The Miracle of the Han River
Seongnam-si, Republic of Korea
2025, Senior, Poetry & Spoken Word
it’s called han
not just the river,
but the very feeling of time passing on this land
an agglomeration of its beholders’
grief and pain
it’s called han
the river flows,
but some resentment doesn’t get washed away
when sirens shattered the sky
and the world broke apart
han ran on, separating
those once alimented by the same water
like a rushing tide of an inner storm,
undisturbed, only purifying—
only han could silence the deadly pellets of thunder,
only han could soothe the empty bodies stripped of breath,
at the riverbank,
contorted toes dip into the water
and it pulses, endlessly
han had become a promised pitstop for peace
my halmeoni once told me,
even after the darkest nights, saebyeok will arrive
fleeing the bullet-ridden bridge
her dark night gave away to another daybreak
and for han, saebyeok came in fluorescent lights
so bright that it’s crowned a miracle
look—
the war-torn hills have become high rises
look—
skylines and bridges, etched between
where hangyang becomes seoul
look—
when I was sitting in the backseat of the car
I remember I was held captive
by this river of tears,
reflecting a constellation of city lights
woven like hanbok silk threads
but look—
last night
as I strolled down alongside han,
I was haunted by
cellophane skeletons dancing in the reed
shoes crunching against
the broken bones of the plastic-laden shore
my fingers graze over the sun-warped wrapper
that reads ramyun noodle, bold in warning red
lodged between driftwood knots
it looks like corpses in a graveyard of tidepools
I can’t help but wonder
if the broken cascade of polyethylene
was all that of my childhood dreams,
I, too, had been blinded
by an empty miracle
called han,
drawn by an overwhelming feeling
of grief, pain, and guilt
when I realize the river carries its poisons
hidden like shards beneath its surface
it’s called han
not just the river,
but the resentment sunk in the riverbed
a silent crystallization of nature’s
wrath and scream
it’s called han
the river flows
but han won’t get washed away
Reflection
As a bilingual student who speaks Korean and English, certain words resist translation. The Korean word, Han, is one such word. Han holds a meaning deeper than just sorrow; it holds together the feeling of resentment, rage, pain, and grief throughout Korean history. My grandmother (halmeoni) carried han within her during the Korean War, when she fled across the Han River while risking her life at the break of dawn (saebyeok). Ironically, the Han Kang (Han River) shares the same pronunciation, though it carries a completely different meaning. Yet in my mind, the two have become inseparable—the Han River, once soaked with blood and tears of the war, became a place filled with han, carrying the collective ache of losses and grief. Yet today, the Han River has become a symbol for South Korea’s remarkable economic development after the war, turning into a popular phrase, ‘The Miracle of the Han River.’ This is because, like a miracle, Hanyang, more commonly known as Seoul, has been reborn, from ruins to cityscapes. But now, as I walk along the river, I often question the idea of the miracle. It isn’t unusual to see plastic wrappers of cup noodles (ramyun) or food waste between reeds and by the riverbank, and the water has turned murkier in recent years. We call this process, but at what cost? While the world marvels at the economic miracle of the Han River, I have started to question the sacrifices being made to achieve this success. This poem was written through thorough reflection, as I reflect on how I failed to see beyond the superficial city lights that illuminate the Han River. Between two languages and the dual meanings of Han, my poem ruminates on the hidden environmental consequences of Han’s ‘miracle’ that many fail to notice.