Pushing Forward: Thoughts on Andor and the diaspora
I think often about Gwangju. It continually inspires me and teaches me. Sometimes what I think about is how those days during the uprising must have felt to live through. I think about how it must have felt during that final night, waiting in the Provincial Hall, knowing the military was coming for you in a matter of hours with everything it had. I can't imagine the feeling. I would like to think that if I were ever in such a position, that I could summon a fraction of their bravery. Is it bravery? Is it hope? Then I wonder, will I even know if I'm in such a position as it's happening? How will I know? It's different thinking about how I would make that decision with knowledge of how the uprising is remembered all these years later. Is the answer to always be brave? Every protest, every action, every tiny bit of resistance becomes important because they are all full of potential.
As much is said in the finale of Andor, where a planet is urged to "wake up," to see what the Empire is doing, because fascism depends on people being in the dark. On people not asking questions. On keeping their heads down. The people, historically exploited for their labor and resources, are roused to fight back. A young man stands nervously in the crowd, on the precipice of taking action. He hesitates, he looks around and sees the horror the Empire is inflicting on his neighbors. He throws. What decision do you make in that moment?
Is there a point? A character muses that maybe it's too late, maybe the fight is useless, the Empire entrenched past the point of no return. This question gets answered indirectly by Nemik in his manifesto. The fight can seem long, hard, and lonely. You feel disconnected from a larger movement. We're not promised to see the future we fight for. Victories are small and hard to come by. It doesn't matter. As Nemik writes, we are all already a part of it. The "smallest act of insurrection pushes our lines forward," Nemik tells us, finding value in what may be remote actions in far corners of the galaxy, because fascism depends on control and every bit of resistance chips away at that facade. I'm reminded of a movie set during the Japanese colonization of Korea. A group of resistance fighters have a mission to assassinate a particular Japanese official. At one point, one of the fighters is asked what is the point of this one, singular assassination? It won't get Japan out of Korea, it won't end the war. "They will know we're still here," the rebel answers simply.
In the grand Star Wars narrative, where the passage of time is marked by a significant battle and names of heroes become whispered legends, we never hear of Ferrix and the uprising that took place there. But, it inspired Cassian Andor whose arc takes us directly to the original trilogy. Everyone likes to imagine they would be Luke Skywalker, making that ultimate run on the Death Star, but the reality, the much more likely end, is that maybe we aren't even Andor, himself lost in the greater narrative of the resistance. Maybe we're the people of Ferrix, the people who never get off that planet, but whose actions spark a man that feeds the fire. Every little action pushes the line. Every little step gets us closer to victory. And along the way, they'll know we're still here.
Andor has really touched on my feelings of being in the Korean diaspora. Watching Andor is watching the journey of a man being radicalized by the conditions around him. Watching him learn to trust others, trust himself, and find value in a community, in something bigger than himself. Watching him wake up. Part of the feeling comes from knowing how his story ends. Andor doesn't see what happens to the Empire. He has to know that he did all he could to push the line forward, and trust his comrades will keep it moving. I know this is how the fighters felt that night in Provincial Hall in Gwangju.
Being Korean American is being part of something bigger than myself. I want to see a reunified Korea one day, an end to the Korean War, the United States military machine off the peninsula. I fight for this future knowing that I may, or am even likely, not to see it. But I'm part of that lineage, I carry that trauma, that han. My ancestors pushed the line against Japanese occupation, against U.S. intervention, against authoritarianism. I'm joining a fight that's been going on for generations. I can only do my part to push the line a little further.