▲ This Yonhap file photo shows the Baikal. (Yonhap)
My senior, already lost in thoughts of faraway places, merely nodded, as if inviting me to follow his gaze toward the distant horizon.
“Oh, well, they say it’s cool there. Temperatures hover between 13°C and 18°C in the morning and evening during this sweltering midsummer. Wouldn’t that be refreshing?”
His nonchalance only made my curiosity burn brighter. I rarely feel this kind of urgency, but I pressed on with question after question. Finally, the details unraveled, just as he had expected.
Apparently, he had organized a group to visit Baikal during its brief summer season when the region is relatively accessible and the weather agreeable. Beyond that, the oncoming harsh winters and unpredictable conditions would make travel nearly impossible. To top it off, we’d travel on a chartered Korean Air flight—a rare and fortunate arrangement.
Lowering my voice in excitement, I asked, “Do you think I could join the group at this point?”
I could feel my throat dry with anticipation.
“For someone like you, we’d be more than happy to make room. I’m sure everyone would agree,” he said with his characteristic politeness, though his tone carried a subtle I knew you’d ask vibe.
Relieved and finally settling my nerves, I began to organize my thoughts, my excitement steadily building for the adventure ahead.
▲ A chartered flight from Aeroflot, the Soviet state-owned airline, carrying the delegation for the 1988 Seoul Olympics, arrives at Gimpo Airport for the first time on September 5, 1988. (Yonhap)
For over 20 years, I had dreamed of visiting Lake Baikal. As I will explain, there were many reasons for this deep-seated aspiration, but above all, it was rooted in my fascination with the myths of the Buryat-Khori people.
It began with a book that analyzed and compared the tale of the swan and the hunter with similar stories from various Mongolian tribes. Another inspiration came from a world map I once saw at the American Museum of Natural History in New York, which depicted ancient human migration routes. From Baikal, two arrows extended: one crossing the Bering Sea to Alaska, continuing through the Eskimos, North American Indians, and Central and South American indigenous peoples; the other heading south through Manchuria and the Korean Peninsula.
One year, while in Mexico, I came across a small, straw basket containing pottery shards said to be burial artifacts. When I brought it home, my wife was astonished and asked, "When did you get this?"
The basket, crafted by Mexican indigenous people, looked like something straight out of Seoul's Namdaemun Market or the bamboo craft market in Damyang. The materials, colors, and craftsmanship were unmistakably similar to those from Korea.
Convinced that the Mexican artisan must have Mongolian ancestry, I dreamed of one day visiting Baikal to encounter "our cousins" who shared these cultural ties.
For years, visiting Baikal had been nearly impossible. It was, for a long time, a dream beyond reach. Even when travel routes eventually opened, the journey remained fraught with inconvenience.
During my trip, the most straightforward route to Baikal involved flying from Seoul to Vladivostok, then taking a plane or train to Irkutsk. Alternatively, one could fly to Ulaanbaatar in Mongolia and continue by train or plane to Irkutsk. Other options included flying to Novosibirsk or taking Aeroflot from Shenyang in China. None of these routes were simple or comfortable.
I once heard of a young woman who had traveled from Sokcho, taking a 20-hour boat ride to Vladivostok before embarking on the Trans-Siberian Railway to Irkutsk—all independently, without the help of a travel agency. Her courage and determination amazed me.
When I learned that I could now take a direct chartered Korean Air flight from Incheon to Irkutsk, I marveled at how easy, fast, and affordable it had become. Suddenly, I held my senior colleague in even greater esteem for arranging such an opportunity.
My thoughts wandered to the Korean diaspora that once endured hardship in this region. During the Japanese occupation, many Koreans were forcibly relocated to the harsh, unforgiving lands near Vladivostok, where they toiled under brutal conditions. Decades later, they erected a "Monument of Remembrance" in Vladivostok to honor those who had suffered. One can only imagine the bittersweet joy they felt upon hearing of Japan’s defeat after such a tumultuous and devastating chapter in their lives.
With these reflections in mind, my journey to Baikal took on a deeper, more profound significance.
▲ This Yonhap file photo shows the Baikal. (Yonhap)
Stories from the port near Vladivostok remain etched in memory—Koreans stranded on the harbor’s edge, waiting for ships to return them home, only to see Japanese vessels taking Japanese passengers while leaving them behind. These abandoned souls, hearts torn with rage and despair, decided to erect a memorial on that very hill, funded through their own modest contributions. The monument was meant to console the spirits of those whose cries of frustration once echoed across the land.
