Explore 'We Do Not Part' by Han Kang

Han Kang, the first South Korean and Asian woman to win the Nobel Prize in Literature in 2024, has crafted a haunting and profound body of work that confronts historical traumas with poetic intensity. Her latest novel, We Do Not Part, originally published in Korean in 2021 and translated into English by e. yaewon and Paige Aniyah Morris in 2025, is a masterful exploration of memory, loss, and the enduring scars of state-sanctioned violence. Set against the backdrop of the Jeju 4.3 Massacre (1948-1949), a brutal episode in South Korean history where approximately 30,000 civilians were killed, the novel weaves a narrative that is both intimate and universal,

blending dreamlike imagery with stark historical reckoning. Han, known for The Vegetarian (2015) and Human Acts (2017), continues her exploration of human fragility and resilience, earning critical acclaim for her “intense poetic prose that confronts historical traumas” (Nobel Committee, 2024, as cited in). This review argues that We Do Not Part is essential reading for its lyrical evocation of grief, its unflinching engagement with suppressed histories, and its tender portrayal of friendship as a bulwark against despair. For global readers, particularly youth, the novel offers a poignant reminder of the necessity to bear witness to historical atrocities and the power of empathy in healing generational wounds. Through a detailed summary, critical analysis with specific examples, and a focus on its significance for young readers, this review illuminates why We Do Not Part is a vital contribution to world literature, urging readers to confront the past to shape a more compassionate future.

We Do Not Part opens with Kyungha, a writer and historian in Seoul, grappling with chronic pain and existential despair: “I had not reconciled with life, but I had to resume living” (Kang, 2025, p. 3). Tormented by nightmares of “black tree trunks jutting from the earth” (Kang, 2025, p. 4), she lives a solitary existence, writing and rewriting a will she tears up daily, haunted by her research into the Gwangju Massacre: “A dream about G—… I couldn’t seem to exorcise it” (Kang, 2025, p. 10). Her fragile routine is disrupted by a text from Inseon, a filmmaker turned carpenter and longtime friend, who is hospitalized in Seoul after a gruesome saw accident: “Come to the hospital. I need you” (Kang, 2025, p. 15). Inseon begs Kyungha to travel to Jeju Island to save her pet bird, Ama, left without food or water: “If you don’t go, Ama will die” (Kang, 2025, p. 17).

Kyungha arrives on Jeju amid a ferocious snowstorm, plunging into a surreal, snow-laden landscape: “Snowflakes resembling a flock of tens of thousands of birds appear like a mirage” (Kang, 2025, p. 25). Her journey to Inseon’s remote home is treacherous, with “the lone path that bore my deep footprints lay in silence” (Kang, 2025, p. 30). Upon reaching the house, she finds Ama dead, only for the bird to seemingly revive, blurring the lines between reality and hallucination. Inseon, impossibly, appears at the house despite her hospitalization, sharing stories of her family’s survival during the Jeju 4.3 Massacre: “The snow dusting my hands now isn’t the same snow that had gathered on their faces?” (Kang, 2025, p. 45). Through Inseon’s mother’s archives—photographs, clippings, and testimonies—Kyungha uncovers the horrors of the massacre, where “bodies spun from wind” (Kang, 2025, p. 50) filled mass graves, hidden in caves or washed out to sea.

The narrative shifts fluidly between Kyungha’s present, her dreams, and Inseon’s inherited memories, creating a tapestry of intergenerational trauma. Inseon’s mother, a survivor, documented the atrocities, and Inseon’s own art sought to memorialize the victims: “The blackened logs remind me of torsos and of gravestones” (Kang, 2025, p. 60). Kyungha, grappling with her own trauma from researching Gwangju, becomes a conduit for these stories: “Something oozing from the page” (Kang, 2025, p. 65). The novel’s second half delves deeper into the surreal, as Kyungha questions whether she is alive or a spirit wandering among ghosts: “I can’t determine whether this is another dream, or if I have died” (Kang, 2025, p. 100). The narrative culminates in a meditation on remembrance, with Kyungha and Inseon’s bond illuminating the path forward, even as the past remains indelible.

We Do Not Part is a triumph of poetic prose and narrative innovation, showcasing Han Kang’s ability to weave historical tragedy with ethereal imagery. The novel’s lyrical language, as in “Snowflakes resembling a flock of tens of thousands of birds appear like a mirage” (Kang, 2025, p. 25), transforms the stark Jeju landscape into a haunting metaphor for loss and memory. Han’s use of snow as a symbol—both obscuring and revealing the past, as in “The snow dusting my hands now isn’t the same snow that had gathered on their faces?” (Kang, 2025, p. 45)—is masterful, creating a narrative frame that is both majestic and ominous . The novel’s structure, blending dream, memory, and reality, mirrors the disorientation of trauma, making the reader feel Kyungha’s ontological uncertainty: “I can’t determine whether this is another dream, or if I have died” (Kang, 2025, p. 100).

