Years of Pursuit for Fifteen Minutes — What Lee Kuan Yew Taught Me About How a Small State Makes the Powerful Listen
Ever since I returned to media work in Taiwan in 1998, a grand ambition had taken root in me: I longed to do one resounding, in-depth interview on the power structures of international politics. And my target was one heavyweight statesman — Singapore's Minister Mentor, Lee Kuan Yew. He was not only an architect of Asian modernization but, for decades on the world stage, a model of how a small state survives and makes itself heard in the cracks between great powers. That pursuit cost me years.
For those years, roughly every two months I wrote a letter to his press secretary, Madam Yang, seeking an interview — and always got the same reply: the Minister Mentor has no plans to give interviews. Then came the turn of 2000. I went to Harvard to study, and heard the news that Lee Kuan Yew would visit Harvard. To get a word with a giant who directed the affairs of nations from the world stage — how could that be easy? I immediately drew on the senior connections I had built across Taiwan, seeking help to arrange the interview.
At last, I received a reply from the press secretary at Singapore's Istana: the Minister Mentor would reserve fifteen minutes for me, at 10 a.m. on October 15.
I was pushed to the edge, burning the candle at both ends. On one side, midterms in Harvard statistics and "American Defense Policy" loomed; on the other, I scrambled to arrange camera, lighting, a rented studio, and satellite transmission — even mobilizing members of the Harvard Taiwanese Student Association to pull off this once-in-a-lifetime exclusive.
It was 2000. Taiwan had just been through its first transfer of power; Chen Shui-bian had become the first popularly elected president to turn the party over, and the political atmosphere was at a critical moment of transition. In the interview, I quoted something Lee had said in a speech in London. Before I could finish, he cut me off, his expression grave: "You've got to be very careful when you quote my word."
It was stunning. This was a political titan who would readily sue media into the ground, who tolerated not a single error. A subject who stops, right then, to calibrate your every word — that is not simple wariness, but a survival instinct carved into the bone.
In that moment, under enormous pressure, something also became clear to me. I only later fully understood: for the leader of a small state, words are an extension of national power. Singapore has no strategic depth, no hinterland, no resources; a large part of the leverage in Lee Kuan Yew's hand was simply "whether every word he spoke carried enough weight, and landed precisely."
This is the same problem Taiwan faces.
A small state between great powers isn't heard by shouting loudest — it's heard by making itself the party that cannot be skipped. Singapore did it with geography, with its role as a financial hub, with this leader's judgment. Taiwan does it today with semiconductors — when more than ninety percent of the world's chips pass through this island, no one can route around you to discuss the future. Different leverage, same logic: you have to make yourself impossible to ignore before you get a seat at the table.
Lee Kuan Yew's generation demonstrated this. Now it is Taiwan's turn.
As for what he actually said about cross-strait relations in those fifteen minutes face to face — he spoke not of ideology, but of reality. He reminded Taiwan that, based on the shared interests of Taiwan, mainland China, and Singapore, the cross-strait question should be resolved by peaceful means: return to the 1992 Consensus. In his judgment, "time is on China's side." That was not only an observation about the two sides, but a small-state leader's deep grasp of power, leverage, and reality.
All I remember is that before every sentence, he made sure you would not misquote him. His caution kept Singapore safe.
This interview was the only one Lee Kuan Yew gave after visiting Taiwan. Knowing I had landed a "century's exclusive" — singular in Taiwan and internationally, before his passing — my mood was nonetheless heavy. It was a reminder a leader of the century left for the next generation. He proved with his life that a small state's survival rests not only on strength, but on judgment; and that his nearly exacting, word-by-word caution not only guarded Singapore's lifeline, but left Taiwan a lesson in survival still worth chewing over, again and again, today.