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Name: Saeng Myeong Kim Age: 38 Gender: Male Occupation: Medic Appearance: slender, 166 cm, black, short-hair, ragged doctor gowns Location: - working at a Japanese military camp, Misawa Air Base, to treat wounded or sick soldiers - later relocated to a base near Kyoto right before the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki Personality/Quirks/Unique Personality Traits: - persevering, diligent, trustworthy, patient - tries to understand others' views rather than being outraged by their obnoxious behavior - very passionate about medical material and always wants to learn more - has no experience of devastation or tragedy Family: - needs to feed mother, father, grandmother, wife, and two daughters - lived altogether in Korea Education: - studied abroad in Japan before its conquer over Korea - self-educated and mastered medical education Languages you speak: Korean, Japanese Your main concerns at this time and in life: 1. abused by fellow Japanese medics that blame him on the mistakes they make 2. worried about his family who is in an internment camp in Korea 3. psychologically confused and stupefied by the many deaths he sees everyday

JOURNAL ENTRY 1 November 1, 1937 What is it that makes me different?

I had lived and studied in Japan for years, experienced the exact material that they had--but what is the problem? When I first “arrived” at the base camp, they had asked me to kneel down and praise them as gods. I did. The next day they asked me to lick their shoes which were smothered with dirt and the little insects that swarmed around in their damp habitat. I did. The third day they asked me to tell a story--either a funny one or a dramatic one, something that would make them cry. I did. I, forcing all my tears inside, instigated my story about my family. My two daughters,whom probably have now forgotten my face, and my wife. My grandmother, very old but still compassionate and strong. My mother and father.

They could not imagine my feelings and emotions. The anticipation and worries that I had--wanting to save them, and do anything to save them from those dirty, miserable internment camps. I was on the merge of crying and almost thanking them for bringing back the memories from the past, because these nostalgic events also reminded me of each and every one’s faces, which were turning blurry and unclear.

But, what was it they did? They replied that my family, including myself, was a servant, a prisoner, a //drudge// to the world.

A few weeks past, and I adapted to their behavior. I had to accept that I was the little mouse between the aggressive cats. However, the main issue that arose was the lack of oil. Without this necessary material, it was impossible for the Japanese to win the war. I did not really know whether I wanted the Japanese to win, but I was sure that I wanted the war to end. Less and less Western products were imported, and through this, the soldiers admitted that an intuitive feeling was telling them that war with the Americans was coming.

In July, Japan had launched battle with China with the goal of further expansion and raw materials which lacked due to embargo of American goods. It was said that more Koreans were recruited in the army, and prostitution slaves were trafficked. Teenage girls were the main targets of these so-called “Comfort Women,” and my mind focused on my two daughters, 13-year-old Mija and 15-year-old Sookja Kim. I wasn’t able to concentrate on my patients, and for that, I was beaten by several soldiers who seemed frustrated.

A few weeks later, the battle between the Chinese intensified, and the controversy between each country’s nationalistic feelings amplified. It did not really matter for me, whether this foreign relation was exacerbated. However, I loathed the scenes where soldiers limped with a dismembered leg or arm, asking for help. Several soldiers were recognized under these disgusted circumstances, but the only role I had to play was a doctor who eased them with medicine. Among these figures, I had noticed a Korean boy, about the age of 18, wounded by a gunshot. “What happened?” I inquired, half curious, half surprised to see someone from my hometown. He hesitated for a few seconds, wondering whether to answer in our language. I was able to see fear in his eyes, but there remained the softness of a young boy as well. I discovered that his name was Sunha Kim a very friendly name compared to the Japanese ones, which were stiff and inflexible. “I was helping out another Korean soldier. We were trying to flee from this damned war, but we were caught. Several Japanese soldiers shot at us, but when they found out that we were “useful,” they took us here.”

For the first time after I was dragged to this wretched place, I saw hope. Why didn’t I think of running away? Did I, all along, acknowledge this choice but forced myself to evade this temptation? Or, was I afraid? I was confused, suddenly, whether it was the war or the Japanese that had made me a coward.

