Peace and Brotherhood

 In WWII, over 60 million people died.  California’s population is 40 million.  So during WWII more than one and half times the population of California perished because of the war. 

The power of destruction has increased since the WWII, 70 years ago.  The atomic bomb dropped in Hiroshima in 1945 had the power of 20,000 tons of TNT.  It killed about 100, 000 people within seconds.  Today’s nuclear warheads have power of over 1 million tons of  TNT, more than 50 times the power of the bomb dropped on Hiroshima.

If the Russian president, Dmitry Medvedev, orders his general to push a button to send one of his war heads to San Jose, within hours, a warhead with one million tons of TNT will fly to our city and explode  thousands feet above the air.  The mushroom cloud will spread over the city instantly killing all of us, over one million people and turning Silicon Valley into a Valley of Death.

Today both Russia and the United States have several thousand nuclear warheads.  Fortunately, the leaders of the both countries are aware of the destructive power they possess, and fear mutual destruction.  This balance of terror has kept us from WWIII for the last 70 years.

Most of us are aware of the destructive power we have, and we do not want another war.  We do not want another Korean War.  We do not want another war in Viet Nam.   Instead, we want peace.

I believe that yearning for peace and brotherhood are universal qualities that all of us seek in our journey on this tiny planet called the earth.

We want peace at home.   We want peace among our neighbors.  We want peace in the world.

At home we want to create an environment where our children grow up happy, healthy and responsible citizens in a peaceful world.

As one who was born in Korea during the time when Japan ruled my country, and who witnessed  how mercilessly the people of the conquered were treated by the their conquerors, and as one who lived through the Korean War  when I witnessed  human cruelty, Northern brothers and Southern brothers killing each other as if they were mortal enemies, I wondered, “Why do we hate?  Why do we kill when it is so much fun and nice playing  together and helping each other as brothers and sisters?” 

I dreamed of a world, where people of all races, blacks, whites, yellows and  browns,  hold hands across the vast continents, over the deep oceans, form a big circle around the earth,  look at each other with smile and sing a mighty of song brotherhood.

Unfortunately, I see the world still full of conflicts. 

The war rages on in Afganistan.   North Korea wants to gobble up South Korea.  Iran is working on  a nuclear capability, likely in the hope of wiping out the land of Israel.  Thousands of children in Africa lose their parents and become homeless.  They walk the streets, begging for food.  Young girls get raped and murdered.  Young boys either turn criminals or beggars. All due to the factional fights going on within their countries.

Suicide bombers loaded with dynamite around their bodies blow themselves up in crowded market places killing dozens of people while proclaiming ‘Allah, be praised.’ 

A young man sprays bullets at a Congress woman and kills and wounds innocent people around her.

A boy kills his girl friend, a husband kills  his wife, a mother kills her child.  The list goes on and on.

Even in churches where people gather to worship the God of Jesus Christ, the God of Love, tensions develop between ministers and their congregations.    The house of worship and love turns into the house of ice cubes and hate.

I ask myself, “Why are there conflicts among people when everyone wants peace and brotherhood?” 

When someone tells me, “Go to hell,’ why  can’t I say, ‘God bless you,’  instead of saying, ‘You go to hell also.’?

 Why do I growl at my dear wife when she tells me today is Sunday, the day to go to church for worship, not the day to watch a golf game on TV?

 I believe the basic reason for the problems in the world and in our homes is our nature that says, ‘I want to do it my way.’ ‘My is the right way.’  ‘My religion is the right religion.’ ‘My god is the right god.’  I will go to church if I choose to go, not because you tell me to go.  I want peace and brotherhood my way, not your way.  

 I want rice and kimchee for breakfast, rice and kimchee for lunch, and rice and kimchee for supper.  But my wife says, “Dear, you need a balanced diet.  You need oatmeal for breakfast.  A tuna fish sandwich for lunch.  And for supper, organically grown steamed broccoli and brown rice, and chicken bought from the Whole Foods store, not the beef full of chemicals bought from other super markets. My response is, “I have lived on rice and kimchee for all my growing years.  Look at me.  I am as healthy as anybody else.  Please leave me alone.”  But my wife is concerned for my health.  She thinks her way is the right way for my health.  And I think my way is the right way.

How do we solve this ‘I want to do my way’ problem?

For me the rice and kimchee is not a big problem because I am willing to be given into my wife’s way for the sake of peace at home.   But suppose my wife wants to move to Canton, Ohio, and I want to live in San Jose.  What do I do?  Go to Canton?  No way.  Compromise and go to Julesburg, Nebraska, a no-man’s land, which is half way between Canton and San Jose?   I don’t think so.

