Add another to the list of all-time great debuts. Brother's Keeper is a story of intense action and emotion during the Korean War, one of the least talked about military engagements of the twentieth century. Twelve-year-old Sora Pak lives with her parents and younger brothers, Youngsoo (age eight) and Jisoo (age two) in a North Korean village in the year 1950. It was only a few years ago that the Korean Peninsula regained independence from Japan, but now communism has taken root. Heavily influenced by Soviet social mores, North Korea under the rule of Kim Il-sung has become an authoritarian state, forbidding any dissent to the Communist Party line. South Korea, which adopted American traditions and became a free society after World War II, is now at war with its neighbor to the north, and Sora Pak's family isn't sure what to do. Should they attempt escape to South Korea, or continue paying lip service to Kim Il-sung's regime so they can keep their home even as the nation falls apart and violence rises everywhere? Sora's abahji—father—wants to leave before the Party finds an excuse to shoot them in the streets like so many other citizens, but her mother—omahni—fears what will happen if the government catches them on the run. Sounds of gunfire puncture the night air closer and closer to where the Paks live; what will it take to convince Omahni to abandon their home?
It wounds Sora's heart to see good friends flee under cover of night, friends she'll likely never see again, but in truth her losses started before the war. An independent-minded girl in a culture that sees boys as more valuable than girls, Sora was grieved when Omahni pulled her out of school to learn housekeeping. How will Sora ever marry well if she doesn't have a good grasp of domestic engineering, her mother asks? A dutiful daughter, Sora obeyed Omahni even as it pained her to be kept away from school. Sora wants to be a professional writer someday, but is that possible for a middle-class girl from North Korea? Would migrating south give her freedom to be educated as she wishes, or would she still be constrained by Omahni's designs on her life? Sora may find out soon: as the war nears their village, the Pak family finally evacuates, headed for the South Korean city of Busan where Omahni's brother lives with his family. The long road to get there is congested with refugees, and the threat of attack by North Korean law enforcement looms large, but Sora almost feels hope as she and her family tread mile after mile toward Busan.
The situation verges on all-out crisis until a massive bomb drops, killing many of the refugees and separating Sora and eight-year-old Youngsoo from their parents and little brother, Jisoo. Sora wants to believe they survived the blast, but mangled bodies are everywhere; is it reasonable to think her missing family members aren't among them? Fighting the instinct to turn back home, Sora gathers a terrified Youngsoo and they resolutely head in the direction of Busan. If Abahji, Omahni, and Jisoo are alive, that's where they would go. Fractured families are everywhere, sobbing for dead loved ones and despairing of ever making it to South Korea, but Sora won't let her parents' death be in vain; if she and her brother don't reach freedom, then what was gained by Abahji and Omahni's ultimate sacrifice? However grotesque and violent the road ahead gets, Sora will follow it to the end.
Running away from Kim Il-sung's oppressive government, Sora hopes for something better, but finds mixed results en route to Busan. Some adults pity Sora and Youngsoo, and share with the children what limited provisions they have; others would betray them in a heartbeat for food or medicine from soldiers eager to satisfy darker appetites than Sora wants to think about. She meets brave people and cowards, moral and immoral, freedom-loving and authoritarian along the way to South Korea. Sora can't easily discern the good from the bad, but Youngsoo depends on her for everything, especially as he develops a bronchial infection that has Sora doubting he'll survive much longer without intervention. She and her brother wither into little more than living skeletons, consumed by starvation and sickness. Traversing hundreds of miles of treacherous land, and wide rivers crossable only by a few rickety, overpacked wooden boats, Sora senses that Busan can't be far now, but do she and Youngsoo have the stamina to get there? Are their parents and Jisoo waiting, or did their lives end when the bomb fell? Answers await in Busan, but some may be more awful than Sora can face.
One of many brilliant aspects of Brother's Keeper is its intuitive portrayal of authoritarianism. There are no eloquent political speeches decrying communism, socialism, safetyism, and other anti-freedom mindsets; the story is more than enough to show what happens when collectivism becomes the moral value and all disagreement is eliminated, violently if necessary. Even those like Omahni and Sora who aren't naturally outspoken about politics eventually have to take a stand when authoritarianism seeps in and begins to rot the culture from the inside out. One can tolerate attacks on individual liberty for only so long before a counterattack is essential, or death will come without so much as a whimper on your part, the shameful demise of one afraid to fight for what matters most. Sora sees this contrast early on when a neighbor boy, Myung-gi, encourages her to consider escaping North Korea with his family. She voices apprehension that the government will react severely, a possibility Myung-gi acknowledges. "Don't you think I know that? But there are some people who've made it across to the South. You can't let fear control you." "That's easier said than done," Sora replies, and she's right. It's easier to keep your head down and hope for the best, but authoritarians never let you stay neutral forever. Sooner or later you'll have to either stand up for yourself or fully comply with the regime's agenda, and that choice almost always comes sooner than expected.
Mixed in with Sora and Youngsoo's flight to freedom is vivid memories of her contentious relationship with Omahni, who is convinced that Sora's only avenue to happiness is adherence to traditional gender and family roles. Being a wife and mother may appeal to Sora someday, but for now her passion is writing. She needs a classical education to prepare for that future, but Omahni has forbidden her from attending school. Sora wishes they could frankly discuss the matter, but Omahni is horrified at the thought; no proper young lady talks back to her mother. It distresses Sora to wonder if she is a bad daughter, ungrateful and uncaring as Omahni says, but is she willing to give up her dreams and stay silent? Sora has been trained to submit since earliest childhood, but she finds the courage to push back at one point after Omahni calls her an "incompetent girl". "I'm not incompetent...I just want to do something different. Don't you ever want to do something different?" Sora desires to live a life that aligns with her own interests and values, not one preselected for her by society. She wants freedom not just from authoritarian politicians but from cultural constraints, and in some ways standing up to Omahni will be as hard as resisting the North Korean regime. Growing up isn't easy.
Brother's Keeper is a stunning repudiation of tyranny, vice, and other evils that plague the human race. What stands out most about the book, though, is its emotional core, which heats up to devastating degrees before we turn the final page. I wept and wept at certain parts, the narrative is so real and raw; I’d compare it to the finest work of authors E.B. White, Irene Hunt, Katherine Paterson, Barbara Park, and Cynthia Kadohata. A few scenes in the concluding chapters are seared into my memory, scenes I consider among the best ever for young readers. I would have awarded Brother's Keeper the 2021 Newbery Medal, and I'll probably always consider it among the best novels I've ever read. Bravo, Julie Lee. Your book is a true wonder.