4th-generation Koryoin Irina Park recounts life of her great-grandfather

Fourth-generation Koryoin Irina Park holds a photograph of her great grandfather during an interview at Hankook Ilbo headquarters in Seoul, Aug. 5. Korea Times photo by Choi Ju-yeon

By Hankookilbo

• Published Aug 20, 2026 12:10 AM KST

Letter traces life of Park Kyung-hwan, unknown ordinary soldier of Korean Independence Army in Russia's Far East

A black-and-white photograph sits inside the file folder of Irina Park, 37, a fourth-generation Koryoin, who works in trade in Seoul. Koryoin, also known as Koryo-saram, are ethnic Koreans from former Soviet republics.

The young man in the photograph, whose records were written in 1937, was also 37 at the time. Nearly nine decades later, Park, now the same age as the man in the photograph, quietly speaks to the 37-year-old Park Kyung-hwan of 1937.

Dear Kyung-hwan,

It has been several years since I began searching for traces of you, and only now have I finally come face to face with you.

When I first unfolded that old black-and-white photograph, your eyes and lips strangely did not seem unfamiliar. I stared at you for a long time, struck by your gentle eyes and full lips, and by how much your handsome face resembled my father’s.

The only record we had of you was the three Korean characters that made up your name — Park Kyung-hwan — written on my grandfather’s birth certificate.

As an ethnic Korean living in Tajikistan, where fewer than 500 members of our community remain, we always wondered how a young Korean man came to this distant land. We could only assume that you were one of the many Koreans swept into Central Asia by the forced deportation of 1937.

Relatives who spent time with you during your lifetime say you rarely spoke about your past. Perhaps your wounds had faded enough that you no longer felt the need to talk about them. Or perhaps, as the head of your household, you felt it would be unfair to burden your family with the hardships you had endured.

My questions about you grew stronger when I turned 35.

I earned my bachelor’s degree in Korea at 20, followed by master’s and doctoral degrees in Europe and Britain. Yet, in the end, my heart remained in Korea. After returning to Seoul, I decided to search for my roots.

A line I had read somewhere stayed with me: “People are like trees. To live properly, you must know your roots.”

Armed with nothing more than your birth certificate bearing your three-character name, I began knocking on the doors of Russian public archives.

After a long wait, I obtained dusty records from archives including the State Archive of Khabarovsk Krai. Among them were an autobiographical statement you had handwritten in the 1930s, as well as personnel records and other documents.

That was when I learned that you had been a fighter for Korean independence.

In 1919, at the age of 20, you left your parents and joined the Hong Beom-do partisan unit in Manchuria.

Your title was simply that of an ordinary soldier.

When commanders, including General Hong Beom-do, devised strategies, you and fellow soldiers fought on the front lines to carry them out.

I had heard about Korean independence fighters who operated in Russia’s Far East. I never imagined that you were one of them.

I learned that you also took part in the Battle of Cheongsan-ri in 1920, when Korean independence forces led by Generals Kim Jwa-jin and Hong Beom-do fought the Japanese army.

After more than 10 fierce engagements, the Korean forces inflicted a major defeat on the Japanese.

At a time when Korea had no country of its own, the victory won by you and thousands of fellow soldiers who risked their lives must have given enormous strength to our people.

Reading about it brought tears to my eyes.

But the joy of victory was short-lived.

Fleeing the Japanese army’s relentless pursuit during the Gyeongsin Massacre, you left Manchuria and headed toward Russia’s Primorsky region and Svobodny.

I can only imagine that the journey was filled with blood and tears.

When you finally reached a foreign land, you witnessed the deaths of fellow fighters and the dissolution of your unit in the tragedy now known as the Free City Incident.

How lonely and painful that must have been.

Yet you did not give up your weapon. You eventually became part of the Soviet regular army, continuing to look for an opportunity to fight for Korea’s independence.

After reading all these records, I once again looked at your face in the faded photograph.

Our eyes met across the decades, and something inside me sank.

You had a youthful face that reminded me of my father.

Then I realized that you had been 37 when the document was prepared — exactly the age I am today.

There you stood: Park Kyung-hwan, the friend I had finally met after crossing nearly a century of time.

Kyung-hwan, you are my great-grandfather.

You were only 20 when you left your parents and headed for the battlefield.

Whenever I see the faces of 20-year-olds laughing on the streets of Hongdae in Seoul, I cannot help but see your face from a century ago.

I eventually broke down in tears while speaking to a reporter about your life.

I am grateful that, after leaving the independence forces, you had the opportunity to study at Khabarovsk Communist Agricultural College while participating in party activities.

That late education may have been what preserved your handwritten records — and allowed me to find you 100 years later.

After leaving the independence army, you had to support a household of seven, including your parents-in-law.

You worked tirelessly as a fisherman and a dock laborer, doing whatever work you could to put food on the table.

Your children grew up eating guksi, a Koryoin-style noodle dish, and carrot kimchi, and they learned to speak Korean.

The descendants who grew up on that food earned through your sweat are now living in Korea.

In many ways, the trajectory of my life resembles yours.

Just as you moved from Korea to Manchuria and then from Manchuria to Russia as a young man, I too left Tajikistan for Korea at 20, then moved to Europe and Britain before returning once again to Korea.

For the most part, I have lived a happy life. But at times, I have also felt very lonely.

Two years ago, our family finally found your grave at a private cemetery in Tajikistan.

The grave had been overgrown with weeds, apparently untouched for many years.

We renovated it so that you, who had endured hardship throughout your life, could finally rest in peace.

Now, our family gathers at your grave to pay our respects on Hansik, the traditional Korean day of visiting ancestral graves, and during Chuseok.

During our most recent visit, I placed glutinous rice snacks I had bought in Korea in front of your gravestone.

I wonder if you would have liked them.

I look at the life of my great-grandfather, who settled in a foreign land where he knew neither the language nor anyone else, sent his children to school, farmed the land and refused to give up.

His life reminds me that, no matter how difficult life becomes, we can overcome it.

I will carry that legacy with me as I build my own life in Korea.

Great-grandfather, I hope there were people by your side during those long and lonely years.

On the land you gave your life to protect, I will live on as your proud great-granddaughter.

This article from the Hankook Ilbo, the sister publication of The Korea Times, is translated by a generative AI system and edited by The Korea Times.