Olivia: Most of us think of history as something that happens to us—big events, wars, decisions made by powerful people. But what if the most powerful stories are about people for whom history is a relentless failure, and they just… carry on? Jackson: That’s a heavy thought. Like the world breaks, and you just have to keep sweeping the floor. Olivia: Exactly. And it’s the opening idea of the book we're diving into today. The very first line is, "History has failed us, but no matter." Jackson: Wow. What a way to start. That’s a declaration. What book is this? Olivia: That line kicks off Pachinko by Min Jin Lee. It’s this sweeping, multi-generational novel that was a finalist for the National Book Award and has been widely, widely acclaimed. And it’s a book that feels like it carries the weight of history because the author herself spent nearly three decades trying to tell this story. Jackson: Thirty years? That’s a lifetime. What took so long? Olivia: She actually wrote a whole other version first, a different novel. But it was only after she moved to Japan and started interviewing countless Korean-Japanese families that she realized the story she was telling was wrong. She had to start over completely, because she found the one metaphor that unlocked everything. Jackson: And I’m guessing that metaphor is "Pachinko"? Olivia: You got it. But before we get to the game itself, we have to talk about the players. Specifically, the women in this story who refuse to be swept away by that failed history.

Jackson: Okay, so set the scene for me. Who are we talking about? Olivia: We start with Sunja. She’s born in the early 1900s in a small fishing village in Korea, which at the time is occupied by Japan. Her father is a kind man with a cleft palate and a twisted foot, and her mother, Yangjin, is this quiet, resilient woman. They run a boardinghouse. Life is incredibly hard. Infant mortality is high, poverty is everywhere, and being a Korean under Japanese rule means you are a second-class citizen in your own home. Jackson: So the odds are stacked against her from birth. Olivia: Completely. And then, as a teenager, her life takes a dramatic turn. She’s assaulted by some Japanese boys in the market and is rescued by a much older, incredibly wealthy, and powerful Korean fish broker named Koh Hansu. Jackson: Ah, the charismatic, dangerous older man. I feel like I know this story. Olivia: You do, and you don't. They begin a secret affair. He’s sophisticated, he shows her a world beyond her village, and she falls deeply in love. When she becomes pregnant, she’s overjoyed, assuming they’ll get married. She tells him the news, and he calmly replies… "I have a wife and three children. In Osaka." Jackson: Oh, man. That’s a gut punch. So in 1930s Korea, for an unmarried, pregnant young woman… her life is effectively over, right? Socially, she's ruined. Olivia: Absolutely. The shame would destroy her and her family. She rejects his offer to become his mistress, choosing honor over security. She and her mother are in despair. But then, a miracle of sorts happens. A lodger in their boardinghouse, a gentle, sickly Christian pastor named Baek Isak, overhears her mother’s grief. He’s on his way to Japan to join his brother. Jackson: And he decides to help? Olivia: He does more than help. Inspired by his faith, specifically the story of the prophet Hosea who is told by God to marry a prostitute, Isak believes it is his divine purpose to save Sunja. He proposes to marry her, to give her child his name, and to take them both to Japan with him. Jackson: Wow. That’s an incredible act of compassion. So she says yes, and they escape to a new life in Japan. A fresh start. Olivia: It’s a fresh start, but it’s not an easy one. They arrive in Osaka and move in with Isak’s brother, Yoseb, and his wife, Kyunghee. They live in a crowded, impoverished Korean ghetto called Ikaino. The Japanese won't rent decent housing to Koreans, so even though Yoseb has a factory job, they live in a shack. And almost immediately, crisis hits. Two debt collectors show up at the door. Jackson: A debt? What debt? Olivia: It turns out Yoseb, out of pride and a sense of duty, had borrowed a huge sum of money from a moneylender to pay for Isak and Sunja’s passage from Korea. Now the debt is due, with crushing interest, and Yoseb is at work. The women are alone with these two intimidating men. Jackson: Okay, so they’re trapped. New country, no money, and now this. Olivia: This is where we see Sunja’s quiet strength ignite. While her sister-in-law panics, Sunja, pregnant