Tracing generational struggles of identity and belonging: a review of Min Jin Lee’s Pachinko

Pachinko by Min Jin Lee follows four generations of a Korean family living in Japan, throughout the 20th century, telling a saga of resilience, identity, and the lingering effects of historical displacement. At first glance, Sunja—the young woman whose choices propel the narrative—seems to be the central figure. But as I mapped out the family tree, I realized the story’s heart lies in the parallel journeys of her sons, Noa and Mozasu. Their journeys, while apparently similar, reveal how small shifts in self-acceptance and identity can lead to drastically different outcomes across generations. The title Pachinko itself is a metaphor for life as a game of chance, where patterns repeat but subtle changes create vastly different results.

Family tree of the BAEK Sunja lineage, inspired by the book Pachinko of Min Jin Lee.

The weight of shame and pride shaping generations

Both Noa and Mozasu navigate life as Koreans in Japan, become successful managers of pachinko parlors and maintain long-term relationships with Japanese women, yet their experiences diverge sharply. Noa spends his life trying to blend into Japanese society, burdened by shame and a desire to hide his Korean roots. Despite having some advantages in life, such as attending the best university, Noa was trapped by shame and a lack of self-identity. His inability to reconcile his identity and his origins overshadows his life.  His shame isolates him and robs him of any lasting sense of accomplishment. This internal conflict ultimately leads to his tragic end.

Mozasu, in contrast, faced life head-on. He wasn’t the perfect child like Noa, but he wasn’t ashamed of who he was, giving him the freedom to live authentically. He was proud, confident, and while that made him prone to conflict, it also made him resilient and able to thrive in a society that didn’t fully accept him. He takes his limitations as opportunities and finds financial success, his community’s respect, and a fulfilled life with a close-knit family, despite societal prejudice.

Shame and pride are recurring forces that drive the characters’ decisions throughout Pachinko. Sunja, loved and cherished by her father Hoonie, fears becoming a source of shame for her father’s memory. Her decision to migrate to Japan with the kind pastor Isak is driven by a desire to protect her family’s honor and start anew where her past isn’t known. Yet throughout her life, she holds onto the pride of her family’s values even as she navigates personal shame. Years later, Noa’s migration to Nagano echoes his mother’s, but for different reasons—he seeks to erase his family ties entirely, ashamed of his heritage and desperate for a "normal" life. While Sunja migrates to uphold family values, Noa’s journey is an escape from them. This contrast underscores how personal interpretations of heritage can define a person’s fate

Beyond bloodlines: identity as a cultural inheritance

Pachinko shows us how family is more than just genetic inheritance. Noa, though Hansu’s biological son, is culturally shaped by Isak’s values. Mozasu, genetically unrelated to Hansu, mirrors Hansu's resilience and resourcefulness. Their lives illustrate that cultural inheritance—values, behaviors, and attitudes—plays a greater role in shaping identity than mere biology.

Noa, though Hansu’s biological son, is culturally shaped by Isak. He inherits the mannerisms, the love for study and moral compass of his adoptive father, Isak. He is, in many ways, Isak’s son, despite not sharing his blood. However, when Noa discovers the truth about his origins, it shatters his fragile sense of self-worth. His sense of morality becomes a curse he cannot overcome.  

Unlike Noa, Mozasu carried a resilience that mirrors Hansu’s drive and pragmatic approach to life even if they share no blood. He does not concern himself with ideals of collective identity or moral superiority. For him, survival and family come first, a mindset that aligns more with Sunja’s determination do to whatever it takes to support her family.

This dynamic extends across generations. It isn’t until Solomon, Sunja’s grandson, that we see a shift. He realizes what Noa never could:

“There was more to being something than just blood.”

This realization ties together the struggles of his family’s past, suggesting that identity is not simply inherited through bloodlines but formed through cultural connections, experiences, and personal choices.

Unlike Weyward, Pachinko is not about family search. Instead, ancestry is a living, active force in the characters’ identities. Their family history isn’t just part of the past—it directly shapes how they see themselves and how they’re treated by society, facing systemic discrimination, no matter how much you tried to assimilate. This ongoing struggle with identity reflects the reality that where you come from—and from whom—can determine the course of your life.

