World Class by Teru Clavel (Simon & Schuster)

When Teru Clavel’s husband is transferred from New York to Hong Kong in 2006, she’s relieved. The oldest of her two young sons is approaching the age where preschool is in his future and in Manhattan, this is no trivial landmark. The right preschool will determine his future education, right up to his choice of university, and the application process is almost a blood sport. Parents begin this rigorous journey even before the future student emerges on a delivery table, moving to the right neighborhood, joining the right church, and finding the right consultants in tandem with “preschool prep” classes. 

The Clavel family falls into the category of “moderately to extremely wealthy” and both parents were educated at all the right schools but Teru had an additional advantage. Her Japanese mother sent her to public school in Japan every summer. With that background, she’s eager to give that same sort of opportunity to her children--and for the next ten years, she does.

At first her two-year-old son James is enrolled in a prestigious, private preschool but his mother begins to chafe against the affluent bubble that Hong Kong provides to wealthy expatriates. With her Japanese public school experience, she finds the same thing for James by the time he’s three and is delighted that by the time he’s four, he’s given homework and is a confident speaker of Chinese--or Mandarin as Teru terms it throughout her book.

When her husband is transferred to Shanghai, they all leave any form of expat lifestyle behind in Hong Kong and enter what Teru calls “family detox.” Their apartment is inhabited by rats, roaches, and termites and James, at six, becomes his mother’ s interpreter when they go to stores and markets. But Teru’s determination gets her sons into public schools, where James is the sole foreigner in his class and Charles is only one of several  in his preschool. There the family discovers that Shanghai invests in teachers’ salaries and continuing professional development, with generous resources given to English language instruction and education for students with special needs. Unlike their U.S. counterparts, schools don’t spend money on technology, attractive classrooms, or elaborate playgrounds. 

In  her sons’ schools, Teru finds, teachers concentrate on mastery of a subject for every student and they will stay after school with anyone who needs help to reach that point. “There is no ‘bad at math,’ Teru says, “any grade below 95 is considered a failure.” First grade students begin to learn the rudiments of algebra. While classes concentrate on rote memorization, speed drills, and repeating what a teacher has just said, this pays off. In an international test administered by the Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development, the PISA (Program for International Student Assessment) that focuses on math, science, and reading, Shanghai was at the top in all three in 2009 and “ranked three full grade levels above the average score overall” in 2010. 

At the same time, James and Charles found a sense of community in their schools, to the point that when Charles was briefly hospitalized, his teacher, several of his classmates, and their parents visited him.

By the time the Clavels are transferred to Tokyo, a new addition to their family, Victoria, is almost ready for preschool. While James and Charles have learned discipline and self-control in their Shanghai school, Victoria at the age of three barely squeaks into a Tokyo preschool. “Make sure Victoria understands social norms here before she starts school,” the principal warns Teru. Her older brothers are given a crash course in Japanese before beginning their four years of public school.

Perhaps because Teru received a generous helping of Japanese education as a child, she spends less time describing the experience that her children underwent. She stresses the importance Japan places on educating “the whole child,” fostering independence and giving a thorough grounding in nutrition as well as providing curriculum that is stable and carefully planned system-wide. In Japan, she says, textbooks are written and approved by teachers. A parent-teacher journal comes home with each child every night and families are encouraged to come into their student’s classroom for observation days. “It was an efficient, transparent system that had stood the test of time.”

Returning to U.S. schools in 2016 is a shock to everyone. Although the Clavel children attend public school in the wealthy area of Palo Alto, the best ranked school district in California, they find sports are stressed above academic subjects. In James’s English class, seventh-graders are required to read no more than three books all year and their teacher will critique only three essays “because there’s not enough time.” Charles is delighted that he watched “ten movies in full” during his year of fifth grade. Both boys are two years ahead of their grade level in math.

The solution? Go full circle. Move to Manhattan and put the children in private school. 

Although World Class is a more cursory examination of education overseas than Little Soldiers (Asia by the Book, December 2022), Teru Clavel gives a surprising and often shocking comparison of U.S. education during a time when we need to hear this more than ever.~Janet Brown

The Leftover Woman by Jean Kwok (HarperCollins)

A leftover woman, as a Chinese saying goes, is one that nobody wants, “leftover, like scraps on a table.” Jean Kwok presents two women from different continents, each one feeling like a leftover for different reasons.

Jasmine has come to New York from China after paying a group of snakeheads to smuggle her into the U.S. Now, faced with a balloon payment, she’s looking for work that will keep her from the threat of prostitution. She’s also here to find her daughter, a child whom she was told died at birth but whom her husband had given up for adoption to a couple from Manhattan. Jasmine’s willing to do anything to succeed in her quest, even working as a cocktail waitress in a Chinese-owned strip joint. She’s in flight from her rich and powerful husband and has no friends--except for a boy she grew up with in her village who now works in a martial arts school near Chinatown. She ignores him out of an excess of caution, concentrating only on recovering her lost child.

Rebecca is a highly placed editor in a publishing house founded by her father. Dogged by a scandal that almost scuttled her career, she’s frantically trying to regain her professional reputation to the exclusion of the two people she loves--her husband, a professor who’s fluent in Chinese and four other languages, and the daughter they have adopted through an agency in China. Rebecca has turned over her daughter’s life to a Chinese nanny who speaks limited English. Although Lily is unpolished and clumsy, she adores Fiona, the little girl who is under her care.When it becomes obvious that Rebecca, who’s the only one in her household who can’t speak Chinese, is taking second place in her daughter’s affections, she begins to hate the woman who has supplanted her.

The way Jasmine and Rebecca find each other is a dizzying story with twists that come without warning. Although Kwok at first seems to be following in the footsteps of Jackie Collins, she’s much too smart to take that route. Yes, she cloaks this novel in heavy scenes that reek of romance, but she’s done her research and that gives her book a whole other dimension.

In her portrayal of Jasmine, Kwok explores the dilemma of undocumented immigration and the gaping differences between fresh-off-the-boat Chinese and Chinese Americans. In a Chinatown cafe, Jasmine notes the confidence that radiates from women who look like her but who exude a sense of belonging--”their fearlessness, the way they’d seized their genetic peculiarities…and decided to wield them.” “Remember,” one of them tells her later, “appearances are everything.” When Jasmine follows up on an employment tip this women has given her, she discovers “Asians exploiting Asians,” in a club where a Chinese American woman hires women from China who have no other job options. In this place Jasmine and other immigrants satisfy “every cliche of male desire.” There is, Jasmine learns, “no room for subtlety in a strip club.”

Through Rebecca, Kwok glances upon issues of “race, feminism, and identity,” and the way both “women and immigrants need to split themselves into different personas and roles.” As Rebecca, Lily, and Jasmine come to a shocking intersection, questions of economic class arise in a conclusion that’s filled with violence and heartbreak.

The Leftover Woman confronts a multitude of stereotypes, including the ones that cling to genre fiction. Kwok, whose parents brought her to the U.S. from Hong Kong when she was five and who spent a large part of her childhood working in a sweatshop, earned an undergraduate degree from Harvard and an MFA from Columbia. In her fourth novel she draws skillfully from every part of her background to create a book filled with constant surprises and provocative points of view, one that belongs in an academic seminar as much as it does under a beach umbrella.~Janet Brown

The Peking Express by James M. Zimmerman ( Hachette Publishing Group)

Shanghai had a community of 35,000 foreigners in 1923 with many of them eager to travel on the newly launched express train to Peking. “A luxury hotel on wheels,” with its silk sheets and and its five-course banquets, the four-month-old train could make the 892-mile overnight journey in thirty-eight hours and attracted a multinational collection of affluent passengers.

On the morning of May 5, 1923, among those who boarded the train was an Italian attorney who represented the Shanghai Opium Combine, the owner of the Chinese Motors Federal Company who had left Romania penniless years before, a honeymooning couple from Mexico, a number of journalists, a couple of military families with their young children, and the aging sister-in-law of John D. Rockefeller Jr, heir to the Standard Oil Company.

At 2 am on May 6, over 100 passengers were kidnapped by 1000 bandits, who attacked and derailed the train. Although the victims were stripped of all their possessions, that wasn’t the goal of the man who was their leader. 

