Taipei is gearing up for an election season that should be a celebration of local democracy, yet there is an uneasy feeling in the air. The upcoming mayoral race is not just about housing policy, transit plans, or the usual promises that come with any campaign—it has become a stage for a much quieter, more insidious battle. According to officials familiar with China’s united front operations, Beijing is likely to escalate its information warfare aimed at influencing the outcome of this election. The concern is not traditional political interference, like overt endorsements or direct mobilization through immigrant communities, but something far more sophisticated and harder to detect. The tools of choice are deepfake videos, fake online accounts, and carefully tailored disinformation designed to manipulate public opinion. The goal, as described by those tracking these tactics, is not necessarily to elect a particular candidate but to erode trust in the democratic process itself, to make voters question what is real and what is manufactured, and to leave a lingering sense of chaos and cynicism in a society already grappling with complex cross-strait tensions. For ordinary residents of Taipei, this means that the memes they share, the videos they watch, and the headlines they scroll past may carry hidden layers of influence—some aimed at tilting the election, others aimed at simply making it harder to believe in anything at all.
The warning comes from an official who has been monitoring China’s united front operations, a term used to describe Beijing’s long-standing strategy of winning influence through non-military means. In the past, these operations relied heavily on personal connections, community networks, and direct outreach—especially through the sizable population of Chinese immigrant spouses living in Taiwan. But times have changed, and so have the methods. The official told The Taipei Times that the limited number of Chinese immigrant spouses actually contesting the upcoming local elections, combined with the absence of large, nationwide campaigns, has reduced concerns about direct mobilization through these communities. Instead, the threat has shifted to what authorities describe as cognitive warfare—a form of conflict that targets the mind, perception, and belief systems of voters. Cognitive warfare does not need to convince everyone; it only needs to create enough doubt, confusion, and division to weaken the collective confidence in democratic institutions. This could mean deploying AI-generated videos that make it seem like a candidate said something horrific, running bot armies to amplify certain hashtags and suppress others, or leaking fabricated scandals timed disastrously for maximum impact. The beauty (if one can call it that) of this approach is its deniability. A deepfake can be debunked later, but by then the damage is already done. A fake account can be shut down, but not before it has shifted the conversation. The ballots themselves remain secure, yet the information environment surrounding them becomes a fog of war where truth is the first casualty.
At the center of this evolving concern are the Chinese immigrant spouses themselves, who have long been viewed with suspicion and also as potential agents of Beijing’s influence. In the upcoming local elections, twenty-five Chinese immigrant spouses have registered as candidates—a number that itself tells a story about integration, aspiration, and the complicated politics of identity in Taiwan. But not all of them are eligible. Four of these candidates reportedly failed to provide evidence that they had relinquished their original household registration in China, a requirement under Taiwanese law. Seven others had submitted the required documentation less than a decade ago, which automatically disqualified them from running. These are not just administrative footnotes; they are the human faces of a larger geopolitical struggle. For the individuals involved, these candidacies represent years of building a life in Taiwan, of raising families, paying taxes, and contributing to their communities. Yet their dual loyalties—or perceived dual loyalties—make them vulnerable to accusations and suspicion from all sides. The authorities are wary that Beijing could use these individuals, or others like them, as unwitting or willing pawns in a larger game of influence. But the official assessment suggests that direct mobilization through spouses is becoming less viable, not because the risk has disappeared, but because the legal and administrative barriers have tightened. The dissolution of organizations that once served as intermediaries, combined with high-profile prosecutions, has made it riskier for Beijing to rely on this pipeline. Still, the very presence of these candidates has ignited debate about national identity, electoral integrity, and the boundaries of political participation in a society that is both proudly democratic and intensely suspicious of external interference.
