Is it somehow incomplete, the parting?
Is it deferred? The goodbye - or the closure? Indifintely?

We Do Not Part deals with a dark part of Korea's story, the Jeju massacre. And it builds into the bigger discourse of how contemporary South Korea was forged in ash, blood, and divisions that predated the North/South split.

Content warning for suicidal ideation and everything war/genocide (rape, killing children, torture, etc.). It's a harrowing read. It feels like a 'there and back again' with Han Kang, she seems to have taken it upon herself to expose Korea's bloodiest history.

I especially appreciated how she 'censors' the names of the places, which kinda reflects into how controversial Jeju's massacre and Gwangju's uprising remain as of this day. There's a much bigger discussion here about what to call it - Jeju's genocide, massacre, uprising? And I just loved how she didn't shy away from gritty details.

The book has two parts of the same story, each with a different focus, which then collide into a third part that wraps it up. The first part is about Kyungha and Inseon. Kyungha's struggles with depression and suicidal ideation when her friend Inseon gets into an accident and asks for a favor. That little favor turns into a difficult (and life-threatening, if I may say) trip that I think helps her find purpose. The second part is... a dream, a vision, or reality. Kyungha, still in Jeju, uncovers clippings and writings about the Jeju massacre.

The first part, I hated. It was dull, long, and insipid. The second part was just emotional and harrowing, and I love how the setting was just confusing (where/when are we?).

Han Kang’s intense, intricate narrative has the feel of a ghost story, forged from unsettling encounters with the spectres of South Korea’s turbulent past. Han opens with an eerie sequence, taken from the dreams that partly inspired her to write this. Author Kyungha – a version of Han – is living in isolation, tormented by debilitating headaches and destabilising nightmares. Recurring nightmares she attributes to the disturbing content of research undertaken for a recent book about the Gwangju uprising – similar to Han’s Human Acts. Macabre fantasies dominate Kyungha’s sleeping and, increasingly, waking thoughts. She’s unable to move freely through surrounding streets, visualising soldiers poised to swoop, intent on capturing her and inflicting searing pain. But Kyungha’s attempts to retreat from the outside world are abruptly curtailed by a summons from old friend, Inseon.

Inseon’s settled in her childhood home on Jeju Island but a serious accident’s brought her to a specialist treatment centre in Seoul. Inseon needs a favour, alone in Jeju is her small bird Ama, likely to die if Kyungha can’t reach her in time. Through blustering winds and a seemingly-incessant snowstorm, Kyungha sets out on a gruelling trek to Inseon’s house. An existential journey leading her away from the desolation of Gwangju towards the traumascape of Inseon’s Jeju. Inseon’s experiences of Jeju are shaped by her mother’s. Jeongsim, Inseon’s mother, survived what’s known as Jeju 4:3 or “Sa-Sam.” But most of her family died and her brother was disappeared.

Jeju 4:3 points to massacres that took place in April, 1948. But the killings weren’t confined to April, Jeju 4:3 encompasses atrocities that stretched back into preceding months and continued in the months ahead. A political uprising sparked by developments involving the governing of South Korea, and the policies of the US administration then overseeing it, was brutally suppressed by a grouping of soldiers, police, and right-wing militias. Ostensibly a hunt for “left-wing” guerrilla units, the underlying goal was to eradicate “leftists.” Around 30,000 people were eventually slaughtered, roughly 10% of Jeju’s population – a place considered overrun by “commie” subversives and sympathisers. During this “scorched earth” campaign whole villages were razed to the ground. No form of terror was considered too extreme, from torture to gang-rape to mass murder - victims included children and new-born babies.

The legacy of Jeju 4:3 dominates the later stages of Han’s narrative. At Inseon’s house, Kyungha’s confronted with distressing documentation compiled by Jeongsim and later added to by Inseon. And Kyungha realises the devastating scenes invading her dreams originated on Jeju. When Kyungha comes face to face with Inseon, still in Seoul yet somehow simultaneously on Jeju, the boundary between real and imagined fractures. Han interweaves surreal episodes featuring Kyungha and Inseon with extracts from the testimonies of Jeju 4:3 survivors – building on existing oral histories. Haunted individuals, they’re tortured by the knowledge that somewhere, in mass graves yet to be discovered, lie the unclaimed bodies of family members from grandfathers to grandmothers, uncles, siblings or cousins.

Although it’s fine as a standalone, Han’s narrative’s shot through with traces of earlier work. Most obviously Kyungha’s writing, and Han’s subject matter, form a bridge to Human Acts; while the symbolic use of trees and plants echoes aspects of The Vegetarian. Snow and snow-related imagery surfaces throughout – so much so it feels a little overworked at times. Han’s use of snow recalls passages from The White Book - as well as untranslated pieces set in snowy landscapes – conjuring notions of mortality and loss. But here, for Han, snow’s also intended to represent “softness and light,” tempering the “darkness” of her meditations on genocide and mass killing.

Although Han’s exploration of these topics stems from Jeju 4:3, she also references the extermination of suspected “reds” on the mainland in Busan and Daegu. But she goes beyond these too, invested in questions of what might drive humans in do barbaric things, and what distinguishes those who do from those who don’t or won’t. She’s equally interested in potential methods for addressing the past: how to heal history’s wounds: the transformation of individual mourning into a collective response possessing active political force; opportunities for solidarity and the co-creation of rituals which open up possibilities for remembrance that goes beyond gesture. Han’s comments about the novel, together with its conclusion, suggest cautious optimism. Unlike Human Acts which steered her towards despair, she found writing this cathartic.

The translation reads smoothly, although there’s not always a marked distinction between sections in Jeju dialect and those in standard Korean, the incorporation of terms of address used on Jeju offers some clues – for instance “abang” for father instead of “abeoji.” The structure and texture of the novel sometimes reminded me of Greek Lessons although it’s more collage-like. Austere, understated prose is interrupted by bursts of arresting lyricism, oneiric sequences are juxtaposed with sharply-focused, docu-style accounts. Although it wasn’t a problem for me, I think the pacing might be an issue for some. The novel took Han several years to complete. The first half initially appeared in serial form in a quarterly magazine, as a result some elements may seem slightly repetitive, excessively detailed, and/or drawn-out compared to the rest of the book. Personally, I found the rhythm of the earlier sections hypnotic. I liked Han’s willingness to experiment, even when I didn’t think it quite paid off. But overall, I found this immensely powerful and incredibly compelling. Translated by e. yaewon & Paige Aniyah Morris.