Sun Mei-yao was a twenty-five-year-old former soldier who had amassed a large company of bandits and planned to use them in an “economic insurgency” against China’s warlords and the corrupt military general who governed the region. Shrewdly he decided that the best way to gain attention and achieve his goal of becoming a general himself, leading a brigade of former bandits, was to take hostages. The Peking Express, filled with wealthy Chinese and important foreign figures, was his ticket to success and he grabbed it.

Marching his captives to his stronghold on Paotzuku Mountain, Sun knew the grueling trek that would take several days was beyond the abilities of the women and children in the party. He gradually released them all--except for the Mexican bride who was from a country where banditry was commonplace and refused to leave her husband. (Eventually Sun lost patience and told a group of negotiators “And take the Mexican lady with you!”)

As released prisoners made their way to safety, they provided the necessary details that would capture the imaginations of newspaper readers all over the world.  When Lucy Aldrich, the Rockefeller relative who was on her second journey around the world, emerged from captivity, her greatest fear was that her family would never let her travel again. She described her ordeal as “most dangerous,” yet “thrilling” and extremely amusing at times,” which probably launched 1000 headlines.

The remaining captives reached the bandits’ fortress and found “a beautiful quiet place with caves and the Temple of the Clouds.” “Our view is like an artist’s map,” one hostage wrote to his family.  However it certainly wasn’t summer camp.

Their treatment was far from idyllic; beatings were not uncommon and three of the strongest men were separated from the others and isolated as bargaining chips on the least accessible part of the mountain. There these men found a group of 23 kidnapped children huddled in misery, like “hopeless hungry little old men.” Sick and near starvation, the group of boys and one girl were like a subscription service; their parents sent money each month to keep them alive. (The 47 children whose parents stopped sending ransom were thrown over the side of a cliff.)

Although foreign governments chose not to directly intervene in freeing the hostages because it was a matter for China to resolve, they sent doctors and supplies to the mountain and instituted an improvised postal system. Letters from the captives and replies from their families, 50-100 letters a day, were carried by visitors and the bandits, along with newspapers and cameras. 

The hostages realized their only strength came from standing together, which kept Sun from using executions as a negotiation tactic. When they were finally released after five excruciating weeks, they made sure that the Chinese who had become part of their group were freed with them. Later all of the Chinese were brought to safety along with the imprisoned children.

Sun Mei-yao got what he wanted for a very brief time. When international attention veered away from the newly appointed brigadier general, he was beheaded, much to the rage of the men he had held hostage. The conditions of their release had been based on Sun’s safety and the violation of that infuriated his former prisoners, many of whom had come to respect him. So had Mao Tse-tung, who “admired Sun Mei-yao’s ability to mobilize the people.”

What came to be known as the Licheng Incident was perhaps the first use of international media to engineer worldwide public opinion. That it ended with much less bloodshed than the recent highjacking of a train in Pakistan is a sad commentary on current politics. 

Later the Peking Express would become the Shanghai Express in a 1932 movie starring Marlene Dietrich and Anna May Wong. The screenwriter? None other than Harry Hervey, the pulp novelist and author of Where Strange Gods Call (Asia by the Book, April 2024).

The site of their captivity is now part of the Baodugo National Forest Park where a “rickety cable car” takes hikers to the foot of Paotzuku Mountain. If they can manage the ascent, they can sit where Peking Express hostages once waited to be released.~Janet Brown

City of Fiction by Yu Hua, translated by Todd Foley (Europa, April 8, 2025)

Strangers are unusual in the town of Xizhen so everyone knows about the tall Northerner who has shown up for no apparent reason. The man arrives carrying an infant so young that he has to pay women who are nursing their babies to give milk to his motherless child. Although it’s difficult for the townsfolk to understand his dialect, his love for his daughter and his friendly demeanor wins them over, especially when he reveals a talent for carpentry that he offers for free. 

Li Xiangfu and his little daughter become an integral part of Xizhen, although his origins are still a mystery. He takes on the task of teaching, telling his students to “sit upright and walk straight,” words that he embodies in his own life. His daughter becomes the most beautiful girl in town, with people saying she’s as “lovely as Xishi,” the first of China’s legendary Four Beauties.

Nobody knows that Li Xiangfu had once fallen in love and married a woman whose dialect was identical to the people of Xizhen. She had run away with part of his fortune, leaving him with their newborn child, and he has devoted his life to finding the woman he still loves. Settling in Xizhen only because the town his wife said was her own seemed to be a place nobody has ever heard of, Li Xiangfu hopes that someday she might appear in this town where everyone speaks her language.

Life is idyllic in this prosperous farming region until the political instability that takes place after the fall of the Qing Dynasty leads to terrorism. Bandits roam unchecked, stripping crops and wealth from people who have never learned how to fight. With unspeakable cruelty, they murder and pillage, takin hostages who may yield substantial ransoms--or die slow and terrible deaths. After the leading citizen of Xizhen is captured, Li Xiangfu is the one who volunteers to buy his friend’s freedom.

What begins as a story of love and devotion turns into stories of stomach-turning torture, graphically described, with an abrupt ending that brings no feelings of hope or redemption. Much as Yu Hua did in Brothers (Asia by the Book, January 2010), he has written City of Fiction in what feels as if it should be in two separate volumes. The first has sweetness while the second has none at all. Even the beautiful daughter, the guiding hope of Li Xuangfu’s life, disappears from the second half of the narrative, safely ensconced in a Shanghai boarding school.

Beginning with fascinating descriptions of village ceremonies and wildly humorous episodes of magic realism, Yu Hua’s immediate plunge into sadism and grueling battle scenes is viciously jarring. Even when he brings his novel into a circular structure that gives the story of Li Xuangfu’s faithless wife and retells the events that began this novel in a way that offers another dimension, this brings no brightness to the book’s conclusion.

Still it’s impossible to stop reading City of Fiction, even as it swerves into brutality that is rarely leavened with any sort of mercy.  Yu Hua has brilliantly recreated life in China during the beginning of the last century, stunning readers with how much has changed in the past hundred years.~Janet Brown 

A Song to Drown Rivers by Ann Liang (St. Martin's Press)

“Beauty is not so different from destruction.” Xishi has been shielded from what her beauty could inflict upon her since she was very young. Each time she leaves the house, her mother veils her face to ward off the attention that comes from being the most beautiful girl in the village. 

But beauty has its uses and in a region where two kings vie for power, the weaker monarch needs a weapon to defeat the man who has taken over his kingdom. Sending Fanli, his trusted political and military advisor, to find the loveliest girl in the area, he’s certain that great beauty will cause the downfall of his enemy. 

Fanli is a man who seems impervious to female charms but he knows how to assess them. He chooses Xishi to accomplish what the King of Yue has planned--to marry the King of Wu and charm that ruler into doing exactly what she wishes, leading her husband to unwittingly lower his defences and lose his kingdom.

Xishi is a peasant girl without refinement or sophistication so before she begins this project, she needs extensive training under the watchful gaze of Fanli. She falls in love with him but is bound to accomplish her goal. She hates the King of Wu almost as much as his rival does because she had watched Wu soldiers kill her sister. Revenge propels her away from the man she loves and into the treacherous life of a royal court. 

The King of Wu is seduced by her beauty and fulfills every wish she voices, wishes that weaken his kingdom, provide a gateway for the Yue invasion, and ensure that Xishi might eventually regain a life of freedom. But politics is a dangerous game and beauty can lead to destruction as well as cause it.

Ann Liang wrote A Song to Drown Rivers when she was twenty-one, basing it upon the legend of China’s Four Beauties, of whom Xishi was the first. Although the novel is being marketed as fantasy, it’s actually a carefully researched work of historical fiction. Its first sentence is crafted from the Chinese saying that great beauty causes the fish to sink, the geese to fall from the sky, eclipsing the moon and shaming the flowers. It recreates a turbulent chapter in Chinese history, when the state of Wu came into power and threatened neighboring kingdoms. The story of how a beautiful girl was used as a pawn by the King of Yue to eradicate this threat is told in the Spring and Autumn Annals which supposedly were collected and compiled by Confucius.

