It all started with an online post.
A Taiwanese male rapper known as 6yi7 saw a woman’s comment on Threads saying his songs “mean nothing.” It was mild by hip-hop standards, but he wasn’t letting it go. He dissed back with the line: “shut up or creampie” (再吵內射).
Many found it disrespectful to women.
That was mid-January. And that’s how 6yi7 became the flashpoint for a political discussion and a widespread debate about misogyny in Taiwan’s hip-hop community. And six months later, it is still ongoing.
There’s more to say about 6yi7: he once accompanied Chiang Kai-shek’s great-grandson Andrew Chiang (蔣友青) on a visit to mainland China, and Taiwanese media have called him pro-CCP. But soon the debate went beyond him.
The conversation truly took off when two young female rappers, RapShark (芮鯊) and Shuya (楊舒雅), released their own diss tracks.
DW and BBC Chinese took notice.
The Context of “Academic Rappers” in Taiwan
Such an unconventional act of resistance from female rappers can seem out of place in hip-hop culture. But Taiwan has a unique backdrop: the “academic hip-hop” scene.
In Taiwan, many prominent hip-hop artists are students from elite universities. RapShark studied at National Chengchi University (NCCU), and Shuya at National Taiwan University (NTU).
In its early days, this scene was characterized by performers who rapped about their studies, their school pride, and their mastery of rhyme and rhythm. They were blending inspiration from American hip-hop with traditional East Asian values. It made them stand out, but given hip-hop’s roots in minorities in America, it also seemed unusual.
“Back in the 1990s to early 2000s, you had to be of a certain class with some capital to access hip-hop culture,” says Teacher Lin (林老師), a member of the rap group TriPoets (參劈). “CDs cost money, and there was also the language barrier.”
Teacher Lin, also a professor of anthropology at National Tsing Hua University (NTHU), founded the first university hip-hop club in Taiwan in 2001: NTU Hip Hop. It was followed by NCCU Afro in 2003. “College students became the major group embracing hip-hop in Taiwan’s early years,” he says.
“CDs cost money, and there was also the language barrier” – Teacher Lin
At first, these clubs weren’t very popular. That changed in 2017, when China’s reality show The Rap of China (中國有嘻哈) sparked a hip-hop boom. The wave reached Taiwan. University clubs grew.
In 2021, Taiwan’s own show The Rappers (大嘻哈時代) premiered. Contestants with university club backgrounds became essential pillars of the show. Their “school pride” and their ability to balance academics and music became trademarks.
Still, the term “academic rapper” didn’t exist until Teacher Lin began researching the scene as an anthropologist. And not everyone embraces the label. Some rappers reject the “academic” tag as elitist or limiting, especially after graduation. Being known as “academic rappers” can set them apart, but also alienate them from grassroots culture and opens the door to allegations of classism.
But in Taiwan, university identity serves as an “imagined street.” Claire Lee, a Taiwanese music commentator, wrote a Master’s thesis arguing that student clubs substitute for the street identity hip-hop draws on in the West: student rappers in Taiwan didn’t grow up in the same neighborhood, but university became where they met and formed “brotherhoods without blood.” Just as American rappers claim blocks of New York or L.A., Taiwanese rappers assert their school identities.
Rivalries between schools mirror battles between boroughs. University clubs offered resources: beats, recording gear, audiences. “Rap music is a collective fight,” Claire Lee says. “You need a crew.”
Finally, the lack of violence, drugs, or crime in the lives of most Taiwanese students limits the range of topics in their music. For some, feminizing and insulting others becomes the go-to lyrical weapon.
From the Classroom to the Front Line
RapShark and Shuya are not what you would expect from female rappers. Early cultural studies suggested that women in hip-hop rely on sex appeal or assert dominance as “alpha females.” Not these two. They didn’t use seduction or bravado. They simply responded with sharp, sincere lyrics.
It raises the question: did their academic backgrounds influence their decision to speak up?
“The club isn’t just a place where they learn music,” says Teacher Lin. “It’s also where girls first confront the gender dilemmas in hip-hop.”
Shuya told me: “There are always dirty jokes when boys hang out. But as they got to know me, they learned to stop testing me.”
RapShark had a similar story. “Back in school, I didn’t dare push back against uncomfortable jokes. Girls who did were mocked as ‘feminism police.’”
Most clubs offer hip-hop “courses” taught by senior members. But gender isn’t always part of the curriculum. Out of 60 to 80 members per club, often fewer than 10 are women. The same ratio holds for leadership positions. Even the female members, RapShark and Shuya say, aren’t always aware of the misogyny embedded in the culture.
“Female rappers are not a style. I am my own style,” – RapShark
“I think clubs should be the frontline of gender education,” says Shuya. “But executive members don’t think it’s important, not even the girls. I understand, it’s not their responsibility, but they might be the ones who can change it.”
University alone doesn’t guarantee critical thinking. But it can sharpen it. Both artists mentioned sociology courses that helped them name the discomfort they felt.
They also pointed out the economic safety net of being “slashies.” Neither relies solely on rap for income. RapShark studied communication and now works as a sports journalist. Shuya, who majored in political science, is an assistant to a legislator.
“I don’t depend on rap to live,” says Shuya. “That gave me the courage to speak out.”
“I almost quit after my diss track,” says RapShark. “The criticism was exhausting. If the game is this toxic, I don’t want to play anymore.”
Where Feminism, Politics, and Hip-Hop Meet
Their diss tracks faced criticism too. Some called them too harsh, others said it was no different from lyrics objectifying women. But this also reflects a long story of power imbalance and gender oppression.
“I didn’t overthink it,” RapShark says. “I was angry at 6yi7. I just wanted to make it easier for other girls to speak up.”
Often, girls are silenced in public spaces. “For me,” says Shuya, “the diss track wasn’t about starting a conversation with men. I just wanted someone to care about girls’ feelings.”
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Domestic politics shaped the discourse too.
Online, I kept seeing the phrase “feminism bluebird” (女權青鳥), a jab used to shut down debate. The term “bluebird” originally referred to the anti-legislature protests of May 2024. But now, some use it to smear women, feminists, and intellectuals.
“They hate me because they assume my politics,” Shuya says. “But it’s about more than that, it’s a backlash against women, elites, and education itself.”
This is the double-edged sword of academic backgrounds: they empower women to speak, but also make them targets of anti-intellectualism.
Social media is also poor place for real debate. And in polarized Taiwanese politics, discussions about gender rarely even get off the ground. “I get criticized before I even perform,” says RapShark. “Just for being a girl.”
Darkness and Light
RapShark has mixed feelings about her time in hip-hop clubs.
“I’m disappointed my friends from NCCU Afro didn’t support me,” she says. “Maybe they just didn’t care. I felt really alone once, after I was sexually harassed in a nightclub. I tried to talk about it, and a friend just said, ‘Really? You?’”
Still, she adds: “I made good memories. Freestyling in the dorms. Living with eight Afro members in a leaky apartment. That’s still warm to me.”
For Shuya, the brightest memory came at this year’s Megaport Music Festival.
“I was touched seeing people waving LGBTQ+ flags, Taiwan independence flags… everything,” she says.
Held annually in Kaohsiung, Megaport is a key event for Taiwan’s independent music scene, and a platform for freedom of expression.
It’s also where Shuya performed with GummyB from NTU Hip Hop. That day, she told the crowd:
“There’s no such thing as music belongs to music, politics belongs to politics.
Women are politics.
Bodies are politics.
Identities are politics.
I hope that one day, Taiwanese rap culture can be free from misogyny.”