and terrified, calmly tells the men to come back in three hours and the money will be ready. She then pulls out the one valuable thing she owns: a beautiful silver pocket watch, a gift from Hansu, the man who betrayed her. Jackson: The watch from her old life. Olivia: The very one. She and Kyunghee take it to a pawnbroker. The broker sees this pregnant, desperate-looking woman and tries to lowball her, offering 50 yen. But Sunja, remembering her father’s advice to be quiet and observant in the market, just stands her ground. She knows the watch is valuable. She demands 200 yen. She doesn't raise her voice, she doesn't plead. She just waits. The pawnbroker, stunned by her nerve, eventually gives her 175 yen—enough to pay off most of the debt. Jackson: That is incredible. She’s a natural negotiator. A total boss. Yoseb must have been so relieved and grateful when he got home. Olivia: That’s what you’d think. But when Yoseb gets home and finds out his debt has been paid by Sunja selling a mysterious, expensive watch, he explodes. He’s not relieved; he’s humiliated. His pride as the man of the house, the provider, is shattered. He screams at her, calling her foolish, and demands to know where a poor girl like her got such a watch, implying she stole it or was a whore. Jackson: Hold on. She just saved the family from ruin, and he’s yelling at her? That’s infuriating. Olivia: It is, but it’s also a window into the crushing pressure these characters are under. For Yoseb, his ability to provide is his only shred of dignity in a society that despises him for being Korean. Having a woman, his new sister-in-law no less, bail him out feels like a profound failure. It’s a clash between Sunja’s practical resilience and Yoseb’s rigid, patriarchal honor. And right in the middle of this tirade, Sunja’s water breaks. Her son, Noa, is born into this storm of debt, shame, and sacrifice. Jackson: So her heroism is met with anger. It really shows that for these women, survival isn't just about earning money. It's about navigating these impossible cultural expectations, even within their own families. Olivia: Exactly. And that pattern continues. When Isak is later arrested for his faith and imprisoned by the Japanese authorities, the family loses its main breadwinner. Sunja, once again, steps up. She starts making and selling kimchi in the hostile market, enduring insults and hardship to feed her children. She becomes the engine of the family. Her resilience isn't loud or flashy. It's the daily, grinding work of putting one foot in front of the other, because history has failed her, and she has no other choice.

Jackson: That pressure you mentioned on Yoseb, the feeling of being despised… it feels like that’s the bigger story here. It’s not just about one family's struggles. Olivia: You’ve hit on it. Yoseb's anger isn't just about personal pride. It's about the immense, collective pressure of being Korean in Japan. They are playing a rigged game from the moment they arrive. And that brings us perfectly to the book's title and its central metaphor: Pachinko. Jackson: Okay, I’ve seen pictures, but I don’t really get it. What is pachinko? Olivia: It’s a kind of mechanical game, like a vertical pinball machine. You drop little steel balls in, and they cascade down through a forest of pins. If they fall into the right holes, you win more balls. But here’s the twist: gambling for cash is illegal in Japan. So instead of cash, you win "prizes," which you then take to a little window, often just around the corner, and exchange for money. Jackson: So it's a giant loophole for gambling. Olivia: A massive one. The author, Min Jin Lee, points out that the industry generates revenues of around 190 billion dollars a year. That’s double the export revenue of Japan’s entire car industry. And historically, because it was seen as a slightly disreputable, low-status business, it was one of the few industries where Koreans, who were barred from "respectable" professions, could actually get a foothold and make a living. Jackson: That’s fascinating. So this massive, lucrative industry that’s also kind of shady is run by the very people society looks down on. Olivia: Precisely. And that’s the metaphor. For Lee, the game represents the experience of the Korean-Japanese, or 'Zainichi'. They are caught in this chaotic, seemingly random machine of history. The balls are bouncing, forces beyond their control are shaping their destiny. They might get a lucky break, a small jackpot, but the house always seems to win. They are players in a game that is fundamentally