Often retold legends become cumbersome and ungainly, with language that weighs down the story. Luckily that isn’t the case with this version of Xishi’s life. Although Liang carefully describes the opulence and luxury of the royal lives and the intricacy of political plots, she never turns her heroine into “someone barely even human, a creature of myth.” She gives Xishi a spirit that resonates and enthralls through the centuries, telling her story in a fluid, fast-paced style that never flags or falters, while giving it the delicate grace of a fairy tale. 

Although she has written four novels for young adults, this is Ann Liang’s debut foray into adult fiction. Let’s hope it won’t be her last.~Janet Brown

Rosarita by Anita Desai (Scribner)

Our mothers are the ones who first teach us about secrets. They’re the ones who tell us the truth about Santa and the Tooth Fairy after hiding that from us during our earliest years. They slowly divulge other hidden stories as we get older, but it’s only after they die that we realize they’ve concealed the biggest secret of all, one we’ll never know. Who were our mothers in the years before we were born to them?

The narrator of Rosarita is certain she knows all there is to know about her mother and none of it is particularly interesting. Then she goes off from her home in India to San Miguel in Mexico, a place she’d never heard of before until she goes there to study Spanish. While sitting on a park, she’s accosted by a stranger who greets her effusively, saying she once was good friends with the narrator’s mother. “Rosarita,” she calls her vanished friend although the narrator assures her that her mother was Sarita. “Did I not say?” the stranger insists, and is delighted to learn that the narrator is named Bonita. “She would of course have given you a name she heard here,” the woman claims, while Bonita insists her name is similar to others given to girls in India. 

“You look just like your mother,” the stranger insists, “Are you an artist too?” Your mother came here to paint and we were good friends, is the burden of this stranger’s insistent story.

Although Bonita is convinced that this old woman is mad, she begins to piece together all she remembers of her mother and finds there are large gaps in her knowledge. Little unexplained scraps of her childhood reappear in her memory, the boxes of paper stored away and never unpacked in an unused room where she often finds her mother collapsed on the floor, in tears; the small unsigned pastel sketch that hung above her bed that was a picture of a woman sitting on a park bench with a small child playing in the dirt nearby. Yes, she admits to herself. This park looks much like the one where she was accosted by the eerie stranger.

She begins to see the old woman everywhere she goes and is persuaded to accompany her to places where her mother once lived during her Mexican sojourn. Disbelieving but still curious, she follows the person she’s begun to think of as The Trickster to spots that have been abandoned--a house her mother supposedly had lived in that’s now a piece of a tiled wall in a vacant lot, a place that had been a refuge for artists that has only the remains of a ruined chapel and a few dilapidated huts.

As she learns about the dreadful similarities between the Mexican Revolution and India’s partition, each with their trains carrying “unspeakable cargoes” of corpses and injured refugees through “barbaric landscapes,” she remembers her mother being disparagingly termed as one of the “railway people” by relatives of Bonita’s father. When asked about her past, her mother would say only “I can’t remember.” As The Trickster leads her to the Mexican coast, a relative of this strange woman might have details of truth about Bonita’s mother, but when her guide lapses into madness, the questions go unasked. The life of her mother becomes alive in her imagination, “a fragment of truth,” “unfolding like a scroll, its beginning and its end both invisible.”

Yet there is that solitary sketch that evokes Mexico, her mother’s unexplained misery and long absence, and the kohl-rimmed eyes, the arms filled with bangles, and the smell of a South Asian fragrance that The Trickster wears when she introduces herself at the beginning of this quest. Is this enough to establish a tenuous truth? It becomes enough to lead Bonita through Mexico, with her unanswered questions and the possibility of discovering her mother’s past.

Although Rosarita is a slender book with a size much smaller than the usual novel, it teases and haunts with that universal mystery of the secrets mothers never divulge. Desai makes Bonita’s Mexican journey irresistible with descriptions that beckon and entice, with a bright and sharp beauty. In an author’s note, she elaborates upon the parallels between the histories of India and Mexico that in the past drew an Indian artist to this other country, in the same way The Trickster claims it drew Bonita’s mother. Gently and inexorably, Rosarita demands more than one reading of a story that’s both tantalizing and satisfying, ending with questions and the joy of an unending adventure.~Janet Brown

Darkmotherland by Samrat Upadhyay (Soho Press)

Never before have I read a book simply because it’s an inexplicable train wreck but that’s what kept me going through the recent release from Soho Press, Samrat Upadhay’s 759-page novel, Darkmotherland. 

Set in a thinly-disguised Nepal after a devastating earthquake that has left many survivors homeless and housed in tents, the plot plunges into a coup that has put a minor bureaucrat in charge of a shattered country. Derisively nicknamed the Hippo but faced with little opposition, the new ruler is gleefully enriching himself and increasing the fortunes of the affluent, while everyone else clings to a precarious form of existence. He is strengthened by the tweeted message conveying support from the Amrikan leader, President Corn Hair. This inspires him to adapt a slogan from that country--”Make Darkmotherland Great Again,” while encouraging his citizens to wear red caps.

Although a cast of characters that rival the vast multitude found in War and Peace fill the pages of this book, there are two main figures. One is Kranti, the daughter of a dissident mother. Although her name means Revolution, Kranti loathes her mother’s politics and silently supports the Hippo. Her rich and handsome boyfriend, on the other hand, has become one of her mother’s supporters. The other leading character is Rozy, a gorgeous homosexual whom the Hippo adores and has elevated to a prominent position of influence. 

Slowly both of these protagonists take on different states of mind. Kranti, before marrying her boyfriend, becomes enthralled by a resident of the tent community, a poet whose politics are devoted to humanitarian efforts extended to the refugees he lives among. When Kranti’s husband is killed because of his dissident stance, she becomes openly involved with the poverty-stricken poet.

Rozy, privy to the Hippo’s secrets and regarded in a tacit form of awe by his cabinet, gradually learns that the national veneration of the Darkmother can become a political advantage. In a place where coups are easily accepted, no leader is secure--unless that figure becomes spiritually entwined with the goddess that has given her name to the country.

In this morass of characters and intrigue, a satirical allegory lurks. An Amrikan expat gives names to the dogs who cluster near his restaurant: Eric, Ivanka, Pence, Pompeo. When the Hippo makes a trip to pay homage to President Corn Hair, he discovers that the “Amrikan press has been cowed and tamed,” Political protests in Amrika have dwindled because “the people have simply exhausted themselves protesting.” The Hippo finds reassurance in President Corn Hair’s hints that future elections may be forever cancelled but when he returns to Darkmotherland, he finds everything has changed in his absence.

No character in this novel deviates from the repulsive and the only feeling they evoke is a horrified and nauseated fascination. Upadhyay gives free rein to an unfortunate predilection for clumsy wordplay and sentences that all too often rhyme. What at first seems to be an excursion into Orwellian satire becomes a quagmire of absurdity. 

The only reason to pay attention to Darkmotherland is to warn off any prospective readers. This is a contender for one of the worst novels written in English. Buyers beware.~Janet Brown

Thai Food by David Thompson, photography by Earl Carter (Ten Speed Press)

Do you remember life back in 2002? Internet cafes were a popular feature in big cities and email was considered cutting edge technology. Letters and postcards were keeping post offices afloat all around the world and bookstores were just beginning to worry about that online business, Amazon. Facebook wouldn’t be invented for another two years and wouldn’t be released to the general public until two years after that. Digital cameras were just beginning to catch on. Nobody had heard of Kindles because they weren’t invented until 2007. Many people had landlines and answering machines because cell phones were too cumbersome to use as a primary form of communication. Books were read on paper, not on screens. 

And in that year, Ten Speed Press, an upstart publishing house based in the Bay Area of San Francisco, released a 674-page cookbook with a simple title, Thai Food. 

At this time, Thai restaurants weren’t a common sight in American cities of all sizes and Thailand hadn’t yet become the world’s favorite holiday destination. David Thompson was a young Australian who had fallen in love with Thai food and with the country where it was eaten every day, whose Thai restaurant in London had received a Michelin star the year before. Outside of the culinary world, nobody knew his name. His new book cost $45.00, the equivalent to $78.95 in today’s currency. Why wasn’t it a flop?