Many of us face this kind of problems in our lives.  Mother wants to raise her children her way while Father wants his way.  Mother thinks Father’s way lead their children into bullies while Father thinks her way will lead the children into cry babies.  Husband wants his wife to stay home, cook, do the laundry and raise their children while husband brings home his paycheck.  Wife’s response is “Wake up my sweet husband. You are living in the dark age.”  Some church members want a female, gay minister to show the world that their church is open and affirming while others  have different views.   There aren’t easy solutions to many of our problems that all can agree on because we have our ways and they have their ways.  And there are no clear cut wrong ways and right ways because right and wrong are subjective words.   

So what do we do?

I know from experience that when my heart is filled with love for someone, my thought is not on myself but on the person I love.  I think of giving rather than receiving.   If my child needs a kidney transplant, I will not think twice of donating my kidney for my child’s wellbeing.  If an institution that I feel close to asks me for donation, I will write a check without much thought.

So love is the solution to many of our ‘I want my way’ problems. When our hearts are filled with love for others, our attention is no longer directed to I want my way mentality but to the wellbeing of others.  Where there is love, my way and your way problems can be addressed in an atmosphere of compassion and humility.

Love brings people together.  When I take my jacket off and give to a shivering child on a street in a cold winter day and see him smile at me with gratitude, the child and I become one through love.  When I send money to an orphanage in Africa and receive a picture of smiling children waving their hands toward the camera, I feel tears in my eyes, and those children and I become one through love.  That’s the gift of love.  In love, giving becomes receiving, and the grateful receiving becomes giving.

But how can we love those who harmed us, who harmed our families?

How could I love those Japanese police during their rule in Korea who had taken my father away to prison because he was a Christian minister who refused to bow down to their emperor?  How could I love those police who had taken my house leaving us homeless?  How could I love those soldiers who had treated my brother like a slave in Japan, who returned home with an injury and died in a hospital bed? How could I love those North Korean officers who had come to my home and had taken my father away, never to return?

I had to turn to God for help.   I had to turn to God to cleanse my heart from anger and hatred for those who had harmed me and my family during WWII and the Korean War.  I had to turn to God for courage to surrender myself to His will, whatever it may be. 

So my unceasing prayer has been, “Please give me the courage to surrender myself to Your will, whatever it may be.  Not my way but your will be done.” 

I believe when we surrender ourselves to God, we will find peace within us.  And this peace within us will spread outward and touch the hearts of those around us with the message of peace and brotherhood in the world.

Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.                          

In Christ there is no East or West, in Christ no South or North;But one community of love throughout the whole wide earth.   In Christ is neither Jew nor Greek, and neither slave nor free; For men and women live in God, and all are kindred to me.

 September, 1955.  First day in Austin, Texas. 

 I stepped onto a bus to go downtown.  There I saw a strange sight.  Black faces in the back and white faces in the front.

 “What’s going on?”  I wondered.

 “How come blacks sit in the back and the whites in the front?”

 Then a question popped up, “Where should I sit?  In the middle?       No.  If I do that, I would be telling the blacks that I am better than they are and the whites I am less than they are.”  

The bus started to move.  I held onto the rail trying to decide.  Finally I sat down behind the driver facing the doorway.  I felt the stare of the passengers.  Both the whites and the blacks.  I looked straight out the window hoping that the bus would arrive downtown as quickly as possible.  

 In downtown, after an hour of sightseeing, I had to find a restroom.  There were no McDonalds.  No Burger Kings.  No Colonel Sanders.  

 A block away I saw a Greyhound bus station.  I rushed into the station.  There I saw two signs.  Whites Only on one door.  Colored Only on the other.  I saw no door with Browns Only sign.   I was becoming desperate. 

I saw a man wearing a Greyhound uniform and a cap.  

“Sir,” I asked him. “Which restroom do I use?” 

 The Greyhound man looked puzzled. He surveyed me from top to bottom.  Then his face brightened.  He pointed at the wall between two signs.  “There,” he said.   

  “But I am not a dog,”  I replied. 

 A smile came over his face.  He patted my back and said, “Young man, use the Whites Only.”  

After relieving myself, I got curious.  I walked into the Colored Only restroom.  It smelled bad and was dirty.

“What’s going on?” I asked myself. “Abraham Lincoln spoke about a nation dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.  If all men are created equal how come America has two separate restrooms?  One for Whites Only and the other for Colored Only?   One clean and the other smelly?”

 First Sunday in Austin, Texas

I went to a church by the campus for a morning service.  People started to come in.  The front rows were filling up.  Back rows were filling up also.  I looked to my right.  I looked to my left.  The people passed by my row, making a quick glance at me. 

“How come people don’t sit in my row?” I mumbled.  

“Do I smell?” I sniffed at my shirt.  No smell. 

 “Do I have bad mouth odor?”  I covered my mouth and nose with my hands to check my breath.  No odor.  

