han: my favourite korean word

An introduction to han 한 (恨).

“눈물마저 말라버린 자리에, 한이 남는다.”
Where even tears have dried, han remains.

Throughout my life — there’s always been a Korean word I keep coming back to.
It has only one syllable, and it consists of only three letters — han 한 (恨).

han 한 (恨) is a uniquely Korean word with no true English equivalent. It is often described as an amalgamation of unresolved sorrow, deep resentment, regret, grief, and helpless yearning—an emotion born from historical trauma, personal hardship, and a generational silence: felt collectively within a nation.

You’ll find it in Poetry by Lee Chang-dong, it is the very essence of The Revenge Trilogy of Park Chan-wook, in the quiet dread of Pachinko, or the harrowing sound of pansori.

I first encountered han not in a textbook, but through stories my father told me.

He spoke of Korea’s heavy drinking culture—not as a joke, but as a coping mechanism as he drank his Korean spirit himself. A way of numbing centuries of loss, invasion, and stolen identity. He talked about our family history.

I learned that my grandmother was born in Japan during the occupation and was forced a Japanese name — one that I did not know her by. That a great-uncle had been kidnapped, then likely killed by Japanese forces — a beloved relative never to be found again. Outside of school, I was learning history not as something so long ago and monochrome. For the first time the past didn’t feel like a story. It felt like a bruise I hadn’t noticed was mine — perhaps akin to the Mongolian birthmark that stained my left wrist blue as a child. Just facts, spoken in passing. But they stayed with me. And so did the way his eyes darkened — not with anger, but with a kind of looming despair, like a sentence left without a final word until a clink of a shot glass broke the silence.

If you ask someone in Korea about han — a ‘real Korean’ born and raised within the country — they might shrug or shake their head, often dismissing it as an artifact of the past or even a term not to be used lightly. Indeed, some feel it’s outdated, a word irrelevant today and even moreso, a word specifically irrelevant to ‘overseas Koreans’ — a name for ethnic Koreans born abroad in foreign countries such as America, Japan, Uzbekistan, Australia and so forth. Funnily enough however: it is within these disconnected communities that I believe we may find han and its original meaning, feelings, and attitudes to have evolved into a new denomination - and one that diasporic communities from other countries often find great resonance within.

As a precaution — han brings forth contrary and strong opinions with some critics claiming it to be a form of self-victimization in not letting go: a useless negative concept and nothing thereafer. But that’s the thing about han, it’s not meant to be dissected like an academic term. It’s not something you can literally define — it’s something you feel. And once it hits, it lingers — like a heavy sandbag within the soul of those who have felt it. Han is therefore catalyzed by experience; as it not only brings forth a sense of understanding but further provides the sole key in which to feel the weight of its brevity in modern contexts.

han 한 (恨) is not about catharsis. It’s about what happens when catharsis is denied.

Why it’s my favourite Korean word:

1. It names the unnamable.
   han is a collective feeling amongst Koreans with emotions inherited across generations. Like many other Koreans born abroad — as well as children of diasporas, it is a feeling we have long experienced but couldn’t articulate. A quiet ache of anger, anguish and regret after being wronged; the reality of soul-shattering helplessness; the feeling of displacement and a dissected lack of belonging. A vicarious feeling constantly reminded to us by our parents, in which we grow up and find ourselves feeling and experiencing similar emotions. It’s not always visible, but it’s always there. This word makes space for that.

2. It connects history to the present.
   Even though we didn’t live through war or occupation, han reminds me that my story doesn’t start with me. It stretches back—through our ancestors, through our unique family histories or shared national traumas, through migration, through stories and silence—and then showing up in the way we move through the world.

3. It bridges cultures.
   As someone shaped by multiple identities, han feels like a thread that links Korean roots to my lived experiences overseas. It explains how pain can be both personal and collective—and how art, music, and story become ways of release.

4. It makes room for contradiction.
   In a world that pressures us to ‘move on’ and always stay positive, han says: “No. Some things are too deep to fix. And that’s okay.” It lets beauty and pain coexist. han honours life’s contradictions — and our very human capacity to suffer and endure.

5. “Home is where the han is”
   han is the fibre of our identity, a cultural memory that ties us back to a distant motherland, as well as people displaced across the world. han provides a sense of belonging when you do not belong anywhere. It’s a collective suffering, where similar pains remind us that we are not alone. han is a recognition of the past that we carry, and through that process — we may utilise it to fuel an unrelenting motivation toward our future.

Burning (2018), directed by Lee Chang-dong.

Have you heard of han 한 (恨) before?

Have you felt it? Maybe you've seen it in a film that lingered longer than expected, in music that stirred something nameless, or in a story that left a quiet bruise.

Whether han is something you carry or something you're just beginning to notice — I’d love to know what it means to you, as well as what you think.

If any section of this article resonates, feel free to subscribe, reply, or simply sit with it.

This is only the beginning.

And so I must ask…

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“이 한을 누구에게 말하리오”
To whom can I speak of this han?

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