by Ellen Oh
“No, he isn’t! We aren’t!”
“How do we know? We have confirmed testimony that the prisoners you are bringing food to are Red supporters, yet you claim they are falsely imprisoned. How do we know you aren’t here to smuggle contraband to them?”
“It’s just food . . .”
“Since we cannot confirm that this is merely food, we will confiscate this package.”
The desk guard prepared to throw the package into the trash.
“No!” Yuni cried out. “Please don’t do that!” She tried to stop the desk guard but was dragged back by the soldier behind her.
“Oh, you want me to check it first?” the guard asked with a nasty smile. He untied the package and then dumped everything onto the floor. Rolled eggs, rice balls with meat and vegetables, were ground into the dirty floor. So much precious food wasted.
“Why did you do that?” Yuni shouted. “People are starving! How could you treat food like this?”
The desk guard stepped around the desk and shoved Yuni, causing her to fall on top of the mess of food. He kicked the rice balls at her as she flinched in dismay.
“How dare you question our authority?” he shouted as he grabbed her by the hair and yanked her up to her knees.
“Noona!” Doha ran to help his sister and was pushed away by the guard.
“Don’t touch him!” Yuni shouted, and then gasped in pain when he pulled her hair harder.
“Leave her alone!” Doha charged at the man, head-butting him in the stomach. As he glared at their tormentor, Doha suddenly became aware of how quiet the room had gotten. All the soldiers were watching the desk guard to see what he would do. The man smirked and took off his belt. He nodded to the soldiers next to him, who grabbed Doha by the arms.
“No, please stop!” Yuni pleaded.
“I will teach you to respect your elders,” the desk guard said.
The first bite of the belt on Doha’s back turned his legs into jelly. Doha cried out in agony. In all his life, he had never been hit for any reason. The pain was excruciating. He could see his sister try to stop the whipping and being shoved aside. By the third lash, Doha couldn’t hear his sister’s screams over his own hysterics. It was the seventh hit that caused him to faint from the pain. Only later did he find out that the guard continued to whip him three more times before dropping him on top of the crushed food.
Junie
“Grandpa!” I’m so upset I’m finding it hard to even speak. “But they were the South Korean soldiers! Why would they treat you like that? And that woman! How could they just believe her like that? That’s not fair!”
“That is war,” Grandpa says.
DOHA DRIFTED IN AND OUT of consciousness. He felt both cold and feverish. Sometimes he would open his eyes and see his father’s pale face anxiously watching him. Then the next time he would wake to the sound of his mother’s tears. But he could never stay awake long enough to reassure her.
When he finally woke up, he was on his stomach, and someone was placing soothing cloths on his injuries. He could tell it was his grandmother by the way she hummed an old song as she worked.
“Halmoni, what happened?”
“Doha!” Yuni cried. She’d been sitting on his other side. She crawled over to face him and held his hand tightly. “I’m so sorry! It was all my fault! I should’ve protected you!”
“No, Yuni, there’s nothing you could have done,” Doha’s mother said as she entered his room holding a bowl of rice gruel. She knelt beside him and waited for Yuni and Halmoni to help him sit up. Doha moaned in pain. His mother slid a padded floor chair behind Doha, but he could only lean on it sideways.
From the corner of his eye he caught sight of the huge bruise and the long red laceration on his sister’s arm.
“Noona, your arm.”
Yuni covered her arm with her hand. “I’m okay, Doha. I only got hit once. You got hit ten times!”
If one lash looked that bad, he must look far worse.
“I’m sorry, Noona,” he replied.
“Don’t apologize, Doha. That evil man should never have hit you!” Yuni’s eyes flashed in anger again.
Even through his pain, Doha had to smile. “Noona, you were kind of amazing. I’ve never seen you so angry.”
Yuni grabbed his hand tightly. “And you are so brave!”
“Aigo, both my children almost gave me a heart attack that day,” Doha’s mom said. “Doha, your noona carried you all the way home on her back, both of you looking like bloody messes. Your halmoni almost fainted when she saw your back.”
