Han Kang, the first Korean winner of the Nobel Prize in literature /Courtesy of Munhakdongne

Korea often exists in the space between two worlds, seen through distant eyes. One world is polished, gleaming — a place where idols dance with precision and Gen Z kids from Indonesia to Italy look upon it with admiration through TikToks and Insta reels. Korea is draped in vibes, as though all of life here moves to the filtered choreography of a billion-dollar entertainment company.

But then there is another Korea. A shadow. A reflection where darkness conquers life. Born from the imaginations of storytellers, Korea is haunted by the monsters we see in "Squid Game," "Kingdom" and "Sweet Home." Creatures lurk in corners, and violence festers just beneath every surface. A dystopia, where survival comes at the cost of morality, and the line between life and death blurs. Yet, in truth, neither image holds the essence of the country.

Unspoken Monsters

The monsters in Han Kang's works are not born of fantasy. They do not hide in the shadows or emerge from the unknown. They are us. They are Korean history, the weight of what we have endured, and the silence the people carry. In her writing, Han Kang confronts these monsters — Korea's past, its wounds, its people. She speaks the words we are told not to say, the things we are told should remain unsaid. The massacres. The death. And the blood. Han reminds us of them. She questions our silence.

In "Human Acts" she writes, "Why would you sing the national anthem for people who'd been killed by soldiers? Why cover the coffin with the Taegukgi? As though it wasn't the nation itself that had murdered them."

"But the generals are rebels, they seized power unlawfully. You must have seen it: people being beaten and stabbed in broad daylight, and even shot. How can you call them the nation?"

Here Han speaks truth to power. She has the courage to say that those with guns, those who proclaimed themselves king, were little more than the instigators of violence against their own people. Villains willing to sacrifice the lives of their fellow countrymen in order that they might maintain a hold over the destiny of the nation.

Yet she does not speak with the detached voice of an observer. Han Kang draws her language from the soil of her homeland. Even her name is testament to this. She writes with the dialect of the South, with the intimate rhythms of memory. In her books, we hear the echoes of Gwangju, feel the weight of Jeju's silences, where the dialect itself becomes resistance, we feel the lives of women.

In this way, Han Kang's voice, though deeply personal, carries the weight of an entire nation. We hear not just one woman, but the voices of those who have lived, resisted and been silenced. Her words are democracy, a cry for freedom. Simultaneously a protest and a promise. And in her words, Korea becomes more than a place — it becomes a memory, a history, a shared pain that we are still learning to carry. She writes for all of us.

The silence of the Blacklist

I see Han Kang as continuing the tradition of writers such as Park No-hae, the dissident poet who dared to suggest the treasures of the nation belonged to the people rather than the politicians. His 1984 collection "Dawn of Labor" (published under a pseudonym) made him a figure of resistance and a wanted man by the government. He was eventually sentenced to life in prison, though many at the time called for the death penalty. Life in prison for writing poems. Such a remarkable change that modern writers are now awarded prizes and money for their efforts.

It has been ten years since the Korean government placed a series of artists on a blacklist. Those who told Korea's stories, who spoke in the language of film and art — Park Chan-wook ("Decision to Leave"), Bong Joon-ho ("Parasite"), Hwang Dong-hyuk ("Squid Game") and Han Kang, were denied access to funding and government support for the supposed treason. Power attempted to place their voices in the quiet margins of a country that has known the weight of censorship in its recent history. The irony being that while the world celebrates their stories, their own country once sought to silence them.

Perhaps it is this very silence that the world now wants to hear. Korean stories, shaped by the history of suppression. Stories that resonate with a truth that cannot be easily erased. The world listens because, in these stories, there is something both familiar and foreign. We should not assume that the blacklist was just a list of names. It is a reminder of what can be lost when voices are silenced. Bravo to those who will not be silenced. Han's refusal to celebrate in light of the ongoing global conflicts is further evidence that she lives the life she portrays.

Wave of Hope

Yesterday, joy rippled across social media. Messages burst forth — full of hope, of pride. Working at a women's university here in Seoul, I saw it in the eyes of my students, in the words and emoticons shared through their Instagram posts. This moment, this award, carried weight. It wasn't just about literature. It was about being seen. That it was Han Kang who had won this award, and not a man surrounded by rumors of improper sexual conduct, one called a "Monster" by Choe Youngmi in 2017, was important.

It was not just a literary triumph. It was personal. Han Kang's words had always carried the weight of history, of loss, of memory. Now, her victory brings with it something else — an invitation. A chance for women to imagine themselves not just as readers but as writers, not just as witnesses but as participants in the telling of their own stories. The chance to be the voice of Korea, and of democracy. Han's words may well have planted a seed in the souls of the next generation, those who will pick up their pens and dare to write about the things that have long been left unspoken.

In this moment, the prize was not just hers. It belonged to all of us.

David A. Tizzard has a doctorate in Korean Studies and lectures at Seoul Women's University and Hanyang University. He is a social-cultural commentator and musician who has lived in Korea for nearly two decades. He is also the host of the "Korea Deconstructed" podcast, which can be found online. He can be reached at datizzard@swu.ac.kr.