Lost and Found: A Family’s Tale across the Taiwan Strait

My grandparents had three children, Kang-shan, Jian-shan,  and Le-shan.  Until I was 8 years old, Aunt Jian-shan was a distant figure, the daughter they left behind in China when they moved to Taiwan in 1949.

In the summer of 1989, my grandma, or Nainai, was diagnosed with cancer.   Her final wish was to reunite with her lost daughter.  Lying in her hospital bed, drifting in and out of consciousness, she repeatedly moaned for Aunt Jian-shan.  Desperate to ease her mind, we boldly had Aunt Le-shan, her youngest daughter who had flown back from Baltimore, pose as Aunt Jian-shan.  We prayed this pretense would work, granting her closure so she could depart from the world without regrets.  How foolish and naive we were!  With just one glance at the woman standing by her bedside, Nainai smiled and whispered, “Le-shan, you are back.”

I often reflected on Nainai’s final days with a sense of lasting regret.  During the three years she lived with us, I spared little time for the quiet, hard-of-hearing old lady.  Though I ignored her presence at home, I frequently boasted about her to my friends, highlighting the rarity of her education – a college degree was a remarkable achievement for women of her generation.  I doubted Nainai ever thought of herself as a trailblazer; her humility wouldn’t allow it.  However, I had no such reservations.  I proudly shared that both my grandparents were Chinese literature professors at National Cheng Kung University in Tainan.  I emphasized how Nainai, the eldest child from a rich landowner family in rural Sichuan province, defied social expectations of becoming a docile housewife.  Born in 1903, during a time when the crude practice of binding young girls’ feet to increase their marriage prospects was still popular, Nainai had no choice but to endure the pain.  She experienced her first taste of liberation in October 1912, when Dr. Sun Yat-sen founded the democratic Republic of China and abolished this oppressive custom.  This marked the beginning of her journey in challenging the status quo and breaking glass ceilings.  Nainai yearned for a life in bustling cities, an education, a career, and independence.  In the 1930s, she embarked on a solo journey of nearly 150 kilometers from the village of Jingyan to Chengdu to pursue her academic dreams.  She graduated from the Sichuan Conservatory of Music, specializing in the interpretation of Shijing, or the Book of Odes – the oldest existing collection of Chinese poems from the 11th to 7th century BC.  Nainai encouraged her siblings to follow suit, recognizing the shifting worldviews and the threat Communism posed to their sheltered, privileged life.  

I have always enjoyed recounting Nainai’s story – after all, few had a grandma as educated, ambitious, and visionary as mine.  Her accomplishments were a source of immense pride and a badge of honor I delighted in sharing.  

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I knew my grandparents had left behind a daughter in China, but it was a topic we rarely broached in conversation.  Their story mirrored a classic period drama, a tale of remorse that many in their generation shared as they grappled with the consequences of a monumental mistake made before their relocation to Taiwan.  

After the civil war ended in 1949, the Chinese Nationalist Party, also known as the Kuomintang (KMT), led by Chiang Kai-shek, fled to Taiwan, leaving control of mainland China to his nemesis, Mao Tse-tung, and the Chinese Communist Party.  Chiang anticipated a swift return, but the triumphant moment of reclaiming never materialized.  Hundreds of thousands of families found themselves torn apart.  With travel, phone calls, and even postal services severed between the two sides, the fate of loved ones remained unknown.  This uncertainty inflicted both torment and a glimmer of hope, an agony my grandparents endured together in silence.  

Three years after Yeye, my grandpa, passed away, Nainai finally received the answer they had been waiting for.  I was eight years old at the time, and Nainai was in Baltimore visiting Aunt Le-shan.  While direct contacts of any sort between Taiwan and China remained banned, China’s graduate opening to the outside world meant Nainai could send letters to China from the US.  She cast a wide net, penning and dispatching missives to every address she remembered.  One day, Aunt Le-shan returned from work  to find her mother in tears, thin sheets of paper and an envelope stamped with China’s postal insignia scattered on the dining table.  Between sobs, Nainai shared the miraculous news: Aunt Jian-shan was alive!  She was a mathematics teacher in Chongqing, married but with no children.  In her letter, Aunt Jian-shan also gave updates on Nainai’s two brothers.  As landowners, they both endured sharp criticisms and hardships during the Cultural Revolution.  The brother who raised my aunt lost hope and took his own life, while the other brother persevered and lived in Chengdu.  