“I think I know why.”  I quickly looked around.  I saw no black faces.  No brown faces. “Yes, that’s why.  They don’t sit next to me because I am not white.” 

 At 10 am, a preacher entered, stood at the podium and welcomed the congregation.  As the organ played the hymn, the congregation stood.  I also stood surrounded by the six foot wall of giant Texans in the front and the six foot wall in the back.   I couldn’t see the preacher because I was only 5 ft 6 inches. 

They sang loudly with a heavy Texas drawl. 

 In Christ there is no east or west; in Christ no north or south. 

 But one community of love throughout the whole wide earth.  

 In Christ is neither Jew nor Greek, and neither slave nor free;

For men and women live in God, and all are kindred to me.

 After the hymn, the congregation sat down with broad smile, yelling aloud, “Amen.  Hallelujah.”

 I sat down and closed my eyes.

After about a year of stay in Cheiju Island, we moved to Busan where my high school offered classes for its students refuging in the city.  I attended the school for a year.  Then on February 3, 1953,  Mother put me on Sea Serpent, a freighter heading for America.  She sent me to America where I would be safe and also where I would get a good education. 

February 3, 1953, on the deck of Sea Serpent

            I saw the sailors lifting the ramp leading to the dock.  No longer could I touch and smell the soil of my beloved country, which had nourished me with the fruits of its land, which had exposed me to the pain and humiliation of being a citizen of the conquered, and which had showered me with deaths and suffering that came with the wars.  No longer could I climb mountains, swim in rivers and just play with friends.  No longer could I walk beside Mother listening,  talking,  and feeling the warmth of her love by just being with her.  My heart ached with pain that I couldn’t describe in words.

            As I looked down at Mother, I felt that this would the last time that I would see her face.  I studied her face very carefully, so that I could etch it in my heart in every detail, and carry it with me for the rest of my life.  Before coming on board, I wanted to embrace her, and told her how much I loved her, but I couldn’t.   Instead,  I shook her hand politely, and said, “Please take care of yourself.”  Damn it.  I was too timid.  I was too much bound by the tradition.  Now the ramp was up, and it was too late. 

            I could hear the creaking sound as the sailors pulled up the anchors.  I saw the captain at the helm, and workers at their assigned stations.  I heard the engine started to roar and the propeller turning. The ship was ready to depart.

            “Mother, the ship is moving,” I muttered.  “It is inching away from you.  I am becoming very frightened.  I am only sixteen years old, and I don’t feel ready to weather the storms alone in a faraway country.  I need you.  You know how innocent I am.  You know how trusting I am.  I will be totally lost in America.  I am scared.  Very scared!”

            Last night Mother held my hand and told me to trust in God always.  She told me to rush to Him with any problem, no matter how great or small.  She said that He would give me strength to rise above any worldly problems.  I knew that was how she had overcome her suffering, and I would try to do the same, knowing that she would pray for me day and night.

            The boat moved further and further away from the dock.  The murky water looked ugly.  The clouds above seemed so dark.  The sound of the fog horn deepened my sorrow.  But I could still see Mother’s face.  Out of all those people standing on the dock and waving their handkerchiefs, my eyes were fixed only on Mother’s face: the face etched with suffering, yet ever gentle, with great wisdom; and the face firm with her faith in God.

            The boat was now too far away to see her face.  I still saw her standing.  I saw her white handkerchief fluttering in the air.  “Mother,” I yelled.  “Can you see my handkerchief fluttering in the air like yours?  Can you see the tears streaming down my cheeks?  Can you hear me saying, ‘Farewell, Mother?’”

“Farewell!”                            

“Farewell!”

“Mother, I love you!”

“If not in this world, I will see you in the world to come!”

          Two months after my trip to Masan, I found where Mother was and joined her on Cheiju Island, located on the southwestern end of the Korean peninsula.  Apparently, the military  command ordered her ship to sail to the island instead of to Busan, its original destination.

          Our room was a passageway between the kitchen and the living room given to us by our distant relative.  It was just big enough for two to lie down. There was no window.  The wooden floor was uneven, with cracks here and there.  But we were grateful to have our own room when thousands of refugees lived in tents by the sea without any privacy.  Here at least, we had four walls around us all to ourselves.  

           To survive Mother sewed clothes for people, and made rice cakes to sell on the street.  To support Mother I stood by a street corner with a basketful of grapefruit, which grew in abundance on the island.  I sheepishly yelled out, “These grapefruit was freshly picked early this morning.  Please take this fresh delicious fruit home and enjoy.  It is cheaper by the dozen……”   People passed by glancing at me, but only a few bothered to stop. They wanted to buy the fruits at half the sale price, and I refused, not knowing that they were haggling.  Then they stared at me for a while, and walked away.