The best cookbooks are the ones that people read for pleasure. M. F. K. Fisher, Laurie Colwin, Brillat-Savarin, even Irma Rombauer’s The Joy of Cooking, are picked up because they’re all interesting—and often fun—to read. David Thompson knew that and wrote a cookbook that’s an encyclopedia of Thailand’s history, geography, culture, and food, along with detailed instructions on how to create its recipes.

The recipes, he’s quick to assert, aren’t his. He was fortunate to become friends with some of Thailand’s aristocratic matriarchs who had been rigidly trained in the art of royal Thai cuisine. Their standards were unyielding and painstaking. The food they had eaten all their lives had three unassailable components: taste, texture, and seasoning. In pursuit of these attributes, they tolerated no shortcuts and no skimping. 

Their own training came from “memorial books,” that collected recipes beloved by the deceased noblewoman to whom the book was a tribute. They shared these with Thompson and he took their standards as his own. “The best food of any country, “ he says, “has always been centered around the court, and this was certainly true of Siam.” Although Thai Food doesn’t ignore street food and rural staples, it has a primary goal: to preserve how to make the food that was eaten by those who could afford the very best, “before it is eroded, altered, and modernized.”

Thompson is an exceptionally fine writer and an opinionated one who sternly proclaims that Thai cookery is “not an instant cuisine.”  “Substitutions and shortcuts in describing the food would not only be disrespectful but debasing.”

Canned coconut cream he deplores as “bastardized” and he tells exactly how to extract milk and cream from a fresh coconut. Fortunately he ends his description of this agonizing process by saying that using a food processor is allowed. Almost every recipe that he provides involves making a curry paste from scratch, a daunting process for which he grudgingly allows the use of a blender. “Be patient as you make a paste,” he cautions, “The blender, regrettably, was not created to make curry pastes and therefore may expire under such spicy exertions.” When he turns to recipes from the Muslim population of Southern Thailand, such as oxtail soup, he insists on freshly made curry powder for which he provides a list of ten ingredients, most of them ground on the spot. (Thank goodness, using “a clean coffee grinder” is okay.)

On one subject he is adamant. “A meal without rice is inconceivable.” He then provides the necessary components for a proper Thai meal: a relish, a soup, a curry, a salad (which, he says, is a “mistranslation” of what that dish truly--not the salad Westerners include in a meal but “ a lively assemblage of ingredients” whose “sprightliness adds savor and contrast”), and perhaps a simple stir-fried, grilled, or deep-fried dish. No need to worry about the food cooling before it’s served because “flavor is at its optimum just above room temperature.”

In spite of his royalist leanings, Thompson is remarkably generous with recipes for street snacks, dishes made by more plebeian mortals, and ones that have migrated from other countries. He tells how to make Chiang Mai sausage and its distant cousin that comes from the Northeast. He gives recipes for dishes that are clearly spawned from poverty--minced rabbit curry and curried fish innards (the innards are discarded after making a stock but even so, the name does startle.) He divulges secrets that aren’t commonly known--a convenient source for prepared spices is any Chinese medicine shop, since these are regarded as medicinal and are kept in wooden apothecary drawers.

All of this is embellished with stunning food photography, full-page and in color, almost suitable for framing and definitely appetite-enhancers. Thompson concludes with an extensive bibliography, six pages of sources written in English and four pages that list cookbooks and memorial books that are available only in Thai.

Thompson wrote this to create a record of food that might easily succumb to global influences and modernization. He succeeded. His passion is contagious and his writing is absolutely delightful, while providing an invaluable tutorial in what Thai food has been and what it may no longer be again. ~Janet Brown

Aflame by Pico Iyer (Riverhead Books)

In a year that has begun with the horror of conflagration, Aflame seems to be an unfortunate choice of title, but Pico Iyer earned the right to use it. On the day his California home burned to the ground, he was in his car, “surrounded by walls of flame, five stories high…not even thinking that a car might be the least safe hiding place of all.” With no place to go, he was sleeping on the floor at a friend’s house when another friend told him about a monastery in Big Sur. There he would find a room of his own with ocean views, “no obligations and a suggested donation of thirty dollars a night.”

It was thirty-three years ago when Iyer first learned “the silence of this place is as real and solid as sound.” He’s been a regular visitor every year since then, so devoted to it that when he leaves his home in Kyoto to come here, his wife tells him she’s worried. Another woman she could contend with but “how can I compete against a temple?”

Iyer is a student of many spiritual disciplines, a man who has known the Dalai Lama since he was a teenager when his father took him to Daramshala.  Espousing no particular religious faith, he respects them all. His mother, a renowned religious scholar, asks with a fair amount of alarm when she learns where her son has found refuge,”You’re not going to get converted?” Iyer reassures her that the order of monks whom he is living among are heavily influenced by Hindu and Buddhist teachings. Proselytization is not their stock in trade.

What they offer is the gift of silence, in a natural sanctuary. Although every Fire Season brings smoke and the threat of flames to their community, they describe the fires as “incandescent,” “radiant.” As neighbors to 900 acres of trees and brush, they coexist with the danger of infernos, seeing them as the cost of living near a gorgeous source of fuel. Iyer, who has come to them fresh from a fire that “left its mark” on him, discovers this way of thinking is contagious, even though the monastery’s view includes a sweep of scorched hills.

The monks whom he lives with are contemplative, not ones who observe rules of Trappist silence. They’re all busily maintaining the domestic and spiritual life of their community, without disturbing the visitors who have come to find peace. Iyer immediately and reflexively falls into his own work, writing four pages without stopping within the first twenty minutes of sitting in his room. In a place of “silence and emptiness and light,” one without screens of any kind, he becomes attuned to the world around him “in all its wild immediacy.”

While steeped in the company of books written by connoisseurs of silence, Kafka, Admiral Byrd, Henry Miller and Thomas Merton (who became unlikely friends with Miller praising Merton for looking as if he were a former convict), Iyer also meets monks who “stay calm amidst the flames” and “trust the dark.” Walking through “knife-sharp light,” he hears a voice singing in a chapel, sweet music he’s certain must be coming from a young woman. When he catches a glimpse of the singer, the person he sees is an old monk, one who is usually silent, “deep in adoration.” In his song, Iyer hears everything the man has given up, transformed into pure clarity.

In the pages of Aflame, Iyer offers up the loveliness and the serenity that he finds in this community of monks, along with apt quotes from other writers whom he taps into while he’s there. With him, we see “stars stream down as if shaken from a tumbler,” “a turquoise cove, white frothing against some rocks,” “great shafts of light between the conifers.” As we follow him, we have a glimpse of what it is to “be filled with everything around” us and we gain a measure of true quiet, the kind that keeps spirits from starvation.~Janet Brown

Karma Cola: Marketing the Mystic East by Gita Mehta (Vintage Books)

Blame it on the Beatles. When they found their popularity was beginning to fade as the Rolling Stones climbed to the top of the sex, drugs, and rock and roll pantheon, they turned to the mystical world of India. “The kings of rock and roll abdicated. To Ravi Shankar and the Maharishi.” Meditation, gurus, and sitars became cool and India became the new Mecca for hip westerners. While those who couldn’t afford the plane fare took refuge in reading Siddhartha and listening to “raga rock” with its tabla and sitar influences, the more adventurous and affluent descended upon the Subcontinent, looking for whatever enlightenment might descend upon them there. 

Suddenly pseudo-Hindus took their place among the Europeans who had traveled the latest version of the Silk Road in search of cheap drugs. The two forms of quests collided and merged, providing a convenient source of revenue for Indian entrepreneurs on every economic level. “From accepting the fantasies it was a very short haul to…manufacturing them.” Mysticism became “a home industry,” supplied to hordes of Westerners who were fleeing materialism and wanted to experience the spiritual cleansing of poverty.

A French diplomat claimed that 230,000 of his country’s citizens had arrived in India by the 1970’s, with at least another 20,000 who were there without proper documentation. Their numbers were swelled by other Europeans, Americans, Australians, and Canadians, “in pursuit of either mind expansion or obscure salvations.” 

Jung had arrived long before this influx and correctly assessed the risks of becoming an expat in India, saying that India was the essence of naked realty while the West was cushioned by “a madhouse of abstractions.” Without that cushion, Westerners would “disintegrate in India.”