Redefining home across generations

The concept of home is central to the story. For Sunja, home is Yeongdo—the island where her family lived for generations and where she grew up surrounded by love. Even after living most of her life in Japan, Yeongdo remains her true home. But for her children, home is an abstract idea, a sense of belonging they’ve never experienced. Born and raised in Japan, speaking Japanese but not Korean, they are never fully accepted. They aren’t fully Korean in the eyes of the Korean community, nor are they considered Japanese by society or law, leaving them in a state of limbo – outsiders in the only country they’ve ever known. The threat of deportation to a Korea they've never seen highlights the fragility of their belonging.

Sunja’s migration from Korea to Japan is driven by the shame of her unwed pregnancy and the desire to protect her family’s honor. Years later, her son Noa makes a similar move, leaving for Nagano. But unlike Sunja, Noa’s migration isn’t about preserving family—it’s about erasing it. He’s ashamed of his roots and tries to reinvent himself as a Japanese man, pretending his Korean heritage doesn’t exist. While Sunja migrates to uphold family values, Noa’s journey is an escape from them. This contrast highlights how migration can be both a means of preserving identity and a way to run from it.

The tension between migration and belonging is further deepened by the role of ancestral traditions in Korean culture, like Jesa, the ceremonial practice of honoring one’s ancestors. Jesa is more than a ritual—it’s a way to maintain a living connection with one’s ancestors. This sentiment is echoed in Yangjin’s quiet acts of remembrance:

"I clean their graves and the ones for all my dead babies. I talk to the dead although I don't believe in ghosts. But it makes me feel good to speak with them. Maybe that is what God is.”

The practice of honoring ancestors isn’t just about tradition; it’s about finding comfort, continuity, and meaning in the presence of those who came before. This idea is beautifully captured by Sunja "the people you loved, they were always there with you, she learned." In a story so deeply rooted in themes of migration and displacement, these moments of ancestral connection ground the characters, offering a sense of belonging that transcends borders and time.

Giving voice to the overlooked

What I loved most was how Min Jin Lee writes almost as a form of fictional genealogy. Pachinko uses historical fiction to fill in the gaps and give voice to those often forgotten in History books. It vividly captures daily life under the weight of major 20th-century events. As a European, this book introduced me to parts of history I hadn’t explored before: Japan’s annexation of Korea, the Second World War in a non-European perspective, the division into North and South Korea, and the systemic segregation faced by Koreans in Japan. The author’s background in history contributes to a trustworthy narrative, and I deeply appreciate the effort put into preserving the oral histories of the Korean community in Tokyo, finding identity patterns that tie the narrative together and enrich it with authenticity. Like in family history oral stories and cultural nuances breathe life into the facts recorded on paper.

The novel’s omniscient narrator provides a detailed backdrop of key historical moments while maintaining neutrality, leaving freedom to the reader to interpret, judge and even disagree with the characters. I especially enjoyed the first two parts of the book, where the slow, detailed character development allowed me to deeply connect with the family’s struggles and triumphs. However, the third part felt rushed, more superficial, and introduced characters who lacked the depth of those in earlier sections. While this may be an intentional reflection of shifting cultural dynamics over time, it felt somewhat disconnected from the rich storytelling that preceded it.

Conclusion

Pachinko is a powerful and highly recommended read. It made me reflect on the complexities of identity,  migration, and the generational ripple effects of historical displacement in a tangible way. While my own family doesn’t have a migrant history, reading this book helped me connect more deeply to my husband’s migrant past and I now understand better the internal conflict of being from somewhere and nowhere at the same time.  

This book also made me reflect on the limitations of traditional archival research in genealogy. Official records can tell us who our parents and grandparents were – confirmed or disproved by DNA ancestry tests. But the key to understanding cultural inheritance lies with the minor characters that are often overlooked – witnesses at weddings, godparents at baptisms, neighbors mentioned in census records. They help paint a fuller picture of the social environment that shaped our ancestors’ lives, the communities they belonged to, and the cultural values they passed down. In many ways, these peripheral figures are the missing links that help us bridge the gap between bloodlines and the cultural legacies that define our ancestry.

In the end, it reminded me that despite the differences in geopolitical contexts, human struggles in the search for belonging are universal, transcending borders and generations.

I’d love to hear your thoughts and experiences in the comments. How has uncovering family stories influenced your sense of belonging? When you learn about the struggles and triumphs of those who came before you, does it help you reconcile feelings of being caught between cultures or places?