In a recent article, Professor Wu Wen-Chin and Professor Pan Hsin-Hsin argued that Taiwan’s youth are not defeatist, and that the survey data proves it.
While (rightly) criticizing a poll conducted on social media, they cited recent academic and professional surveys showing strong levels of public support, including among young people, for defending the country in the event of a Chinese attack.
At first glance, this narrative is reassuring. Moreover, one could argue that these surveys do seem to provide symbolic and political value. Domestically, they help foster national pride and promote the idea that Taiwan’s younger generation is committed to resisting authoritarian aggression. Internationally, they serve two important purposes: on the one hand, to deter Beijing; on the other, to signal to the United States and other like-minded allies that Taiwan is willing to take responsibility for its own defense, not simply wait for help from abroad.
But these numbers, however encouraging, should not be treated as reliable evidence of actual wartime behavior or social resilience.
The unfortunate truth is that the gap between what people say in peacetime and what they do in crisis is vast, and treating survey results as strategic facts risks creating a dangerously false sense of security. To understand why, we need to look more closely at the limitations of self-reported intentions in moments of extreme pressure or danger.
First, the idea that what people say they will do in high-stakes situations accurately predicts what they will do is deeply flawed. Social science has long warned against such assumptions. As early as 1934, in a seminal and provocative study titled “Attitudes vs. Actions,” sociologist Richard LaPiere challenged the then-common assumption that people’s stated attitudes could reliably predict their behavior. Along similar lines, Icek Ajzen’s Theory of Planned Behavior makes clear that survey responses reveal intentions and not actions, and when fear, uncertainty, or perceived lack of control intervene, even the strongest intentions often fail to materialize.
Behavioral economists have reached similar findings. For instance, research by Lacetera, Macis, and Slonim demonstrated a significant gap between stated willingness and actual behavior. They found that people often express strong intentions to act altruistically in surveys, but their actions are highly sensitive to real-world conditions, such as incentives, convenience, and perceived effort.
Second, whether in discussion of sensitive themes like illicit drug use, abortion, and sexual behavior, or in revealing political or racial attitudes, another serious problem is social desirability bias. That is the well-known tendency for people to say what they think they’re supposed to say, especially on emotionally or politically charged topics. In Taiwan, saying “Yes, I would defend my country” is the normatively acceptable answer. Saying “No” might come across as weak, apathetic, or even unpatriotic. This distortion may be amplified in a place like Taiwan, where cross-strait tensions are a central political issue, and where various institutions (including universities) that conduct or promote such surveys have direct or indirect political affiliations.
Third, even if respondents are sincere, there’s still a major problem: what exactly does “defend the country” mean? Does it mean joining the army? Donating to the war effort? Stockpiling food? Posting support on TikTok? Without clear definitions, survey respondents project their own ideas onto the question. As shown in Schwarz and Sudman’s classic study on survey methodology, vague wording leads to inconsistent and unreliable data. So when we see 70 percent of youth saying they would fight, we don’t necessarily know whether they mean physically, symbolically, or passively.
Importantly, all these concerns are especially relevant in the Taiwanese context and, in fact, have been raised before.
Already in 2007, Dennis Hickey’s book on Taiwan’s foreign policy-making regarded many of Taiwan’s public opinion polls as “nonsense polls” given the serious methodological flaws and, at times, manipulation. More than a decade later, he remarked that “little has changed” in this regard.
In a more recent piece, Paul Huang argued that these polls are unreliable because they ask about a highly hypothetical scenario that the public has no real experience with, leading to vague and inconsistent interpretations of what “fighting” means. What is more, Huang pointed out the large discrepancies between polls, the politicization of their results, and the fact that only a small, underprepared segment of the population could realistically take part in combat.
Thus, it seems that beyond various methodological problems, and with all due respect to Taiwan’s youth, we must also be honest about history. Unlike countries such as Israel or Ukraine, Taiwan has not experienced modern total war or widespread civilian mobilization. Since the end of the Chinese Civil War, no generation of Taiwanese has had to risk their life for the island’s sovereignty. As a result, there is no shared memory of sacrifice, no deep-rooted culture of civilian resistance, and no generational trauma that might prepare the public for what war actually entails.
This disconnect is not just theoretical; it’s visible in everyday behavior. For all the claims of willingness to defend the country, there is little evidence of urgency or collective motivation in the Taiwanese society, particularly among youth. Participation in military service is at historic lows, public enthusiasm for defense training remains weak, and interest in civil defense initiatives is minimal outside of elite or policy circles. Many young people actively seek ways to delay or avoid conscription, and volunteer enlistment numbers have struggled to meet recruitment targets for years.
In short, if there is genuine readiness to sacrifice for the nation, it has yet to manifest in any large-scale public action. This reveals the core problem: if people aren’t willing to give their time, energy, or convenience during peacetime, why should we believe they will offer their lives in wartime?
Finally, and most importantly, even if we assume the best, meaning that most young people really would be willing to defend Taiwan, that still leaves the more troubling issue: can they? Taiwan’s defense establishment suffers from systemic weaknesses such as underinvestment in reserve training and mobilization, poor morale and low public trust in the military, limited public education or awareness of emergency protocols, and the lack of a clear national defense doctrine that citizens understand or rally around. As it stands, Taiwan does not have the institutional capacity to absorb widespread civilian enthusiasm into a functional defense strategy. So even if the public is willing to fight, the system is not prepared to act on it.
In conclusion, survey data has a role to play. It can boost morale. It can shape messaging. It can also make headlines. But it should not be treated as strategic evidence of readiness, especially not by policymakers, the public, or international allies. Willingness is not the same as ability. And symbolic support is not a substitute for training, infrastructure, doctrine, or leadership.
I raise these points not to dismiss young people’s commitment to Taiwan. Rather, it’s a call for greater realism in our public discourse and more honesty in how we assess Taiwan’s actual preparedness. On a more personal note, as someone who has built a life in Taiwan, I care deeply about its future and am genuinely worried about how underprepared both the authorities and ordinary citizens appear to be. In times like these, I’d much rather see people trained, equipped, and organized than simply expressing their willingness in theory.
Taiwan doesn’t have the luxury of waiting to find out how things will unfold when the crisis hits. Thus, being prepared in mental, physical, and organizational terms is not just wise, it’s essential. Real resilience begins not with declarations, but with action.