Gita Mehta, born in Delhi, educated at Cambridge, a documentary filmmaker and a war correspondent for NBC who covered the war in Bangladesh, was fascinated and amused by this influx of privileged Westerners who eagerly gave up all privileges in search of whatever truth was offered to them. Mehta, herself a product of privilege, brought her cynicism and sharp wit to what she termed “entering a haunted house on a dare,” an ashram in Poona where God presides. His future successor is embodied in a smaller God, a Swiss five-year-old who runs in feral splendor with the neglected offspring of the acolytes. Two thousand followers give all their attention to absorbing God’s wisdom, taking on Hindu names that they’re unable to pronounce properly. 

“Sacred knowledge in the hands of fools destroys,” Mehta quotes from the Upanishads. She’s told by a young woman who left India in a state of diagnosed insanity, “I should never have trusted gurus who wear Adidas running shoes.” Others happily divulge their past lives to her--”the Buddha’s charioteer,” claims a woman who in another realm of existence was the mother of her own husband. A young French woman who still nurses a daughter who boasts a full set of teeth, idly speculates that she could become the next Mother of the utopian world of Auroville, since she and the present leader share a nationality--”famous, like a Pope!” In the sacred city of Benares, spiritual enlightenment is enhanced by hypodermic needles. “Everywhere now,” Mehta is told by a German photographer, “you find morphine.” 

Mehta’s breezy gallows humor and anecdotal narrative may lead to questions of exaggerated quasi-fiction. However everything she’s written in Karma Cola is backed up by Akash Kapur’s Better to Have Gone (Asia by the Book, 3/24/2022). He and his wife both grew up in Auroville as its utopia was being formed. His account of this community is as harrowing as Mehta’s depiction of 20th century enlightenment. Even so, he and his family have returned to what seems to have become a successful experiment, embodying every goal longed for by the spiritual seekers whom Mehta has pilloried. This may be the ideal conclusion to her satirical dissection--that a new city has been created in India, one that flouts every form of Indian reality that the spiritual seekers once embraced.~Janet Brown

Sister Snake by Amanda Lee Koe (HarperCollins)

When Emerald goes broke while living a wild life in New York, her request for help is refused by her wealthy sister, Bai Suzhen. Still, after Emerald’s venture into the world of escort services goes dangerously awry, Suzhen flies from Singapore to rescue Emerald and bring her to the safety of the island republic.

Since Emerald is as unconventional as Su is prudent, Singapore’s sterility isn’t where she belongs. Swiftly she uncovers the hidden side of the Lion City, hanging out with lesbians and eating at street stalls, while horrifying Su’s husband, a native-born Singaporean with political ambitions.

Sister Snake might seem as if Crazy Rich Asians has collided with the 21st century version of Sex in the City if it wasn’t for its opening sentence. “Before they had legs, they had tails.” 

Dipping deep into the Chinese Legend of the White Snake and her green counterpart,  Amanda Lee Koe has brought the story of shape-shifters into the modern world. Su and Emerald left the West Lake of Hangzhou as beautiful women, transformed from snakes after seizing the lotus seeds of immortality and meditating for eight hundred years upon self-cultivation, an art that allows them to take on a human form. Sworn sisters since they first met, when the green viper saved the life of the white krait, Su’s desire to become human only took place because of Emerald’s love of risk. Once they become women, immortal, beautiful, and able to move from reptilian to human form at will, Su’s pragmatic and goal-driven nature continues to collide with Emerald’s restless hedonism. “Moderation was too human for her,” while Su believes this is the key to success. Throughout the centuries, the sisters alternately co-exist and clash. Emerald’s feral nature always lurks at her surface, while Su represses her own, to the point that she undergoes plastic surgery to put the beginning of wrinkles into her perfect and unaging face.

A trophy wife in Singapore who brought her own wealth to her marriage, Su is horrified to discover she’s pregnant, a fact that she confirms when she comes to rescue Emerald. Frightened that the life within her may be a snake instead of a human fetus, she gets rid of the person who might reveal her pregnancy, Emerald’s best friend, whom she murders with the instinctive and deadly skills of her inborn nature.

Suddenly the shape-shifters change their human emotional states, with Emerald forming deep and compassionate links with human friends while Su’s releases her innate savagery. Although separated by their new transformations, they are still sisters and they are, under their glamorous exteriors, still viper and krait.

When the story of the White Snake first came into being in the Tang Dynasty, it was, Koe says, intended as “a cautionary morality tale.” In her retelling, she was guided by the vision of “a hot snake queen with an existential crisis,” which she turned into a pair. Throughout Sister Snake, Koe gives glimpses of who these women have been in their reptilian lives, gradually enlarging and deepening these views of the snake sisters before their human lives threaten to drive them apart. The ending that closes this novel is startling, satisfying, and a lovely surprise, taking the story from a guise of romance and fantasy into something that’s completely fresh and new.

With Sister Snake, Amanda Lee Koe joins a new wave of novelists from Singapore, taking her place beside Rachel Heng’s The Great Reclamation (Asia by the Book, January 2022) and Kirsten Chen’s Counterfeit (Asia by the Book, June 2022). These powerful voices give vibrancy to fiction, with novels that take conventional forms and give them unexpected twists.~Janet Brown

Good Talk: A Memoir in Conversations by Mira Jacob (New World, Random House)

Barack Obama, America’s first biracial president, is nearing the end of his second term in office when Mira Jacob’s six-year-old son Z becomes aware of differences in skin color. Discovering that Michael Jackson, his idol, wasn’t born with fair skin, he wonders if his own white father had once been brown, as he and his mother are. When Michael Brown is killed in Ferguson, Z asks his mother if white people are afraid of those who are brown and follows it up with “Is Daddy afraid of us?”

Mira has been aware of skin color all her life. Her parents left India soon after they were married and made their home in New Mexico where “they were the third Indian family to move into the state.” Mira and her brother are born in Albuquerque, where they grow up assailed by questions and opinions about their brown skin. While their classmates want to know if they’re “Indian like feathers or Indian like dots,” when they go to meet their relatives in India, Mira, browner than her brother or parents is characterized as “a darkie.” 

“It makes you seem like a servant,” a cousin explains, “ and the good boys only want to marry wheatish girls so everyone is just feeling bad for your parents.”

“I’d been the wrong color in America my whole life,” Mira says, “but it hurt worse somehow, knowing it was the same in a country full of people who (I had thought) looked like me.”

Mira’s parents had never had a conversation together until after their arranged marriage. A happily-wedded couple, they’re certain the same solution will work for their daughter. Instead while living in New York City, Mira meets a man who had been her classmate in elementary school. When they marry, both Mira’s Christian parents and Jed’s Jewish ones are “warm and welcoming.”

Then in 2016 politics begins to divide them. Clinton versus Trump draws lines between people who love each other. Muslims face deportation and bigotry comes out into the open. What once were “microaggressions” flare into racial attacks. Mira is assaulted on a subway while none of the other passengers come to her aid. At a party given by her mother-in-law, some of the guests look at her skin and assume she’s one of the household help. And for Z’s new questions, Mira struggles to find answers.

Published in 2019, Good Talk is as painful to read now as it was when it was first written. When one of Mira’s friends asks in 2016, “Damn. What are we doing to the babies,” the question scalds with fresh urgency. When Mira tells her husband how she has copied his confidence in order to walk into a room alone but now the rooms are harder to get into, her pain echoes with renewed clarity.

Composed in the form of graphic literature with its art done by Mira herself, Good Talk conveys emotions and behavior through its drawings as vividly as it does in its honest and thoughtful conversations. This is a book that needs to be read and reread, staying in print and placed front and center on shelves in libraries and bookstores. It offers no easy answers but shows a thousand avenues for discussions, now more than ever.~Janet Brown

Masquerade by Mike Fu (Tin House)

Anyone who has made a round-trip flight across the Pacific knows the price exacted by these hours on a plane. The traveler often loses control of ordinary life at the end of these journeys, sleeping and waking at times far from one’s normal schedule, feeling ravenous hunger at four in the morning, finding the world at large has taken on an unfamiliar, almost hallucinatory, cast. “A legal drug,” Pico Iyer has called jet lag and when mixed with illegal ones or even alcohol, it removes even more controls.

