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Tracing Han Kang's literary journey through Gwangju's darkest days
Water sprays from the fountain at May 18 Democracy Square in Gwangju, April 29. A monument marking the site of the 1980 pro-democracy uprising stands in front, with the former South Jeolla Provincial Office, currently under renovation, seen in the background. Korea Times photo by Pyo Kyung-min
By Pyo Kyung-min
'The Provincial Office Complaints Department, please.' She dialed the number she was given and waited again. 'I've just seen water coming out of the fountain, and I don't think it should be allowed.' Tremulous at first, her voice became clearer as she carried on speaking.
'What I mean is, how can it have started operating again already? It's been dry ever since the uprising began, and now it's back on again, as though everything's back to normal. How can that be possible?'
Han Kang, "Human Acts"
GWANGJU — Standing in the May 18 Democratic Square in Gwangju, watching jets of water shoot into the air from the plaza's fountain, it is hard not to think of Han Kang, the novelist who surprised the nation after winning the Nobel Prize in literature last year, and her 2014 work, "Human Acts."
The fountain's spray, so ordinary on the surface, is the very image Han described after witnessing it during a research trip to the city, refracted through the eyes of Eun-sook, a fictional editor living in 1985, five years after "the incident."
A young civilian protester, left, is marched away a soldier shortly after government forces retook control of the former South Jeolla Provincial Office from protesters, May 27, 1980. Korea Times file
Still reeling from its aftermath, Eun-sook lives under an authoritarian regime, enduring state censorship and physical abuse by police. In that suffocating atmosphere, she finds herself briefly recalling the fountain.
The water of the fountain, absent during the uprising, is now flowing again.
Outraged by the sudden return to normalcy, she remembers picking up a public phone and filing a complaint. How could the city dare turn the water back on, as if nothing had happened? As if the dead had never existed?
Nearly 45 years later, the same fountain still surges in the heart of Gwangju. The "glittering jets of water," as Eun-sook describes them, still shoot skyward, their "sharp little shards" catching the light, just as they catch her grief.
Standing in the same square this May, months after a brief flare of political unrest in Korea, visitors to the historic city that was the site of so much trauma find themselves asking the same questions as Han's novel.
What things that must never be forgotten? And what part of ourselves must stay most awake?
An illustration of Jeong-mi, a character from the novel, is displayed at the "Human Acts" special exhibition at the May 18 Archives, Gwangju, April 29. Jeong-mi is a fictionalized victim who dies during the Gwangju Uprising. Korea Times photo by Pyo Kyung-min
Humans act, they write, they remember
In Korea's sharply divided political landscape, creating works that engage with narratives from modern history is no small feat, especially when that history still remains raw and unresolved.
But Han has never shied away from the challenge.
Through her fiction works, Han doesn't simply revisit historical events, but uses them to explore violence, trauma and the fragile resilience of the human spirit. For Han, "writing about historical events is a vow to stand against violence and an ultimate question about human nature," as she said in a recent lecture.
That conviction finds its most haunting expression in "Human Acts," which is grounded in one of Korea's darkest chapters: the 1980 Gwangju Uprising, also known as the May 18 Democratization Movement.
In May 1980, citizens of the southwestern city rose up against a military regime led by Chun Doo-hwan, which had seized power in a coup just months earlier.
What began as a protest for democracy was met with violent repression. Government forces stormed the city, firing on unarmed civilians, beating and torturing protesters and summarily executing people.
Soldiers occupy the streets of Gwangju to suppress pro-democracy protesters during the Gwangju Uprising in May 1980. Han Kang, whose novel "Human Acts" depicts the trauma and aftermath of the uprising, was awarded the Nobel Prize in literature in 2024. Korea Times file
The scars of that uprising still run deep, not just in Gwangju, but across the nation.
Han renders these events with an unblinking eye.
"Human Acts" doesn't flinch from brutality, but rather offers vivid and often agonizing details. Each chapter gives voice to those left behind — a grieving friend, a traumatized editor and a mother waiting for her son's return.
The heartache is intentional. Han spent years researching the events of the uprising, walking the streets of Gwangju, speaking with survivors and bereaved families and combing through documents to ensure that the brutal truth wouldn't be forgotten.
With "Human Acts," Han doesn't just tell a story, nor does she intend to provide factual evidence. What she does is preserve personal memories, insisting that the individual pain of the people of Gwangju remain visible in a country still grappling with how to deal with its past.
A mother of a fallen activist mourns her son during a memorial ceremony at the May 18 National Cemetery in Gwangju on May 17, 2023, a day before the 43rd anniversary of the Gwangju Uprising. Yonhap
'Gwangju Acts'
The Gwangju that Han must have seen, the stretch of Geumnam-ro where protests once surged, is more than just a street. It stands as a scar, a place where the violence portrayed in "Human Acts" feels closest and most tangible.
A subway ride through the city leads to Culture Complex Station, the home of May 18 Democracy Square. Now a public plaza, it once stood in silent witness as the state turned its weapons on its own people.
Traces of that history remain embedded in the square.
Standing tall in the center of the plaza is the former South Jeolla Provincial Hall, currently under renovation. While its structure is now wrapped in construction material, blocking it from sight, the building is known to be one of the final strongholds for the civilians during the uprising.
A ceremony marking the 40th anniversary of the May 18 Gwangju Uprising takes place at May 18 Democracy Square in Gwangju in 2020.
Korea Times file
During the uprising's final hours, 14 people were killed there on May 27, 1980, while resisting martial law forces. Among them was Moon Jae-hak, a high school student whose body was discovered on the building's third floor.
It was this boy, just 17 when he was shot, who inspired the character Dong-ho in "Human Acts." His body was hastily buried in Mangwol-dong Cemetery, where it was later identified by his family.
