by Ellen Oh
Grandpa lets out a long “hmmm.” I feel like he is judging me, and I’m hurt. It’s like talking to Patrice again. I let out a big sigh, not because I’m frustrated but because it’s hard to put into words how I feel. But I want Grandpa to understand.
“Sometimes good people do bad things,” Grandpa says. “We are human; we make mistakes.”
“No, bad people are always bad. And racists are evil.”
“So much fatalism.” Grandpa is shaking his head at me. “What happened, dear one? Who is hurting my beautiful granddaughter?”
I’m tired of talking. So I do what I always do when my parents pressure me: I become silent. My depression makes it easy. My parents have learned to leave me alone when I don’t want to talk. But the one thing about my grandfather is that he is the most patient man in the world. And awkward silences don’t bother him. He just sits and waits for me.
I don’t even know how long we are quiet. But I find it harder to sit through. Here, in my grandparents’ house, I can’t run to my room. I can’t escape his kind but penetrating eyes. So instead, I keep my eyes down on my now-cold cocoa.
Grandpa suddenly stands up and comes to sit next to me. He pulls me close and pats me on my back as if to say, There, there. It’s all going to be okay. I can smell peppermint and his spicy aftershave lotion. I want to remember this scent. This is what my grandfather smells like.
I struggle to fight back my tears, swallowing hard against the lump in my throat but losing the battle. Once again, I am crying as I tell him all about the bullying I’ve dealt with for over a year, how sad and alone I’ve felt. I tell him how I’ve lost all my friends because I refused to join their activist crusade. I tell him what I’ve been unwilling to share with my own parents.
“Why don’t you tell your parents?” he asks me.
I shake my head hard. “Please don’t tell them. I don’t want them to go to school and make a big deal about it. It will make everything worse.”
“Your parents would be so sad to know this,” he says. “And this is a terrible burden for you to handle by yourself.”
“I’m seeing a therapist now. Let me talk to her first.”
“But what will you do? How will you handle your bully?” Grandpa asks in concern.
“Nothing. I’m just going to ignore him. He’ll get tired eventually.”
That isn’t true. They never got tired of bullying me and my brother last year.
Grandpa is quiet for a long moment, but then he gets up and goes into the kitchen. I can see him rustling around in the pantry, and then I hear the popping in the microwave. Several minutes later he comes back with a big bowl of popcorn.
“Eat this while I tell you a story,” he says as he sits back in his armchair again. “Once there was a widow who was bringing food home to her children when she ran into a tiger who said, ‘Give me some of your food and I won’t eat you.’ So the woman did that. But the tiger kept following, and he kept saying, ‘Give me some of your food and I won’t eat you.’ So she kept giving the tiger all her food, until finally she had no more food. And then the tiger ate her. Your bully is the tiger, and if you don’t fight back, he will never stop.”
“But the bully is bigger and stronger. I may get eaten anyway.”
Grandpa leans forward and taps the tip of my nose gently.
“Let me tell you the rest of the story. After the tiger ate up the widow, he dressed in her clothing and went to her house to eat up her children. But the children saw the tiger’s tail and they ran up the tree, and the tiger tried to climb the tree, so the children prayed for help, and then a rope came down from heaven. Then they climbed into the sky to become the sun and moon. The tiger then also prayed for a rope, and he got one too. But it was a rotted one, and so as he climbed it, it broke and he fell. The end.”
I don’t get it. “So what does that mean for me?”
“Sometimes you must ask for help, Junie.”
I feel myself scowling. Grandpa’s stories always have morals, but this one I don’t want to hear.
“Sometimes asking for help makes things worse,” I respond.
“But you should ask anyway.”
It isn’t that easy.
“Everything’s different now, Grandpa, ever since the election. People don’t even try to hide their racism.”
Grandpa is silent again. He stares at me with so much sadness that I can feel the tears prick the backs of my eyes again. His silence has always been part of his conversation.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Because you are right, and it breaks my heart. I thought I had left this behind when we moved to America.”
