Hello
Gentle Reader
Power
is a coveted prize. It cannot be held, yet wielded. It can be bought, but it
cannot be found in retail stores or on online commerce. Its price is exacting
and is not guaranteed. Despite this, power is coveted and desired. Once obtained
its viciously guarded, and righteously retained. Authoritarian governments in
particular the most aggressive in retaining and maintain their power and
safeguard the status quo—more precisely: their status quo. This involves
violence on a repeated basis. People do not suffer tyranny for long periods of
time. Fear is not an attribute passed on generation to generation. The
conventions of fear are taught; adherence is another matter. Youth continually
seeks to explore the possibilities and potentials beyond its present
predicament and realities. There are always ideals beyond the immediate. The
desire to improve; or at the very least: push the boundaries of tolerance. Then
again, youth is a resentful stage in one’s life. From hormones to a more
actualized sense of self-awareness, there is the realization that the current
state is abruptly asinine in its own way. There is injustice, corruption, moral
embezzlement, and in its wake lies relegation, disenfranchisement, and
dispossession—a divide between institutions of importance or governance, and
those who are governed. This can be displayed out in the micro (or domestic) to
the macro. Generally, the first revolt is always against the parents, be it
curfew or how one dresses, to getting a piercing or dying their hair. It’s the
debut step in understanding and discovering ones place in the world; the
initial revolt. Of course this is met with the same resistance all change is
met with: abruptly and with swift discourse and discouragement. What ensures is
nothing but the precedent set, conventional tango of the times. This is merely
an example on the more interpersonal and private level. This same can be seen
on grander societal levels, though they often take longer in order to reach the
boiling point, and often have greater consequence.
History
and literature is salt and peppered with such incidents. Such as, the Prague
Spring of 1968. Whose unremarkable defeat and reaction is documented in the
Estonian writer, Viivi Luik’s novel: “The Beauty of History,” where Europe is
noted for its blatant apathy:
“A
Czech boy pouring petrol over himself and then lighting a match does not really
go well with the carpets in the living room of Europe, so the television is
switched off.”
These
same testaments are seen all over the globe; but are quickly overlooked or
ignored. The Arab Spring, nine years ago blew the winds of change fed by
disenchantment. They were not strong enough to sustain the sails, and
ultimately it too sank. What followed was civil war throughout many countries.
Saudi Arabia, as a recent example had just executed individuals it deemed
provocateurs in the movement. Those convicted were of course in accordance with
the draconian states laws, either hung or beheaded, and certainly afterwards
their bodies crucified to as a reminder and warning of who holds the power and
who does not. Just last week as well, May Day protests broke out throughout the
world—mainly Europe. The crackdown was severe. In Turkey, protesters marching
on Taksim Square were immediately taken down. One-hundred and thirty seven
individuals were or have been detained. They were hauled off kicking and gagged
by the officers, as they did their best to shout out against their predicament.
France once again saw the rise of the yellow vest movement, which resulted in
casual riots. Quebec witnessed similar storms of violence. While journalists in
Jakarta, Indonesia donned masks with red tears of blood, to protest
prosecution, persecution and remember their colleagues and brethren, as well as
the principles of integrity and freedom of the profession. Every day, in some
way, in some place there is a struggle. For (South) Korea, their democratic
struggle came in the 1980’s student uprising and protests in Gwangju, which has
often been called the May 18th Democratic Uprising or the Gwangju
Uprising.
Hang
Kang’s novel: “Human Acts,” traces the events of the Gwangju Uprising through
the personal and the private. Kang provides an intimate peripheral driven portrait
of one of the most severe atrocities of the later stages of the twentieth
century, in the peninsula. The author discusses the atrocities with gentle
candor, never shying away from describing the rotting flesh, the influx and
surplus of the dead, their mangled, mutilated, and obliterated corpses ushered
into places of makeshift morgues and refuges, where they were cleaned,
documented, and recorded. As if, to provide an inventory of the event in the
currency of death, to withstand the corrosive claws of time and the temporal
temperament of political machinations, which will sponge and wash away facts to
protect its own interests. Bayonets sliced open throats, revealing the uvula,
dangling in decay and silence. Eyes closed as bullets riddled through their bodies.
Heads smashed and obliterated by batons or the butts of guns. School uniforms
drenched, clotted, and caked with blood. Organs barely held in place by the
haphazard repair; caused by the vicious defacement which brought their life to
an end. It is all meticulously recorded,
by a young fifteen year old, Dong-ho, who becomes the central figure of the
novel; the soul and nucleus, whose death ripples long afterwards.
The
dear Dong-ho begins the novel in the heat of the uprising. Just as the resistance
has gained a foothold and commandeered government office, which now houses the
dead, he inventories the causalities with as much detail as possible in order
to help grieving families identify their lost ones. The tide turns. The army is
dispatched and enters the city of Gwangju. He is encouraged to leave by
colleagues, revolutionaries and his own family. He is too young; to naïve; too
inexperienced, to understand the gravity of the situation which will soon
engulf him. Despite the persistent orders and pleas he stays. Following suit
the actions that take place in the provincial office and the city will
reverberate throughout the citizens, residents, and families, as it echoes
through the nation before being displayed to the world. It is here one gets a
recount of the horrors of the crackdown. The dismembered. The mutilated. The
wounded. The beaten. The bludgeoned. The shot. All lied out in a space growing
smaller with the rate in which they arrive. Yet the time to relax or have
reprieve in these few moments of regrouping, are always ended the same way they
began. The scene is recounted, with great lyricism, maneuvering away from shock
and protest, but slowly guiding one into the dignity of the work, the dignity
of the people—living and dead—and the dignity of their principles.