Choi In-soo, then the dean of Seoul National University’s College of Fine Arts, took on the task of sculpting the monument without hesitation. Though he rarely spoke of his role in its creation, it was clear that the story deeply moved him. His eyes seemed to drift toward the north, as if gazing at a distant memory.
For us Koreans, the north holds a unique emotional pull. Whether it’s tales of Goguryeo, the Mongolian steppes, or Lake Baikal, the stories strike a deep chord. Reading about the myths of the Buryat people had a particularly profound effect on me. One myth, believed to be the origin of Korea’s beloved folktale The Fairy and the Woodcutter, captivated me: the story of the swan and the hunter.
In this tale, three swans descend to the clear waters of Lake Baikal, shedding their wings to bathe. A hunter named Haridoy—revered as the ancestor of the Buryat people—steals the wings of the most beautiful swan, preventing her from returning to the skies. The swan marries the hunter and bears him eleven sons, who go on to lead the eleven Buryat clans. After many years, the swan persuades her husband to show her the hidden wings, and as soon as she has them, she dons them and soars back to the heavens.
Reading this academic analysis of the myth left me heartbroken. The enduring pain and patience of the swan stayed with me long after I closed the book. It was with this sense of reverence that I boarded the Korean Air charter bound for Irkutsk, in Russia's Buryat Autonomous Republic.
The flight northwest took four hours. Despite the official one-hour time difference, their daylight savings time aligned with Korea’s clock. Memories flooded back of my first fleeting visit to Moscow in 1986, disguised as a Japanese tourist, and how the world changed after 1990, when I began designing the Russian Embassy in Korea. Over the years, I visited Russia nearly ten times, but this was my first trip to Siberia.
Irkutsk, located in the far reaches of this vast continental nation, felt worlds apart from the central regions I had previously seen. The remnants of Soviet-era socialism were still palpable. The immigration process at the airport, unchanged from two decades ago, took over two hours, a stark reminder of the region’s slower pace of modernity.
As I stood there, surrounded by the imposing Siberian landscape, I felt a strange kinship with this distant place. It wasn’t just about the shared myths or historical ties—it was a deeper connection, rooted in the enduring spirit of survival and hope. The journey had just begun.
◇ Irkutsk: A City of Legends and Sorrows
Irkutsk holds a poignant place in Korean literature, most famously as the setting for Yujeong by Chunwon Lee Gwang-su. The novel's heroine, Nam Jeong-im, undertakes a journey of steadfast devotion, crossing Bongcheon, Harbin, Manchuria, and the Hinggan Mountains to reach Irkutsk. She seeks Choi Seok, her beloved and father figure, only to find him gravely ill. In the novel, Choi passes away in a remote log cabin, and Jeong-im, succumbing to her own ailments, stays behind. The narrator, Seok’s friend, resolves to bury them together under a tombstone inscribed The Two Stars Grave upon learning of her death.
Chunwon’s depiction of Irkutsk was so vivid that it seemed almost impossible for him to have written it without firsthand experience. Though the novel was published in 1933, Koreans were no strangers to this Siberian city even earlier.
Irkutsk also carries the legacy of Korean independence activists. In 1921, Korean communists aligned with the Irkutsk faction of the Communist Party of Korea held their founding congress in the city’s aristocratic assembly hall, now repurposed as a theater and restaurant.
Further back, Choi Nam-seon, an early modern Korean intellectual, explored Siberian shamanism in his works, such as Notes on Shamanism and Theory of Bulham Culture. He noted striking parallels between Siberian myths and Korea’s own foundational stories. Choi argued that Dangun—the mythical founder of Korea—derives from the Mongolian terms Tengger or Tengri, meaning "heaven" or "shaman," aligning with the Korean word for shaman, dang-gol. Later scholars like Kim Jae-won supported these theories, tracing the origins of Dangun mythology to the shamanistic traditions of the northern nomadic Tungusic peoples.
Irkutsk is also remembered for the exiled Decembrists, Russian noblemen who led a failed uprising against Tsar Nicholas I in December 1825. Inspired by the ideals of freedom they encountered during their campaigns in Europe—particularly in Paris after the defeat of Napoleon in 1812—they sought to end autocracy and abolish serfdom.
The uprising failed, leading to brutal repercussions. Thousands of soldiers were arrested, and the Tsar personally interrogated 600 young officers, five of whom were hanged while 120 were exiled to Siberia, including Irkutsk. These once-romantic young aristocrats were shackled with 22-kilogram iron chains, enduring forced labor for seven to eight years in the harsh Siberian climate. Chains were removed only for weekly Sunday Mass and the preceding baths, remaining fastened even during sleep.
