In 1947, Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek tried to kill my family. In 2010, I traveled to Taiwan to find out why. I arrived on a balmy morning in late August, laden down with giant suitcases and burning questions about the past.
That first day, I walked out into the streets of Taipei, armed with my map, a Chinese-English dictionary, an apple, and a water bottle—not unlike an astronaut taking her first steps on a new planet. I had a Fulbright grant to stay here for a year, which I hoped would be enough time to get answers. Within minutes, my jeans were soaked with sweat, and my blue T-shirt soon followed.
I was a twenty-six-year-old American, and this was my first time traveling to both Asia and south of the Tropic of Cancer. Waves of heat washed over me as I strolled beneath palm trees on the wide boulevards of the Da’an district. Seeking shade, I turned off the main road and made my way into a web of narrow alleyways crammed full of shops.
Balconies were covered with hanging laundry, food stands and restaurants boasted tables and stools spilling out onto the pavement, and overlapping signs of all colors advertised fares in Chinese characters I couldn’t read. These were the days before universal smartphone usage in Taipei, so I sure didn’t have one. Here, the streets pulsed at a slower pace than in New York City.
I felt like I was falling back through time into the past. As I peered into the tiny shops tucked into nooks and dodged scooters and bicycles buzzing by me in a.