Meadow Liu is well acquainted with jet lag. He’s been flying back and forth between the U.S. and Shanghai once or twice a year since he was ten years old. Even so he’s always felt that “he’s lost a piece of himself on these journeys” and on this latest one he has the feeling that not only is he “intensely disconnected” from everything he knows, he’s become “31 going on 13”.

He has many reasons to feel this way. His entire life has become a liminal space. He was given a job as bartender in a hip Brooklyn hangout after he abandoned his academic career. He was forced to move from his apartment and is now plant-sitting for Selma, an artist who is so perfect she seems like a “splendid illusion.” He was recently ghosted by a man who seemed to be the perfect boyfriend until he vanished without a word of explanation. To cope with his floating existence, Meadow drinks a lot and takes every drug that comes his way.

To complicate things even more, while searching for his passport several hours before his flight, he comes across an old book on Selma’s shelves. Drawn to it because the author and he have the same name, he’s intrigued that the story takes place in Shanghai, where he himself is going. Tossing it into his carry-on, he forgets about it in the flurry of living with his parents as their temporary guest and making contact with Selma who is here to launch an art show.

When he dips into the novel that he borrowed, he’s surprised that he and the narrator seem to be living parallel lives, with each of them attending decadent Shanghai parties. Things become stranger when he returns to Brooklyn. The book disappears and resurfaces at odd intervals. A man who shows up at closing time in Meadow’s workplace warns him to “pay attention to symbols,” an admonition that he later finds is also given to the narrator of the peculiar book.  Before this warning is given, Meadow finds a white switchblade that’s been left behind on one of the bar’s tables. The same knife is given to the narrator in the novel.

Selma has mysteriously vanished from Shanghai so Meadow is unable to ask her about the eerie coincidences that he’s found in the book that she owns. Meanwhile his life becomes increasingly bizarre, with a bedroom mirror almost liquefying as he stands before it one sleepless night. He’s followed by strangers as he makes his way through New York. Awakened by pounding on the apartment door one night, he looks out through the peephole and sees Selma standing there, only to have her disappear from view. Confronted with someone who looks disturbingly like him, Meadow follows his double who leads him to an off-off-Broadway theater. A poster near the theater’s entrance has photos of the actors. One of them is the man who ghosted Meadow.

And as his life becomes increasingly unhinged, Meadow finds it’s being replicated, page by page,  in the novel written by the man who shares his name.

Is this being scripted and manipulated by Selma, a woman who has always been enigmatic or is Meadow immersed in a form of psychosis that he’s nourished with cocktails, drugs, and jet lag? Is this a puzzle he’s meant to solve or is it a temporary state, a “translucent jelly,” that will eventually fade away?

Mike Fu is a translator based in Japan who in 2019 translated Sanmao’s classic travelogue, Stories of the Sahara (Asia by the Book, April 2021)  into English. Masquerade is his first novel, one into which he seems to have poured everything he’s ever observed and experienced. A smart writer and a skillful observer, Fu’s gift of creating atmosphere along with his well-turned phrases (“thunder purred with the malice of a sleeping cat”) make this book a compelling one—with an annoying ending.  As the narrator of the novel within this novel concludes, “If any trace of doubt remains--then write this story anew.” Every reader of Masquerade is given a chance to create their own explanation, their own end to the story.~Janet Brown

Landbridge: life in fragments by Y-Dang Troeng (Duke University Press)

Y-Dang Troeng was born in the safety of a refugee camp, to parents who had made the perilous journey over the Thai border to escape from the Samay-a-Pot, the Pol Pot Time. With their daughter’s birth coming a month after they had arrived in the camp called Khao-I-Dang, they gave their baby that name. This meant that Y-Dang carried a story before she could talk, which she finds is both a burden and a gift.

Eleven months later her parents were given asylum in Canada and Y-Dang grew up surrounded by “Alice Munro country,” in the shadow of a writer who brought grim stories under an unsparing light. But when Y-Dang is old enough to tell her own story and that of her parents who had lived under “the ruination of wartime,” she finds other people have told it already. Many of these people have researched it, studied it, and given it an academic cast. But they didn’t live it.

Those who have lived it write about their history in a particular form, in memoir that tears at the heart and carries a narrative. When Y-Dang, who is herself an academic, an Associate Professor of English Language and Literature at the University of British Columbia, finds that her voice demands a different form of expression, her writing is rejected.

When she tells her own story, “theory, fiction, autobiography blur through allusive fragments.” When she attends an international conference on genocide studies in Phnom Penh, she listens to Western intellectuals explain “Cambodia’s history to me and to other Cambodians.” When she goes to the trial of Cambodian war criminals and hears the verdict that states the Khmer Rouge leaders are “guilty of crimes against humanity and genocide,’ she wonders if the Americans who sent bombers to her country will ever be brought to justice. When she hears a Westerner discuss “who gets to decide who gets to be a victim,” as the speaker stands before the faces of three girls who died in the Khmer Rouge prison of Tuol Sleng, girls whose faces have been photocopied from the photographic record of those who died in that place, she’s sickened that these faces are being used as “background wallpaper for this woman’s presentation.” When she and her mother go to Tuol Sleng, her mother finds her brother’s picture hanging on the wall, taken before his death,  by a Khmer Rouge photographer who was given the job of documenting who the prisoners were.

Her parents and others who came to Canada were also photographed as they got off the plane, “smiling in the blistering cold.” They had to smile. They were being met by beaming politicians who welcomed them without ever acknowledging what the Cambodians had lost in their decision to leave their own country. They were people who smiled in spite of baksbat, broken courage or broken form, their smiles made possible by kamleang chet, the strength of the heart. 

When Y-Dang approaches their histories and their lives as refugees, the pain of it forces her to write it in fragments. When her own story becomes consumed by her cancer diagnosis, she charts it through letters to her young son. She refuses “to be silenced, letting other people tell {her} story.”  She wonders “if I would ever find the level of stability of body and mind required to write my family’s own story?” She reflects on the word “asylum,” “a word that evokes “comfort as much as it does madness,” “a sanctuary for the displaced and a ward for the mentally ill.” It is, she says, the “one English word that I rely upon to understand my family’s history…It is so precise.”

Precision is what governs Landbridge, in its short and brilliant essays that were written in haste but with extreme care.  The book is Y-Dang’s legacy. Diagnosed with cancer in 2021, she died in 2022. Landbridge was published in 2023.

Y-Dang Troeng was unable to hold her own story in her hands but she triumphed. She told it in her own way, on her own terms.~Janet Brown

Rental House by Weike Wang ( Riverhead Books)

On their way to Martha’s Vineyard where they’ll be steps away from the ocean in a cottage with a guestroom, Nate and Keru have the sort of marriage everyone dreams of. Young professionals who live on Manhattan’s Upper West Side, they’ve emerged from the isolation of the pandemic ready for a vacation. There’s only one glitch--their parents.

Both Nate and Keru are “first-gen” graduates of Yale. Nate is the son of rural parents who marvel that he’s made it “from Appalachia to the Ivy League,” or as Nate puts it “from white trash to the White House.” Keru is the only child of successful parents who immigrated from rural China when she was still a baby, who regard her as their “built-in translator.” While Nate’s parents feel dubious about Keru’s US citizenship, Keru’s parents treat Nate like “the store clerk at their favorite TJ Maxx, a person they recognized and smiled at.” 

Within the framework of this marriage, Weike Wang has created a scathing comedy of manners. Keru’s parents visit with their Chinese cultural standards unchanged by their American lives. Nate is told by his father-in-law that using a dishwasher is fine for him but not for Keru. “To use a dishwasher is to admit defeat.” Keru’s mother, while watching a TV program about upscale real estate transactions, remarks that “they make deals look too easy. Where’s the suffering?” 

When the votes are finally counted in the 2016 election, Nate is crushed by his parents’ choice of candidate while Keru’s mother points out that having a president in office for eight years is nothing compared to “an entire childhood spent under Chairman Mao.” 

When Keru first meets Nate’s parents, it’s at a Yale gathering where almost all of the mothers are garbed in floral print dresses and wearing floppy sun hats. “How do you tell any of them apart?” Keru asks Nate as they approach her future mother-in-law. She’s amazed at “how innocuous the conversation can get” and wonders if all white families chirp at each other “like a set of affable birds.”