Doha blinked in awe. “Wah! Noona carried me by herself? I always said you were slow as an ox, but I didn’t know you were as strong as one too!”
“Ya!” Yuni yelled, but with a smile.
As his mother fed him, Yuni told Doha that he’d been unconscious and sick with fever for four days and their father had gone to the ROKA leadership to lodge an official complaint.
“I was so scared for Appa,” Yuni said. “What if they decided to arrest him falsely like they did the squid ahjumma?”
“We were all afraid,” Doha’s mother said. “Especially your halmoni. She said not to complain, don’t bring more attention to us. But he wouldn’t listen. He was so upset! I’ve never seen your father that angry before!”
“Halmoni stood outside the whole time,” Yuni added. “She wouldn’t come in to eat until Appa came home.”
“How could I eat while my son was in danger?” Halmoni sighed. “Look what they did to my little grandson. What kind of monster does this to a helpless child?”
“Abeoji is okay?” Doha asked anxiously.
His mother smiled. “Yes, he’s fine.”
Doha looked at all their faces. “Then why do you still look so worried?”
“Abeoji went back to military headquarters today to speak for Sunjin and his mother, and to complain about what has been happening in Seosan,” his mother replied. “People are turning on each other, accusing innocents of being Communist sympathizers. It’s a dangerous position for your father to be in.”
People like Gunwoo and the woman who accused the squid lady. He shuddered at the thought that his father could be arrested also. Fear and pain made him close his eyes as he was overwhelmed by his tears. The women of his family gathered into a tight hug, surrounding him with love.
“It’ll be all right, Doha,” his mother soothed. “Your father will be fine. We’ve been praying for his safety.”
“Halmoni went to the temple early this morning to pray to Amita Buddha,” Yuni said.
“I sent praise one hundred times to Amita the divine Buddha of Infinite Light,” Halmoni said. “He will take care of your father.”
Doha was tired, and his mother tucked him back into bed. Doha stayed on his side with Halmoni next to him.
“Doha, your sister and I have to go back to the hospital, but Halmoni will look after you. All you have to do is sleep, all right?”
Already drowsy, Doha nodded as his eyes closed. He hoped that when he awakened his father would be safe at home.
“Appa? Appa!” Doha shrieked. He sat up painfully, as he’d had another bad dream. They were becoming a nightly occurrence.
His door slid open and his father entered the room. “Appa is here, son.”
Doha had to swallow back his fear. “In my dream, I heard crying and I was so worried . . .”
His father hugged him. “I’m fine.”
But Doha could hear something was wrong in his father’s voice.
“What is it, Abeoji? Please tell me,” Doha asked. “Is it Sunjin?”
At the mention of Sunjin’s name, Dr. Han closed his eyes and nodded somberly. “I’m so sorry, Doha,” he said. “I tried everything, but they wouldn’t listen to me. There wasn’t even a real trial. Just a rushed affair with no chance to defend themselves. I can’t understand how this is our government now.”
“What happened to them?” Doha asked.
His father slowly shared the entire ordeal of
what had happened. There were so many people accused of being Reds or Communist sympathizers that the prisons had become overcrowded and they were holding people in the administrative offices. Their claim of fair trials for the accused were nothing but lies. They weren’t interested in justice; they were only interested in wiping out all Communists. The army unit based in Seosan was moving south. The top-ranking officer had received orders from headquarters to kill all prisoners before leaving Seosan. Dr. Han pleaded with them to at least release Sunjin, since he was so young. But by the time he got approval, it was too late. All the prisoners had been transported to a larger prison facility in Daejeon.
“Will they get a fair trial there, Abeoji?”
“We can only hope,” his father said. But the way he said it gave Doha no comfort.
“Will I ever see Sunjin again?” Doha asked.
