Ghost Trains of the Koryo Saram: Mystery novel sheds light on Stalin’s forced exile of ethnic Koreans

A newly released novel is illuminating a little known chapter of Central Asian history during the Soviet era. It focuses on the Koryo Saram, the ethnic Koreans from Russia’s Far East, when they were forcibly relocated to the steppes of Uzbekistan and Kazakhstan by the dictator Joseph Stalin.

By weaving a mystery thriller into actual historical events, author Dmitry Kang shares autobiographical stories and explores the suffering of his ancestors in the book, “Ghost Trains of the Koryo Saram.” The story offers a gripping take on this rarely discussed Korean diaspora from the Soviet Union, and the “ghost trains” that carried them into exile.

Kang, 36, is a descendant of one of the thousands of families uprooted in 1937 from the lush, coastal lands near Vladivostok. His grandparents, both barely out of their teens at the time, endured a grueling train journey that reportedly lasted more than a month, and resulted in widespread illness, hunger, and death.

Kang’s novel, published recently by Silk Route Press in Tashkent, blends those historical records with fictional suspense elements. The result gives readers a story that begins as a deeply personal story and quickly spirals into an eerie supernational tale.

“I grew up in a household where my grandmother still whispered about the trains at night,” Kang said in a telephone interview. “When you live with these stories, you can’t help but imagine the ghosts she insisted were wandering the plains. She believed they were the souls of people who never received a proper burial, forever searching for peace.”

KORYO SARAM IN CENTRAL ASIA

The Koryo Saram, often translated simply as “Korean person,” are ethnic Koreans who began migrating to Russia in the mid-19th century. Facing famine, social inequality, and worsening living conditions in what was then the Joseon Dynasty, small groups resettled along Russia’s Far East near the border with the Korean Peninsula.

Over time, that community grew to more than 100,000 by the early 20th century. Their relatively peaceful life and growing prosperity changed drastically after Japan’s increasing presence in Northeast Asia and the Soviet leadership’s heightened fear of foreign agents.

In 1937, Stalin ordered the entire Korean population in the Russian Far East to board trains for collective farms in Uzbekistan and Kazakhstan. Historians estimate that thousands died from disease or starvation during the journey. Those who passed away in transit were often left by the wayside along the distant and unpopulated plains without traditional funerals, sparking rumors of restless spirits.

Today, Koryo Saram communities persist in Uzbekistan, Kazakhstan, and Russia. Many assimilated into local society, adopting Russian or local languages such as Uzbek or Kazakh in daily life. Yet elders still cling to fragments of the old Hamgyong dialect from the northern provinces of Korea. Kang’s novel delves into that linguistic and cultural tapestry, highlighting why their language was lost, and how folk beliefs about death and wandering spirits found new life in Central Asia.

A STRANGE AND SUPERNATIONAL PLOT

Upon first read, “Ghost Trains of the Koryo Saram” beings like a coming-of-age memoir, peppered with references to Kang’s own family tradition of cooking spiced cabbage rolls and sour vegetable soup, dishes that reflect a fusion of Korean, Russian, and Uzbek influences. But the story soon shifts, taking on the cadence of a mystery thriller.

The protagonist, Roza Shin, is a writer for the Soviet propaganda apparatus based in Almaty, Kazakhstan, who returns to Uzbekistan upon receiving news of her grandmother’s death.

In the opening chapters, Shin learns that her grandmother left behind a secret journal filled with cryptic symbols and half-finished sketches of trains. As she deciphers the entries, she uncovers an account of the forced relocation in 1937, marked by overcrowded cattle cars, dire conditions, and the rumor that many who died along the way still wander the plains.

The ghostly elements begin to surface when Shin stays at a remote guesthouse near Ushtobe, a Kazakh town where thousands of Koryo Saram had once dug holes in the ground to survive a brutal winter.

“My fictional ghost stories are blended with my grandmother’s real stories,” Pak said. “I wanted to weave together the generational trauma and the idea that some spirits never left. In Korean culture, a proper funeral is vital for allowing the dead to rest in peace. They believe spirits remain unsettled, even vengeful, without the necessary rites.”

CULTURAL SIGNIFICANCE OF THE “GHOST TRAINS”

Among the Koryo Saram, the phrase “ghost trains” is not entirely metaphorical. Oral histories describe how entire families, including the elderly and children, were packed into rickety boxcars with scarce supplies. Those who passed away were removed from the wagons and left behind. Tradition holds that such an undignified death leads to restless souls, called gwisin in Korean, which haunt the area of their final moments.

In Kang’s novel, these gwisin manifest through unexplained sightings of spectral figures late at night, or faint cries heard near old railway tracks. However, the author avoids sensationalism, opting instead for a slow-building suspense that hinges on personal grief, cultural identity, and the lingering echoes of exile.

“That’s what caught our editorial team’s attention,” said Kamila Rustamova, an acquisitions editor at Silk Route Press. “We don’t typically publish horror or fantasy, but Dmitry Kang’s manuscript was different. It’s a real historical event told through a lens of family memory, with a dash of mystery that’s so compelling. Our hope is that it sparks more interest in this piece of history and fosters dialogue on how cultural traditions adapt in diaspora communities.”

AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL ROOTS

Although “Ghost Trains of the Koryo Saram” is marketed as a work of fiction, it draws heavily on Kang’s own investigations into his ancestors’ fate. He spent a year traveling between Tashkent, Almaty, and remote Kazakh villages. Throughout his research, he collected oral histories from surviving elders, pored over Soviet-era records, and visited the exact locations where Koryo Saram families were said to have sheltered in hastily dug pits during the first winter after relocation.

