Keum Suk Gendry-Kim: "Wherever I go, there's always violence against women."

She is delicate when she speaks, when she smiles, when she looks discreetly into the eyes, and she is also delicate when she draws, although her hand moves with the same energy as a butterfly when it flies, capriciously for the observer, under the strict control of her talent nonetheless. Korean artist and writer Keum Suk Gendry-Kim is in Buenos Aires coinciding with the 49th Buenos Aires International Book Fair, invited by the Civil Association of Koreans in Argentina and the Man Young Foundation. This afternoon, she will present her beautiful work and four of her graphic novels at the Dain bookstore in Palermo, in a conversation with writer Claudia Piñeiro.

Keum Suk Gendry-Kim's books are similar: the black ink strokes on a white background create landscapes and characters from a distant, unknown land in this southern part of the south. Wars about which little is known here, customs that appear in films, unknown rituals. And yet, there is violence against women, there is animal abuse, there are families searching for a son or brother lost for political reasons... Keum Suk Gendry-Kim's books are similar to us.

Four of her books are now hitting bookstores, almost like a whirlwind: Grass (Reservoir Books), the best known, translated into 40 languages ​​since 2017 and winner of several awards for narrating the life of Mrs. Lee Ok-Sun, a victim of sexual slavery by the Japanese troops who occupied Korea during World War II.

Also Dogs , a heartwarming love story for animals in a culture that still consumes dog meat; The Wait , which, through the life of an elderly woman searching for her son, addresses the suffering of thousands of families who, after the Korean War in 1950, were separated by an impassable border; and Tomorrow Will Be Another Day , which narrates the intimate tragedy of elusive motherhood, inspired by the author's personal experience. The author spoke with Clarín about this work and about being a woman in Korea and almost everywhere else on a bright autumn morning in Palermo.

–In French, the title of your book "Herb" is "Mauvaises herbes" with the negative addition of "weed." Why?

–This idea also exists in Korean, but in French specifically, the change had to do with a possible confusion since herbe, in general, refers to marijuana. So, I chose that expression, which refers to those small plants, which in some ways also resemble the women who were sexually abused by the Japanese army and who deserved to be treated like flowers. What they received was the contempt that weeds also receive: humiliated, crushed, beaten, murdered. In this delicate work with translations, I tend to rely heavily on the publisher in each country.

–Years ago, you said in an interview that women's rights were still a taboo subject for graphic novels. But your four books, now available in Argentina, feature women as protagonists and focus specifically on their rights. What's changed?

–It wasn't just women's rights that were taboo, but also their problems and interests. But it turns out that what interests me are the truths, the stories of human beings who are in the shadows. And I always try to see the human side of things and tell it through literature and illustration. It's true that time has passed, but at the end of the day, even today we still have taboos, we still have women who are raped or murdered and who are still held responsible for these attacks. They are the victims, but they remain silent. So these issues remain relevant today, despite the passage of time.

– Hierba was the first book accessible in Spanish, and it tells the story of the hell experienced by hundreds of Korean girls and teenagers kidnapped by the Japanese army during World War II and sexually enslaved for the soldiers' enjoyment. They're called "comfort women," and the most chilling thing is that, when they were freed, they couldn't return home because they were rejected by their own families. How do you explain that?

Korean society is phallocentric, and at that time, virginity was very important. Losing one's virginity as a woman was equal to, or worse than, death. Because of this, families were ashamed of these women who had been kidnapped to be raped by Japanese soldiers. They had no choice but were accused as if they were responsible for these assaults. Therefore, after being released, returning to Korea was almost impossible. But despite everything, some of these women were able to return to their homeland in Korea. And what they found was that society rejected them, criticized them, and pointed fingers at them. Because of this, these victims felt forced to remain silent.

–I understand that for you, as an author, it hasn't been easy to work on this topic because Hierba gives voice to those women. Did you hesitate to tackle this subject?

–For a long time, I've been very aware of everything that happens to women. My mother is very old, I'm the youngest in a very large family, and I was born at a time when distinctions between boys and girls were still made. That difference was constantly felt in everyday life. That's why I went to France, to try a new life, to seek something different. But even so, I've made the choice (and the challenge as well) to talk about these things. Over time, I discovered that these situations weren't limited to Korean society. Wherever I go, even in a highly developed and educated country, there is also violence against women. Violence is everywhere. So, for me as an artist, as a woman, and as a human being, it's very important to speak out, not to provoke, but to denounce. It's something I can do through Hierba, by drawing, and by inviting people to think about this problem.

–Hierba was published in 2017. Do you feel you’ve achieved that goal?

–I'm truly, deeply moved by the reaction of readers from all over the world. I couldn't even imagine that people from all over the world would receive this story and like it so much. Readers are very intelligent, and it's not just a women's issue, as many men have perfectly understood what I mean. Often, when I present myself, as I do here in Buenos Aires, I find women in tears who come to see me. They tell me it's their story. It always moves me deeply.

