Kwon Mina, formerly of the group AOA, once again spoke out about the controversies surrounding her.
On the 1st, Kwon Mina posted a long piece about her life on her social account. The content contains hardships and pain so severe it is hard to believe it was one person's life.
She said she was rejected by her father before she was born but was brought into the world by her mother's strong will, and that when she was in kindergarten she was exposed to her father's violence throughout, and that around age 6 she called 112 herself to report her mother collapsing, which eventually led to her parents' divorce.
After her parents' divorce, Kwon Mina grew up in squalid conditions where bugs swarmed and there was no hot water, developing compulsions such as mysophobia. She showed mathematical talent and was promising, but because her father did not pay child support and her mother suffered, she went to work from the first year of middle school and ultimately chose to drop out. During this time, at a place she had gone to because she worried about a friend, she suffered a horrific incident in which an upperclassman gang assaulted and raped her for six to seven hours. She kept the truth to herself to avoid making her mother sad and endured the pain alone, and in the vicious cycle of betrayal by a trusted friend and group assaults she broke down to the point of attempting suicide.
Afterwards, determined to overcome her trauma and succeed, Kwon Mina came to Seoul and began life as a trainee, but even as a trainee she had to endure verbal abuse, physical assault and menial tasks. After enduring a long three and a half years, she finally debuted, achieved a No. 1 as a singer and found happiness onstage as she achieved public success.
Kwon Mina's happiness did not last. In 2014, when she learned that the father who had abused her was in the final stage of pancreatic cancer and saw his weakened state, she felt a complicated sadness. Suppressing her grief while continuing activities, she once burst into tears while having touch-up makeup done in the waiting room. Because she cried in the waiting room, a member spoke to her with abusive language, and she said she could not even properly visit her father's last bedside.
To avoid the continued verbal abuse and bullying from an older sister in the dormitory and while traveling, she took sleeping pills to escape reality; even mistakes in choreography caused by the medication were criticized, and the unfair punishments and bullying continued into adulthood, leaving her mentally exhausted. Ultimately, after ongoing pressure and an anesthetic incident led to mental collapse, she attempted suicide but was fortunately discovered by a manager and passed through a dangerous period.
When even the psychiatrist she visited for treatment broke confidentiality by disclosing counseling details to others, Kwon Mina lost trust in the world and closed herself off again. At the time of contract renewal she demanded an apology for past wounds, but after experiencing an unrepentant attitude she decided to give up her dream and leave the team. She later revealed part of her suffering on social media, but the response she received was dismissal, and she claimed that when a sister came to apologize, the sister threatened her by looking for a knife and shouting, never offering a sincere apology.
Meanwhile, Kwon Mina, who debuted with the group AOA in 2012, drew sympathy in 2019 after claiming she was bullied by members following her departure from the team. However, she later faced criticism as controversies arose over alleged nurse privilege, pressured breakups, apologies on social media live streams and questions about the sincerity of her explanations. Recently, she signed an exclusive contract with Modenberry Korea but the contract was terminated after a month, and she is currently preparing for her first solo fan meeting since debut.
Below is the full text from Kwon Mina
This child was born in 1993. My biological father, learning I was not a son, wanted me aborted, but my mother desperately wanted to give birth to me.
Born that way, my memories from ages 5 to 6 were entirely domestic violence from my father. When I was 6, my mother was unconscious and collapsed from being beaten, so I called 112; I was so young I struggled to convey the house address to the police, but eventually officers came, and that year they probably divorced. When I woke up at 7, my mother, my older sister and I lived in an old 11-pyeong? dwelling filled with cockroaches, rats and all kinds of bugs, and because we couldn't turn on the boiler I couldn't take hot showers; my mother always boiled water for me — she was a warm mother. Because I couldn't wash properly I became dirty and was criticized by friends.. So when I became an adult maybe I developed an obsession with showering or mysophobia. Anyway, until elementary school I loved math so much I won every award, and I was good at it, but I had no interest in other subjects. My sister and cousins all went to places like Harvard, Seoul National University, Korea University — a smart family — but because my father didn't pay child support, when I was in sixth grade I worried. I thought I should protect my beautiful, pitiful mother and from the first year of middle school I did many part-time jobs and began to miss school more and more, eventually telling a good homeroom teacher honestly and dropping out. Around that time a boy who liked me appeared and I opened my heart, but that friend had already awakened to sex and preferred boys, causing friction. I scolded him one-sidedly. One day another boy from another middle school contacted that friend and wanted to meet; worried, I went along. When we arrived, boys our age were lined up and there was a famous senior a year older who everyone knew; I was scared and asked to be sent home, but as soon as I spoke the indiscriminate assault began. It's an incident from 18 years ago but the house's layout and the perpetrator's expression are vivid. I was beaten for about six to seven hours, hit with a beer bottle.. dragged around, hit mainly on my body — I wondered if I would die. As my consciousness faded they took me into a room and undressed me. I cried and begged to avoid rape, but I was raped, then placed in an adjacent room where a frightening boy my age touched my whole body. After being toyed with for a long time, dawn came; I was covered in blood and bruises and crawled the seven to eight minutes home with that friend, and before my mother woke I covered my body with long sleeves and pants. The next morning when my mother asked what was wrong, I