Jeju, Jeong and Tangerines: Drama that will break you, then put you back together

Tangerines on a farm in Jeju / Courtesy of Hoyoung Choi

There are some television shows that entertain us. Some that challenge us. Many simply bore us or repeat tired tropes of the past. But then there are those rare stories that hold a mirror to our soul, to our lives, and quietly whisper, "This is you." It’s an unmistakable voice. Scary at first. Uncomfortable. But over time, you come to realize it’s importance. “When Life Gives You Tangerines” is a voice like this. Not just a Korean drama, but a meditation on life, death, love, and everything in between. A healing ritual disguised as entertainment.

The story, spread across three generations, is reminiscent of the struggles of “Pachinko,” the magic of “One Hundred Years of Solitude” and Mo Yan’s breathtaking “Red Sorghum.” Tales of generational fate, the push and pull of time, and how personal lives are woven into the larger universe of nature, economy, and history. It plays out first in the rugged, wind-swept beauty of Jeju Island and later in the concrete, pop-music filled, political streets of Seoul. And although it’s very much set in time, with some perhaps rightly pointing to its “Forest Gump” or “Ode to My Father”-like ability to continually provide bouts of nostalgia and references to events we had forgotten, it feels timeless. We watch as families grow and disintegrate, as people fall in and out of love, as dreams are born and quietly die. And through all of this, from our sofa or our bed, through our earphones as we sit watching in the local noodle joint, something extraordinary happens: we begin to reflect on our own lives. Our own families. Our choices. Our failures and our quiet successes. Our dreams that died.

There’s a peculiar, voyeuristic, kind of safety in watching someone else’s life unfold. A sanctuary. We’re constantly reminded by social media algorithms to curate ourselves into seamless, flaw-free beings; yet this drama invites us to remember our scars. It lets us cry, not out of sadness alone, but out of recognition. The tears feel medicinal. The smiles, warm. And the silences? Loudly Understanding.

This emotional resonance is not accidental. It stems from the writing as well as the performances. The characters are not ciphers. They are not idealized. They are, although admittedly far more beautiful, us: contradictory, confused, kind, spiteful, loving, broken and hopeful. Over time, we come to see that even those characters we initially judge harshly are shaped by histories and traumas we didn’t yet understand. Their decisions, no matter how flawed, begin to make sense. This is empathy, gently unwrapped. And do not sleep on the fact that the country’s biggest pop star is the lead and, just like in “My Mister,” IU puts in a brilliant performance.

Nature and nurture

In the first half of the drama, the main character isn’t human, however. It’s nature. Nature is present at every turning point: a funeral, a wedding, a moment of crisis, or celebration. It’s not a backdrop, it’s a living presence. Jeju’s natural rhythms dictate how people live, what they eat, what they believe. The dragon gods, sea spirits and mountain winds are not fantasy, they are truths as real as hunger or grief. Nature, in this world, is powerful but morally neutral. The rain is not cruel. The sun is not benevolent. Nature simply is. And in that quiet neutrality lies a kind of terrifying beauty. It reminds us of our place: not as masters, but as participants.

But nature slowly recedes in the second half of the drama, replaced by a new deity: the economy. The IMF arrives like a typhoon, disrupting lives and taking names. Money becomes the new wind, equally uncontrollable, equally impersonal. People stop praying to sea gods and begin worrying about stock prices. The existential dread remains, but its cause has shifted. What used to be a bad fishing season becomes a bad investment. And still, the people endure.

What’s powerful, and perhaps particularly Korean, is that the drama refuses to present clear villains or heroes. People make mistakes, sometimes unforgivable ones. But we’re shown the full arc, the weight behind each misstep. Cruelty is traced back to loss. Jealousy stems from abandonment. Rather than excuse these actions, the show asks us to understand them. And in understanding, perhaps we can forgive. Not for their sake, but for ours.

An invisible hug

Running through all of this is a uniquely Korean concept: jeong. It’s difficult to translate: not just love, different from affection. Jeong is the invisible thread that binds people. It’s the quiet loyalty to your family, your neighbor and your old school friend. It’s an invisible hug. A soft tug at your sleeve reminding you that you are part of a web. Western translations of the drama, regrettably, often leave out these nuances while the Korean dialogue constantly reminds us of relational roles: “Ae-son’s mother,” “She’s Bu Sang-gil’s daughter,” “She’s the village grandmother.” Titles define people, not in terms of hierarchy, but in connection.

In this worldview, you can’t be human by yourself. Your humanity is defined by your relationships. Only in total isolation, perhaps in the hyper-individualism sometimes celebrated in modern life, do you begin to lose your humanity. This drama whispers that truth repeatedly. Through a kind word. Through rice. And through silence shared between people who once hated each other.

Strangely, this deeply affecting and culturally rich drama has gone largely unnoticed by British media. The Guardian and BBC have remained silent. Compare that with the enthusiastic coverage of “Squid Game,” a series filled with blood, betrayal, and death. Western outlets, consciously or not, often gravitate toward dystopian visions of Korea. These narratives make for better headlines. They highlight suicide, overwork and alienation. But they miss something essential. They miss jeong. They miss the soft strength of familial bonds. They miss the beauty of imperfection, the poetry in mundane daily life. And before I forget, yes. This whole drama is a poem. A poem written by the character Oh Ae-sun and eventually published. Each chapter of her life is finally recorded and written down by her when she has the courage to face her past, in all its glories and hardships.

“When Life Gives You Tangerines” offers that. It tells the truth. A slow, quiet truth about what it means to live, to age, to regret, to forgive. In doing so, it reminds us that we’re not alone. That our pain is not unique. That our joy is not foolish. That healing is possible, even if only through a screen, with a cup of tea, and a few gentle tears rolling down our cheek.

And perhaps that is the most we can ask for from art. Not answers, but recognition. Not escape, but return. Not perfection, but presence. When life gives you tangerines, you sit down, peel them slowly, and begin again. Because life finds a way.