While Han's story revolves around the boy, the novel also expands outward, tracing the emotional aftermath through the voices of those who knew him.
The bodies of victims of the Gwangju Uprising lie on the ground following the final military crackdown at the South Jeolla Provincial Office on May 27, 1980, captured by a Hankook Ilbo journalist. Korea Times file
You disliked the shadowed places where the trees blocked out the sun. When I wanted to walk there to escape the heat, you tugged me by the wrist as hard as you could, back to where it was bright. ... 'Let's walk over there, Mom. Where it's sunny. We might as well, right?'
Pretending that you were too strong for me, I let you pull me along. 'It's sunny over there, Mom. And there's lots of flowers, too. Why are we walking in the dark? Let's go over there, where the flowers are blooming.'
Han Kang, "Human Acts"
In the penultimate chapter, Dong-ho's mother remembers her son as someone drawn to the light. This memory becomes a metaphor for a boy who refused to seek safety, choosing instead to walk toward what he believed was right.
Even now, standing before the old provincial hall, his presence lingers, the memory of a young life cut short. His decision to stay asks visitors to consider what it means to follow the light, even when faced with overwhelming force.
Not far from the hall stands the Democracy Plaza clock tower, a structure that has also borne witness to Gwangju's past.
Donated by a Japanese group in 1971, the clock was once a common meeting point for citizens. During the uprising, clashes unfolded beneath its face, making the clock's steady rhythm a quiet counterpoint to the chaos it overlooked.
In Han's novel, Dong-ho watches as citizens sing the national anthem in the square, some even climbing on top of the clock tower to create a moment of unity, made all the more haunting by the massacre that came next.
Bullet marks from the Gwangju Uprising in May 1980 are visible on the exterior wall of Jeonil Building 245 in Gwangju. Korea Times photo by Pyo Kyung-min
Gwangju has designated 29 historical sites connected to the uprising, linking them through a path called "The May Road," or "Owolgil" in Korean.
While the name carries weight, some of the sites have been overtaken by time. Several buildings have been demolished, while others have been occupied by ordinary businesses.
No, none of us fired our guns. None of us killed anybody. Even when the soldiers stormed up the stairs and emerged towards us out of the darkness, none of our group fired their guns. It was impossible for them to pull the trigger, knowing that a person would die if they did so. They were children. We had handed out guns to children, guns they were not capable of firing.
Han Kang, "Human Acts"
Yet one place, Jeonil Building 245, remains striking in its preservation. Renovated and now open to the public, the building invites visitors to witness what remains.
Bullet holes still mark its outer walls — physical traces of the violence that once poured through the city. During safety inspections ahead of the building's refurbishment, forensic teams discovered evidence on its 10th floor that confirmed what had long been denied: Helicopters had been used to fire on civilians.
As Han writes, the citizens who filled this building weren't there to kill. The government forces, by contrast, arrived with the sole intent to crush lives, bringing helicopters and live ammunition into the heart of the city.
That trauma is etched into every corner of Jeonil Building 245. Preserved in their original state, the bullet-riddled walls and floors — now marked to indicate points of impact — bear witness to the fear civilians once felt and remind that such violence still exists in other parts of the world.
The building does not offer closure. It stands instead as a reminder that history, even when buried, leaves a mark.
The May 18 Archives showcases artifacts and exhibits related to the Gwangju Uprising of May 1980. Courtesy of Korea Tourism Organization
Truth archives
Before leaving Geumnam-ro, one final stop adds essential context: the May 18 Archives. Located in the former Gwangju Catholic Center, an important location during the uprising, the archives house records, testimonies and artifacts from Gwangju's struggle for democracy.
The archive's permanent exhibition is arranged into four sections — resistance, documentation, legacy and preservation — offering a layered narrative of the events.
The ongoing "Human Acts" special exhibition, running through Oct. 19, has particular resonance for visitors this year.
The exhibit traces the historical roots of Han's novel, affirming the aptness of its English title, "Human Acts," over the original Korean, which roughly translates to "The Boy is Coming." It reminds visitors that the people behind the novel, whose lives shaped its terrifying scenes, were indeed real.
Structured in four parts, the exhibition mostly centers on unnamed, ordinary citizens, with real records from letters to newspaper scraps with truths that blur the boundary between story and testimony.
The exhibition also looks at how memory shapes the present. Its closing section highlights Gwangju’s place in Korean history, from Nobel prizes to international editions of "Human Acts."
A recreation of a coffin for victims of the Gwangju Uprising is seen at the ongoing "Human Acts" exhibition, at the May 18 Archives in Gwangju, April 29. Korea Times photo by Pyo Kyung-min
After you died, I couldn't hold a funeral. So these eyes that once beheld you became a shrine. These ears that once heard your voice became a shrine. These lungs that once inhaled your breath became a shrine.
The flowers that bloom in spring, the willows, the raindrops, and snowflakes became shrines. The mornings ushering in each day, the evenings that daily darken became shrines.
Han Kang, "Human Acts"
For many, unlike the survivor Eun-sook, life has not become a shrine. The nation moved on, and so did its people.
But in Gwangju, there are silent and persistent reminders.
The narrator remembers Jin-su, a young man driven to suicide by the trauma of torture, and asks whether human nature is fundamentally cruel. Is the dignity we hold onto merely self-deception, a fragile mask to hide what we are capable of?
Walking through Gwangju doesn't offer easy answers.
What becomes clear, however, is that the spirit of Gwangju has not faded into history.
The burden of memory is no longer carried by survivors alone. Shared memory alone cannot remake the world, but it refuses to let what happened, and what might still be happening in other parts of the world, be forgotten.
And perhaps, in the end, that is what it means to act human.