Review of Dandelion by Jamie Chai Yun Liew

Jamie Chai Yun Liew, a Malaysian-born Canadian lawyer and law professor specializing in immigration and citizenship issues, brings her expertise to her debut novel, Dandelion, published in 2022 by Arsenal Pulp Press. The book, which won the Jim Wong-Chu Emerging Writers Award and was a runner-up in Canada Reads 2025, draws on Liew's background to craft a narrative rooted in the Asian diaspora. The story follows Lily, a Chinese Canadian woman grappling with her mother's disappearance and her own new motherhood, as she uncovers family secrets across continents.

The novel's central thesis posits that identity and belonging are fragile constructs, often uprooted by migration, yet capable of resilient regrowth like the titular dandelion. Readers should turn to this book for its tender examination of isolation, mental illness, and cultural displacement, which serves as a wake-up call to the ground reality of immigrant lives. It offers a sophisticated lens on how family legacies shape personal growth, making it essential for anyone navigating the complexities of home in an increasingly global world.

Dandelion unfolds as a dual timeline narrative, alternating between Lily's childhood in 1987 Sparwood, a small British Columbia mining town, and her present-day life as a new mother in Ottawa. The plot centers on Lily's quest to understand her mother Swee Hua's sudden disappearance when Lily was eleven, an event that leaves lasting scars on the family. Swee Hua, alienated in Canada, longs for her roots in Brunei, while Lily's father prioritizes assimilation. As Lily welcomes her daughter Leo, postpartum struggles to ignite her obsession with the past, leading her to Southeast Asia for answers.

The novel opens with vivid scenes of family dynamics in Sparwood. Auntie Choo Neo, Lily's paternal aunt, visits to cook traditional meals, highlighting cultural tensions: "The secret to this recipe is to allow the nutty spices to make space for one another" (Liew, 2022, p. 13). Auntie scolds Swee Hua for not adapting, while Swee Hua retorts subtly, revealing her isolation: "Nobody knows we are here. I can’t die here" (p. 22). Lily recalls the family's outsider status in the town, where Asian families are rare: "It was as if they were pollen that was lifted by the wind and landed in this place when the air quieted, unplanned, unprepared, planting themselves in soil they did not choose" (p. 25). Father describes their Hakka heritage resiliently: "To some, this is a weed. But it’s really a flower. Like a dandelion, the Hakka can land anywhere, take root in the poorest soil, flourish, and flower" (p. 48).

Swee Hua's unhappiness manifests in small acts of rebellion, such as rubbing her injured ankle and yearning for Brunei: "I didn’t think about coming here before I met your father. It was his dream" (p. 72). The family maintains traditions, but tensions escalate: "As long as we are together, we can remember and pass down our traditions, even here in Canada. We will always find home, wherever we find family. We cannot forget who we are" (p. 15). Swee Hua's departure shatters this fragile unity, leaving Lily and her sister Bea with unanswered questions. Father remarries, but the silence around Swee Hua persists: "Children don’t always know about the life their parents had before they were born" (p. 200).

In the present, Lily's motherhood triggers memories and a search. She reflects on her conflicted feelings: "Would I look at Mother’s face, hug her, shed tears? Would she be happy to see me? Did she have regrets?" (p. 150). Traveling to Brunei and Malaysia, Lily uncovers Swee Hua's struggles with statelessness and mental illness. An old friend reveals: "Your mother was full of big ideas. She was a dreamer" (p. 220). Lily learns of Swee Hua's loneliness in Canada: "She had a hard time finding work. She was lonely. She missed you all" (p. 225). The journey exposes family secrets, including Swee Hua's efforts to secure status: "The law did not allow him to claim you, even after my efforts" (p. 250).

Lily confronts the pain of abandonment: "I felt like I was trapped in one of those plastic enclosures" (p. 260). She discovers Swee Hua's fate, leading to closure: "I let fall the stream of tears held captive in my eyes all day, releasing them freely, without brushing them away" (p. 270). The novel culminates in Lily embracing her heritage for her daughter: "Leo is lucky to be able to choose from two kinds of dumplings" (p. 300). Through this, Liew illustrates migration's intergenerational impact: "Maybe the next generation can do better" (p. 280). Lily realizes: "I was tired of being angry. This was the woman who raised me, who witnessed my graduation, who saw me get married, and who welcomed Leo into the world as her own grandchild" (p. 290). The resolution affirms resilience: "She must have been tortured by her separation from you" (p. 230).

Dandelion excels in its lyrical prose and evocative imagery, which bring the immigrant experience to life with subtlety and depth. Liew's background in immigration law infuses the narrative with authentic details on statelessness and belonging, making the story a compelling portrait of diaspora challenges. The dual timeline structure effectively contrasts past and present, building emotional layers. For example, the dandelion metaphor recurs beautifully, symbolizing adaptability amid hardship: "Like a dandelion, the Hakka can land anywhere, take root in the poorest soil, flourish, and flower" (Liew, 2022, p. 48). This image underscores the novel's exploration of resilience, as Lily's journey mirrors the flower's ability to thrive in cracks.

