The Homes We Build on Ashes

• An extraordinary record of survival by Korean women who planted their roots in Canada, fighting their way through the darkness of the Japanese occupation and the flames of the Great Busan Fire
• The silent weight of first-generation immigrants, elevated into noble art through a vitality that rises from the ashes
• An epic of pride and reconciliation we must all cherish, delivered through the delicate gaze of a second-generation Korean writer

Looking out the window on a rainy afternoon, you may have occasionally stopped to wonder: just how fierce were the flames and how cold were the ashes upon which our peaceful everyday lives were built? The story I wish to share today is precisely about the hope that blossomed from those very "ashes." The novel The Homes We Build on Ashes (2015) by Vancouver-born, second-generation Korean Canadian author Christina Park is a work that resurrects, in dazzlingly beautiful prose, the harsh years our parents could never bring themselves to speak of.

Author Christina Park has a truly unique and impressive background. A brilliant mind educated at the University of British Columbia (UBC) and Oxford University, she is also a highly successful career woman who worked as a Vice President (VP) of Marketing at a major investment management firm. Yet, looking into her roots reveals something even more remarkable: her father was the late Park Sang-ryong (1940–2017), a maestro of the Korean literary world often revered as the "writer's writer." It seems the same artistic DNA that produced her father's novel A Study of Death—which was adapted into the film Yuri and invited to the Cannes Film Festival—has flowed directly into his daughter. However, rather than leaning on her father's fame, she proudly introduced our people's painful history to the Canadian literary scene through her own distinct perspective.

The life of the novel's protagonist, Nara Lee, is a microcosm of Korea's modern history. Having spent her girlhood amidst the roars of the 1919 March First Movement, Nara endures severe hardships as she is shuffled between an insidious orphanage and a forced-labor factory during the Japanese occupation. In particular, watching her friend Minjoo be dragged away as a "comfort woman" while remaining completely powerless leaves an indelible scar of guilt and silence in Nara's heart. The joy of liberation is fleeting; the Korean War breaks out, and even when the Great Busan Fire of 1953 leaves tens of thousands homeless, Nara survives amidst the burning ashes. Finally, in the 1960s, she crosses the ocean to the unfamiliar land of Vancouver, Canada, to build a new "home."

Upon the book's release, the response from Canadian media and critics was overwhelmingly enthusiastic. Prestigious Canadian literary magazines such as Room and Ricepaper spared no praise, calling the novel "a slow-burning but deeply contemplative debut." Critics particularly noted that instead of simply listing major historical events like the "comfort women" issue or the Great Busan Fire, Park delicately portrayed them through the lens of one woman's inner life, faith, and emotional resilience. One critic even remarked, "Christina Park proves in poetic prose how an individual maintains their dignity and defines their own 'home' even amidst the cruelty of history."

The reason our hearts swell as we read this novel is that we see the faces of our own mothers and grandmothers in the protagonist, Nara. The first-generation immigrants living in Canada—our parents' generation—always tell us, "It's all in the past," or "You don't need to know." Yet, hidden within that silence was a profound sorrow like the one Nara harbored, and a fierce love that buried that sorrow in ashes for the sake of their children. Through her work, the author has essentially broken that silence on their behalf. She helps us realize that our parents' silence was never an act of cowardice, but rather a noble sacrifice—becoming the very foundation upon which a solid "home" could be built for us.

Throughout the novel, the author continuously questions the meaning of "home." Nara lost countless homes in Korea: her ancestral home, the orphanage, a wartime tent, and her burned-down shanty in Busan. However, she was able to stand back up after arriving in Vancouver because she never gave up on the small triumphs—the "joys of life"—even amidst all those ashes. This is no different from a message directed at all of us standing on Canadian soil today: that no matter where we are or what trials we have faced, if we rise again alongside the people we love, that place becomes our true "home."

The fact that Christina Park, a second-generation author, has penned such a profound narrative gives us immense pride. Drawing on her identity forged by living between Vancouver and Montreal, she seamlessly blended the uniquely Korean sentiment of han (deep sorrow and unresolved resentment) with a Canadian sensibility. Her passion—never letting go of her pen day and night while serving as a senior executive in the financial sector—is living proof of how the characteristic "diligence" and "grit" of the Korean people can be elevated into magnificent art. The media paid attention to this novel not simply because it is a historical tale, but because the "spirit" of the immigrant who endured that history offered a universal emotional resonance.

The process by which Nara interprets and overcomes her trauma through her Christian faith in the novel will deeply resonate with many first-generation immigrant parents. Because the years they spent persevering in a foreign land with nothing but faith are woven into every sentence of the novel, the author tells us this: "The homes we build are not mere concrete buildings, but the sturdiest of fortresses, mixed with the ashes of the suffering we endured." Therefore, this book serves as a badge of honor for our parents, declaring, "Your life was a victory," while instilling a profound pride in us, the second generation, by affirming, "Your roots are this strong."

Now, we no longer need to feel frustrated by our parents' silence. Because Christina Park has translated that silence into the brilliant language of literature, we realize that we are the flowers that have bloomed on those ashes. The agony of war, fire, and migration that our parents experienced is not a shameful past, but rather a solid stepping stone that allows us to soar higher. We must not forget that behind the success of author Christina Park—an Oxford graduate and VP of a global company—flows the tenacious vitality of our ancestors who, like Nara in the novel, rose again from the ashes. The Homes We Build on Ashes is not just a novel. It is the most passionate confession that we Korean immigrants offer to Canadian history, and a declaration of the dignity we rightfully possess. We are all building our own homes upon our respective ashes. And those homes will be more beautiful and enduring than anything else in the world. Because we are a people who know how to be reborn, even from the "ashes." Carrying this pride in your heart, I only hope that you will walk your path today with confidence, as both a citizen of Canada and a descendant of Koreans.