Mutes, Motorcycles, and Evangelism in Modern Seoul

photo: www.thriftbooks.com

When I travel internationally, one of my favorite things to do is read a book set in that country by a native author. Of course, you should be able to picture the scenes and streets without physically being in a story's setting. That's part of the magic of books.

But there is also something to be said for corporeally being in a book's city or town. Characters can literally melt off the pages and hit the pavement. Their ghosts haunt the same streets your feet trace. You read about a park, or a building, or a bus stop and feel a fish of recognition flip in your belly - you were just there, in that exact location, yesterday or ten minutes ago. You look up from the pages and swear the shadow slipping around the corner is the protagonist fleeing his captor. You're not just reading a story, you're living it.

While I was in Seoul, South Korea, I spent a cloudy afternoon by the Han River in Yeouido Park, sitting on the stone steps facing the water, the wind ruffling the hem of my dress and the pages of I Hear Your Voice by Young-ha Kim. At one point in the novel, motorcycle gangs meet under a bridge near the Han, and I had only to look to my left at the Mapodaegyo Bridge to picture the scene fully. Set the sun, let the bridge lights come on, replace the whir of bike pedals with the revving of engines, and there, there they were, huddled under the concrete in a wide circle, their motorcycle wheels gleaming like eyes.

This book became a breathing entity because I was in Seoul just like the characters, and every time a motorcycle flew past me on the street, I wondered if the rider slipped through the city at night with the gangs.

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I Hear Your Voice is about more than motorcycle gangs. It's advertised as a story of friendship, but it begins, like all stories, with birth. A young woman stumbles into the Seoul Express Bus Station and gives birth to a boy in a bathroom stall. In the confusion, another woman takes the baby and keeps him. His name becomes Jae, and he lives a good life until his adopted mother loses her job and becomes addicted to meth. Jae is left to fend for himself, and his only friend Donggyu, despite his best intentions to help Jae, only ends up fueling his rage.

Jae and Donggyu grow apart, but find each other again in their teens. Jae, at this point, eats only a few grains of uncooked rice each day. His soul connects with every item in the world, from other people to animals and chairs. His unique ability - intuition, psychic gift, or pure madness - draws followers to him and gives him an unparalleled ability to ride a motorcycle. While he climbs through the motorcycle gangs, Donggyu leaves home to join him, but his constant questions and regret leave him wondering if he made the right choice.

Under Jae's leadership, the motorcycle gangs brutally taunt the police, leaving the authorities to crack down on the major rally. Jae intends to speed through the barricades with his crew and fly through the city, but the police are just as determined to stop him, whatever the cost.

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The back of the book describes this story as, "A novel about two orphans from the streets of Seoul: one becomes the head of a powerful motorcycle gang and the other follows him at all costs."

But I didn't find any of this to be true. Neither Jae or Donggyu are orphans - their parents are still alive. And while Jae does become a leader for a motorcycle gang, he's more of a spiritual leader than a violent head. And Donggyu, Donngyu is forever caught between himself and Jae, and feelings of jealousy, regret, and love prevent him from totally following the former.

The description says nothing about the quasi-religious and philosophical views Jae has, and the almost Christ-like figure he becomes. Towards the end of the novel, I expected some revelation based on Jae's views. Instead, I put the book down and thought, "So what?"

The epilogue reveals added information, but answers no questions. It even fails to be shocking. With so much suspension of disbelief needed for the first part of the book, the ending hardly seems revolutionary.

That being said, the novel did give me a darker, grittier look into Seoul, from destitute teens to police corruption, an image quite different from the one sold of the city. Seoul, a glittering, airbrushed, totally civilized dragon of a metropolis hides poisoned grit under her belly.

6/10 📕