laughed and said I had gotten into a scuffle with a friend and that I had won. After that I lived like I had run away, hiding, stopping all part-time jobs, not going to the hospital, and when I began to recover I became quiet and awkward and snapped at my mother. Hearing that taking eight tablets of Geuborin would kill you, I swallowed eight Geuborin; my stomach hurt, I vomited and returned to my senses? Around then my mother also wanted to move to Seoul, and I wanted a new life, but at night a call came to our house and I was told to step outside. I went out and sensed something off but couldn't escape. It turned out to be the betrayal and instigation of that friend who had gone through the painful incident with me. The final fight in Busan ended in group assault until I was unable to control my bowels; they told me to keep it secret from my mother and stay outside until I recovered. We moved up to Seoul to a very small but clean officetel dreaming of a new life and challenge, determined to overcome all the trauma from Busan and succeed in Seoul. I returned to part-time work, then became staff, and though lacking skill I was bold and was given a chance to pursue my dream and became a trainee — and from then the nightmares began. I thought this was the system and lifestyle: fetching water, receiving insults, running errands, being hit. After three and a half years we debuted; my daily life was the same but I was happy onstage and a few years later we even ranked No. 1 and reached a fairly successful position. In 2014, when I learned my father had terminal pancreatic cancer and saw him shrink, I was more saddened than I expected. The most memorable scene was looking at my father reduced to a skeleton briefly, then performing on Inkigayo the next day. I always hid my emotions and went on walks alone to cope and managed broadcasts, but that day while getting hair touch-ups I did not make a sound yet tears fell without my knowledge. The sister beside me was getting a touch-up and then grabbed my collar as if to throw me into a closet and scolded me, saying, Because of you everyone has to watch you? and told me not to ruin the mood, so I cried, scared that my father was dying. I stood on stage again, acted, and the company gave me time during fan meeting hours to visit my father in hospital, so I missed some events and after a schedule I arrived at home and my father was hospitalized five minutes away. I didn't know much about pancreatic cancer, but seeing him become more skeletal made my mother and sister cry. Yet I didn't go to see him — I could have, but I couldn't. More frightening to me than that was that sister; if I cried on site I would be scolded again, so I tried to focus on work. Two months after learning about pancreatic cancer, I got a call saying his condition was critical; when I went to my father he was lying with his eyes closed but his heart was still beating and my mother told me to tell him she loved him. Why was that so hard to say? While I hesitated, there was a beep and my father was gone. Beside him was a sketchbook, and in faint writing it said, Where is our youngest? I found the sketchbook and cried a lot.
Still, because it was a personal matter and there was little time to grieve, I pulled myself together and returned to bright activities, but what made it hardest was that sister's bullying and swearing. In the same dormitory and the same car I took Xanax or Stilnox to avoid hearing it, trying to sleep until arrival at events. Once at an event a medication hadn't worn off and I made a choreography mistake and was scolded again. No matter what I did I was disliked and it was painful, so I stayed in the practice room until dawn, going in when the sister fell asleep, enduring until the sister's acquaintance came to the dormitory while I had taken sleeping pills. They were noisy in the living room for a long time and woke me; they said we have to do a punishment like at the playground — if it's long you must do it — but at about 26 I was at the end of my sensitivity; I was no longer the 16- or 17-year-old I had been, I was an adult and I didn't know why they hated me. I wanted to fight in the dance studio. I was about to swear when another member stopped me; I thought the other members might be sincere and I drew strength from them, but they cursed me in front of me and cursed that sister in her presence. All I wanted was a contract renewal, but at that time during a hairline procedure the anesthesia didn't wear off properly, and because I was late to dance lessons from the lingering anesthetic I made a big mistake. I called that sister to apologize, but when I heard her angry voice I felt like I was losing my mind and burst into tears. I asked the manager to take me back to the dormitory and I had been steadily collecting Stilnox and Xanax — about 150 to 160 — for some future time. I wrote that sister's name in my note and swallowed most of the pills; some remained in my mouth and I fainted. A manager who liked me came back worried, found me in the dormitory, and we went to the emergency room. I regained consciousness but vomited for days and couldn't see. The company assigned a famous psychiatrist, and I mustered the courage to tell my story, but a junior who was also seeing that doctor knew my story and the doctor discussed that junior openly in front of me. Realizing there was no confidentiality and fearing everyone would find out, I stopped speaking and tried to endure alone until renewal day approached. During the five minutes reserved for members alone, I brought up the most shocking memory — my father's death and the remark the sister made from the closet on Inkigayo — but the reply I got was, I don't think I'm that bad a person to say that, she glared at me, then explained that renewing contracts was best for everyone. At that moment I decided to give up my dream and firmly said I wouldn't do it. I thought maybe only the remainder of matters would be settled, and after looking at them I began self-harming and repeated suicide attempts. I wanted to reveal via social media some of what I had endured and the sister's true nature, the way she treated me. The response I got was the two words, novel. Then a member called and asked if I would accept the sister's apology and whether she could come to my home. I said what I wanted most was a sincere apology, so of course she could come. I waited with expectation, but the members, a manager who was particularly close to that sister and the male head of team entered and began recording. The sister, furious, shouted, Where's the knife? Should I just die?