Though small, Irkutsk is a city where beauty and heartbreak intertwine. Its history, from its ties to Korean independence activists to the poignant stories of Russian Decembrists, casts an enduring shadow over its picturesque streets. These layered tales make Irkutsk not just a destination, but a crossroads of human resilience and longing. ▲ The Eurasia Friendship Express train passes by Lake Baikal in Irkutsk, Russia, on July 19, 2015. Lake Baikal is 636 kilometers long and has an average width of 48 kilometers, with an area equivalent to one-third of South Korea. (Yonhap)
During my flight, the story of the Decembrist wives moved me to tears. After their husbands’ failed revolution in December 1825, these noblewomen faced a harrowing ultimatum from Tsar Nicholas I: abandon their exiled husbands and retain their aristocratic status, or follow their husbands to Siberian exile and forfeit all privileges. Eleven young noblewomen chose the latter path, embracing a life of hardship to stay with their spouses.
The journey from St. Petersburg to Irkutsk took 40 days by sleigh, traversing snow-covered wilderness without pause. Among these wives, Ekaterina Trubetskaya stood out as the first to publicly declare her resolve to follow her husband. As the daughter of a distinguished noble family, her decision shocked the Tsarist court.
Upon her arrival in Irkutsk, local authorities, unsure how to handle her, detained her separately while awaiting instructions from Moscow. Six months later, Nicholas I issued a decree detailing her conditions:
Trubetskaya could not bring any wealth with her and would be treated as any other convict, with no special protection. Any children born in exile would inherit the status of serfs. Should she choose to move further east, she would need to abandon all servants and companions. Once leaving Irkutsk, she could never return to Russia, unless explicitly pardoned by the Tsar. Trubetskaya accepted these terms and was finally reunited with her husband on February 8, 1827. When they met, she collapsed at his feet, kissed the shackles binding his ankles, and embraced him. Handing him a family photograph, she remarked, “Now I have arrived in the land of hope.”
The lives of these noblewomen in Irkutsk were grueling. Separated from their children and families, they were restricted to brief, twice-weekly visits with their husbands. Many had never performed household tasks before but now had to manage their homes, craft handmade goods to sell, and support their imprisoned husbands.
Some succumbed to the overwhelming hardships, dying far from the comforts of their former lives. One husband reportedly died a year later, on the anniversary of his wife’s death, unable to endure his grief.
Despite the bleakness of their circumstances, these families endured and contributed to Irkutsk’s cultural identity. After serving their sentences, some exiles settled in the surrounding areas, transforming the city into a beacon of elegance and romance. Inspired by their memories of Paris—a symbol of their youthful ideals—they helped shape Irkutsk into what is now called "the little Paris of Siberia."
The city’s romantic charm, however, is inseparable from the sorrow etched into its history. Irkutsk stands as a testament to love, resilience, and sacrifice—a poignant reminder of those who gave everything for their principles and their loved ones.
▲ Domestic release poster for the film War and Peace. (PHOTO NOT FOR SALE) (Yonhap)
In January 1827, the great Russian poet Alexander Pushkin clandestinely sent a stirring poem to the Decembrists in Siberian exile, expressing his solidarity and admiration for their courage. The verses read:
Siberia’s deep and dark mines, You proudly hold your honor still. This suffering will not be in vain, The rebel's heart remains steadfast.
Hope, the sister of misfortune, Will stir courage and joy in the gloom. That day shall come, When love and friendship reach you.
The locked gates of darkness will break, As the voice of freedom penetrates your cells. Chains will shatter, prisons will yield, And your brothers will bring you arms in freedom's light.
This poem, smuggled to the exiled Decembrists, became a symbol of their enduring resolve and the hope of eventual liberation.
Years later, Leo Tolstoy immortalized the Decembrists in his epic novel War and Peace. The character of Count Andrei Bolkonsky is modeled after Tolstoy's own uncle, Sergei Volkonsky, a prominent Decembrist. Volkonsky’s home in Irkutsk served as a gathering place for intellectuals, where discussions, poetry readings, and music recitals were held. Today, it remains preserved as a cultural site, hosting theatrical and literary events that honor its historic legacy.
Nestled on the southwestern edge of Lake Baikal, Irkutsk is the largest and wealthiest city in the region. Its strategic location makes it an essential stop for anyone traveling to the majestic lake. Irkutsk’s layered history, from its tragic Decembrist past to its vibrant cultural present, continues to captivate visitors and scholars alike.
(To be continued) | | | | |