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The burden of sorrow in a divided world

Published: 11 Mar. 2025, 00:04 Updated: 11 Mar. 2025, 14:27

Kim Mi-ok

The author is a writer and literary critic.

These days, I hesitate to attend gatherings. Even when we explicitly agree to avoid political discussions, conflict inevitably arises. Not long ago, a friend who had their land forcibly expropriated expressed frustration over the compensation, yet remarked that capitalism was still preferable to the state ownership of land under communism. This offhand comment ignited an ideological debate.

“The antithesis of capitalism isn’t communism — it’s democracy. Educate yourself.”

The friend who tried to mediate was met with scorn. “Any sentence that starts with ‘however’ or ‘but’ is just nonsense.” In other words, pick a side. As we parted ways, the mediator confided in me, saying they felt sad. Yet their face was not one of sorrow but of anger.

Protesters against the impeachment of President Yoon Suk Yeol, left, and protesters for the impeachment of Yoon both rally in central Seoul on March 1. [NEWS1]

The word “sorrow” reminds me of novelist Park Wan-suh (1931-2011). In 2001, when writer Lee Mun-yeol published a column criticizing left-wing civic groups, people began burning his books in protest. Park Wan-suh, believing such actions to be misguided, attempted to dissuade them — only to face intense backlash herself. Some called her stance moderate; others dismissed it as mere indecisiveness. It was in this climate that she wrote her essay “A Writer’s Sorrow”:

“I like engagement, and I like purity. I even enjoy observing the clash between engaged and pure literature. But when asked to choose a side — engagement or purity — I am left with nothing but sorrow.”

For a writer who had suffered at the hands of both ideological camps during the Korean War, losing family in the process, partisanship was not a matter of debate but a source of profound grief.

Illustration o novelist Park Wan-shu [KIM JI-YOON]

Recently, a president detained for 52 days on charges of insurrection was released. The court ruled against his continued detention, and the prosecution chose not to appeal. Immediately, a wave of criticism fell upon both the judiciary and the prosecution. Reading the news, I was reminded of Germany’s Weimar culture.

Following its defeat in World War I, Germany underwent the November Revolution, which dismantled the monarchy and established parliamentary democracy. Hope filled the air. To escape the chaos of Berlin, leaders drafted the new constitution in Weimar, giving birth to the so-called Weimar Constitution. Social upheaval swept through the country, yet the judicial system, dominated by the conservative establishment, remained untouched. Judges, prosecutors, and the privileged class formed an alliance, targeting the left. Political violence erupted on both sides, but the courts handed down only lenient sentences to right-wing offenders.

Historical records show that of 22 cases involving leftist crimes, 10 resulted in the death penalty, with the rest receiving severe punishment. In contrast, of 354 right-wing assassinations, all but one resulted in acquittals. Even Adolf Hitler, an Austrian by birth, was sentenced to a mere nine months in prison for his attempted coup — deemed a mere act of patriotism. Law existed, but its application was arbitrary, determined by the whims of judges and prosecutors. Signs of impending catastrophe were everywhere. Bureaucrats evaded responsibility, judicial rulings skewed sharply to the right, and the press descended into sensationalism. No newspaper warned of the elite steering the country toward ruin. The only voice of reason, the Frankfurter Zeitung, went largely unread.

In the end, Germany, weary of disorder, invited dictatorship upon itself. The rise of Hitler was, in part, the result of intellectuals doing nothing. Had the people truly believed in democracy, they would not have merely paid lip service to it.

Paradoxically, amid this turbulence, Weimar culture — the Renaissance of the 20th century — was born. In Weimar, artists fused art with technology, heralding a new creative era. The Bauhaus school, founded by architect Walter Gropius, boasted faculty like Paul Klee and Wassily Kandinsky. Literature, visual arts, theater, science, and architecture thrived, ushering in a brief golden age that lasted 13 years — until Hitler took power. The Nazis shut down schools and persecuted artists. What had flourished in the chaos of political and economic turmoil was ultimately forced into exile, scattering the spirit of artistic freedom across the world.

Korea, too, endured upheaval — from Japanese colonial rule to military dictatorship — before democracy took root. Political purges masqueraded as justice, and the judiciary often stood at the center of power struggles. Yet amid this turmoil, writers, painters, and musicians emerged. However, as the legal system encroached upon artistic expression, authors faced relentless scrutiny. Judges who refused to engage in critical thought, prosecutors fixated on legal jargon — these figures were more dangerous than the artists they condemned as subversive. Artists were imprisoned and persecuted simply for possessing a free spirit, yet their resilience remained unbroken.

Today, Korea is a cultural powerhouse, producing musicians, painters, and writers adored worldwide. The Nobel Prize in Literature is now within reach, a pinnacle of this artistic evolution. I believe our cultural richness was nourished by the sorrow of the artists who came before us. It is the role of art to transform sorrow into catharsis.

Translated using generative AI and edited by Korea JoongAng Daily staff.