“Left what behind?”
“This deep, hateful division caused by conflicting ideologies.”
I’m so confused. What racism problems could Korea have? I ask him that, and he shakes his head at me.
“I’m talking about the ideologies that split Korea into North and South,” he says.
“Oh, you mean the Korean War.”
Grandpa shakes his head again. “Korea was divided before the war. I’ve told you about when Korea was occupied by Japan and we almost lost our culture and our language.”
I nod vigorously. After my grandpa had told me about the occupation, I read a book called When My Name Was Keoko. It was written by one of my favorite authors, Linda Sue Park. Not only is she a great writer, but she’s Korean American, which makes me really happy. But it was a pretty sad story, about one family’s struggle against the oppressive Japanese regime.
“After the Japanese lost World War II and their control over Korea was ended, Korea was then occupied by the Soviet Union in the North and the Americans in the South. It was the Americans and the Soviets that divided Korea in half.”
“But why?”
Grandpa tilts his head to the side and pulls at his ear before making a sound that is very Korean for I’m not sure or I don’t know. Adult Koreans always make this sound. It’s done with a slight grimace as they suck air through their teeth, which makes an interesting hiss.
“It would be so much easier if I could explain it to you in Korean.” He smiles. “The simple explanation is that neither the Soviets nor the Americans wanted Korea to fall to the other side.”
I can feel my eyebrows furrowing. “But what did Koreans want?”
“All Koreans have ever wanted was to be united again into one country,” he says. “But the Soviets supported Kim Il Sung, the North Korean dictator, while the Americans helped elect Syngman Rhee, the corrupt South Korean president. And the Korean people suffered the most.”
I don’t really understand the politics of it all. And I don’t know how it relates to what is happening in my school. My confusion must show on my face.
“Okay, let’s talk about ice cream. What is your favorite flavor?” Grandpa asks me.
“Chocolate.”
“Mine is strawberry. Now what if I said all people who like chocolate are horrible people and we should get rid of chocolate forever?”
“That’s just ridiculous.”
“That’s how extremism can seem. It looks ridiculous to us, but when people believe in something fervently, it can be dangerous. And during the Korean War, it was a clash of western democracy against Communism, with each side trying to kill off anyone who opposed them. It’s how over two million civilians were killed by their own government, solely for believing in the wrong ideology.”
The two-million-people-killed statistic shocks me. How could a government be responsible for killing so many of its own people?
“Do you remember the Korean War, Grandpa?” I ask.
Grandpa nods. “I was twelve years old when it started.”
I’m a bit startled to realize that he was the same age as I am now. The idea of living through an actual war is not something I’ve ever thought about. That my grandfather had to is both fascinating and horrifying.
“Your grandma was ten,” he continues. “I had it easy compared to he
r.”
“Why? What happened to Grandma?”
“That’s not my story to tell. One day you should ask her about it.”
I’m very curious now and wish Grandma was home so I could ask her.
“But tell me your story, Grandpa! What was it like growing up during wartime?”
He glances at me, his head tilted to the side as he gives me a slight smile. “It’s a long story. Are you sure you want to hear it?”
I nod enthusiastically, eager to hear Grandpa share his wartime experiences. It’s shocking to think that he lived through such a terrible war. I just can’t imagine anything like it.
Grandpa leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. “To know about the Korean War, you must also know about the history of Korea.”
“Gah! Not another history lesson!” I moan. I hate history. It’s my least favorite subject.
Grandpa waits patiently through my whining. When I am done, he begins.
“I was very young during the Japanese occupation. But one of my earliest memories was watching my parents crying tears of joy as they set fire to the Japanese flag that used to hang in front of our door. They thought it meant we were finally free. Instead, millions more Koreans died because of a country torn in two, caught between foreign powers and corrupt governments. But the absolute worst of it was seeing your own countrymen turn on each other. Commit the most horrible deeds, all in the name of nationalism.”