After stunned silence, the conversation calmed and resumed. In an agitated state I asked, Suddenly your face looks like shit to me, while shaking and in stage costume you yelled at me, Why is your body like that? You look retarded, starting with small insults — I asked why but she said she didn't remember. I hated the sister but liked her father and had felt that pain first, so I had attended the funeral. She looked at me and cried then, and I thought she had felt something, but this woman had reverted to her true nature in front of me. Excited, I said, Record everything, it's fine, do it — I will stake my father's and my father's honor and speak the unvarnished truth about ten years of what I endured. I asked plainly, Why did you do it? For many questions she repeatedly showed a blank expression and said she didn't remember and gave mechanical apologies. I kept unfolding everything and finally felt there was nothing more to hope for, no change, no sincere apology, so I told them to leave. Calming myself, I pretended to be okay, smiled and said goodbye to the rest who had no loyalty, then sent them off. Afterwards, an article suddenly appeared claiming that the sister had knelt and apologized to me. What is that? I asked the team manager who came with that sister; since you were with them, why does the article contain content that never happened? Why lie? The reply was, Wait a moment, and much later, It looked like that to me. I felt lonely; there were surely people on that day who supported me, but power dynamics and positional differences mattered. That day I cut my wrist again and went to the emergency room. I continued to try alone to reveal the truth; eventually the public grew tired of me and awful photos crossed the line and everyone turned away. Then I thought, I want to meet that woman, I'll hit her, I'll curse her — in a mad state I cried daily and attempted suicide, and I asked people around me where she was and sent every insult I could to her every day as my revenge. The sister didn't reply at all, then Dispatch released an edited transcript lacking beginnings and middles and only showing the end, oddly making it seem like I was the trainee who didn't follow orders and implying the reason was my fault in an exclusive report. My abusive messages were all exposed, and then I was labeled the perpetrator?
I collapsed, experienced daily panic attacks at the airport, made my mother cry, and took out my anger on my own body. I stabbed my stomach several times with a knife, slashed my thighs, and thought the ways to die were wrists or neck, so I cut with all my strength many times. I woke up at Busan National University and found I was still alive; they said I had surgery under general anesthesia. The doctor asked me to move my fingers; slowly they moved, but I was told I would not regain sensation. Miraculously surviving, the doctor was glad and comforted me, but I resented the heavens. I still have no sensation in four fingers of my left hand, and I suffer daily from a cramping pain in my arm. I decided to overcome the traumas and, as the head of the household, to make my mother and sister happy again. Fortunately, during the investigation of the sexual assault and injury, Busan police told me that if injury were proven the statute of limitations had not expired, so I had hope. I gave a seven-hour video statement, and years later the prosecution sought a 10-year prison sentence and punishment including face and name disclosure; I was so happy. But that person grew up doing very well, felt no remorse, and hired three lawyers to proceed with the trial.
Thanks to the prosecutor, friends from Busan testified as witnesses, and even acquaintances at the scene testified. I felt upset that everyone suffered because of me, but I begged for even a little prison time, hoping the perpetrator would spend even one year behind bars since I couldn't give him all the pain I felt. I sent the post-traumatic stress disorder results and wrote earnest petitions to the judge twice, but in the first trial the rape charge was not recognized? and the injury charge was not recognized, leading to a not guilty verdict due to statute of limitations. The prosecutor appealed, and now the second trial is pending. Recently I had interviews and sought new work to live again; though I feel lethargic each day, at home I cope with medication and write a diary daily to relieve stress, and outside I act bright to get a job. I decided to live quietly, but yesterday everything collapsed. They call me a child who has fallen into the abyss, a psychiatric patient; yes, please understand me, I keep saying it again and again while they post malicious comments telling me to die and goodbye. I am doing my best to
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