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Kim Soom (author), Bruce Fulton and Ju-Chan Fulton (translators), One Left, University of Washington Press, 2020. 224 pgs.

During the Second World War, over 200,000 Korean girls were torn from their lives and condemned to endure unimaginable suffering as victims of sexual slavery. Held captive in “comfort stations” scattered across Japanese-occupied territories, they faced relentless torment and humiliation. When the war ended, fewer than 10% emerged alive to return to their homeland. One Left reimagines this haunting chapter of history and narrates the story of one such survivor.

At the age of thirteen, the protagonist was abducted and thrust into the horrors of a “comfort station” in Manchuria. There, she encountered many other Korean girls—some ripped from their homes by force, others lured by deceitful promises of factory work or nursing roles, spun by the Japanese authorities. Upon her arrival, a new Japanese name was imposed upon her, and her inability to comprehend the perilous situation she faced rendered her utterly defenceless. She was forced to “sleep” with countless Japanese soldiers in a twisted effort to “motivate” them for battle. Her innocence was robbed before she could even grasp the meaning of her suffering, her humanity crushed beneath the weight of a cruel war.

The atrocities committed by the Japanese, along with the relentless violations inflicted upon the girls’ bodies, are harrowing to comprehend, let alone to read. The girls, trapped in this living nightmare, were exposed to sexually transmitted diseases, and any who became infected faced further punishment—often through the confiscation of their meager supplies, deepening their suffering. Instances of both physical and mental abuse are depicted throughout the book, such as the practice of tattooing the girls on different parts of their bodies. The girls were also ordered to wash used condoms every morning before the first group of soldiers arrived. Starved, brutalized, and weakened by incessant rape, the girls frequently fell gravely ill but were still forced to endure their torment. If a girl became pregnant, she was subjected to forced abortion or sterilisation. Some even had their wombs removed so they could continue “serving” the soldiers. The possibility of motherhood was stolen, a future erased by cruelty. When a girl succumbed to illness or suicide, her body was incinerated, erasing even the memory of her existence; another girl would be brought in to take her place. To the Japanese, these young lives were seen as expendable.

Among the many horrors recounted, one gut-wrenching contrast stands out: the stark disparity between the inhumane conditions endured by the girls and the relative comfort enjoyed by the managers and their families. This chilling juxtaposition evokes haunting parallels to the unsettling imagery of The Zone of Interest, where the mundane lives of perpetrators are disturbingly interwoven with the deafening, grotesque suffering of their victims.

The protagonist eventually managed to escape the “comfort station,” embarking on a long journey home. Since the end of the war, she has lived in seclusion, never disclosing to anyone what she endured in Manchuria. Now in her 90s, her quiet existence is disrupted when she hears the news that the last known Korean “comfort woman” is nearing death. Unable to let history render her invisible, she feels compelled to break her silence and declare that one survivor still remains—herself. All these years, however, her past has continued to haunt her. Living in a society deeply steeped in Confucian principles, survivors of sexual slavery often lacked the courage to tell their stories for fear of ostracisation and shame. This cultural stigma explains the protagonist’s decades-long reticence, even with those closest to her, such as her family.

As the years slip away and the shadow of death draws nearer, her anxiety intensifies. She is acutely aware that with her passing, the voices of those perished girls—their stories, their pain, their humanity—risk being lost to the abyss of history. Despite her fear and indecision, she comes to a poignant realisation: the burden of memory lies with her, and she must act before it is too late.

The significance of One Left lies in its incorporation of real-life testimonies from Korean “comfort women,” making it an essential work. At one pivotal moment, the protagonist declares, “I am not a comfort woman,” a statement that cuts deeply into the derogatory weight of the term itself, underscoring the necessity of placing it within quotation marks. This scene not only challenges the euphemism but also confronts the Japanese government’s persistent denial of these atrocities and the pervasive culture of shame that has silenced survivors within Korean society. One Left transcends a solitary plea for long-overdue justice; it becomes a collective outcry for the proper acknowledgment of these victims’ unimaginable suffering. They endured the very depths of hell and emerged on the other side, determined not to be forgotten in history. Each survivor carries a narrative that needs to be heard.

Kim Soom has made a profound contribution as a writer by casting light on a dark and often overlooked chapter of history, promoting awareness of the unspeakable injustices faced by Korean “comfort women.” One Left stands as a powerful testament to the vital role literature plays in preserving memory, particularly in an era when the act of remembering becomes ever more fragile and fraught.

How to cite: Teoh, John. “Bearing Witness to History: Kim Soom’s One Left.” Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, 25 Jan. 2025, chajournal.blog/2025/01/25/one-left.

Graduated with a BA and MA in English, John Teoh is a literature lover based in Malaysia. His fields of interest include post-colonialism, anti-colonialism, and gender studies. He owns and runs an Instagram page (@johnisreading) where he publishes his thoughts on what he reads. [All contributions by John Teoh.]

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