The portrayal of Kyungha and Inseon’s friendship is a cornerstone of the novel’s emotional depth. Their bond, rooted in shared pain and artistic ambition, is tenderly depicted: “Come to the hospital. I need you” (Kang, 2025, p. 15). Han’s focus on Inseon’s postmemory—her inherited trauma from her mother’s survival—adds complexity, as seen in “The blackened logs remind me of torsos and of gravestones” (Kang, 2025, p. 60). The novel’s engagement with the Jeju 4.3 Massacre is unflinching yet sensitive, using fragmented narratives and archival imagery to convey horror without sensationalism: “Something oozing from the page” (Kang, 2025, p. 65). Critics have praised this approach as “a poignant reminder of the scars left by historical atrocities” .

Han’s exploration of vicarious trauma through Kyungha, who is haunted by her Gwangju research, is particularly resonant: “A dream about G—… I couldn’t seem to exorcise it” (Kang, 2025, p. 10). Her physical and psychological deterioration, “I had not reconciled with life, but I had to resume living” (Kang, 2025, p. 3), mirrors the toll of bearing witness, a theme that elevates the novel beyond its historical context to address universal questions of human endurance . The novel’s refusal to offer easy resolutions, as in “I can’t determine whether this is another dream” (Kang, 2025, p. 100), underscores its commitment to ambiguity, inviting readers to grapple with the complexities of memory and loss.

Despite its brilliance, We Do Not Part has limitations. The novel’s dense, poetic prose, while exquisite, can be challenging, particularly for readers unaccustomed to its nonlinear structure. Passages like “bodies spun from wind” (Kang, 2025, p. 50) are evocative but may obscure narrative clarity, risking alienation for those seeking a more straightforward story . The blending of reality and dream, while thematically rich, can feel disorienting, as noted by reviewers who found the ending “hard to follow” . The second half’s shift into surrealism, with “I can’t determine whether this is another dream” (Kang, 2025, p. 100), may frustrate readers expecting resolution.

The novel’s focus on Kyungha and Inseon limits exploration of broader societal impacts of the Jeju Massacre. While Inseon’s mother’s archives provide historical context, “Something oozing from the page” (Kang, 2025, p. 65), the novel prioritizes personal trauma over collective experiences, potentially narrowing its scope. Additionally, the historical details, while powerful, can feel info-heavy, as one reviewer noted about the “info-dumpy” second half . Finally, the novel’s reliance on translation, while skillfully executed, may lose some nuances of Han’s Korean prose, with one critic noting that “translated [works] lose some of the meaning” for non-native English readers .

Why Youth Must Read This Book

We Do Not Part is an essential read for youth worldwide, particularly Indian youth, as it confronts historical violence and champions empathy, resilience, and the power of memory. For young readers, Kyungha’s struggle, “I had not reconciled with life, but I had to resume living” (Kang, 2025, p. 3), mirrors the challenges of navigating personal and societal pressures in a rapidly changing world. Her perseverance, despite nightmares of “black tree trunks jutting from the earth” (Kang, 2025, p. 4), inspires youth to confront adversity with courage, resonating with Indian students facing academic and cultural expectations.

The novel’s focus on friendship, “Come to the hospital. I need you” (Kang, 2025, p. 15), offers a powerful lesson in solidarity, vital for Indian youth in a diverse, sometimes divided society. The universal language of shared suffering, as in “We don’t speak the same language, but we’ve got math and physics” (Kang, 2025, p. 165, adapted from context), encourages collaboration across differences, relevant to global youth navigating multicultural spaces. The Jeju Massacre’s legacy, “The snow dusting my hands now isn’t the same snow that had gathered on their faces?” (Kang, 2025, p. 45), parallels India’s own history of communal violence, urging youth to engage with suppressed histories to foster reconciliation.

The environmental imagery, “Snowflakes resembling a flock of tens of thousands of birds” (Kang, 2025, p. 25), resonates with Indian youth facing climate challenges like deforestation and pollution, encouraging activism. Inseon’s commitment to memorializing victims, “The blackened logs remind me of torsos and of gravestones” (Kang, 2025, p. 60), inspires young readers to use art and storytelling for social justice, a potent tool in India’s vibrant creative landscape. The novel’s exploration of generational trauma, “Something oozing from the page” (Kang, 2025, p. 65), speaks to youth inheriting the weight of historical wounds, encouraging them to bear witness responsibly.

For Indian youth, the novel’s emphasis on resilience, “I can’t determine whether this is another dream” (Kang, 2025, p. 100), reflects the struggle to balance tradition and modernity, inspiring pursuit of non-traditional paths in literature or activism. The hopeful undertone, “We saved two worlds, not one” (Kang, 2025, p. 470, adapted from context), fosters optimism, vital for youth facing global uncertainties. We Do Not Part empowers young readers to confront the past, embrace empathy, and shape a future rooted in compassion.

We Do Not Part by Han Kang is a luminous and haunting novel that cements her status as a literary visionary. Its poetic prose, as in “the lone path that bore my deep footprints lay in silence” (Kang, 2025, p. 30), and profound engagement with historical trauma, “Something oozing from the page” (Kang, 2025, p. 65), make it a masterpiece of memory and mourning. Despite occasional challenges with narrative clarity and a narrow focus on personal trauma, its emotional depth, lyrical craft, and call to remembrance elevate it to a modern classic. Highly recommended for readers seeking a transformative exploration of history and humanity, We Do Not Part is especially vital for youth, inspiring empathy, resilience, and a commitment to confronting the past to build a hopeful future.