When their parents age, Nate and Keru no longer have them as part of their vacation. Instead they meet a couple at an Adirondacks retreat who have come to New York from Romania. An affluent expat, the husband immediately offers up his Brooklyn zip code as a status marker and nods approvingly when Nate provides the one in which he and Keru live. Swiftly the Romanian couple establish their point of view--napping schedules are scrupulously adhered to when the wife is ovulating—and they identify Nate and Keru as DINKs, Double Income No Kids. The epithet becomes an attack on Nate and Keru’s enviable life as the Romanian husband advises them to become expats themselves. “Even a few months will give you a better perspective.”

If Jane Austen were alive in the 21st Century, this is a book she might have written. Satirical without carrying a vicious bite, Rental House is a novel that evokes startled laughter on one page and uncomfortable squirming on the next. Under Wang’s lens, marriage, families, race, and class are artfully dissected and recast in a different light, one that’s sometimes uncomfortable but that’s been needed for a very long time.~Janet Brown

Koan Khmer by Bunkong Tuon (Northwestern University Press)

A little boy and his extended family make their way out of Pol Pot’s Cambodian horror, going from a refugee camp to life in the U.S. where the boy grows up to become a university professor. This affirms that the American Dream is still possible, right? Not according to Samnang Sok, the leading protagonist of Koan Khmer, who asserts at the end of this novel that “my American dream was more of an American nightmare,’ one that didn’t end until after he leaves adolescence. 

A child who never knew the date of his true birthday, Samnang’s first memory is of his mother’s death when he was three. Born into a peasant family in a rural village, his Pol Pot years were spent as a naked boy in the woods,” surrounded by the natural world. Although his family were relatively unscathed by the Khmer Rouge, unlike urban, educated Cambodians whose privilege made them targets of Angkar’s rage, Samnang’s uncle and grandparents decided it would be wise to head for the Thai border and the safety of a U.N. refugee camp. The family will live in three different camps before they’re sponsored by an American minister and board a plane for the United States.

At first they’re dazed and delighted by the wonders of a washing machine, a dishwasher, a bathtub, and a television. Then slowly they begin to realize what they’ve lost. Samnang’s uncle is disheartened by the lack of farmland in this small city in Massachusetts. There’s no place for him to fish and he despairs over how he will feed his family. 

When Samnang accepts the minister’s invitation to go with him to church, he begins to realize the difference between his family and the parishioners sitting near him on a pew. When the congregation begins to pray, Samnang mutters curses in Khmer under his breath and is later praised for his piety.

Finding an apartment in an Italian neighborhood, the Sok family finds no welcome there. People whose own origins stemmed from immigrants resent the new inhabitants who evoke memories of the Vietnam War. Other boys attack Samnang for being a “gook” and he takes refuge in his schoolwork, gaining English fluency through ESL classes and TV programs. Skipping a grade, he enters high school before he enters puberty, an accomplishment that guarantees he’ll continue to be a social pariah. He stops caring about academic achievements and then stops caring about anything at all. All that he’s found in America is a state of permanent displacement.

What saves him is a chance to move to Long Beach, a city with a large and established Cambodian community. For the first time since his introduction to the U.S he hears his own language, eats his own food, moves among crowds of people who are Khmer. He walks into a library and discovers the poems of Charles Bukowski. He begins to write his own poetry, mining his own experience, and slowly his education begins, with a hunger to learn everything.

It takes years for him to recover from “growing up Cambodian in the 1980s on the East Coast.”

Samnang’s story is “based loosely” on the life of Bunkong Tuon and the stories of his family. The details that unfold in Koan Khmer are often cruel and unsparing: the physical examinations before coming to the US when modest Cambodians stand naked, powerless and humiliated while inspected by doctors; the day Samnang is spat at by a boy while he’s taking a walk with his grandfather who stares in shock at the child’s parents and is met only with a hostile gaze; the terror felt by every Asian in the Los Angeles area when Koreans are attacked during the chaos after the Rodney King verdict. If this is what comes with the American dream, then it’s long past time for us all to wake up.~Janet Brown

Woman of Interest by Tracy O’Neill

Tracy O’Neill grew up Irish a few miles out of  Boston. A frequent refrain throughout her years at home was “I’m your real mother,” stated by a woman who has been Tracy’s parent almost from birth. Knowing she and her younger brother had both been adopted from Korea has given rise to Tracy’s understandable curiosity about the woman who gave birth to her. This is crowded out by the task of getting two Master’s degrees and a PhD from Columbia, while learning how to live on her own in Brooklyn.

“I read and I wrote,” she says--but then Covid comes to town. Reading and writing in isolation begins to pall and Tracy starts a serious search for her birth mother.

Armed only with scanty facts from the adoption agency who placed her, Tracy resorts to a 21st Century solution, DNA analysis. She spits in a vial six different times. After the sixth try, she’s matched with a girl who’s her third cousin and puts Tracy in contact with that cousin’s father.

“She’s alive,” her uncle tells her. When Covid travel restrictions are lifted, Tracy buys a round-trip ticket to Korea that will give her 22 days with her birth mother and her newly-discovered Korean family. Suddenly she has three blood siblings, a sister and two brothers. All four of them, she’s told, have different fathers.

“Don’t give her anything all,” her uncle says of Tracy’s mother. “Never forget,” another man tells her, “These guys are strangers.”  

Armed with Google Translate, she’s met in Korea by her sister, her cousin, and the aunt who witnessed her birth. She’s also faced with ten days of quarantine that she spends in a bedroom of her aunt’s apartment and she begins a life in translation. Every question, every answer is conveyed in the dubious accuracy of telephone apps--Kakao Talk and Navur Papago, as well as the version offered by Google.

Tracy is back in isolation again, in the home of a cousin and an aunt who are obsessed with feeding her. “You’re too skinny,” they tell her on a phone screen.

This is the way facts emerge, through phones, skeletal and often contradictory. Her uncle in America tells her she’s being lied to because her relatives want “everyone to be happy.” When Tracy is at last able to meet her birth mother, she hires a phone interpreter to make certain the translations aren’t tarnished by family feelings. However the phone interpreter is as resolute in striving for a happy conclusion as the relatives have been.

Embraced by her mother, she fails to feel “the inimitable bond of mothers and children.” “I was nothing but a stone-cold cardboard cutout…in the iron clench of a shuddering old woman.”

When Tracy goes to her mother’s apartment, she is handed a drawstring bag that holds one million won, which is around $8000 U.S dollars. Then she learns she can’t meet her youngest brother because he has never been, nor never will be, told that she exists.

Covid, cultural shock, no common language, and a stay in a foreign country that’s shortened from twenty-two to only seventeen days, ten of which were spent in quarantine--this expedition is doomed from the outset. But Tracy O’Neill is a novelist and she knows how to tell a gripping story. A fan of Raymond Chandler’s Philip Marlowe novels, she cleverly drapes her narrative in noir-style, even coming up with the requisite hard-boiled PI whom she hires at the beginning of her quest. A man who provides no vital information, he remains part of the plot up to the very end, and real or not, he’s an enticing addition. So is the Serbian boyfriend who speaks in broken English. Another plot device? What’s real? Who knows the true usefulness of a common language?

What is true, Tracy concludes, is this. “I twice met a stranger…” The stranger who was her eomma remains an unexplored enigma to the daughter who was given away and to that daughter’s readers. “I hate endings,” Tracy says and this story remains shrouded in a haunting mist that’s skillfully reported—or perhaps created— in Woman of Interest. ~Janet Brown 

Between this World and the Next by Praveen Herat (Restless Books)

Song and Sovanna are two halves of an exquisite whole, twin sisters whose beauty is perfectly mirrored in each other’s faces, until a misplaced attack leaves Song with only half of her face unscarred. Disfigured, Song works as an enslaved housemaid in a Phnom Penh guesthouse while Sovanna, still beautiful, is imprisoned as a sex slave. 

A war photographer with the nickname of Fearless comes to Phnom Penh at the invitation of an old friend, a man who once was his “fixer” in Bosnia. Recently widowed when his wife died in a car crash, Fearless is certain he has nothing left to lose. His friend Federenko has put him up in a guesthouse, a place where a young housemaid has half of her face deformed by scars. 