Perking up, I listen intently. This kind of history lesson I don’t mind.
“What’s nationalism?” I ask.
“It’s pride in your country, but with the belief that it is better than other nations,” Grandpa explains. “Like how Japan has always believed in its superiority over all others. It was why they thought nothing of colonizing Korea and taking all of its resources and sending them to Japan while leaving Koreans to starve. In Korea, nationalism pitted north against south.”
Grandpa is no longer smiling. “I have never understood what would cause people to turn on each other. Turn on their neighbors. People they’ve known for generations. The only thing that made sense is that the entire nation of Koreans had suffered from years of trauma. They call it PTSD, right?”
“Yeah, we learned that in school. Post-traumatic stress disorder. It’s what a lot of the veterans have after coming home from war. But how can a whole nation have it?”
Grandpa steeples his hands and gazes at something above my shoulder. “I’m not a medical professional, but I do know that Koreans as a whole have suffered deeply. The Japanese occupation was brutal. At the same time, there are many bad people in the world. Corrupt leaders and policemen. They do bad things because they have evil in their hearts. It’s easier to understand why they do terrible things if they are themselves terrible people. But when ordinary citizens turn on each other, it doesn’t make sense. That’s why I like to believe they all suffered from trauma.”
“Did you have trauma, too, Grandpa?”
“Oh yes,” he replies, as his eyes stare off somewhere behind me. “I don’t think anyone survived the war without being traumatized by it. But still, I was one of the lucky ones.”
Book II
Doha
June 28, 1950
IN THE HEAT OF THE summer, the boys jumped into the large pond. Shirtless and with hair shaved short to prevent lice, they scampered and wrestled and searched for frogs in the mud. Far away in the mountains behind them, the rapid-fire rat-a-tat-tat of machine guns echoed loudly.
The boys froze, tilting their heads toward the shooting, listening intently, before turning back to their play as the sounds faded. But one boy stood still, pensively staring up at the lush green mountains that surrounded them. He could make out the flash of the artillery that left small plumes of smoke in its wake.
“What’s the matter, Doha?”
“I heard the Reds came for Sunjin’s hyung during the middle of the night,” Doha answered. He was upset because he liked Sunjin’s big brother a lot.
“But Sunjin’s father is dead! I thought they weren’t supposed to take the head of the household!” Minki shouted angrily.
Kitae made a derisive grunt. “The Reds don’t care about nothing but themselves and their stupid Communism.”
“Poor Sunjin,” Minki sighed.
“It’ll be a lot worse for his hyung. He’ll be stuck in the mountains eating nothing but weeds.” Kitae shook his head. “My dad said they’ll all be dead by winter.”
“Your dad’s been saying that every year,” Minki retorted. “They’re still up there, ain’t they?”
The Communist guerrillas had a terrible habit of raiding the village for food during the night and kidnapping young men to join their ranks. Then when morning came, the police would come around interrogating all the villagers about Communist activities. Recently, things were getting more and more violent. Some of the guerrillas were actual North Korean soldiers who crossed over to recruit, mostly kidnap, young South Korean men. Others were locals who professed themselves to be Communists and denounced the Americans’ involvement in their government.
Doha finally turned away. “Wonder if Sunjin’s hyung is up there now.”
“Probably,” Minki said as he wiped the sweat from his face with his dirty arm. “Although this is pretty close to town for them. Usually they go to mountains near the sea. But they know what they’re doing. The guerrillas have been hiding in the mountains since the Japanese were in charge. They’ll be fine.”
“Not this time,” Kitae cut in. “The ROKA is going to set the mountains on fire and burn them out.”
The Republic of Korea Army was only a few years old. Doha’s father had explained that the ROKA had formed after the Japanese lost the big war, and was currently being trained by American soldiers who had come to help liberate Korea.