      Mother went to the dock early in the morning to meet the fishermen arriving on a boat with their fresh catch of mackerel.  She bought one or two fish with the money she could afford.  She cleaned, salted, and broiled them on charcoal.  She carefully rationed rice mixed with barley, and cooked it.  Such became our daily staples.  She said the fish had the most nourishment for the money.  Many times we did not have enough food for the two of us, and she ate very slowly so that I could eat more.

          One day at lunch time, Mother brought from the kitchen a small bowl of rice and about a quarter of a broiled mackerel.  We always had been eating together.  But that day, she said she had to meet someone, and that she would eat later.  At first I took her words at face value, and started eating.  When she had left, something bothered me.  The tone of her voice and expression on her face indicated that she was not telling the truth.  Then it hit me like a lightening that the food I was eating was all that was left, like the time a few weeks back when she had brought a bowl of rice and a small piece of broiled mackerel with the head on a plate for me. That time I gulped down the rice and mackerel leaving the head alone while she watched me and told me to slow down.   When I finished the meal, she took the plate into the kitchen and closed the kitchen door.  While waiting for her return to the room, I without thinking looked through the crack on the kitchen door.  There I saw Mother chewing on the mackerel head while scraping the bottom of the rice cooker for a spoonful of the rice left in the pan.  When I saw her sight, my eyes froze, and my heart sank.  I hated myself being so insensitive to Mother’s hunger.  I wanted to rush into the kitchen and apologize, but I couldn’t.  Instead, I quietly left the room for the ocean and sat on a rock, looking over the horizon far, far away.

          Thinking of that incident, remorse swept over me.  I stopped eating.  I checked the clay pot where rice was kept.  It was empty.  I went out to the kitchen where Mother stored the fish.  It was empty.  I came into the room, covered the rice and mackerel with plates, so that flies would not feast on them.  I rushed out like a mad man to find her.  She was not at the next door neighbor’s house where she usually visited.  She was not at the cousin’s house down the street.  I frantically ran to the beach, where we sometimes gathered clams.  There I saw her, sitting on a rock all alone.

          It was a beautiful, clear day.  The sky was blue without a hint of cloud.  The sea was calm, with small waves gently teasing the rocks by the beach.  She was looking over the horizon as if she was yearning for eternity.  She seemed to be saying,  “Please God, take me away.  I have had enough.  I have reached the end of my rope.   All my life I have struggled to support my children while your servant, my husband, labored and suffered to preach Your Word.  All those years, I managed to feed, clothe, and educate my children.  Now my rice bowl is empty.  I do not have any money to feed my growing boy, and I do not have the strength to go on.  I am very tired, and am emotionally and physically drained.  I am reaching the age of sixty.  My bones are weary. My flesh aches.  I do not wish to continue any longer!”

          When I imagined those words, a chill swept down my spine.  I did not know what to do.  I was tempted to turn around and return home.  I felt guilty, realizing that I had put an additional burden on her life.  At least she could feed herself if I was not with her.  I was ashamed that I couldn’t even sell grapefruit to help her. 

          I wanted to quietly run away so that I would not be a burden to Mother.  On the other hand, running away would cause her greater heartache, even though it would solve her material problem.  She had had enough heartaches already: the loss of her three babies even before they could walk, the loss of her two grownup sons, and finally the loss of her devoted husband.  When I realized that Mother would rather starve with me than eat without me, I gained enough courage to walk toward her and stood quietly beside her.  Mother turned her gaze toward me.  She reached out and held my hand.  Our eyes met.  We talked without words.  Her eyes spoke of the pain of living.  My eyes received her pain with helplessness.  Her hand in mine spoke of her love for me, and I received  her love with guilt and gratitude.  Tears welled up in our eyes.  Those tears dropped softly on the rocks to be washed away by the endless sea.

          Mother did not ask for wars, but they came uninvited  and with a mighty fury.  Not one war, but two wars pierced through her.  They plucked away her children, her husband, and a very happy family which she had nurtured and cherished.  The wars set Father against his son, and forced her in between them.  They brought her suffering, loneliness, agony, pain and hunger.

          Why should this be?  Why do nations wage war against one another?  What do they gain?  Overnight I saw houses turning into heaps of ashes.  I saw a child desperately digging through the rubble to find his mom and dad buried underneath.  I saw my friend, a tennis champion in high school, sitting on a stool, his legs dangling down, without feet.  Both of his arms were gone also.  He had the smile of futility on his face.  I saw a swollen corpse pushed to the corner of a street; its stench was unbearable.  I saw innocent children without parents and homes, congregating in orphanages.  Such was the fruit of war that I witnessed.

What would the child do when he found the smashed corpse of his mother and father under the rubble?  What went on in the mind of my friend, once a tennis champion, and now without feet and arms?  What will he do for the rest of his life?  What will those children in the orphanages think of the world in which they were born?  They did not ask to be born.  They did not ask for war. 