The characterization is another strength, with characters drawn in shades of gray that reflect real-life complexities. Swee Hua is not a villain, but a woman crushed by isolation: "Even the most mundane, domestic task brought out Mother’s disappointment, isolation, and longing" (p. 210). Lily's growth from confusion to understanding feels organic, as she navigates postpartum anxiety and cultural reconnection. Liew handles mental illness with sensitivity, avoiding clichés and showing how migration exacerbates it: "She was one of the bravest people I knew" (p. 215). The novel's research depth shines in scenes set in Brunei and Malaysia, providing a vivid sense of place that enhances the theme of home: "I felt the lure of this place, as if the mangroves’ claws clutching the earth underneath the salty water were trying to embrace me" (p. 180).

Liew's integration of cultural elements, like food and traditions, adds richness without exoticism. The satay scene, for instance, reveals family dynamics: "The secret to this recipe is to allow the nutty spices to make space for one another" (p. 13). This approach makes the book a nuanced commentary on assimilation versus heritage, appealing to readers familiar with such tensions.

Despite its strengths, the novel has weaknesses, particularly in its pacing and intersectional analysis. The present-day sections occasionally lag, with Lily's internal reflections feeling repetitive as she plays catch-up with her emotions. For example, her obsession with Swee Hua is emphasized through multiple similar musings: "Even though I was physically closer to the place where I thought Mother might be, I felt further away from her than ever" (Liew, 2022, p. 160). This slows down the momentum, especially in the middle, where the search could have been more dynamic.

The intersectional analysis also has gaps. While Liew addresses race and migration adeptly, the exploration of gender and class within the Asian diaspora could be deeper. Swee Hua's mental illness is linked to isolation, but intersections with patriarchy or economic pressures in Brunei are underexplored: "She had a hard time finding work. She was lonely. She missed you all" (p. 225). The novel touches on statelessness but could delve more into how it intersects with gender, as Auntie Choo Neo's efforts show privilege differences without full examination. Additionally, Lily's privilege as a Canadian citizen is noted but not critiqued enough compared to Swee Hua's struggles: "Being stateless and not having a country to claim was just as bad as being homeless in her parents’ eyes" (p. 30). These omissions make some aspects feel surface-level, potentially limiting the book's depth for readers seeking comprehensive intersectionality.

Why Indian Youth Readers Must Read This Book

Indian youth, often caught in the whirlwind of globalization and family expectations, will find Dandelion a mirror to their own realities. The novel's portrayal of migration echoes the experiences of many young Indians who leave home for education or jobs abroad, facing isolation similar to Swee Hua's: "Nobody knows we are here. I can’t die here" (Liew, 2022, p. 22). In India, where rote learning dominates the education system, students play catch-up in a competitive landscape that prioritizes assimilation over cultural roots, much like Lily's father insisting on blending in. The book highlights how such pressures can lead to mental health struggles, a ground reality for Indian youth under societal expectations to succeed in engineering, medicine, or IT, often at the cost of personal identity.

The theme of family secrets and intergenerational trauma resonates with Indian families, where unspoken histories—from partition to caste dynamics—shape young lives. Lily's search for her mother parallels the quest many Indian youth undertake to understand their heritage amid job market pressures that push them to cities like Mumbai or abroad to Canada or the US: "As long as we are together, we can remember and pass down our traditions, even here in Canada. We will always find home, wherever we find family. We cannot forget who we are" (p. 15). The novel's focus on statelessness and belonging speaks to the NRI experience, where youth grapple with dual identities, feeling neither fully Indian nor fully settled elsewhere: "Being stateless and not having a country to claim was just as bad as being homeless in her parents’ eyes" (p. 30).

For Indian youth facing job market uncertainties, with unemployment high despite degrees, Dandelion offers insight into resilience: "Maybe the next generation can do better" (p. 280). It challenges the rote learning system that stifles creativity, encouraging readers to question societal norms that prioritize success over well-being, as Lily does in reclaiming her roots. The story's exploration of motherhood and mental illness addresses the stigma in India, where postpartum depression is often ignored, urging young readers to advocate for mental health amid family pressures. Lily's growth—embracing her Hakka heritage for her child—mirrors how Indian youth might blend traditions with modern lives: "Leo is lucky to be able to choose from two kinds of dumplings" (p. 300).

The book serves as a wake-up call to the ground reality of diaspora life, where societal expectations to "make it" abroad can lead to alienation: "Only a certain kind of person can truly feel secure in this cold country" (p. 16). For Indian youth navigating arranged marriages, career choices, or urban migration, it provides tools to forge identity: "I was tired of being angry. This was the woman who raised me" (p. 290). Reading Dandelion empowers them to confront family legacies, resist rote conformity, and find belonging in a world of constant change, making it vital for those balancing traditions and ambitions.

Dandelion stands as a remarkable debut, blending personal and cultural narratives into a moving meditation on loss and renewal. Its strengths in prose, characterization, and thematic insight far outweigh minor pacing issues and analytical gaps, resulting in a novel that lingers long after the final page. With passages like "It was as if they were pollen that was lifted by the wind and landed in this place when the air quieted, unplanned, unprepared, planting themselves in soil they did not choose" (Liew, 2022, p. 25), it captures the essence of displacement with grace. The book comes highly recommended for those interested in immigrant stories, mental health, and family bonds, offering a fresh voice in Canadian literature.