is willing to cut a deal with Moscow and leave Kyiv out in the cold, why should Taiwan believe that the US would intervene on its behalf in the face of Beijing’s military threats?

The same applies to the idea of the “silicon shield”. This concept, used over the past few years as shorthand for TSMC’s strategic value, tied the mythos of semiconductors to national defence: that advanced chip-making could fend off forced unification, that microchips could safeguard sovereignty. 

Calling TSMC the “sacred mountain” or a “geostrategic shield” sounded empowering. But this narrative was always a highly optimistic — and somewhat wishful — effort to bundle commerce, high-tech industry and national security into a single package. Would mainland China refrain from attacking Taiwan simply because of TSMC? That may be a practical concern. 

If China continues to fall behind in semiconductor capabilities while the US continues to block access, Beijing might indeed consider taking over TSMC through military means. So from that perspective, calling TSMC a “silicon shield” isn’t baseless. It might truly serve as a strategic deterrent to Beijing.

But here lies the problem: can TSMC really determine the course of war and peace? Highly unlikely. For China, unification with Taiwan is not just about acquiring technology — it’s a matter of core national interest and identity. In Beijing’s strategic worldview, unification is a historical and political inevitability. It’s not a formula where TSMC can be a variable that alters the outcome. Whether the shield exists or not, Beijing’s goal remains the same.

Moreover, the “silicon shield” narrative assumes that even if Beijing attacks Taiwan, the US will step in to protect it because of TSMC’s value. But geopolitics is always more pragmatic than we’d like to think. 

The US has not increased its commitment to Taiwan just because of TSMC. In fact, Washington has demanded that TSMC “surrender on the spot” (原地投降), pushing it to set up fabrication plants in Arizona — taking with it not just capital, but also its technology, talent and supply chains. TSMC has been turned into the flesh-and-blood foundation of America’s semiconductor revival. And the whole process has left Taiwan with little choice and even less dignity. 

In the end, the “silicon shield” is being dismantled by Trump, and the “sacred mountain” is becoming a US strategic asset. It’s like handing over your protective talisman to someone and hoping that they will defend you — when in fact they covet the talisman with no intention of defending you at all.

This is the fundamental paradox of cognitive warfare: it can quickly rally public attention, spark emotional resonance and build compelling narratives, but it is deeply dependent on timing, context and political mood. Once that environment changes, yesterday’s rallying cry can rapidly become obsolete, and in turn come back to bite you. 

This should prompt serious reflection: when governments or public opinion leaders manipulate narratives for specific purposes and condense them into catchphrases, have they considered the sustainability of these narratives? If not, these slogans are destined to become disposable, one-time tools, offering no long-term security and possibly turning into strategic liabilities at the most crucial moment.

From the “Ukraine today, Taiwan tomorrow” slogan to the myth of the “silicon shield”, both narratives had their moments of effectiveness and mobilising power. But now, as both collapse under changing geopolitical realities, Taiwan is faced with a sobering question: cognitive warfare cannot truly protect the island. In fact, it may create illusions, distort judgment and erode resilience. No matter how many cognitive weapons are deployed, they merely place hope in the goodwill of others or in emotional bonds that are fundamentally unstable.

When facing the threat of a Chinese military invasion, what Taiwan needs is not another catchphrase. What it needs is a more realistic strategic posture and more sober risk assessments. We cannot let narratives become sedatives — nor let language hijack thought. 

The real “sacred mountain” may not be a company or a slogan, but rather the ability of society to clearly understand its position and adapt its strategy amid dramatic change. That ability is Taiwan’s true shield — and the only one that will stand the test of time.

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