In Sohn Won-pyung’s sophomore novel, “Counterattacks at Thirty,” we meet Kim Jihye, a thirty-year-old woman whose very name represents her struggle for identity. Jihye—the most common Korean female name of her generation—works as an intern at Diamant Academy, a subsidiary of a massive conglomerate, where she photocopies documents, delivers coffee, and rearranges chairs. Her life is marked by a profound sense of mediocrity that she both resents and embraces.
Unlike Sohn’s internationally acclaimed debut “Almond,” which explored neurodivergence through the lens of a teenager unable to feel emotions, “Counterattacks at Thirty” delves into the complex inner world of someone seemingly unremarkable. The result is a nuanced exploration of millennial disillusionment, workplace exploitation, and the small acts of resistance that constitute a life of quiet rebellion.
A Story of Rebellion in the Mundane
Set in contemporary Seoul, the novel chronicles Jihye’s transformation from passive observer to cautious participant in what her new colleague Gyuok terms “counterattacks”—small acts of rebellion against those who abuse power. When the charismatic and mysterious Gyuok joins the academy as a fellow intern, he recruits Jihye and two others (the struggling screenwriter Muin and fatherly Mr. Nam) to engage in minor acts of protest against those who have wronged them.
Their “counterattacks” begin small—an anonymous letter shaming Dept. Head Kim for his flatulence and poor hygiene—but gradually escalate to more public demonstrations, including egging a politician who stole Mr. Nam’s tteokbokki recipe and disrupting a movie premiere for a film plagiarized from Muin’s screenplay. These rebellions serve as catalysts for the characters’ personal growth, allowing them to reclaim fragments of dignity in a society that has rendered them invisible.
Masterful Character Development
What elevates Sohn’s narrative beyond a simple workplace drama is her exceptional character development. Each member of the unlikely quartet emerges fully formed, with distinct motivations and vulnerabilities:
- Jihye’s struggle with her own mediocrity forms the emotional core of the novel. Her invented “boyfriend” Mr. Jeong-jin (whose name cleverly combines the Korean words for “real” and “true”) represents her longing for authenticity.
- Gyuok, with his philosophical musings about chairs as symbols of authority, serves as both romantic interest and ideological compass.
- Mr. Nam, a former cook whose recipe was stolen by a celebrity chef turned congressman, channels his maternal instincts into cooking for others and performing mukbangs—eating broadcasts—for lonely online viewers.
- Muin, the frustrated screenwriter who adopts the name “Rubberman” (a play on the Chinese characters in his name), embodies the artistic struggle against commercial exploitation.
Particularly poignant is Sohn’s portrayal of Jihye’s reunion with Kong Yun (née Kim Jihye), a former schoolmate who bullied her during high school and has reinvented herself as a self-help guru. Their confrontation in a bookstore, where Jihye attempts to stand up for herself but ultimately falters, captures the lingering power of adolescent trauma and the difficulty of escaping old patterns of behavior.
Societal Commentary Through a Personal Lens
Sohn masterfully weaves social critique throughout her narrative without ever becoming didactic. Through Jihye’s encounters with Dept. Head Kim (who was once a student protester in the 1980s but has become a symbol of corporate tyranny), her entrepreneurial brother Jihwan (who prioritizes material success over personal fulfillment), and her childhood friend Dabin (who has surrendered her individuality to motherhood), the novel examines how societal pressures mold and constrain individual identity.
Particularly resonant is Sohn’s exploration of Korea’s generational divide. When Jihye laments the difficulty of finding meaningful work, her brother dismisses liberal arts education as vanity, telling her to “stop turning your nose up at the world and wake up.” This conflict between idealism and pragmatism runs throughout the novel, embodied in Jihye’s simultaneous desire to escape her circumstances and fear of taking risks.
Strengths and Weaknesses
The novel’s greatest strength lies in its authentic portrayal of workplace dynamics and the subtle indignities that erode self-worth. Sohn captures the peculiarities of Korean office culture—including the expectation to work late, mandatory company dinners, and elaborate self-introductions—with painful accuracy. When Team Leader Yu dismisses Jihye’s reluctance to fetch coffee for a lecturer, saying “No one can get through life only doing what they agree with,” readers everywhere will recognize the soul-crushing logic of workplace hierarchy.
Equally compelling is the novel’s examination of how social media and internet culture have transformed personal identity into public performance. Kong Yun’s transformation from high school bully to inspirational influencer illustrates how success in contemporary society often hinges on one’s ability to craft a marketable persona rather than develop genuine character.
However, the novel occasionally suffers from pacing issues, particularly in its latter half. The dissolution of the group’s friendship occurs too abruptly, with Muin’s betrayal feeling somewhat contrived. Additionally, some readers might find Jihye’s emotional breakthrough at the novel’s conclusion—organizing a community theater in a public park—too subtle a “counterattack” given the injustices described throughout the book.
Translation and Cultural Context
Translator Sean Lin Halbert deserves significant praise for successfully rendering Sohn’s culturally specific references and wordplay. As Halbert notes in his afterword, translating a text so deeply embedded in Korean social dynamics presents unique challenges. His decision to retain Korean terms like “mukbang” rather than substituting English approximations preserves the novel’s cultural authenticity while guiding English-language readers through unfamiliar terrain.
Halbert’s thoughtful explanations of cultural phenomena—such as Korean age calculation, the tradition of company dinners, and the significance of the 2016 Candlelight Demonstrations—enrich the reading experience without overshadowing the narrative. The result is a translation that respects both the source material and the target audience.
Verdict: A Quiet Triumph
“Counterattacks at Thirty” may lack the high-concept premise of “Almond,” but its quieter approach allows for deeper psychological exploration. In chronicling Jihye’s journey from passive resignation to cautious self-assertion, Sohn has crafted a deeply relatable portrait of millennial anxiety and the small rebellions that constitute personal growth.
For readers who enjoyed the workplace dramas of “Severance” by Ling Ma or the social commentary of “Kim Jiyoung, Born 1982” by Cho Nam-joo, “Counterattacks at Thirty” offers a thoughtful examination of individual identity within collective society. Sohn’s prose, simultaneously accessible and profound, invites readers to recognize the extraordinary potential within ordinary lives—and perhaps to stage their own quiet counterattacks against the systems that diminish them.
Key Takeaways:
- Authentic workplace dynamics: Sohn’s portrayal of office politics and the exploitation of temporary workers feels painfully real.
- Complex characters: Each member of the rebellion brings unique motivations and vulnerabilities to their collective protest.
- Cultural specificity: The novel’s exploration of Korean social hierarchy and generational divide adds depth to its universal themes.
- Quiet resistance: The novel celebrates small acts of defiance rather than grand revolutionary gestures.
- Identity and authenticity: Jihye’s journey toward self-acceptance offers a poignant counterpoint to a society obsessed with external validation.
“Counterattacks at Thirty” is ultimately a meditation on finding meaning in the margins of society—and recognizing that even the smallest disruption to unjust systems constitutes a worthwhile rebellion. Through Jihye’s eyes, we learn that being “ordinary” doesn’t preclude being significant, that even minimal workers can have maximum impact, and that sometimes the greatest counterattack is simply refusing to disappear.
While not flawless in its execution, Sohn Won-pyung’s novel offers a thoughtful and empathetic portrait of millennial disillusionment and the quiet dignity of refusing to accept injustice, even when outright victory seems impossible. Like the oil-slick rainbow that Jihye admires in the novel’s final pages, it reminds us that beauty and significance can emerge in the most unexpected places, transforming even mundane existence into something worthy of celebration.