          Why can’t we, the people of the world, live in peace as brothers and sisters, sharing, helping, playing, and laughing?   Why can’t we, the people of the world, hold hands across the vast continents and over the deep oceans, making a big circle around this small planet, looking at each other with a smile, and sing with one mighty voice the song of brotherhood to love and to cherish?  I do not know.  I do not know.  I can only pray.

(Partially fictionalized)

     I tagged along with SJ’s family to Busan, the southernmost port city, where I was to be united with Mother, who had left Seoul with my uncle’s family in a LST, a U.S. landing craft.   It took two days to go to Busan  in a corner of a freight train that had been used to ship cattle.  I saw people riding on the roofs of the train risking their lives from a fall.  Along the way, I saw a man crawling away from the track with one of his legs squashed by the train’s steel wheel.  The people saw him crawling away with his severed foot being pulled along, scraping the ground, but no one rushed to help him.  I did not either.   I still don’t know why.  It just  did not enter my mind that day.  Instead I was in shock, and fear gripped me.  Others might have felt the same, and people’s minds were occupied with their own survival.

     For each of the two days’ journey to Busan,  I received three fist-sized rice balls a day, and a little water.   I still do not know who donated the rice balls, the government or the Salvation Army.  In any case, I was very grateful.

            When I arrived at Busan, Mother wasn’t there.   Days passed; weeks went by without the sign of her.  I was worried, and also I was becoming increasingly self-conscious and uncomfortable staying with SJ’s family, because  I felt like a parasite staying with them in a tiny room, which was about the size of my room in Seoul.  I ate their food.  I slept with their young daughters side by side, again like sardines.  My being there took away any measure of privacy available to them; so I tried to stay out as much as I could to give them more time of their own.  I did a lot of roaming the streets, watching people, looking at shops, and envying those slurping hot noodle soup sold by street vendors. 

            Months had passed, and no one knew Mother’s whereabouts.  Did the boat capsize along the way after being hit by an enemy torpedo?   Was I going to be an orphan?   Was I going to spend the rest of my life wandering the streets?  I dreaded to face tomorrow because dreaded news might be waiting for  me.  

            One day the SJ’s mother suggested that SJ and I visit Masan, which was two hours away by boat from Pusan.  She heard from someone that Mother was there, but he did not have her address. That night I could not sleep with the excitement of seeing Mother after all these months of waiting and worrying. 

            When the sun came up, SJ and I had a quick breakfast, rushed to the harbor, and got into a small motor-driven boat and set out for Masan.  When we arrived there, the first thing we did was to visit various churches to inquire of Mother’s whereabouts.  Some ministers had known of my family, but nobody had heard that Mother was in their city.  At their suggestion, we visited private homes, and we visited refugee camps full of people.  When our leads were exhausted, we decided to make a random search in the city with the population of tens of thousands.  All morning and afternoon we walked the streets, looking and stopping strangers to describe what Mother looked like in the hope that any one of them might have seen her.       As the sun started to set we had to catch the boat for Busan.  As we hurried toward the boat, I called out Mother’s name as loudly as I could, hoping that somewhere in one of those homes she would hear me, and would rush out to greet me.  Passerby stared at me, puzzled, but I did not care.  My usual timidity was gone.  I was desperate.  All I wanted was to find Mother.

            As I stepped onto the boat, my voice was hoarse from yelling.  I was exhausted from walking all day, and emotionally drained.  I was totally dejected.  SJ put his arm around me and gently rubbed my shoulder.  Then I felt warm tears welling up in my eyes.   I tried to control them by taking deep breaths, because I did not want to cry in public.  I bowed my head, and bit my lip to curb the flow, but it did not help.  Tears fell on the deck as if a  huge dam had been broken, and I sobbed with great anguish, facing the sea so that people would not see me.

From childhood we hear the words:  Love and Hate.  Love is good.  Hate is bad.  We like to be loved.   We hate to be hated.

Most of us want  to live in  peace at home.  We want to have peaceful, brotherly relations with our neighbors and friends.

Then why do people divorce?  Why is there domestic violence?  Why is there fighting and killing?  

The answer is simple:  The source of divorce, violence, fighting and killing start from one’s position that  ‘I’m right.  Either you do it my way or……’ 

 The husband says, “I am the breadwinner, and you are the homemaker.  I will take of the family finances, and you cook and take of the household chores.”  The wife replies, “You are living in the Middle Ages.  I have a college degree like you have.  We are both breadwinners and homemakers.”

 The father says, “Children should be raised with discipline.”  The mother says, “Children should  be raised in an atmosphere of freedom.”

