There's no truth in the mediation room
Never in my life did I think I'd walk into a labor mediation room.
That's because I knew things in here rarely end with any dignity. If they could, why would you be sent here in the first place?
There's no courtroom drama of justice being done. There's one mediator. There are people of different standing, each holding their own cards. Across the table sits someone you can't compromise your way to a good outcome with. It isn't a trial court or a prosecutor's hearing, and you probably don't know the difference anyway. Good. I hope you never need to. But if you do, remember there's an article here waiting for you.
How it started
Before we went in, we waited in the hallway. I had a full set of records with me. The other side showed up too, a thick stack of documents in hand, chin up, sure of a win. He looked like he'd done this plenty of times.
Inside the mediation room, the employer nodded to the mediator and said something. I didn't catch it.
We both walked in with a thick stack. Only later did I understand: mine was evidence, his was a prop. In that room, props and evidence don't carry the same weight.
It begins
The mediator opened with pleasantries and confirmed who we were. Then: this is a confidential session, please do not record.
I froze for a second.
If you can't record, every word said in here disappears into a box. You came precisely because reason had stopped working, and once inside you learn that nothing you say can leave a record. How is that different from an absurd shouting match where nobody has to answer for anything?
The mediator warned that recording might be a criminal privacy offense, set that trap card face down, and ended the turn.
My turn to state my case.
I handled it like a prosecutor's hearing. No filler. I opened by saying how many items I would cover. Excessive overtime. Verbal abuse. Being deliberately given no work. Being frozen out. False rumors spread about me. Every item felt like drawing a knife across my own throat.
My Apple Watch buzzed. Resting heart rate above 130.
Then it was the employer's turn. I listened to his statement.
I can't describe what I felt in more civilized terms, so I'll just say it: I was wondering how a human being could sit there and lie through his teeth so fucking brazenly. He didn't address my overtime pay. Didn't address the verbal abuse. Didn't address the ostracism or the false rumors.
He said I had concealed a medical condition while employed. Said I had emotional problems that affected coworkers and clients. Said the whole company knew about my condition. Then said he had never disclosed my medical history.
So I watched the employer's performance: a black comedy in which the sun rises in the east at the start and in the west by the end. I didn't laugh. He seemed to believe he was the one being persecuted, that justice was on his side. Want a definition of bullshit? I watched a man write a fresh one.
I kept raising my hand to object to the mediator. None of this had anything to do with the substance of the mediation.
The mediator soothed me: it's fine, let him talk.
I let him finish. Then I got quieter and quieter, because I had started to sense something. This room runs on different rules from the ones we think it does.
I thought I was ready.
I know negotiation. I know how to fight a savage fight in civilized wrapping. Everything I learned on the street back then, everything I honed later in conference rooms, I carried into that room. Then I found out I'd brought the wrong weapons.
I went in with NT$330,384 in evidence. The other side went in with five words: “Something's wrong with this guy.”
Five words outweighed NT$330,384. This isn't a question of fairness. It's a question of the rules of the game.
In the mediation room, the truth is not what matters most. What matters is what you can make the people in that room feel.
I don't really remember what the mediator said.
Maybe my body had stopped letting me listen. The Apple Watch was probably still buzzing.
Mediation unsuccessful.
I looked at the record. The words were crooked and twisted, and I couldn't tell what they said. But I no longer cared. We each signed it. As long as what each side said counts, fine.
I went in with NT$330,384 in evidence.
I came out with one document: mediation unsuccessful.
The number is still there. For now, nobody has to answer for it.
Oh, and the part describing the worker's claims was written in the mediator's grammar. I don't know why the literary quality of my statement came out reading like something I wrote in sixth grade. But I don't mind. It's as absurd as the mediation itself.
The Department of Labor and Youth Development
After the mediation, I went to the Department of Labor and Youth Development and asked what I could do next to assert my rights.
The man there said this was as far as they could walk with me. For the rest, take it to civil court. If you need free legal services, the sessions are on…
I cut him off. Thanks, I get it.
Have any of you been through labor mediation? How did it feel?
Postscript
I'm one of the lucky ones. I have time, I have resources, I have evidence. I'm able to file a complaint with the district prosecutors office accusing the other side of defamation. But what about the people who just put their heads down and work hard?
They're too busy chasing the next paycheck. They assume there's justice in here, but they have no time to keep looking for it, and in the end they may simply disappear, taking whatever justice they might have had with them.
This is a true story, not dramatized. The employer is welcome to sue me. I use my real name. I'm not Chen Kui-lin, the wanted man of The Pig, the Snake and the Pigeon. I'm waiting for the lawsuit to run its course and land in the public record. I hope you're still around that day.
First published on Vocus, 2026.05.05.