rigged against them. Jackson: A game of chance you’re forced to play, but can never truly win. That’s a bleak, powerful idea. How does that play out for the characters? Olivia: It plays out most tragically in the life of Noa, Sunja’s firstborn son—the one born amidst all that chaos. Noa grows up with the deep shame of his family's poverty and Korean identity. He is brilliant, and he dedicates his entire life to one goal: escaping his bloodline. He studies relentlessly, masters Japanese language and literature, and distances himself from the Korean ghetto. His dream is to become a perfect Japanese man, a scholar, someone so respectable that no one can ever look down on him. Jackson: He’s trying to beat the game by becoming one of the house. Olivia: Exactly. He gets into the prestigious Waseda University in Tokyo. His future seems bright. And all this time, he believes his father was the gentle pastor, Isak. But his education is secretly being paid for by his biological father, Hansu—the powerful yakuza boss. Jackson: And he eventually finds out. That must have been the moment everything changed. Olivia: It was the moment everything shattered. His Japanese girlfriend, suspicious of his mysterious benefactor, confronts him with the truth. She points out the resemblance, the power, the money. She tells him, "Your father is a yakuza." Noa is horrified. He breaks up with her and goes to confront his mother, Sunja. Jackson: I can’t even imagine that conversation. What does he say? Olivia: It’s one of the most heartbreaking scenes in the book. He is filled with a venomous rage and self-loathing. He screams at Sunja, accusing her of ruining his life. He says, "All my life, I have had Japanese telling me that my blood is Korean—that Koreans are angry, violent, cunning, and deceitful criminals... But this blood, my blood is Korean, and now I learn that my blood is yakuza blood. I can never change this... I am cursed." Jackson: Wow. So it’s not just that his father is a criminal. It’s that his father embodies the absolute worst stereotypes that Japanese society has about Koreans. Everything he spent his life running from is literally in his DNA. Olivia: Yes. He has internalized the prejudice so deeply that the discovery doesn't just change his story; it invalidates his entire existence. His identity, so carefully constructed on the foundation of being a "good," respectable scholar, just collapses into dust. He feels irrevocably dirty, tainted. Jackson: What does he do? Olivia: He disappears. He drops out of Waseda, leaves a note for his family telling them not to look for him, and vanishes. He moves to a different city, takes a Japanese name, marries a Japanese woman who knows nothing of his past, and gets a job… in a pachinko parlor. Jackson: Oh, come on. The very thing he despised. Olivia: The ultimate irony. He spends the rest of his life passing as Japanese, living in constant fear of being discovered. He can’t escape the game. He just ends up working inside the machine.

Jackson: That is just devastating. So the book shows us these incredibly resilient people, especially the women like Sunja, who build lives from nothing and survive unimaginable hardship. But then it also shows how the next generation, like Noa, can be crushed not by poverty or war, but by the purely psychological weight of their identity. You can survive history, but you can’t escape it. Olivia: That’s the core tension of the novel. Sunja’s generation fought for survival. Noa’s generation fought for a sense of self, for a soul, in a world that told them they didn’t deserve one. It brings to mind one of Isak's last, most powerful lines to a young Noa, before he died. He said, "Living every day in the presence of those who refuse to acknowledge your humanity takes great courage." This entire book is a testament to that quiet, relentless courage. Jackson: It’s a courage that isn’t about winning, but about enduring. About continuing to play even when you know the game is rigged. It really makes you think about the invisible games we're all a part of, and what parts of our own family histories we can never truly leave behind. Olivia: It absolutely does. It’s a story that stays with you long after you finish it, a reminder of the millions of ordinary people whose stories are the real, unwritten history of the world. We'd love to hear what you think. What family stories of resilience have shaped who you are? You can find us on our social channels and share your thoughts. Jackson: We always love hearing from you. Olivia: This is Aibrary, signing off.