 The Christian says, “Jesus is the true son of God.  Only through Him we can know the will God.”  The Muslim says, “Muhammad is the true prophet of God. God’s words are revealed only through Muhammad.” 

The abortionist says, “It’s OK to abort an unwanted baby.”  The anti-abortionist says, “Life starts at inception.  It’s murder to abort.”

Who’s right?   Who’s wrong?

Husband or Wife?

Father or Mother?

Christian or Muslim?

Abortionist or Anti-abortionist?

To me the words, right and wrong, are relative words like tall, big, heavy.  When I was a child, Father was always right.  But when I grew, I realized that Father was right sometimes, and wrong other times. When I was in Korea, I thought that I was tall.  When I came to America, I realized that I was small.   My high school basketball coach told me to join the cross-country team instead of the basketball, that I had wanted to play.  

The problem occurs when we take these relative words as absolute. When we take our rights as the absolute rights, the others’ rights become wrongs. When the husband is convinced that he is the sole breadwinner in his family and demands that his wife be a homemaker, trouble ensues.  When the father raises his children in strict discipline against his wife’s wishes, a trouble ensues. When a Christian condemns a Muslim for his faith, a  trouble ensues.  When an anti-abortionist calls an abortionist a murderer, a trouble ensues.  The trouble can lead to divorce, violence, killing…..

If we want to live in peace in this world, we need constantly to be aware that our understanding and beliefs are relative.  We need to be open to others’ beliefs and understanding of the world.  Nobody is right or wrong in an absolute sense.  The only absolutes that we know are life, death, and scientific laws.  We are born once and we die once. The sun rises in the east and sets in the west.  What goes up comes down.  If we do not eat, we lose weight. ……

So today’s reminder is:   ‘Let’s not be headstrong in our views.  Other people’s views are as valid as ours. ’

In my last post I wrote about evil leaders and good or virtuous leaders.  A question that I have is, “Who decides who is evil and who is virtuous?”

I say, “Hitler was an evil man, who was responsible for the death of millions of people.” But a member of the Gestapo would have said in the 1940s, ‘Hitler is a great leader who has brought prosperity and power to Germany.’

I say, “Emperor Hirohito and the other Japanese leaders were evil people, who were responsible for their soldiers killing millions of the innocent in Asia.” But some Japanese people during WWII would have said, ‘They are great leaders who are dedicated to bring peace and prosperity to all Asians under our great emperor Hirohito.’  [Included in our novel, A Knock On My Door are quotes made by Japanese elites who considered their conquest of Asian countries as their mission to bring order and prosperity to those countries.]

I say, “Those young Islamic fundamentalists who blow up themselves to kill American soldiers are lunatics.”  But Islamic fundamentalists would say, ‘Those young people gave their lives for Allah.   What courage!  What sacrifice!’

If I were a son of Kim Jong-Il, the North Korean leader, would I call him an evil man?   I don’t think so. I would call him a good man, a great leader.

If I were the father of one of those suicide bombers in Iraq, would I call him an evil son?  I don’t think so.  I would be heartbroken for my son’s death, but I would also be proud of him for giving his life for the cause.

Suppose Japan won World War II and occupied all of Asia and America.  Who would be the virtuous leaders, and who would be the evil leaders?   The answer would be obvious. Truman and Roosevelt would be the evil leaders, since they caused the deaths of millions of Japanese, while the Japanese emperor would be elevated to godhood, and their leaders would be called great leaders, good people. 

So the unfortunate conclusion I draw is that leaders in winning nations get the titles of ‘virtuous leaders’ and those in losing nations, ‘evil leaders’.   In this world power rules.  A nation with power dictates what is good and what is bad.  I don’t like my conclusions.  My prayer is that a nation in power is also the nation that respects human lives and their freedom.

Today’s thought:  Let us try to understand others’ thoughts and feel their feelings.

 During WWII (1941-1945) I thought all Japanese were bad because they took my father to prison and took away my house.  Also because they started the damn war, WWII with the U.S.,  my best brother went to Japan, got injured, came home and died at the age of 18.    During the Korean War (1950-1953) I thought all North Korean Communists were bad because they took my father away, and because my communist brother brought so much pain and hardship to my family.

Now (2010) as I look back to those events, I realize that the Japanese and the North Koreans were neither good nor bad.  They were just like me, with good and evil dwelling in their hearts.  Unfortunately, during WWII the evil leaders brought out evil in Japanese people and caused so much death and suffering throughout the Asian continent and America.  Before the superpowers divided Korea into two at the end of WWII, North and South Korea was one country. We spoke the same language, ate the same kinds of food, and dressed the same way.   Yet, during the Korean War, the North Korean soldiers tortured and murdered their Southern brothers and sisters like flies in the air.  Why? Because they had Kim Il-Sung as their leader.  To Kim people’s lives came second. He wanted power first, at any cost.  He wanted two Koreas under his rule.  He started the war, and he didn’t win.  But his action left an estimated 2.5 million North and South Koreans dead or wounded. Kim Il-Sung is dead, and his son, Kim Jong-Il is running the country now.  I call them evil leaders because they brought out evil in their underlings to serve their selfish cause.  

