Book Review: Pachinko by Min Jin Lee

I finished Pachinko this weekend, and I'm still carrying parts of it around in my head. This isn't just a novel. It's three books stitched into one - each with its tone, pace, and emotional weight.

Book I: Gohyang (Hometown) – The Beginning of Everything

The story opens in a small fishing village in Korea in the early 1900s. This is where we meet Sunja, the daughter of a boardinghouse keeper. It's a quiet, raw introduction, no dramatic flair, just the real, everyday struggle of survival.

The early chapters reminded me so much of the stories my grandparents told: simple lives shaped by larger forces like colonisation, poverty, and famine. Even the way food is described hits home. My Dadi (grandmother) used to say that white rice, which we take for granted today, was a luxury, a treat. That same longing for something as basic as rice runs through these pages.

Book II: Motherland – Migration, Identity, and Belonging

Sunja moves to Japan after a series of life-changing events (no spoilers), and this part of the book is where it starts expanding - geographically and emotionally. We see her & her new family try to adapt to a new country that will never truly accept them.

This part felt like watching roots trying to grow in concrete. The discrimination is constant. Subtle, Cruel and yet the family persists. They try to build something, anything, for the next generation. This middle section moves at a deliberate pace, mirroring the gradual, often imperceptible way lives transform over time. Nothing happens quickly, yet everything changes.

What I admired the most about this part is how Min Jin Lee avoids turning her characters into symbols. They feel human; they make mistakes, they survive, they love, they suffer. There's no melodrama, just life unfolding.

Book III: Pachinko – Choices, Consequences, and the Game

The final section of the book is where things get more complex. The younger generation is caught in a system they didn't create but are forced to live within. Pachinko - the gambling business that becomes central to the family's livelihood serves as both a literal means of survival and a powerful metaphor for the odds stacked against Korean immigrants in Japan. You realise how hard it is to break the cycle, how easy it is to lose yourself while trying to "make it."

Noa's character arc is the most heartbreaking. I kept wishing we'd hear more about what happened to his family after his death. But the story stays with Sunja's descendants, and I understand why. It's her legacy that the book wants us to focus on. Still, that little curiosity about Noa's branch of the family stayed with me.

What Makes Pachinko Stand Out?

It doesn't rely on dramatic plot twists. It's not trying to be flashy. Instead, it builds layer by layer, showing how history moves through people, how trauma and hope are inherited like eye colour.

What surprised me the most was how relatable it felt, despite being set in Korea and Japan. The themes - poverty, colonial rule, migration, discrimination, and the struggle for dignity are things many of us in South Asia can deeply relate to.

That line stopped me in my tracks. It captures the essence of the entire narrative.

Final Thoughts

If you've ever heard your grandparents talk about simpler but harsher times, if you've ever thought about what it means to belong somewhere or nowhere, Pachinko will resonate with you. It's not a light read, and it doesn't try to make you feel good. But it makes you feel, and that's far more powerful.

It's a quiet epic, one that doesn't end with a bang, but with a whisper that lingers.