One case that has come to embody these fears is that of Xu Chunying, a Chinese immigrant who was sentenced to seven years in prison in August. Her conviction sent shockwaves through Taiwan’s political landscape and served as a warning about the reach of Beijing’s operations. Xu was found guilty of fraud, facilitating the illegal entry of Chinese nationals into Taiwan, and acting under Beijing’s direction to influence Taiwanese politics. She had previously served as secretary-general of the Cross-Strait Marriage and Family Service Alliance, an organization that Taiwan’s Interior Ministry dissolved in May. The alliance had presented itself as a charitable group helping cross-strait families navigate the complexities of marriage, residency, and legal paperwork. Under Xu’s leadership, however, it allegedly became much more—a vehicle for political meddling and a conduit for Beijing’s ambitions. The human story behind the criminal case is complex: Xu arrived in Taiwan as a bride, built a career, and gained a position of influence. In another narrative, she might have been celebrated as a symbol of successful cross-strait integration. Instead, she became a cautionary tale about the dangers of allowing political loyalty to override legal and democratic norms. Her conviction has made it more difficult for Beijing to use Chinese spouses as intermediaries, the official noted, because the risks are now clearer and the penalties far more severe. But it has also had a chilling effect on the community itself, many of whom feel caught between two governments, two identities, and two sets of expectations. They are not inherently agents of any foreign power; they are simply people who fell in love, moved across the strait, and built lives. Yet in a climate of heightened suspicion, even the most innocent actions can be interpreted as part of a coordinated plot.
The real danger now, according to the official, lies in the realm of sophisticated online operations. As traditional channels close, Beijing is likely to turn increasingly to digital tactics that are nearly impossible to trace back to a specific source. These operations are designed not just to influence the outcome of the Taipei mayoral election, but to undermine the credibility of the entire electoral process. Imagine a voter scrolling through social media in the days before the election. They see a video of a candidate apparently admitting to corruption—except the video is a deepfake, generated by artificial intelligence and distributed through thousands of fake accounts. The voter shares it, comments on it, perhaps even discusses it with friends. By the time fact-checkers debunk the video, the election may already be over, or the damage to the candidate’s reputation may be irreversible. This is not a far-fetched scenario; it is exactly the kind of tactic that intelligence officials are bracing for. Cognitive warfare is a slow poison, administered in small doses across social media, comment sections, news aggregators, and messaging apps. It thrives on existing divisions, amplifies extreme voices, and creates an environment where every piece of information is viewed with suspicion. The target is not just Taipei’s voters but the very idea of democratic accountability. If people no longer trust what they see, they may stop caring about facts altogether. They may retreat into echo chambers, vote based on fear rather than reason, or simply stay home on election day. Either way, the democratic process is weakened, and that is the ultimate goal.
For the people of Taipei, the coming weeks will be a test not only of candidates and policies but of collective resilience and media literacy. The threat of deepfakes, fake accounts, and targeted disinformation is real, but so is the capacity of a mature democracy to defend itself. The official’s warning is not a prophecy of doom; it is a call to vigilance. Electoral authorities are likely to increase monitoring of online content, fact-checking organizations are preparing to debunk false narratives, and civic groups are working to educate voters about the signs of manipulation. The story of Xu Chunying and the dissolved Cross-Strait Marriage and Family Service Alliance serves as a reminder that the lines between love, law, and loyalty are often blurred in the cross-strait context. But it also demonstrates that Taiwan’s institutions are willing to draw boundaries and hold people accountable, regardless of their origins or affiliations. The Chinese immigrant spouses who have registered as candidates, even those disqualified, represent a broader reality: Taiwan is a pluralistic society with deep connections to the mainland. Those connections are not inherently threatening; they are part of the island’s complex identity. The challenge is to preserve that openness without becoming vulnerable to manipulation. As the election approaches, the best defense may be a simple but powerful combination: critical thinking, open dialogue, and a shared commitment to the democratic process. The information war may be escalating, but it cannot win if voters refuse to be its pawns. In the end, the future of Taipei will be decided not by bots or deepfakes, but by the people themselves—by their ability to see through the noise, to question what they are told, and to cast their ballots with clarity and conviction. That is the quiet strength of democracy, and it is why attempts to undermine it are so often destined to fail.