His father leaned forward to smile into Doha’s eyes. “I don’t know. But what I do know, my son, is that one day this war will be over. And it will be up to you and the other youth to rebuild this country and make it a better one. One that will allow all of us to live a life free of fear. One day.”
Only much later did Doha understand what his father meant.
Book III
Junie
I’VE NEVER SEEN MY GRANDFATHER cry. His tears now devastate me even more than listening to his entire story. I feel as if my heart has been pierced by a thousand needles.
“Don’t feel sorry for me. I know I am the lucky one,” Grandpa says as if reading my thoughts. “Because my father was a doctor, we almost never went hungry. The worst that ever happened to me was that beating. I had it easy.”
“Did you ever find out what happened to Sunjin and his mother?”
Grandpa reaches for a tissue, wipes his damp eyes behind his glasses, and blows his nose.
“It took many years before South Korea finally had a real democratic government. After President Rhee, there were thirty years of brutal military dictatorships. They had absolute power. In fact, they were no different than the North Korean government. They would not allow anyone to speak out against the government, including surviving families of those killed by the South Korean Army. For forty-plus years they were not allowed to speak, for fear of being called a Communist and being jailed or worse. That is how bad leaders stay in power: by using fear to silence people from speaking and stop journalists from reporting. But that all changed when the Truth and Reconciliation Commission was created and began investigating the massacres. At last, people could speak about what had happened to them.”
“So what did they find?” I ask.
Grandpa takes a moment to compose himself. “They found bones, skulls of children with bullet holes in them. They found that up to seven thousand civilians—men, women, and children—were killed in Daejeon. Killed by their own government for possibly being Communist sympathizers.”
I look up at him in shock. Daejeon, where Sunjin and his mother were taken.
“Then does that mean Sunjin was killed?”
Grandpa stares off into space for a moment. “For a long time, I believed that Sunjin and his mother had survived the war and were living somewhere safe and happy. But when I heard the news, I knew in my heart that Sunjin was dead. He died a long time ago, when he was only eleven years old.”
I’m silent. I sit and wait for Grandpa to continue. I know it was almost seventy years ago, but the pain on Grandpa’s face is now. He must have carried it with him all these years.
“Sometimes I wish I could have kept pretending that he was alive,” Grandpa says. “But that’s so selfish of me. I need to know that he died. I need to remember how he suffered. Junie, always remember that silence is a weapon. When people don’t speak up, and let evil continue unchecked, they too have become corrupt.”
“What about Gunwoo? Was he ever punished?” Even knowing how much he suffered, I can’t help but be angry at the betrayal that happened so long ago.
“A year after Sunjin was sent to Daejeon, Gunwoo and his mother left town,” Grandpa says. “I heard they went to be with his police-officer brother in Busan. I never saw Gunwoo again.”
“He was a bad guy.”
Grandpa gives me a chiding look. “He was only twelve years old, just like me. And he had suffered terribly. Try to put yourself in his shoes.”
“I am sympathetic,” I say indignantly. “But having something terrible happen to you doesn’t make it right to stab your friend in the back!”
“Or turn away from your friend?”
I blink and stare at Grandpa. “What do you mean?” I ask.
“When a friend asks for support, you should help them to the best of your abilities, even if you feel it isn’t worth it,” he says gently. “Because a true friend is hard to find.”
I feel the sharp sting of his words. He’s right. I turned away from my friends because I didn’t want to deal with what they were doing. I didn’t believe in it. My dad once told me about dreamers and cynics. Dreamers are idealists who still believe the world is good. Cynics are realists who view the world with skepticism. Then he told me that most cynics were once dreamers who became disillusioned. I guess this is true. When I was in first grade, my mom did the whole “is the glass half-empty or half-full” question with me. I remember saying the glass was half full. Whenever my parents would fill up my cup with juice, or milk, or water, they would always stop halfway. I don’t think they ever gave me a full cup of anything. Probably because they worried I would spill it. At the time, half-full was still quite a lot. I don’t remember when I started noticing that it was actually half-empty.