–Japanese resistance to addressing this issue persists today and is powerful. How do you explain this pressure?

I'm not a politician, so I can't vouch for them, but whatever they do, the truth is there anyway. In addition to the surviving women and the witnesses who testified, there were also soldiers in Japan and other people who lived through it, who wrote books to tell their stories. Whatever the government says, the fact is that there are also Japanese people who are aware of what happened and bear witness to the truth.

–It's true that you're not a political person, but another of your books also addresses a political theme: Waiting tells the story of the search for families missing a son, sister, or loved one left behind in North Korea after the country's separation. How did you research these searches? Why did you choose that subject?

–Separated families are found all over the world, mainly due to war but also due to other causes. As for the book, when I was little, as happens in The Waiting, my mother searched for her older sister, who had been separated from her because of the war between the two Koreas. As a daughter, I have a very close relationship with my mother; I understand her very well, and she tells me a lot about her life and her family. At one point, in addition to comforting and supporting her, I felt it was also necessary to tell this story in a book. I thought I should do it before she died. So I started researching, reading a lot of books about the Korean War, and then I also met some women and men who had been separated from their families and even some people who had been reunited thanks to the Red Cross operations. I went to visit them. I listened to their stories. They are very, very old. And then, based on those testimonies, I fictionalized my mother's story a bit. And that's it.

–Are those search programs still ongoing?

–No, they've been interrupted. After the unsuccessful meeting between Donald Trump and Kim Jong-un, the leader of North Korea, there has been nothing, no meeting, no connection, nothing at all. So we don't know if the missing person from our families is alive or dead, or what has happened in their lives since the war. It's truly horrible.

–Your books give us an insight into the history of South Korea over the past 50 years or so, a country constantly suffering from the domination of a foreign nation, in one way or another. How has Korea managed to endure and maintain its language, its customs, its memory, its identity despite everything?

–Resistance, what a beautiful word, I like it. If we still have a culture, it's precisely because people resist. Our spirit is strong, we want to resist, we are not alone, and we resist together. We also resist because we are artists. That's how we've survived. And that's how we're going to survive. We have a small country surrounded by other countries that are large and powerful, but we've always been able to stand up to them. And I think that was possible because people have remained united and resisted.

–I imagine the topics you choose, the approach you take to them, your look at dark aspects, must generate some discomfort in your country. Ultimately, you expose very complex problems. Do you receive negative comments for this?

–Well, I've been threatened several times, but I don't think it's serious. My book , *My Friend Kim Jong-un* , translated into Portuguese and soon to be published in Spanish, has generated a lot of anger. At first, I was very disappointed by the reaction from people who hadn't even read the book. They didn't even open the first page and judged it by the title, which is also ironic. These reactions saddened me greatly, but over time, I've been able to distance myself from them. Besides, these threats don't influence me in any way. What I like is reading, writing, and drawing, and I'm surrounded by good people.

–There's one aspect of your book, Dogs, that's very remarkable: you manage to capture the movement of your pets in a drawing, which is the most fixed and still thing. How much study and observation is required for that?

–For this work, I'm lucky enough to spend 24 hours a day with the dog. In fact, I'd say it's the other way around: my dog ​​lives like a human, and it would be hard to determine which of us is the pet. The truth is that by living with a dog, you begin to understand its communication: the way it looks, whether its ears go up or down, the movement of its eyebrows or jaws, what happens to its fur, what it does with its tail or paws. All these movements are actually part of a language, so I'm constantly taking notes, jotting down situations in a notebook, and recording movements. I also take a lot of photos and draw because I really like it. When I published Dogs , what I wanted to express through drawing was how this dog gives us unconditional love. In Korea, there are many abandoned dogs, and I wanted to explain that animals aren't objects you buy because you liked them on Instagram, but then abandon them when you go on vacation. I wanted to show these things.

–One aspect you also address is the consumption of dog meat. Is there a law that will ban it starting in 2027?

–Yes, there's a law prohibiting dog meat consumption that will punish anyone who eats it with three years in prison. But for the moment, that hasn't happened, and this tradition continues. Anyway, I think society is changing; there are a lot of animal rights activists who are taking action to save dogs. But in the countryside, being so remote, it's still difficult to change ideas. I live in the countryside, and at first, I was the only person who walked the dog on a leash. The rest of us kept them on a leash all day so they wouldn't be stolen. However, now, when I go for a walk, I meet older people who also walk their dogs. That's really lovely.

Keum Suk Gendry-Kim will speak with Claudia Piñeiro about his work this Wednesday the 30th at 6 p.m. at Dain Usina Cultural (Nicaragua 4899).