We Do Not Part is a haunting and beautifully crafted narrative that intertwines the themes of friendship, memory, and trauma. When Kyungha receives an urgent message from her friend Inseon, who has been hospitalised after a serious accident, she rushes to Jeju Island to care for Inseon’s pet bird. This journey, however, is not merely a physical one; it becomes a profound exploration of the past and the weight of history that lingers in the present.

As Kyungha battles a fierce snowstorm to reach Inseon’s home, the icy wind and swirling snow serve as metaphors for the emotional coldness and isolation that permeate their lives. Once she arrives, Kyungha uncovers the dark family history that Inseon has long kept buried. Through dreams, memories, and meticulously assembled archives, the narrative unravels a tragic massacre that haunts the island—a poignant reminder of the scars left by historical atrocities.

The writing is lyrical and evocative, transporting readers into the heart of a winter landscape that mirrors the characters' emotional journeys. The friendship between Kyungha and Inseon is tenderly portrayed, underscoring the importance of connection in the face of overwhelming darkness.

We Do Not Part serves as both a tribute to the power of imagination and a call to remember the past rather than bury it. The story resonates deeply, reminding us that the echoes of history still shape our lives today. This is more than just a novel; it is a powerful exploration of memory and the enduring bonds of friendship that can illuminate even the darkest paths.

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Not my favourite of Kang’s books - the two stories (Kyungha’s journey to Inseon’s house, Inseon’s family story about the Jeju massacre) didn’t really resonate together as a whole story for me. That being said, I did like the prose, especially in the first third of the book - the descriptions of Kyungha’s journey through the snow was beautiful and evocative. I also think the Jeju massacre was handled beautifully for such an upsetting topic handled using fictional characters. For me these two strands didn’t come together in a satisfying way, it felt more like two separate stories and I wanted more resolution.

We Do Not Part follows Kyungha who is called to her friend’s hospital bedside. Her friend, Inseon is bedridden after being injured in a wood chopping accident. Kyungha is asked to go to Inseon’s home to feed her pet bird. She gets lost in a snowstorm and starts to consider the massacre 70 years before where 30,000 Jeju civilians were murdered.

This just wasn’t to my taste. It deals with a heavy topic but I just found the writing to be quite robotic and maybe that’s because of the translation. However, I can see many fans of Han Kang enjoying this.

A very slow, melancholic tale with a poetic writing style, that creates a strong sense of atmosphere, but let me down on pace, plot, and structure.

What worked for me:
* Inseon’s character was interesting: I loved how much she cared for her little birds and how interested she was in the world.
* The second part of the story, when Kyungha makes their way to Inseon’s house, was harrowing and tense. This was probably my favourite section because the pace was tight, there was a palpable sense of danger, and it offers us more balanced glimpses into Kyungha’s mind outside of the depression we’ve seen so far.
* The descriptions of winter and snow storms were expertly done.
* I liked the folklore elements.
* Some very powerful writing and phrases.

What I wasn’t so keen on:
* I found the Kyungha’s hopelessly bleak inner monologue difficult. The story really struggled to keep my attention until Inseon arrived on the scene and the pace and mood lifted a bit.
* The writing style was detached in a way that I struggled to connect with our characters emotionally.
* Pace was too slow, too repetitive, and too meandering for me
* They might’ve been going for a dream-like, hazy effect but the time and content jumps within sections were confusing and pulled me out of interesting arcs with unnecessary digression.
* The mood was bleak and melancholy creating a dark mood that I didn’t enjoy immersing myself in.
* I appreciated Kang shedding a light on them, but the detailed historical atrocities, and our characters’ personal connections with them, made for upsetting reading that weighed very heavily.

I wouldn’t say I enjoyed this (it’s painfully sad) but I am glad I read it. I’d heard such great things about Han Kang and was curious about her style. As a novella, this might’ve been emotional and impactful; but, as a novel, I found it repetitive, slow, and a little too bleak.

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.