Courtesy of Sebastien Gabriel

What does it mean to be progressive? Does progressive mean supporting or criticizing North Korea? Does it mean recognizing women as different from men or as the same as men? Does it mean championing the striking doctors or wanting more of them back in work to care for the people of the country?

One idea might say that being progressive means believing in hope. It embraces a vision of world not yet realized but nevertheless achievable. It is a dream of a better tomorrow. But it then takes this dream and goes one step further. It seeks action. It is not content to merely let things unfold to a dice-playing god or idea of providence. Instead, those with the vision are given a responsibility to give birth to the reality.

The vision itself, often conceived in abstract or literary terms, is not just a refinement or adjustment of an existing order. It is not tinkering or optimization. Instead, it is a complete and utter transformation. A change in the way things change. In such a framework, the person's responsibility is Gandhian: to actually be the change we hope to see in the world.

Park No-hae

I've recently read a lot of poems written by the Korean poet Park No-hae. You can find a lot of content created by him on Instagram or Twitter: aphorisms and daily doses on wisdom delivered in Korean and English, accompanied by beautiful photos he took himself. Yet, his online presence notwithstanding, Park doesn't seek attention. Despite being one of the country's most important poets, he is not trying to capitalize on the buzz and hype surrounding anything with a K. He is unlike Hwang Seok-young and Han Kang; you won't find his name mentioned in the Guardian or in western press. Instead, Park has chosen to live a very quiet and simple life in the Korean countryside. He has shunned interviews for the longest time.

Born in 1957 in Hampyeong, South Jeolla Province, his original name was Park Gi-pyeong. The pen-name he adopted and later became known by is symbolic: "No" means labor and "Hae" means liberation. For those living in Korea, it's the same "hae" found in the first character of the well-known area, Haebangchon: Liberation village.

In 1984, the country was under the military dictatorship of General Chun Do-hwan. The memory of the Gwangju massacre of 1980 hung in the air. Although the country was getting richer, and a conscious government policy of sex and sports was titillating the masses, freedom and democracy were still yet to be achieved. Generals ruled the land and tried to hide the fact by swapping their combat fatigues for suits. At the age of 27, Park published his first book: "Dawn of Labor" (Nodongui saebyeok). Although society did not know who Park was, the collection of poems sold one million copies. This was a country that still read, and did so voraciously.

In contrast to many other famous writers and poets, Park saw the hardships of poverty with his own eyes. He felt it in his own bones. He brought to life that which he saw around him. He gave voice to those otherwise ignored. Slogans such as "the miracle on the Han River" were part of this conscious attempt at disregard. Rather than acknowledge the back-breaking labor, the blood, sweat, and lives paid for by anonymous Korean men and women, the world declared Korea's rise a miracle. An act inexplicable by natural laws. Park, however, explained it. He saw the darkness of the brutal truth and wanted a new dawn to rise.

Dawn

One of the greatest hardships Korean laborers endured was not just the lack of money, it was the lack of time: having to work from morning until dawn the next day. Unable to see one's family. Incapable of receiving education. In this way, the "dawn" in the title of Park's famed collection has various meanings: The first is that all workers finished at dawn. It was their time. A moment when soju was poured, stories were told, and ideas were fermented. The second meaning of dawn is hope. That a new day, a new vision, will arise. The sun will shine on those who experienced the darkness. Dawn, and the sun, can also be seen as a symbol of consciousness. It is that which people seek in exiting the Platonic cave, the symbol of awakening, the eye that sees. Park No-hae's poems were, in many ways, the awakening of the Korean people to their plight.

Academics sometimes refer to this as the rise of the "minjung." When the masses (daejung) became conscious. Moreover, it was the moment when they became subjective actors. When the story of Korea was no longer told through the lens of powerful kings and rulers, but instead through the lives of the people. It was the start of the country's political revolution. The emergence of democracy and a politics in which the citizens would decide the country's future.

Real gender

Before I actually sat down and read "Dawn of Labor" properly, I had this stereotype that all the poems would have been about the difficulties and struggles experienced by the working-class of 1980s Korea. I imagined it as a diary of despair. An exercise in grief tourism. And, at times, it is. Enough to bring tears to your eyes. But it is much more than this. The book is also about love and hope. It's about joy and singing. It contains humor and many other unexpected turns.

And one point, I had to stop reading to make sure I was understanding what was going on. Park, a few poems in, had switched the protagonist to that of a woman and was now telling the tale of the daily struggle through the eyes of a female. Despite it being the 1980s, Park saw women as equals. Just as some poems were incredibly masculine, full of swearing, joking, and male language, others shone light on the other side of life. One poem in particular (While I Mend the Bedding) shows Park's attitude wonderfully: "A worker is not a profit-making machine, and my wife is not my servant. She is a friend and a partner to be loved equally, our relationship based on trust, respect, and democracy. I wait for my wife to come home after extra work. Mending the layers of the bedding, I push the needle of painful awakening." And this was written in Korea in the 1980s! What Park No-hae was doing was truly progressive in terms of society, culture and gender.

Similarly, a few years ago, Park went to Palestine and took photos while calling for peace. You can see these photos at an exhibition at the Ra Café and Gallery in downtown Seoul. Of course, now many well-meaning people are championing the Palestinian cause. But where were they when the country was not in the daily news cycle? This is not to discredit people today. Instead, it's to try and make clearer my respect for Park No-hae. He is ahead of his time. He possesses a vision of a better world, a vision of hope, and has come to this through introspection and a realization of the power of the human. He sees things before others do and has the courage to stand alone if needs be.

A life ignored

For his work and his poetry Park was sought by the South Korean government. In 1991, he was sentenced to life imprisonment. Many at the time called for the death penalty. As he was led by police and officials in handcuffs, he smiled. He bowed to the cameras.

I've visited lots of temples, mosques, churches and other places of Being during my life. While doing so, I've had the opportunity to meet people who, for want of a better word, glow. For whatever reason, they have an aura around them. Something emanates from them. Of course, we sometimes see this in our secular life as well, though too often it gets mistaken for celebrity or star power. Park No-hae has this aura. And it shines more brightly because he does not seek it nor ask others to acknowledge it.

After seven years in prison, largely spent in solitary confinement, Park No-hae was released. Brother Anthony, a co-translator of the English version of Park's work says, "Park No-hae had to go to prison and realize that the workers' struggle had been a failure before discovering that the human is the source of hope and sharing the secret of true living."

"Dawn of Labor" has now been published in English for the first time, translated by Cheehyung Harrison Kim and Brother Anthony. For those seeking hope, I cannot recommend it enough. Learn more about the book and Park No-hae's life here.

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.