Light

On the Internet, it said, “At the heart of the Korean spirit is a concept called “Han.” It is central to Korean-ness in the same way “aloha” is to Hawaiian-ness. Oddly, however, it is rarely mentioned in conversation or in the media.” I glanced at my laptop monitor, trying to figure out if it was true.

It was true in that few people from outside Korea knew about Han. Even when I tried to explain it in words, I often found myself repeating several vocabularies: sadness, resilience, silence, resentment, desperation. And the person in front of me often nodded politely, but with a puzzled face.

On the other hand, Aloha is a much more popular word. Whenever I think of that term, I think of my friend from Hawaii, who once taught me the meaning of many Hawaiian words. “Aloha means “I give you my breath,”” he said. How nice it is, I thought, to receive breath — because breath ultimately means life.

If I translated Han in that way, it would be: “I was forced to eat up all darkness.” Who would want that? I wondered. Even I myself had tried to remove Han many times in the past.

But now, I want to say something else. I want to tell people that I have found something greater beyond the darkness. That while Han continually murmurs of her profound sorrow, being lost in the puddle is not what she desires. That despite pain, she wishes to move forward, to survive, and to thrive. That like Aloha, she, too, wants life.

Lastly, if Han is truly stumbling in darkness hoping for the better, without her knowing, she becomes light. She may or may not know it yet, but she carries light inside her. That's why she keeps enduring: because she wants to find her home, a safe home of light.

It is a scary, lonely thing, to continue walking the dark tunnel without any immediate rewards. Only the brave will do that. I began writing about her because even when she walks with empty hands, she deserves a crown.