Take a walk in the forest with snowflakes glistening in the sunlight shining between the clouds. Feather-light snowflakes land on the bridge of nose and lips. The scene from the novel We Do Not Part, written by Han Kang who was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature, is ethereal.
If you ever find yourself being served red bean juk to confront the fury of cold and hungry journey, the juk feels like a reward nothing short of heavenly.
As I kept reading, the story of bullets shattered the romantic masquerade of the woodlands landscape. The plot of social unrest followed by massacre, in a location Han Kang dared not name, made me shiver. Oh no, there were hundred thousand people slain; the dead bodies were washed out to sea, or abandoned in the cobalt mine. One of those who were imprisoned, but not shot, wrote, "I'm well, there's really no need for you to worry. I have six years still to serve, but considering how many folk from Jeju were sentenced to fifteen and even seventeen years, I'm one of the lucky ones."
The more I read, the more I understood the meaning of the red bean juk. Because of the curfew, the gunshot victims could not go to the hospital. To make up for all the blood loss, the only chance to live would be to drink their own blood. If not, the red bean juk. My goodness.
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