'Taiwan Travelogue' rethinks history, colonialism, and identity
By Elena Rossi · Reporting from Rome ·
The latest international buzz surrounding Taiwan Travelogue, the novel by Yáng Shuāng-zǐ that won the 2026 International Booker Prize, is not merely about literature; it is about…
When memory becomes a literary commodity
The latest international buzz surrounding Taiwan Travelogue, the novel by Yáng Shuāng-zǐ that won the 2026 International Booker Prize, is not merely about literature; it is about how nations negotiate their own historical memory when faced with overwhelming geopolitical pressure. The book itself—which follows two women through Taiwan during Japanese colonial rule in the 1930s—avoids reducing history to a series of simple facts or political arguments, instead weaving it into everyday life through language choices and social interactions (deccanherald.com). This nuanced approach is precisely what makes it so potent: it forces us to confront the messy, contradictory nature of identity formation itself. The novel’s core tension—the struggle between being defined by a colonizer's shadow versus claiming a self-evident local culture—is a drama familiar to every post-colonial society that finds itself caught between competing historical narratives and external powers.
The architecture of belonging: From Formosa to "just Taiwanese"
The narrative, as reported by NPR, deftly navigates the complexities of Taiwan’s identity. Yáng Shuāng-zǐ critiques colonialism sharply, stating: "even when a colonizer tries to treat the colonized equally, the conclusion is that they still cannot do it." This critical eye is balanced by an assertion of belonging so simple, yet so profound: "No matter where you came from, how you came, whether you are a new resident or third generation, we are all Taiwanese." It’s a definition built not on bloodline or treaty, but on shared experience—a culture that endures.
This process of defining the self against external definitions is nothing new to European history; it is a structural mechanism repeated across continents. We see this dependency clearly in the case of French colonization of Vietnam. The long-term foreign domination fundamentally reshaped local economies and social classes, creating structural dependencies that defined the parameters of future national identity for Vietnam. In both cases—Taiwan after Japan’s rule, or Vietnam under French colonial administration—the colonizing power leaves behind a sophisticated, often profitable infrastructure (railways, sugar industries, administrative systems) which becomes the very bedrock upon which the subsequent local state must build its modern self. The mechanisms of dependency are identical: the economic and institutional scaffolding remains long after the flag changes hands.
Democracy as the ultimate institution to defend
What truly matters, however, is not merely surviving the occupation or even establishing a shared ethnic identity; it is maintaining the process by which that identity governs itself. Yáng Shuāng-zǐ’s worry about Taiwan giving up its pursuit of democracy and freedom—noting that "Taiwan only had its first direct presidential election in 1996"—is not just political commentary; it is a warning to all institutions.
The central challenge, whether on the island or along the Mekong Delta, remains the same: how do you build a self-governing culture robust enough to withstand both internal ideological fracturing and external military pressure? The answer lies in defending the slow, painstaking work of democratic practice—the parliament, the free press, the ability for citizens to choose who governs them. When these shared institutions are seen as negotiable commodities, when they become merely political talking points rather than lived realities, then the nation is already compromised.
The enduring lesson from both Taiwan's history and the experience in Vietnam is that a people’s true sovereignty resides not in its borders or its historical name, but in its shared commitment to self-rule. The cultural memory must be used to defend the institutions—the courts, the elections, the public square—that allow for continuous, difficult argument about what it means to belong.
The moment any political faction treats the democratic process itself as optional, when they believe their historical claim outweighs the functioning of the legislature or the judiciary, they have already failed the contract. The only defense against both nostalgic regression and iconoclastic collapse is a citizenry that fiercely defends its shared institutions out loud, demanding that the slow work of governance continues regardless of who currently holds power.