Kang recalled one interview in particular, an elderly woman in Almaty who remembered the night her parents were taken.

“She spoke a dialect of Korean that I barely recognized,” Kang said. “But even with our limited mutual language, her voice cracked when she recounted how her brother was too sick to continue on the train and was left behind. She never learned what happened to him. That uncertainty followed her around her whole life.”

Some of those experiences became direct inspiration for events in the novel. In the book, Shin tracks down a man who claims that he can hear the train’s wheels screeching every time the temperature dips below freezing. He believes his ancestor’s ghost warns him of coming hardships.

Literary critics say such supernatural flourishes succeed because they tap into decades of quietly lived sorrow, rather than contrived folklore.

RECEPTION AND FUTURE PLANS

Although “Ghost Trains of the Koryo Sara” has been available only for a short time, local demand in Tashkent has been unexpectedly high. Copies sold out within days at several bookstores, prompting Silk Route Press to plan a second print run. Meanwhile, Kang’s informal book tour across Uzbekistan and Kazakhstan is drawing small but enthusiastic crowds of readers, many of whom share similar family histories.

Almaty-based historian Timur Bekzhanov, who specializes in diaspora studies, said the novel arrives at a fitting moment.

“We’re seeing a resurgence of public interest in stories of forced migration in the former Soviet Union,” he said. “Readers from many ethnic groups can relate to the pain of uprooting and the blending of cultures that happens over generations. In some ways, it’s also a cautionary tale about how governments’ actions can have repercussions for centuries.”

South Korean media outlets have taken notice as well, with a few newspapers publishing features about the Koryo Saram diaspora. In South Korea, knowledge of these events remains limited, although the government has extended special visa programs to Koryo Saram since the early 1990s.

Several thousand diaspora Koreans have migrated there, searching for economic opportunities and closer ties to their ancestral homeland. However, language barriers persist, given that many Koryo Saram grew up speaking Russian or local Central Asian languages instead of contemporary Korean.

“I have family in Seoul who are excited to read my book,” Kang said. “But I also realize that some of the old dialect words my grandmother used might be unfamiliar, even to native Koreans in South Korea. The Koryo Saram culture has evolved in a unique way, shaped by decades of living shoulder to shoulder with Uzbeks, Kazakhs, and Russians.”

BRIDGING THE CULTURAL DIVIDE

“Ghost Trains of the Koryo Saram” does not shy away from describing the linguistic mosaic that emerged after the forced relocation. In some chapters, the characters code-switch between Russian and Korean, adding occasional Uzbek loanwords for local produce or household items. That linguistic complexity reflects the real-world reality of Koryo Saram families, who often found themselves forging entirely new traditions in new lands.

Kang, whose mother is from Almaty and father from Tashkent, said he grew up hearing three languages spoken interchangeably at home.

“That blending can be confusing for outsiders,” he said. “But for us, it was normal. We’d have borscht with kimchi on the side, then finish with a strong cup of Uzbek green tea. It’s not one culture or another. It’s all of them.”

In the novel, those multilayered traditions underscore the central mystery of the ghost trains, which remain a symbol of collective trauma. The fact that so many died en route, or soon after arrival, fosters the sense that entire generations were lost in transit, left without tombstones or markers. Those intangible histories, said Kang, are what feed the specters roaming the pages of his book.

A LOST CHAPTER IN WORLD HISTORY

While “Ghost Trains of the Koryo Saram” may read like a ghost story, its foundation is firmly rooted in real events. The forced relocation of the Koryo Saram remains one of the more tragic episodes in Soviet history, highlighting the vulnerability of ethnic minorities under an authoritarian regime.

It also stands as an example of the extraordinary cultural tapestry that formed when Koreans, Russians, and Central Asians came together in circumstances neither sought nor welcomed.

For many, Kang’s novel serves as a timely reminder that even seemingly forgotten histories can resurface in ways that captivate the imagination.

As the author himself noted, “Ghosts aren’t always literal. Sometimes, they’re the burdens we carry from generation to generation—stories that haunt us until we finally let them breathe.”

LOOKING AHEAD TO THE NEXT CHAPTER

Kang plans to continue his research into Koryo Saram history, possibly developing a sequel that follows a new generation wrestling with modern issues such as urban migration, global travel, and renewed interest in cultural roots. He also hopes to organize a memorial project for the victims of the forced relocation, something akin to a traveling exhibit that might feature personal objects, letters, and photographs of those who survived.

A local university in Tashkent has expressed interest in bringing Kang to speak to students of literature, history, and cultural studies. Though a formal invitation has yet to be announced, he said he would gladly share his experiences with young readers curious about diaspora stories. Several film production companies in Almaty and Seoul have reportedly contacted Kang about a possible movie or Netflix adaptation, but no concrete plans are in place.

“Every time I talk to a young Koryo Saram, I hear a fresh perspective,” Kang said. “Some are proud of our heritage and want to reclaim the language. Others feel it’s too distant to matter to their modern lives. I think that tension is part of what the book touches on. How do you honor a history filled with heartbreak while embracing a future full of possibility?”

The success of “Ghost Trains of the Koryo Saram” suggests that such ghosts are indeed stirring in the collective consciousness. Through Kang’s artful blend of memory, folklore, and real-life historical details, readers are offered a rare glimpse into a world shaped by displacement, cultural adaptation, and the enduring bonds that link the living to the dead.