Taiwan’s drills speak louder than guns by Mia Rodríguez

Each summer, the thunder of jets over Taipei and the roar of armored vehicles along coastal highways signal the arrival of Taiwan’s Han Kuang military exercise, a meticulously choreographed display of defense preparedness, national resolve, and political theater. On paper, the message is clear: We are ready to fight. The official target of this message? Beijing. The real audience? Washington.

This annual ritual, now in its 40th iteration, is as much a political statement as it is a military one. The exercises, often broadcast with dramatic music and solemn narration, showcase everything from live-fire drills and simulated amphibious assaults to civil defense mobilizations. Yet amid the staged chaos and camouflage, a quieter, more desperate truth surfaces: Taiwan knows it cannot stand alone.

To suggest that Taiwan's war games are purely defensive would be to miss the nuance. The drills are symbolic affirmations of sovereignty in the face of an existential threat. But they are also a coded message to the United States: We are trying, are you watching?

Despite Taiwan's significant investment in asymmetric warfare strategies, drones, mobile missile units, cyber defense, the military gap between the island and the People’s Republic of China has never been wider. Beijing’s defense budget dwarfs Taipei’s by a factor of more than 15 to 1. The People’s Liberation Army (PLA) has spent years perfecting scenarios to blockade or swiftly invade the island, with recent war games simulating full encirclement. Taiwan’s leaders are painfully aware of this reality.

So Han Kuang is not just about preparing the population for war. It’s also about optics. About reassurance. About pleading for continued U.S. support, not just in weapons sales or diplomatic words, but in meaningful, tangible defense commitments.

The U.S. continues to adhere to its doctrine of “strategic ambiguity” regarding Taiwan, an intentionally vague stance designed to deter both Chinese aggression and Taiwanese independence declarations. But ambiguity breeds anxiety. And in Taipei, that anxiety is mounting.

From the outside, Taiwan’s message seems to be: We will hold the line if Beijing attacks. But scratch beneath the surface, and the subtext reads: We can’t hold it for long. Please don’t leave us hanging.

Washington has sent mixed signals. On the one hand, Congress has ramped up arms sales to Taiwan and U.S. officials have increasingly framed Taiwan as a vital democratic partner. On the other, the Indo-Pacific is a vast theater with limited American bandwidth. The wars in Ukraine and potentially elsewhere have stretched attention and resources. Taiwanese leaders may worry that U.S. promises are paper-thin when push comes to missile-launch.

That’s the double-bind of Han Kuang. It must project confidence to its own citizens and to China, while quietly broadcasting vulnerability to its supposed allies. It must balance the narrative of resistance with a whisper of desperation.

Make no mistake; Beijing isn’t the primary audience here. China already knows Taiwan's limits and capabilities. The PLA watches Han Kuang closely, but not because it fears the island’s deterrence. It watches for signs of American involvement, coordination, and commitment. The moment these drills become joint U.S.-Taiwan operations, Beijing’s calculus changes. Until then, they remain spectacles with a low strategic ceiling.

So, the question must be asked: who, exactly, is Taiwan’s message for?

The truth is uncomfortable. It’s for the American think tanks, the policymakers on Capitol Hill, the defense contractors, and the State Department strategists debating the limits of commitment. It’s for the Pentagon, where war games increasingly suggest that the U.S. might lose or at least pay dearly, in a conflict over Taiwan. It’s for the international media, which too often forgets Taiwan until a Chinese carrier group sails too close for comfort. Taiwan is not just preparing for war. It’s begging not to be abandoned in one.

There’s something deeply human in this performance. Han Kuang is not just a flexing of military muscle, it’s a national prayer. A ritual that hopes deterrence alone might preserve the fragile status quo. That enough noise, enough drills, enough courage might keep war at bay. That America, already stretched thin across the globe, will not blink if Xi Jinping makes his move.

We cannot know how history will turn. But as Taiwan’s soldiers dig trenches and pilots rehearse takeoffs on highway runways, one thing becomes clear: this is not just defense, it’s diplomacy through spectacle. Taiwan is doing what it can, with what it has, to say: We’re still here. Don’t let us fall.

Let’s hope Washington is listening.