I think back to my conversation with Patrice. Was I ever supportive of her plan? Did I do nothing but put it down?
I guess I really am a cynic. And if my friends are idealists, then my realism would feel negative to them.
I’m a jerk.
“You’re not a jerk,” Grandpa says.
Huh? Did I say that out loud?
“I can see on your face that you are feeling guilty, Junie,” he says with a knowing look.
“Was I a bad friend, Grandpa?”
He reaches over to grab my hand tightly between his.
“No, you are my kind, sweet, lovely granddaughter,” he says. “You’re not a bad friend. You were suffering also. But now you can go back and be the friend they need.”
Looking up at my grandpa, I realize that he tried everything to help his friends, even risking death and taking a brutal beating. What am I risking? Nothing. Just some time, maybe a little pride. But nothing worth losing my friends for.
I’m suddenly filled with a rush of love and gratitude.
“Thank you for being my grandpa.”
He hugs me. “I love you, Junie.”
At home I find myself thinking about Grandpa’s story. I am still wrecked by it, and I understand why Grandpa said it was his trauma. I am reminded of Mrs. Medina’s words about how the silent and boomer generations are old now and it is important to record their stories before it’s too late. And I realize what a terrible loss it would be to our family if his story was never recorded. I take out a composition notebook and try to jot down everything he told me. This is my oral history project. The story of my grandfather. I’m excited to record it all so that I will not forget what he has been through.
Next time I will bring the video camera, so his stories will be memorialized forever.
BACK AT HOME IN MY room, I try to figure out how I’m going to make up with Patrice. Should I call her or wait to see her in school? I hate talking on the phone. But if I wait, I’ll have to get through the weekend, and I don’t know if I can do that. I want to get it over with, but I’m also afraid. I look over at the clock and see it’s 4 p.m. I wonder if I should call Amy first. Feel her out. She might know how I can approach Patrice.
Just as I convince myself to call her, the doorbell rings. I don’t think anything of it until I hear my mom calling me.
“Yeah, Mom?”
“Junie, com
e down. It’s Patrice and Amy,” my mom says.
I freeze. I wasn’t ready to see them in person. Right now.
“Junie, you want me to send them up?”
“No, I’m coming down.”
I take a deep breath and I head downstairs. I see them standing awkwardly in the living room as my mom hovers nearby.
“Hey,” I say.
“Junie, we’ve been so worried. Are you okay?” Amy asks.
Patrice doesn’t say anything, but she is looking at me with a worried expression on her face.
“I’m all right now,” I respond without elaborating. I’m still not sure what to say.
My mom claps her hands and says, “Junie, the girls have brought you all the assignments you missed! Isn’t that wonderful of them?”
I nod. Not really, I think to myself.
“Why don’t you all sit down, and I’ll go get some refreshments?” Mom heads to the kitchen, and I know she’ll show up with a ton of food.
I sit down on the love seat, and Patrice and Amy both sit together on the larger sofa.
“Thanks for bringing me my assignments,” I say. “Although I guess I have to do them now, so maybe no thanks?” I smile awkwardly.
Amy beams back at me before looking concerned again. “Junie, what happened? Why’d you miss school?”
The truth is I don’t want to talk about it, but they’re my friends, and I should tell them what’s happening to me. But I’m tired of talking about it. Is it because of the depression that I don’t want to talk about it, or do I not want to talk about the fact that I have depression? I have no idea. But I’m just so tired all the time.
“I have depression, but don’t worry! I’m going to start seeing a therapist,” I explain as they both gasp in surprise. “It’s to help me manage my emotions and keep me from hurting myself.”
Amy’s eyes well up with tears. “Did you try to hurt yourself?”
I immediately regret my words. “No, don’t worry, I didn’t.”
“But you thought about it, right?” Patrice says.
Surprised, I just stare at her. She gazes back solemnly. “My cousin Ashley got hospitalized for suicidal thoughts.”