Democratic South Korea had a dictator also.  Park Chung-Hee, a general, took over the government in 1963 by force, became the president and ruled the country till 1979.  Under his strong-armed leadership, he normalized relations  with Japan and obtained the needed capital to establish an export-oriented industry.  Barren hills were forested.  Farms were made productive. Highways were built between cities for commerce.  Steel mills were built to manufacture steel for the production of cars and ships for export. Electronic industries were set up for consumer electronics.  The export-oriented industry created jobs for millions, and the per capita income grew 25 times. Yet, President Park lived a simple life.  He dressed simply. He ate ordinary foods like common men.  I call him a virtuous leader because he put his people ahead of himself.  He gave his people confidence and made them feel good to be Koreans.

So I see two contrasting pictures of what leadership can do:  North Korea where the common people live in fear and go to bed hungry every night, while their Great Leader is busy maintaining his power and eyeing for an opportunity to grab up his Southern brothers, and South Korea where the people can openly complain about their government, and yet go to bed without fear, and with full stomachs. 

A question comes to my mind:  What form of government is best for people?  One-man rule?  Ideally,  yes.  One-man rule seems most efficient if that one-man is a man of great wisdom, of great mental strength, and of total dedication to serve his people.  But where can you find such a man?  It appears that a man in power wants to maintain his power as long as possible.  He starts serving his people well, and when things get tough and his power is in danger, he uses his power at any cost to maintain power.  What about rule by committee?  The committee members selected by the people in separate regions?  I see a danger here too.  If the committee has a charismatic chairman with a selfish intention, the committee can end up serving him rather than serving their people.

A conclusion?  A majority rule with checks and balances appears to be a better form of government for the people.  It’s inefficient.  It’s noisy. It seems that there’s no end to arguing. A majority rule leaves the minority unhappy. But in this system, no one person can gain  absolute power.  All the people can voice their positions.  Also, if the majority rule is held in a country where human lives are respected, the minority can carry on their lives without fear of getting killed.

October, 1950.  The North Korean soldiers were pushed out of Seoul, and they were in full retreat.  My father had been taken away by the Communists in August, and no one knew what happened to him.  My communist brother, He-Bum, ran away in September leaving no return address.  The South Korean police were hunting for He-Bum, an enemy of the South.

My family was marked as Communists.  People avoided us.  Some badmouthed us.  My home turned into an island, surrounded by a hostile sea, occasionally visited by armed police.  “Where is your son?” the police asked.  “I don’t know,” was Mother’s answer.  “Where is your brother?” the police asked.  “I don’t know, Sir,” was my answer.  The police didn’t believe us.  They thought we knew He-Bum’s whereabouts.  They thought that we were hiding him somewhere.  They kept coming.  They checked our closets.  They checked our basement.  They checked our ceiling.  They kept asking the same question, “Where is your brother?”  Our answer was always the same.  We really didn’t know.   

One day a detective came.  He seemed about the age of Brother He-Bum, 29 years old. His voice was firm but gentle.  He did not have a fierce look.  His appearance seemed kind.  He talked respectfully to Mother and nicely to me.  He asked Mother whether she knew where He-Bum was.  Mother told him in detail when and how he had left.  He took me to Father’s office and closed the door.  “Where’s your father?” He asked. “Two North Korean officers took him away in August,” I replied.  “Do you know where he is?”  “No, Sir.”  “Did your brother help to find out what happened to his father?”He asked.  “He might have tried,” I said, “but I don’t know for sure.”  Then he took out a pencil from his shirt pocket, placed it between my fingers, and said, “It’s going to hurt if I turn the pencil while squeezing your fingers,” he said. “If you tell me where your brother is, I’ll not squeeze your fingers.”    

How come did these people do not believe us?  We had told the authorities over and over that we did not know where He-Bum was. Yet, this detective asked the same question.  He squeezed my fingers, turned the pencil, asking, but my answer was the same.  He squeezed further and turned the pencil, asking.  It hurt a little more.  My answer was the same.  After a few more squeezes and turns, he took the pencil back to his shirt pocket. “Young man,” he said gently patting my back, “if you ever find out your brother’s whereabouts, let us know.”  Then he left.

To this day, I think of him as a nice man.  He never raised his voice during the questioning.  He did not smile, neither did he frown.  Somehow I felt that he was just doing his job, and he did not enjoy hurting  an innocent 14 year old boy.  He could really hurt me badly if he wanted to but he didn’t.

