A Journey Through "Daughters of Shandong": A Personal Reflection
As someone deeply rooted in the Taiwanese diaspora, Daughters of Shandong by Natalie Chung quickly grabbed my attention. My paternal grandfather escaped from China during the civil war, yet his stories—rich with heartbreak and resilience—were lost to time before I could ask. Thus, reading this book felt like an emotional pilgrimage, particularly as Chung poured her heart into honoring her beloved Puo Puo through her writing. However, while I commend her extensive research into this turbulent history, I must admit my experience with the book left me wanting.
At first glance, the harrowing tale of a mother and her three daughters navigating the perilous journey to Taiwan truly captivated me. Their fight against starvation, prejudice, and the scars of war was compelling and poignant. Yet, as the story progressed, I found myself drifting into boredom, largely due to the flatness of the characters and a writing style that, unfortunately, left much to be desired.
Take Hai, the main character—initially poised to break free from Confucian constraints, her journey of self-discovery felt both promising and underwhelming. I appreciated her realization that her mother wasn’t superhuman and her navigation of societal expectations. Yet, I struggled to connect with her voice. Chung’s didactic prose often resorted to telling rather than showing, stripping away the emotional depth I craved. For instance, while I was informed that Hai felt despair or hope, I wished for an immersive experience, one filled with complexity and nuance.
The mother figure, who initially radiated strength and unwavering kindness, soon morphed into a repetitive symbol of virtue. The focus on her saintly nature became monotonous, denying her the flawed humanity that makes characters feel real. I found myself yearning for morally ambiguous choices that added complexity to her character, illuminating the tough terrain women often navigate in times of war.
Conversely, Di, the ‘bad daughter’ of the story, proved the most engaging character. With her flaws and self-centeredness, she provided a refreshing mirror to the more traditional roles espoused by the narrative. But her story hurtled towards an abrupt, unsatisfying conclusion that left me frustrated—punished for her perceived defiance, while Hai, the dutiful daughter, trotted off into a happy ending. This stark dichotomy felt like a missed opportunity for deeper exploration of gender roles.
In addition, I couldn’t help but feel the characters occupied a black-and-white world where complexity was neglected. The antagonistic mother-in-law and the wholly evil Communists lacked the shades of gray that could have enriched the narrative. The one-sided portrayal made it challenging to engage fully with the historical context, transforming what could have been a vibrant tapestry into a flat recitation of events.
Overall, I commend Chung for illuminating a vital part of history, and while her storytelling is certainly accessible—ideal for those unfamiliar with this period—I long for something more complex. If you’re looking for fierce portrayals of women in times of war, I encourage you to seek out The Mountains Sing by Nguyễn Phan Quế Mai or Pachinko by Min Jin Lee, where characters pulse with life and moral ambiguity.
In conclusion, Daughters of Shandong holds potential for readers interested in stories of resilience. Yet, for those who crave rich character development and layered narratives, it may leave you wanting more. Personally, it served as a reminder of the stories I didn’t hear and the histories still waiting to be explored.