Unceremoniously
the bodies which were inventoried, cleaned and provided some dignity where
quickly carted away by the military, after they continued with the rampage and
massacre. It is here Dong-ho’s pondering of the soul is given a more brutal
revelation, as he watches the disposal of their bodies. Piled up one after
another, they lay in their brutal reticence, as gas is poured over their
bodies, and scattered eyed soldiers light their matches and set the world
alight. All an attempt at covering their crimes. An attempt at justifying their
behaviours. They are just soldiers following orders; nothing more than a mere
dog following the commands of a cruel master. Some, however, where more eager
and rabid to fulfill those orders. Blood thirsty, depraved, and longing for
another battle like Vietnam, they gladly returned to their guns, their tanks,
their helicopters, and sought to reap destruction; plowing down civilian after
civilian with sadistic glee. Up in embers, smoke, and ash the souls too find
release from the world. They call out, they seek, they search, but no one can
return their sorrowful goodbyes. No one can be found. This scene is recounted
in the most wistful and surreal way. It never falls into melodramatics, but
recounts with gentle lyricism the event as it unfolds, and doesn’t concern
itself with the act of destruction, or the fate of the bodies, but the restless
search and passing as it happens.
The
following scenes move closer and closer to the present. Each chapter introduces
yet another voice in the polyphonic chorus that harks back to the Gwangju
Uprising. They recount with stoic severity their endurance in torture and
interrogations; their desire to publish plays; their memories of the first
inclinations of protest and uprising. One scene from another voice, recounts
how she was merely sitting in the cafeteria eating lunch at university, when
protestors marched through the hall, to hang a sign declaring Chun Doo-hwan a
butcher, and calling for his end. Plainclothes policemen in pursuit, burst
through the doors to end the protest. All in attendance—bystander or not—is
equally guilty. The scene is recounted via Han Kang’s penetrating and poignant
lyricism, the rush only described by its fixation in a singular object: a
spoon, which sits suspended in surprise before falling after its holder is
ripped from her seat. Finally the story ends with the poignant memories of a
mother, remembering her child: Dong-ho; his death ever present in her life, her
family, a topic of both resentment and dignity. Each scene, which grows further
and further away, recounts even after thirty years, the uprising, the massacre,
the protests, and the destruction, still resides in their shadows. It attempted
to strip the dignity away from each individual. Instead it secured their
dignity, their resolve, and their principles.
Han
Kang’s novel: “Human Acts,” is not necessarily a novel about acquiring power
and retaining it. Rather, it is a novel about the unbreakable, unbent, and
resolute security of human dignity, even in the face of inhumane acts against
it. It’s a lyrical and poignant novel, riddled with stoicism, as it discusses
the interpersonal natures of national events, in their most private and
personal moments, rather than the grand epics which shaped a nation. After all,
it is only shaped by those who fought for it.
Han Kang expertly maneuvers around melodramatic, the cheap, the kitschy,
and the pitfalls of dealing with such an event. She treats the matter
seriously; but provides accountancy in its moments, in its experiences, in the
objects; not in the graphics. It’s a beautiful novel that traces the vibrations
and ripples through time. The massacre remains embedded in memories, embroidered
in shadows, taking form in contemplations of now lost opportunities, in dreams
destined to remain unfulfilled. A stunning and beautiful work, but also
personal for author who for the first nine years of her life had lived in the
city which would fall under siege. It’s a lyrical testament to dignity, to
history, and to personal convictions which will always change the current. My
personal resistance to read Han Kang was and is nothing but complete foolhardy on
my part. Han Kang is an amazing writer, a well-deserved writer for her
recognition and admiration. Her prose is welcoming, gentle, lyrical and
piercing in a style all her own. “Human Acts,” is a beautiful novel as
discusses dignity in the most undignified places, and its ability to resist
corruption, and retain its own stance of being unbreakable and uncompromising.
Despite the septic violence thrown it human dignity remains unspoiled. “Human
Acts,” is a powerful novel for all those who are interested in reading Korean
literature and take an interest in its contemporary history—tragic and
otherwise.
Han
Kang is a master of lyrical language, which is engaging and penetrating. She
discusses events in the peripherals, fixating on objects and experiences. She
eschews melodramatic and shock value matter, to ensure the material is never
written off as being exaltingly political or revolutionary in tone. It does not
concern itself with the political, but rather the personal, the convictions
exemplified by the principled youth and people who sought for change and
rebelled. Those individuals now lost in fires or mass graves are fondly
remembered, their sacrifices and principles changed the direction of a nation.
Their loss though was a tragedy to their beloved. The lyricism, the second
person narrative scheme, and the impersonal narration are a gentle embrace,
which invites readers in with little to no pretext or context offered; whereby
they are guided through the events with dignified candor, which never slips into
the acerbic or critical. The ghosts of the past sit on the backs of those who
have survived like skeletons, embracing them, but not shackling them. Their
haunted memories are troubled, but the realities of the present rational to
their struggles. A piercing read which celebrates the dignity of the human
soul, spirit, and shadow in the face of the mocking macabre face of violence.
It’s a power quiet and understated book, which does not concern itself with the
predilections of politics, the notions of justice, or the proclivities and
philosophies of retribution and revenge. “Human Acts,” is a stoic celebration
of dignity, through emotional intensity and power, which is never forced or
contrite; but genuine and graceful. Han Kang is a writer who superbly understands
the notion of grace, and artfully imbeds this into her language.
Thank-you
For Reading Gentle Reader
Take
Care
And
As Always
Stay
Well Read
M.
Mary
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