Book Review: Son of Formosa

Son of Formosa is a four-volume graphic novel that chronicles the 91 years of Tsai Kun-lin (1930-2021), a victim of Taiwan’s “White Terror” era. Created by renowned Taiwanese children’s literature author and researcher You Pei-yun and illustrator Chou Chien-hsin, the work explores how political, social, and international forces profoundly impacted individual lives, as seen through Mr. Tsai’s experiences. It also shows how individuals like Mr. Tsai can inspire future generations to resist the erasure of collective memory.

Cover of the book《Son of Formosa》. Image sourced from eslit.com.

In 1950s Taiwan, the ruling Chinese Nationalist Party (KMT) persecuted, imprisoned, and executed intellectuals, during the era now remembered as the “White Terror.” The grounds for arrests were often arbitrary. In this authoritarian period, innocent acts — reading a certain book, attending a discussion group, making a comment, or associating with particular individuals — could lead to imprisonment. While many survivors of the White Terror chose to remain silent, others have courageously sought to preserve the memory of this dark chapter through various means.

History fades easily if its stories aren’t kept alive. But how do we truly grasp and connect with history— be it personal, local, national, or global? Perhaps we are all, in some way, immersed in its flow. In this sweeping graphic novel that spans 90 years, I found it fascinating that my connection to the story came through songs.

The graphic novel unfolds Tsai Kun-lin’s experiences chronologically, brought to vivid life through warm and delicate pencil-sketch illustrations and through the bold, expressive strokes of woodblock prints—a signature of illustrator Chou Chien-hsin’s style. The second volume, rendered entirely in woodblock prints, depicts a 20-year-old Tsai, already under arrest, crowded into a holding cell at the “Taiwan Garrison Command Military Law Division Detention Center ” on Qingdao East Road (where the Taipei Sheraton Hotel stands today) with 28 other inmates. Despite the cramped space, the prisoners encouraged one another to walk around and sing.

The song they sang was Danny Boy. The book notes that the lyrics describe a father’s sorrow as he sends his son to war, but it doesn’t explain why the prisoners chose this particular song.

I wasn’t familiar with the song. Upon researching it, I discovered it was a world-famous ballad, familiar to my parents’ generation—anyone who had studied English or listened to folk music would likely know it. This realization struck me as another example of how time can erode our shared memory. The book includes only the first verse, which says, “Danny Boy is going far away, while I will be lying here.” The later verses reveal that the singer, long gone by the time Danny Boy returns, makes a heartfelt request for someone to visit their grave and sing a song.

As I listened to the song and read the book, I couldn’t help but feel tears welling up in my eyes. As those 28 men walked in circles around their cramped cell, singing Danny Boy, were they perhaps anticipating similar fates? If they were fortunate enough to be released, would they find their world unrecognizable, and their loved ones gone…?

Sentenced to ten years in prison, Tsai Kun-lin was 30 years old when he was released. For older readers of my parents’ generation, Mr. Tsai is best known as the founder and editor-in-chief of Prince Magazine, one of the most influential children’s publications of its time, playing a pivotal role in nurturing a generation of writers and illustrators. Following his release, Mr. Tsai thrived in Taiwan’s publishing, print media, advertising, and magazine industries. Though imprisoned because of books, he dedicated his life to books. However, despite his significant contributions to media and publication industries, Tsai Kun-lin’s name has largely faded from the memories of those of us born in the 1970s and later.

The third volume delves most deeply into this period, with the two creators meticulously capturing the rise of Taiwan’s thriving arts and publishing scene. This vibrant era also witnessed the legendary Red Leaf Little League team making history in Taiwanese baseball—a miraculous achievement in which I hadn’t realized Mr. Tsai played such a pivotal role.

In September 1969, Typhoon Elsie ravaged Taiwan during the Mid-Autumn Festival. One illustration captures a radio broadcast of the storm’s aftermath, juxtaposed with global events that defined an unsettled era: New York City’s Stonewall Riots in June, the historic moon landing in July, Woodstock Music Festival in August, and the ongoing Vietnam War. The radio plays a song: the Beatles’ Yellow Submarine.

The author pairs the scenes with the lyrics of Yellow Submarine, drawing a connection to Taiwan’s flooded streets, submerged in waters after the typhoon:

In the town where I was born
Lived a man who sailed to sea
And he told us of his life In the land of submarines
So we sailed onto the sun
‘Til we found the sea of green
And we lived beneath the waves In our yellow submarine
We all live in a yellow submarine
Yellow submarine, yellow submarine

Looking at those images, I found myself caught between laughter and tears. Any Taiwanese person knows the fear of typhoons and floods, and I felt a pang of dread, knowing how vulnerable books are to water damage. Sure enough, turning the page, Mr. Tsai showed that the magazine company was devastated by back-to-back typhoons that destroyed the printing equipment and entire inventory. Already struggling financially, the business was ultimately forced into bankruptcy.

The Beatles, Woodstock Music Festival… they were sweeping the globe. The Vietnam War raged in Asia, and in America, anti-war protesters wore flowers, taking to the streets with calls for love, peace, and an end to war. The images and voices of the hippie movement surely reached Taiwan, too. But I never expected to encounter Yellow Submarine like this—on a stormy night, the song connecting lives and moments from across the world.

The book’s author, You Pei-yun, belongs to a generation close to mine. In the fourth volume, she writes, “I was born around 1970 and raised under the Party-State education system. Our textbooks made no mention of the 228 Massacre or the White Terror, and certainly no Taiwanese history.” Indeed, it wasn’t until after Taiwan’s martial law was lifted in 1987 that many of us began to learn about this buried past. Like countless other victims of the White Terror, Mr. Tsai finally could gradually begin to share and document these silenced chapters of the past.

Thirty years after his imprisonment on Green Island, Mr. Tsai returned with his wife and children. Standing on the island’s rocky shore, he shared his story with them for the first time. He described how, during his ten years of confinement, he sang a song in his heart every day for his beloved, Kimiko, who would later become his wife. It was a song taught to him by a fellow inmate, Chen Ying-tai, called “One Day When We Were Young.”

I am not familiar with this song either. But I imagine many of the older generation would certainly recognize this love song. Apparently, when the movie The Great Waltz premiered in Taiwan, it caused a sensation. Everyone who saw the film knew the melody and lyrics by heart, and it was sung everywhere.

The book features not only English songs but also several Japanese ones, including a Japanese rendition of the English poem A Thousand Winds — a personal favorite. Ending the book with this song is a testament to author You Pei-yun’s profound research, insightful interviews, and skillful interpretation of Mr. Tsai’s life within its historical context. The original poem, A Thousand Winds, was said to have been read at a 9/11 memorial service. In Taiwan, it gained popularity after former President Lee Teng-hui expressed his admiration for the song, drawn to its lyrics that echoed his philosophy on life and death.

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there, I do not sleep
I am a thousand winds that blow
I am the diamond glints on snow
I am the sunlight on ripened grain
I am the gentle autumn rain
When you awaken in the morning’s hush

This song beautifully echoes the earlier Danny Boy: You, who visit my grave, you who sing for me, carry on the stories of history for me, now transformed into a thousand winds…

And this rendition of A Thousand Winds, sung by Chen Yung-lung and taught to him by the Tsou singer Paicu Yatauyungana, carries within it the story of yet another victim of the White Terror, but that’s for another day.

(Featured photo by Taichung City Government Tourism and Travel Bureau Website)