“Burn them out? That’s terrible,” Doha said.
“No, it’s not. It’s great news!” The tallest and biggest of the boys nodded fiercely. “They need to get rid of every last one of those filthy Communist scum.”
Gunwoo’s voice was fierce with anger that Doha understood. Gunwoo’s family had escaped from the North and lost many members to the Russians and North Korea’s KPA, Korean People’s Army.
“But Sunjin’s hyung . . .”
“He’s a Red now. He deserves what he gets,” Gunwoo said fiercely.
“It’s not like he wanted to be one,” Doha pointed out. “He didn’t have a choice.”
“Then he should have run away,” Gunwoo replied.
Doha meant to argue more, but the other boys started making shushing sounds. “It’s Sunjin,” Kitae whispered. “He’s coming.”
Down the dirt path, they could see a skinny boy followed by several young girls who seemed to be comforting him.
“Hey, Sunjin! You okay?” Minki called out.
The skinny boy arrived and plopped down on the rocky shore. His eyes were swollen from crying. The girls hovered around him before they were chased away by the splashing of the other boys.
Even as the girls screamed and scampered away, hurling insults back at the boys, Sunjin sat staring at his feet. All the boys except Gunwoo circled around him.
Doha sat next to Sunjin and put an awkward arm around his shoulders. Kitae and Minki crouched close by, looking uncomfortable. But Gunwoo stayed out near the reeds, holding his net over the water.
“Is your mom gonna be okay?” Kitae asked. “How is she going to survive without your hyung around?”
Doha shot Kitae a sharp look while Minki shoved Kitae so hard he fell over.
“Don’t worry, Sunjin,” Doha said. “You know our families will help you.”
Sunjin let out a shuddering breath. “My mom says she is going to have to do wash and sewing again. Can you tell your moms? Sewing would be better because of her bad back.”
“Of course! I’ll tell my dad right away,” Doha responded eagerly. “His clinic always has so much to sew, and my grandmother can’t do too much because her eyesig
ht has gotten bad.”
Doha didn’t know if what he was saying was true, but he knew that his father would help his friend’s family. Before he could say anything else to reassure his friend, he noticed Sunjin shrinking, his unhappiness palpable. Sunjin and his brother had been very protective of their mother. She’d fallen off a ladder trying to thatch their roof with yellow rice straw and had broken her back. That had been six years ago, the same year the Japanese had killed Sunjin’s father for being a resistance fighter.
Realizing how awful this must feel for his friend, Doha bit back his words. He could see that the others were just as awkward and uncomfortable around their friend. Unlike the girls, they didn’t have the right words of comfort.
With a nudge of his elbow, Doha said, “It’s blazing hot. Let’s go jump in the water.”
As Minki and Kitae eagerly agreed, Doha seized his friend and shoved him into the pond, whereupon the others promptly splashed him with water.
“Argh! You dirty cockroaches! I’ll get you!” Sunjin yelled as he vigorously splashed the others.
Doha was relieved to see his friend smile but couldn’t help noticing that Gunwoo stayed away. It troubled him.
BACK IN TOWN, DOHA SEPARATED from the others and headed farther into the village. His neighborhood was a series of walls surrounding a narrow dirt path that turned into a long and winding road from the main street. Modest white outside walls crowned with slanting tile decorations gave no hint of the elaborate courtyards and inner living quarters that were hidden like pearls in their oyster shells. Doha’s own courtyard was lush, with pink peonies and golden forsythias, magnolia and plum trees, and azalea bushes that bloomed to a man’s height.
His family lived close to his father’s medical clinic. There were only two small hospitals in Seosan, his father’s and one on the other side of town, near the ocean. His father, Dr. Han, had a reputation for being a warm and excellent medical doctor. He was well respected in the area, and sometimes people even came to his clinic with nonmedical questions. His father never charged them for advice. Which of course was why they kept coming back.
