The Milky Way

I was seven years old. My father was conducting a Confucian memorial service for one of our ancestors, so my entire family had gathered. The service was held at midnight, and the front gate was opened so that the spirit of the dead could come in. Care had been taken to ensure that nothing was blocking the entrance of the spirit. After the service, the whole family ate the special meal prepared for this solemn occasion.

Later, in a separate room near the front gate of our house, my father and my older brothers argued.

“What got into your head? Are you following the communism that could ruin your future?” my father scolded.

“No, Father, I am convinced that if our new nation adopts communism, everyone would live equally well,” Jin Kook said.

“No, it is not going to happen. There is no society in the world where people live equally well.”

Their argument escalated, the voices of my brothers and my father growing louder and angrier.

Communism was beginning to take its toll on our family. I could not escape this ideology entirely, for one evening in 1946 Jin Hwan took me to a huge, boisterous rally at Bu Min Kwan, a large auditorium in the heart of Seoul. From the stage, a man gave an impassioned speech promoting the advantages of adopting the politics of communism. But the most impressive thing for me on that stage was a beautifully dressed woman who played the piano. The glamour and excitement of the evening remained in my memory, further sparking my interest in music as I daydreamed about wearing a lovely white Korean gown and playing a piano under the stars and moonlight.

One evening a group of policemen came to our house to arraign Jin Kook. As Kai Soon opened the gate, the officers rushed into the house, pointing their guns at her face. My mother crouched in a corner, trembling with fear. Jin Kook made it to the house next door by climbing over our fence and crawling under the neighbor’s wooden floor. The next morning Kai Soon passed him a bundle of clothes over the fence. Then she took a document setting forth communist doctrine that had been in Jin Kook’s possession, and buried it in a jar in our backyard. Again, in the evening, the officers returned for Jin Kook. He was still safely hidden away. But eventually the police arraigned and put him in the prison.

The incident was a foretaste of what lay ahead, both for me and for Kai Soon. As an ordinary child, going through what I experienced as ordinary circumstances, I had no idea what trouble was coming for my family.

When the North Korean soldiers pushed down into Seoul, I was a fifth grader. Three days later, on June 28, North Korean troops were approaching Seoul. Swarms of scattered people were walking along the street, going somewhere, and there was no transportation available. A few in our family were among the people walking toward a temporary shelter. We could hear gunshots and the sound of artillery in the distance. The war zone was approaching Seoul. Our destination was the house of our uncle, my mother’s brother, at the base of the South Mountain; there we took shelter to hide in a mansion in that community. A few days later, we returned home. On the street not far from our house, I saw North Korean tanks rolling down the street. Soldiers wearing red scarves were marching in the street. The color of their scarves was their symbol.

Soon the capital city, Seoul, came under the control of North Korean soldiers. They let some political prisoners out of West Gate Prison. My brother Jin Kook came home as a free man. His face was pale because of the lack of sun in the prison, but he looked healthy. The prisoners had been fed rice and beans. I saw him for a short while that day. Soon after he came home, he joined a regiment of communist troops that had been organized temporarily. Nobody in our family knew that this was the last time we would see him in our house.

Soon after the Korean War broke out, my second older brother, Jin Whan, came home and then hurriedly left, going toward Dae Gu, a large city in the south. Nobody suspected that this was going to be our last time to see him. He had been working as a reporter for a newspaper called Tae Yang. This southern city, about four hours from Seoul by train, was seized by the North Koreans at that time. He had joined Bbahlchi San, a communist guerilla group. After many battles between two enemies, the communists were driven into the Ji Ri Mountain to regroup. Most of them died there, because the South Koreans’ newly recruited soldiers became more forceful. Jin Whan simply disappeared, and there was no sign or possibility that he could have survived. What a heartbreaking event for our entire family! It was particularly painful for our mother, since he was lost at the tender age of twenty-one.

As many years passed, the thought of my brother Jin Whan was buried deep in my consciousness. Occasionally, I remembered that he had died very young, and my heart ached. I wrote a poem in his memory:

He was a flower that didn’t bloom.
He was a fruit that was not ripened.
His name was not even among the soldiers who died for their country.
No one assembled to remember him.
But you are always in my mind.
My brother, this is my tribute to you for the years we shared.

My cousin Jin Sup, who grew up with Jin Whan, once whispered in my ear, “Jin Whan was the brightest person I have ever known.”