One day after the detective’s visit, Mother and I were called in the local police station for questioning.  While Mother was sitting in one corner of the station, a policeman put a gun to my temple and asked, “Where is your brother?”  My answer did not change.  “I don’t know, Sir.”  ………   It was a horrific scene, that would be described in more detail in A Knock On My Door, our forthcoming novel.   

Questions kept popping up in my head, “Where is God?  Why does He not come to aid His people in trouble?” I was afraid of tomorrow.  Brother He-Seung was gone.  Father was gone.  Brother He-Bum was gone.  And my best friend, Bahdook, was gone.  “What’s next?”  “Is Mother going to die after all the troubles she has gone through?”  “If she dies, what am I going to do?” 

I found that living was no fun.  I wanted to run away, but where?  Even if I could run away, then what about Mother?

Today’s thought:  Do not argue with life; save your time and energy.

In late  September, 1950, the UN and South Korean soldiers landed in Inchon, a port city 20 miles west of Seoul, and they entered Seoul.  The North Korean army was in full retreat, back to their own country.  

 Outside, not long after, dark clouds covered the October sky, threatening to rain.  I heard jets flying above the clouds. UN soldiers had been chasing the retreating Northern army across the 38^th parallel line.

 It was evening.  We sat in a circle in the living room.  Eight year old Bong-Ke sat next to his mother, Aunt In-Young, and   to her right sat Bong-Soon, In-Young’s 6 year old daughter.  Mother and I sat facing them.  Each of us had a round bowl with a spoon next to it.  Bong-Ke and Bong-Soon grabbed their spoons with their hands eager to scoop up the rice porridge into their mouths.  Aunt In-Young held their hands saying, “Wait.”  Mother smiled at the little hungry children.  “Let’s close our eyes,” Mother said, “and say ‘Thank You God for this food.’  OK?”  We bowed our heads.

 As soon as Mother gave a short prayer of thanks, the two children started eating like starved kids who hadn’t eaten for days.  “Slow down,” their mother reminded them. “Otherwise, you are going get tummy aches.”  Mother gazed at the children, her eyes glistening with tears.

 Only hours ago, I complained to Mother.   “I have been hungry for weeks, Mother,” I said. “And are you saying that we are going to share the meal with Aunt In-Yong’s family?”  “Yes,” Mother said.  “I feel so sad not being able to give you enough food for your growing body.”  “Then why are you inviting them?” I asked.  “You know her husband is away, fighting the North,” Mother said. “Yesterday, In-Yong told me that her children had not had anything to eat the whole day.”  A part of me was upset but another part of me was very proud.  For weeks Mother had worried about her husband taken away by the Communists and her Communist son, He-Bum, who had left days before the South entered Seoul.  Yet here she was, thinking of her neighbor, Aunt In-Yong, who was alone to care for her two little children.  

 Slowly I chewed my porridge,  watching those young children eat.  Their sunken eyes turned to smiles as their hunger pains were slowly pushed away by the rice porridge filling their stomachs.  Aunt In-Young glanced at her children, with tears in her eyes.

 Next day Mother came and held my hand. She did not have her usual smile.  She did not look up at me.  “Are you OK?” I asked.  I felt her hand shaking.  She tried to say something, but she couldn’t.  “Are you sick?” I asked.   “No,” Mother broke her silence.  Her voice was barely audible. “We do not have much rice left.”  I wished that I could do something to help her.  Get a job.  Go to a friend’s house and borrow a sack of rice.  But those were just dreams.  There was no job for a thirteen year old.  I had no friend who could afford a sack of rice.  The only response I had was, “Mother, I’m sorry.”   “Hi-Dong,” Mother repeated, her voice firm. “We do not have much rice left, even for people.”

 Her words sent a chill through my spine because I realized what she meant.  “Do you mean,” I asked, “that I have let Bahdook go?”  Mother looked at me.  “Yes,” she said.  “I don’t feel right feeding a dog when people are starving.”

 Bahdook, my dog, had been my best friend since childhood. When she was a tiny puppy, I acted like her father.  I fed her, cleaned her poop, trained her to pee on a paper.  When she grew, Father and I built a dog house, big enough for me crawl in and lie down next to her. We played catch a ball.   I threw a rubber ball high in the air; she ran to catch it, and brought the ball back to me.  She waited for the next throw, excitedly wagged her tail.  We took hikes.  When a stranger came closer, she made a threatening sound ready to protect me at any cost. …….How could I let my best friend go?  But what else could I do?  Mother loved Bahdook also, and she had to make a decision.

 A few days later a dog warden came.  He put a muzzle on my best friend and led her away.  In silence I saw her leave.  Before she rounded the corner, she stopped, turned her head, and looked at me as if to say, ‘Good bye’.