Song has a single goal, to find her twin and return with her to their home in rural Cambodia. In her attempt to achieve this, she finds an unlikely ally in the guest who has recently arrived. While Fearless agrees to help her, he’s puzzled by Song’s warning, “Don’t tell your friend.”

Fearless has known Federenko since he hired the boy long ago. The two of them have a battle-tested friendship that has bred the kind of trust that lies between brothers. But Song has evidence that this trust is misplaced. She has found a videotape that implicates Federenko in the cruelest form of sexual atrocities and although Fearless tries to deny the evidence, he’s told by his friend’s bodyguard in a veiled hint that Federenko’s help will lead to a trap.

This is not an easy book to read. It begins with a rape, continues with the murder of children, and lapses into torture. “Our ability to exterminate makes us who we are,” Fearless observes at the beginning of this novel and this seems to be the underlying theme. It’s Song who gives the plot a twist that somehow lights it with hope and love which carries through to the end.

Every detail in this intricate story is important. Vicious acts that seem random are all connected in a story that ranges from Cambodia to Liberia and is ensnared in the devious machinations of Dark Money. Characters who are drenched in violence become saviors and friends become enemies. 

Praveen Herat lived in Phnom Penh for years. Plot elements that may seem melodramatic to some readers are ones that are much too true. Parents have sold their daughters in an effort to keep their families from starving to death. Young beauties have had their faces destroyed by jealous wives hurling acid. Methamphetamine addiction is common among those who are exploited and poor in Southeast Asia. Russian mafioso have been a feature in Cambodia for decades with money laundering as one of their essential tools across continents. And Fearless isn’t the only Westerner who “did his best to make the facts do his bidding.” Innocence has been a liability and a danger long before Graham Greene pinpointed that in The Quiet American.

Herat has written a thriller that zeroes in on truths and reveals dark secrets held by those who are irreparably damaged and those who manage to survive. It’s going to hurt you and haunt you. Read it if you dare.~Janet Brown

The Border by Erika Fatland, translated by Kari Dickson (Pegasus Books)

Erika Fatland begins her 584-page tome in a spritely fashion that’s as alluring as it is deceptive. Starting at the end of her 259-day journey around the edges of Russia, one that she has spread out over the course of three years, she’s at the edge of Eurasia, where Alaska is only about 50 miles away. She’s concluding a mammoth odyssey along Russia’s border, the longest in the world, extending for almost 38,000 miles along the edge of fourteen countries. 

Propelled by the question of what does it mean to have the world’s largest country as your neighbor, Fatland’s final jaunt is on an old Soviet research vessel that will take her through the Northeast Passage. For four weeks she is in the company of 47 other passengers, “a bevy of wrinkly stooped men and women,” all of whom have paid $20,000 to notch up one more exotic destination on their bucket lists. Their conversations consist of travel talk and Fatlander soon learns she’s the only one who hasn’t been to Antarctica. When she tells an 85-year-old Dutchwoman that she’s excited to make a trip in a Zodiac (a rigid, inflatable boat used in rough seas), the response she receives is “Why?’ Her aged companion has been on hundreds of Zodiac excursions and this is a matter of routine for her.

Tracing the journey of the fur trade that gave Russia a firm toehold on the Western part of the US, Fatland vividly recreates the history of explorers and Cossacks, while experiencing dismay at the condition of the islands she visits--”so much rubbish” creating environmental catastrophes. On one of their ports of call, an abandoned cabin bears evidence of a recent occupation. “Mammoth tusk collectors,” she’s told by her guide, “There is a lot of money to be made--we’re talking millions.”

This is the last portion of The Border to reveal humor or any form of delight. Moving swiftly into her time in North Korea, Fatland finds obfuscation, bleakness, and eerie contradictions. In Pyongyang, apartment buildings routinely soar to 20 storeys or more but their elevators are so faulty that residents clamor for spots near the ground floor. A hotel that’s over 1000 feet high dominates the city skyline but has never opened for business. Her guides all carry expensive Chinese mobile phones in a place where coverage to other countries is only available on mountain tops. The DMZ at the division line between North and South Korea holds no human residents while providing “a haven for threatened species.” The beaches in the North are “as beautiful as Vietnam’s” but are devoid of tourists.

On a tour of Chernobyl at one point of her journey, Flatland is disconcerted that it feels “like a package holiday.” Thirty years after the disaster, people still come to a local hospital with dire after-effects. “It takes time for the isotopes to break down,” a senior member of the medical staff says.

Fatland is a historian and this is her focus in The Border. As she makes her way through Asia, the Caucasus, and Europe, there are only vague hints of the current relationship between Russia and its fourteen neighbors. It feels as if she’s writing two separate books, a skimpy travel narrative and an overwhelming torrent of history from past centuries. When she ends her account with time spent in Ukraine, Poland, Finland, and her native country, Norway, history has fully taken over. Not even a camping trip to the final borderline with her father cuts through Erika’s daunting knowledge of the past.

Does she find the answer to her question of what comes with being a neighbor to Russia? Perhaps, but if she did, it’s lost in translation.~Janet Brown

Lost Cities of Asia by Wim Swaan (Elek London, out of print)

Once upon a time, travel was a luxury and Asia was an unexplored continent for many Westerners. The very wealthy might go to Tokyo or Hong Kong but Beijing was still Peking, with the entire city forbidden to tourists. Southeast Asia teetered in and out of being a war zone and Korea was a bad memory to most of the Western world. In those days, even European travel was still beyond the reach of many unless they submitted to package tours--”If this is Tuesday, it must be Belgium.” It wasn’t until the late 1960s that Iceland Air introduced the concept of budget flights to the masses and Lonely Planet launched the era of the backpacker.

It seems vaguely ludicrous now to open a book called Lost Cities of Asia and find one of its topics is Angkor Wat, which is now one of the most heavily visited sites on our planet. But the age of this book is obvious when readers find another “lost” region is called Ceylon (not Sri Lanka). Of the three corners of the world that are explored by the South African writer, Wim Swaan, only one might still be considered “lost”— Pagan, which even now remains off the tourist circuit.

Although Swaan was also known as a photographer, the plates that fill this coffee-table book seem almost crude by 21st Century standards. Most of them are black and white, while the ones that are in color lack depth and look like antique postcards. Many of the black and white photographs are marred by heavy shadows, taken by a man who must have been unused to working in tropical sunlight. However since there weren’t many glimpses of Ceylon, Pagan, and Angkor Wat in 1966 when this book was published, few people would have criticized Swaan’s technique. They would have been fascinated by the flawed images that showed places few people had ever seen.

It’s Swaan’s scholarship that makes this book a valuable resource half a century after it was first published. The man was not a travel writer and there are no lyrical descriptions or charming anecdotes. The most diverting passages are ones he quotes from past travelers who had viewed these places in distant centuries. Swaan instead employs his academic expertise as an architect and a historian which makes this book heavy going for the casual reader. It’s unfortunate that it’s literally too heavy to accompany the casual traveler as they explore the sites upon which he elucidates, because Swaan’s knowledge would expand their understanding of what they see.

Since Swaan’s early background was far from Europe or America, this may have given him a perspective unshared by writers from these continents who were his contemporaries. While most accounts of Southeast Asian sites written in the mid-20th Century compare them to “the glory that was Greece and the splendor that was Rome,” Swaan immediately pinpoints India as the primary influence upon Southeast Asia, one that influenced its architecture, its irrigation techniques that enabled the existence of its legendary cities, and its religion. Long before China exacted tribute from this part of the world, India shaped it.

However the process of “Hinduization” often clashed heavily with the indigenous cultures of the region. In the kingdom of Angkor, “both descent and inheritance were in the female line…so deeply ingrained that the subjugation of women prescribed by Hindu custom was flatly rejected.” At Pagan, the ancient gods, the Nats, were joined by the Buddha, not supplanted by him. 

Although India has placed its stamp firmly upon Southeast Asia (to the point that when Pico Iyer took his mother to visit Angkor Wat, she viewed it as an ancient Indian colony), its past history was written by Chinese monks and merchants, whose quoted accounts bring life to Lost Cities of Asia. Perhaps one of the most invaluable portions of Swaan’s book is its bibliography which provides a springboard for future exploration. Yet even so, Swann’s writing offers a time capsule that evokes not only Asian history, but our own.~Janet Brown