Five thousand years. Stylus on clay.
The first writing was bookkeeping:
shared grain, counted and kept
a village alive through winter.The first writer was a bureaucrat.
The empires are dust.
The ledgers remain.Clay is soil that remembers.
So is data:
only alive when many hands work it,
richer with every harvest.Till the data soil.
Don’t drill for data oil.Sovereignty that rests
on one good officeholder
is not yet sovereignty. It is luck.
In Taiwan, we planted ours:
a commons no single hand can uproot.They say bureaucracy moves slowly.
So do tectonic plates.
Patient pressure
raised our islands
from the sea.Now the ledger counts voices.
Four hundred and forty-seven citizens —
our islands in miniature —
deliberated on deepfakes, face to face.Civil servants carried
what the citizens chose
into law, and made the law hold.In one year,
impersonation scam ads fell
by ninety-four per cent.We work with the people,
not just for the people.
With the government,
not just for the government.You have a beautiful phrase for us:
“Creative Bureaucrats.”
The oldest writers,
still writing.This award is not mine alone.
Somewhere tonight
a civil servant is still at the desk:
working in the open,
keeping the winter out.The granary holds,
because of you.Thank you.
