A Letter from Uncle to Nobel Literature Laureate Han Kang

Han Kang, who won the 2024 Nobel Prize in Literature, became a subject of controversy in Korea. This was due to ethical concerns surrounding her work The Vegetarian, as well as interpretative debates about Korean modern history in some of her other works. In this context, her uncle wrote her a lengthy letter, stating that her biased portrayal of historical events was a significant flaw as a writer. At the end of the letter, he expressed his hope that her writing would inspire feelings of love and kindness, rather than resentment, in her readers.

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Dear Niece,

I sincerely congratulate you on receiving the Nobel Prize in Literature. This is not only a monumental personal achievement but also a glorious moment for your father, esteemed writer Han Seung-won, and a triumph for Korea. I’ve received a number of congratulatory messages and calls from acquaintances who know our relationship.

Having spent the past 40 years writing over a hundred papers and research reports, I know that crafting even a single piece is a struggle akin to wrestling with oneself. How much more challenging must it be to bring the imagined world to life in writing! It’s no wonder creative writing is often compared to the pain of childbirth. Particularly, in terms of length, I imagine the labor involved in writing novels is beyond comprehension. I’ve had my own experience writing some short stories, poems, and essays in the past, so I can somewhat relate.

How could a few words ever convey my respect and admiration for the accomplishments you’ve achieved over nearly 30 years? Nonetheless, I send my heartfelt congratulations.

Additionally, I want to extend my warmest congratulations to your father and mother. Your father, who toiled tirelessly in his youth, may now see this as a kind of recompense. Balancing his role as a teacher, a writer, and a provider for three children, while also caring for three younger siblings and playing the role of head of a large family, he was nothing short of a giant among men. Like Kazantzakis’ ‘Zorba the Greek’ or Nietzsche’s ‘Übermensch,’ your father embodied a remarkable spirit.

He was my hero throughout my youth, and I grew up in his shadow, influenced by his extraordinary qualities. Your father, recognizing my literary talent, once suggested we live as brother writers, like Kim Won-il and Kim Won-woo, once my military service exemption ended. I, in turn, supported his transition to full-time writing by sending him more than half of my monthly salary for the first four years after he left his teaching position. I still remember that you were in elementary school at that time. Furthermore, your father went so far as to have the revered writer Lee Ho-cheol officiate my wedding to help establish me as a writer.

When I think back on the difficult and painful ten years I spent living in your father’s house with our two younger sisters, it brings a lump to my throat. Our family was relatively well-off until my father passed, but after his death, we were beset by a series of unfortunate events that plunged us into darkness, leaving us in difficult financial circumstances. From middle school onwards, I lived in Gwangju with our older brother, moving a couple of times before eventually settling in a traditional Korean house built by his in-laws.

That house was located near the train station and a battery factory, where we had to contend with dust from the unpaved roads and listen to the boisterous noise of nearby townspeople every night. You were a child then, and I was going through high school and university. The memories from those times still bring me heartache.

One late night during my second year of high school, your father, who had come home drunk, called me out to the veranda and said, “Our family has always been made up of writers. There needs to be a military man among us. Maybe it would be good for you to enter the Army Academy.” He continued, “I was called in and told that if I continued to write like I was, they’d be forced to dismiss me. Though I dislike the regime, I think it’s worth considering.” He embraced me, and we both cried for a long time on the veranda.

Your father often fell ill, likely due to the difficulty of balancing teaching with his writing, yet every night, I’d hear the constant rhythm of his typewriter while I made my way through middle and high school, as well as university. I remember even getting cramps in my legs from reading through the drafts he’d used as bathroom tissue, having revised them extensively.

Your early years remain vivid in my memory. You were always calm, introspective, and often seemed lost in thought while lying alone in your room. When you were a baby, I even carried you on my back a few times while your mother cooked outside. And though I am ashamed to admit it, I was so exasperated by your crying once that I pinched you, making you cry even louder. I apologize deeply for that incident.

I remember the time when you, just five years old, colored over one of my university English composition reports. I ended up submitting it as it was, with an explanation of why it looked that way—and my professor surprisingly gave me an ‘Excellent.’

One time, your father proposed that I reward you if you could memorize your English textbook by the end of your second year of middle school. Astonishingly, within three months, you flawlessly recited the entire textbook, even the exercises, in one sitting. I was dumbfounded, realizing then the extraordinary mind you possessed.

The last time I saw you was eighteen years ago at your father’s Kim Dong-ri Literary Award ceremony. This is the first time since then that I’m reaching out, albeit through an open letter, due to the complete lack of contact between our families and my inability to find your address or phone number. I had mixed emotions upon hearing about your Man Booker Prize win and even more so when I heard about the Nobel. In addition to my joy, I felt a sense of shock and worry. I wondered if, perhaps, this recognition might draw your family further from God’s salvation or if it would become a point of contention in Korean society.

Since your award announcement, I have been deeply troubled by the criticisms about the explicit content and youth-unsuitability of your work. I am especially worried that works like “The Vegetarian” might instill distorted moral and sexual views in young readers or even inspire harmful behavior.

As your uncle, a pastor, a once aspiring writer who found Christ, and a man who has dedicated his life to serving both his country and his faith, I am compelled to speak my heart, despite knowing I may be criticized for doing so. This letter comes from a place of deep concern for our nation’s people, their souls, and their future.

May I offer some reflections on the Nobel Prize, the criticisms your work has faced, and my hopes for the future? Although this letter may sting, I hope that you understand that it is written with the love of a concerned uncle who believes you can bring light and hope to this world.

It pains me to see that while the Nobel Prize is a source of great pride, it has also fueled such divisive discussions in Korea. But my hope is that you, like Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, or Pasternak, might one day be recognized not just for the recognition you’ve achieved, but for touching hearts with stories that transcend despair and darkness, shedding light on our shared humanity.

May you meet Christ, the true light, who brought healing and salvation to so many. May you find within this light an even greater strength and peace to inspire lives and foster unity in a world that so deeply needs hope.

Sending my love and prayers for you,

November 7, 2024

Pastor Han Chung-won
In Angol, Daejeon