Taipei’s population is aging faster than almost any society worldwide. Yet instead of greater respect for elders, a new form of ageism has quietly taken root.
The elderly are no longer cast as weak, quiet or invisible—but as loud, stubborn, and taking up too much space. This shift is subtle but powerful, reshaping how the public imagines aging and how policymakers design urban life.
Scroll through social media and you’ll see complaints that “Taipei is full of retirees who don’t work,” or that “the coffee shops and gyms are occupied by old people.” The sentiment used to be pity; now it’s frustration. In a nation long shaped by Confucian ideals of filial respect, the tone of generational conversation has curdled.
But this isn’t about manners—it’s about narrative. Ageism has evolved from a discourse of dependency to one of domination. The “problem” is no longer that older adults are a burden, but that they’re too present: claiming seats, crowding sidewalks, buying property, taking up space in a city that feels too small for everyone.
This narrative shift matters. It shapes which policies gain traction and which prejudices feel justified. When older adults are seen as obstructive, restricting their privileges can seem reasonable. It’s the same logic behind the perennial controversy over “priority seats”—formerly “courtesy seats”—on public transit.
Earlier this year, Taiwan’s Legislative Yuan voted to rename them “priority seats” and broaden eligibility to anyone with genuine need—pregnant people, the injured, those with invisible disabilities.
Lawmakers said the goal was to reduce intergenerational conflict. Yet the fact that such conflict has become policy’s starting point is revealing: it reflects a collective discomfort with aging in public.
This new “ageism of presence” contrasts sharply with Western public health models. Yale University professor Becca Levy has shown that positive age beliefs predict longer life expectancy and better health outcomes. Yet in Taipei, health and longevity have not produced acceptance. The healthier and more active the elderly become, the more their visibility provokes resentment.
As a public health researcher, I find this shift deeply consequential. Ageism is not only an attitude problem—it’s a structural one. Sociologists Bruce Link and Jo Phelan call this “structural stigma”: when “societal-level conditions, cultural norms and institutional policies constrain the opportunities and well-being of the stigmatized.”
When older adults withdraw from public spaces out of fear of being shamed, they face real health consequences—social isolation, depression, and cognitive decline. What begins as a cultural narrative becomes a measurable inequity.
From a social justice perspective, this is upstream thinking: narratives themselves are social determinants of health. The stories a society tells about aging shape who feels entitled to occupy public life. As George Washington University professor Lisa Bowleg reminds us, structural inequities are never one-dimensional—they intersect across identities and power.
Ageism in Taipei overlaps with class and geography; working-class elders who rely on public transit are most exposed to stigma. Recognizing these intersections helps policymakers design more equitable interventions.
The danger of Taipei’s evolving ageism is that it hides behind modernity. It sounds pragmatic, even youthful: “We need more space for the next generation.” But when cities frame old age as an obstacle to progress, they risk building environments hostile to their own future selves.
To be sure, tensions around public space are real. Taipei is dense; trains are crowded; housing is expensive. But ageism offers a convenient scapegoat. Blaming retirees for urban stagnation distracts from deeper forces—income inequality, zoning limits, speculative real estate—that constrain both young and old.
If we truly want an “age-friendly city,” we must start by reframing the story. Urban design, health policy and transit etiquette campaigns should emphasize shared space, not generational turf wars.
The seat-policy revision hints at this direction: it acknowledges that vulnerability isn’t tied to age alone, and that empathy should replace assumption. But narrative change must go further.
Researchers and policymakers should treat storytelling itself as intervention. Just as qualitative methods center lived experience, public institutions can center elder voices in planning—inviting older adults to co-design parks, mobility programs and digital literacy campaigns. The goal isn’t to restore the myth of the compliant elder, but to humanize a generation whose visibility reflects the society they helped build.
The evolution of ageism in Taipei signals not decay but transformation: we are renegotiating what it means to share space across generations. The danger lies in letting frustration harden into contempt. If policymakers, researchers and citizens fail to recognize how our stories about age are shifting, we risk crafting solutions that deepen exclusion instead of easing it.
To change the trajectory of ageism, we must first change the narrative.
Aileen Chung is a Master of Public Health student in social and behavioral sciences at Yale University. Her research focuses on aging, health and care infrastructures. Raised in Taipei, she moved to the United States in middle school and now specializes in cross-cultural perspectives on aging and public health.