Many years later, Aunt Jian-shan recounted how one of Nainai’s letters had been addressed to her childhood home in Jingyan.  However, the house had long been demolished, rendering delivery impossible.  Remarkably, the postal clerk sorting returned mails recognized Aunt Jian-shan’s name.  Having been her elementary school classmate, he knew the family had moved to Chongqing a while back.  With this serendipitous connection, he forwarded the misplaced letter to my aunt, setting the stage for a long-awaited family reunion. 

Aunt Jian-shan paid the ultimate, punishing price for her most undesirable family connection.  She seldom spoke of those bleak days, but once she let slip how her aspiration to become a surgeon was dashed.  The dream was firmly taken away from her because Nainai’s brother, effectively my aunt’s father figure, was a wealthy landowner — an unforgivable sin in Communist society.  Furthermore, her birth parents, whom she barely remembered, were in Taiwan, thus branded as counter-revoluntaries and right-wingers.  Such lineage meant limited job prospects, despite her intelligence.  Aunt Jian-shan was only nine years old when her parents relocated with her elder brother and baby sister.  I often pondered: had she been a son or a toddler, would she have met the same fate?

Several months prior to my grandparents’ decision to move to Taiwan, Aunt Jian-shan was staying with Nainai’s brother and his wife in Jingyan.  The childless couple adored her, and she reciprocated their love fervently.  When Nainai came to retrieve her, her brother implored her to allow his family to continue caring for the little girl.  “How can you be sure you’ll like it in Taiwan?” he asked.  “You already have your hands full with Kang-shan and Le-shan, not to mention the housing situation hasn’t been sorted out yet.  Jian-shan is happy here.  Let her stay with us a while longer.”  Anticipating a brief stint in Taiwan herself, Nainai relented, agreeing to let Aunt Jian-shan remain in Jingyan until she completed elementary school.  Afterwards, Nainai insisted that Aunt Jian-shan must return to live with them.

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After four decades of stalemate, the two governments finally acknowledged the status quo.  In November 1987, Taiwan lifted the ban, permitting its citizens to travel to China for family reunions.  However, our initial excitement was tempered when we discovered the caveat: the relaxation did not apply to public sector employees and active military personnel.  With Nainai too frail to make the journey alone and both my parents working for a government bank, we were left sidelined.  

A year later, a humanitarian policy was enacted, allowing citizens from China to visit their relatives in Taiwan.  Seizing the opportunity, we swiftly filed a petition for Aunt Jian-shan, knowing that time was not on our side – Nainai was already 85 years old.  

Nainai’s spirit was high, giddy with the prospect of seeing Aunt Jian-shan.  However, fate intervened on one bright spring morning when she suddenly cried out for my eldest sister.  Rushing to her side, Po-ti found Nainai sitting on her bed, shaking uncontrollably.  Po-ti frantically dialed my parents’ work numbers as it’s almost 9 o’clock and they were due to arrive at their offices any moment.  The next day, the doctor delivered the devastating news: Nainai had stage 4 liver cancer and only a few weeks left.  

Meanwhile, across the Taiwan Strait on April 15, 1989, students gathered in Beijing’s Tiananmen Square to mourn the passing of Hu Yaobang, the former Chairman and General Secretary whose reformist ideas had irked many of his Communist Party peers.  His death unleashed a wave of pent-up frustration and anger, culminating in demands for social and economic reforms, freedom, and democracy.  Students camped out in Tiananmen Square, their impassioned pleas spreading to other cities.

As the world looked on and speculated about the future of Communism in China, we were consumed with worry.  The Chinese government had halted all humanitarian visitation applications.  I visited Nainai almost daily, each time alarmed by her rapid decline.  Though it’s uncertain how much she was aware of the tension in China, she must have sensed something amiss.  In her final lucid moment, she conceded that the reunion with Aunt Jian-shan was not to be.  Entrusting my mom with her cherished jade ring, she requested that it be given to Aunt Jian-shan as a keepsake of her love.

Nainai drew her last breath on June 4, 1989.  Around the same time in Beijing, the military moved into Tiananmen Square, dispersing protestors with soldiers and tanks.  

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Nainai’s adult life, framed by two tragic events, served as an inspiring testament to resilience and fortitude.  Despite the heartbreak and the inability to turn back time, she stood tall, refusing to succumb to adversity and instead crafting a fulfilling life in Taiwan.  While Nainai loved all three of her children, it was her middle child who undoubtedly held the deepest place in her heart.  Her tireless campaign of letter writing resembled sowing seeds in an open, desolate field, uncertain if any would take root and flourish.  The revelation of Aunt Jian-shan’s survival must have ranked among the happiest moments of her life.  Nainai clung to the hope of one day clasping her lost daughter’s hands tightly against her chest, offering her apologies.  Though she may have fallen short in this race against time, the promise of a future reunion in nirvana remains steadfast.