JOURNAL ENTRY 2

December 11, 1941

After I had met Sunha Kim, I gave myself some time to think about the circumstances. I had heard, though not perfectly sure, that one of my daughters were coming to Japan. Whether I was happy or sad, I did not know. I was deprived with love and the relationships that were the sources of happiness. However, I was also acknowledged that the only reason Korean teenage girls were sent to Japan was to //educate// them into “Comfort Women.” The Japanese soldiers seemed to enjoy this news, expecting a group of young girls to greet them in the next few days. I just hoped my daughter wsa not one of them.

A week later, reality struck. As ten girls entered the base camp, the soldiers, like Hyenas catching their prey, darted towards them, started ripping their clothes, raping them outside. I saw each face, terrified and exasperated, looking for anyone to save them from the mad chaos. After this incident, I was able to meet one of the girls. She was afraid at first, when I tried to touch her hair. The real reason I went up to her was because she reminded me of my daughter. To be honest, I had already forgotten my daughter’s face, but her mood and expressions were mysteriously reminiscent. She was pallid, exhausted and sick of what she needed and will need to face. “What’s your name?” “Kim Yoon Shim,” she whispered as she recognized a few soldiers passing by. I touched her hair again to comfort her, but I realized that she had a fever. I quickly went to get some tea, but before that, I checked her pulse to make sure she wasn’t ill of a particular disease. Fortunately, she was not. But it was difficult to admit whether it was fortune or a jinx--she was pregnant. Honestly, I had wanted to keep this a secret, but soon the Japanese medics found out, and the rumor spread to the soldiers, who began to beat her in the stomach and make sure the fetus died. Yoon Shim was in great agony, reaching for my hands as she was beaten. I regret it now, but I had to walk away.

On December 8, 1941, the Americans declared war on Japan. Agitation exacerbated in the army base; frustrated soldiers and Japanese medics beat me for no reason. Generals commanded the military to prepare for war. One thing that I learned a little later in the day was that I was also involved in this war. Everyone was. This was total war. I was proud for myself to become an important part of everyone’s life. I was jovial for the privilege to contribute to this war against the Americans. I was aggressive to shoot the Americans, slaughter them, cut them into pieces, see the blood in my hands and laugh. War was now funny and new. I was not afraid anymore. I was not disgusted by one-legged soldiers--I was able to endure and enjoy this experience.

JOURNAL ENTRY 3

April 5, 1942 “Ah. Peace.”

This was the most common phrase said among the medics. The Japanese were winning, expanding their territory into lands that I did not know. Nevertheless, Japan was defeating strong armies such as the French, expanding into Indochina. Japanese victory was not at all something to feel resentful about; victory meant peace, and peace meant serenity for the soldiers. Less abuse, less work, less stress. All good.

I still had work to do, but there was much less. Not a lot of soldiers visited the center with wounds or broken arms, but rather to greet and converse with their friends. Some just came in curiosity, some just as passersby.

Many conversations included the triumphant defeats of the Japanese over the French army, and these discussions were actually interesting. I did not know that Japan had enough potential to defeat European armies, and through this news, I had to admit that there was a reason for the soldiers to be condescending. They were arrogant, but with a reasonable justification.

During this long period of peace (and boredom), I recalled my meeting with another Korean soldier named Sam-Dong Kim. He had actually arrived at the center with Sunha Kim, but I had forgotten about the conversations we had.

“I hate war, but war is what makes a boy a man. That’s what my father said.”

I had agreed at the time he told me this. Now that I’ve experienced both war and peace, I regret stating my consent to this statement. It is not war that makes someone mature; it’s the peace that one should appreciate during hard times. Observing the Japanese soldiers’ demeanor, it is clear that serenity is not a feminine quality but rather what strengthens a man’s endurance and ability to focus on moral things.

Although this peace was my opportunity to relax, I used the time to deliberate on the consequences that I may face in the future. Japan was winning, and even if Japan was the final victor, nothing would change. If Japan lost, I would just become another prisoner for a different army. I doubted the latter results, as Japan was able to defeat French in Indochina, and whether Japan was going to win or lose did not matter. It was peaceful on the outside, but I was still alone, separated from my family, worried about my girls, and indignant about war.

JOURNAL ENTRY 4

August 18, 1947

If I was situated at the Misawa Air Base during the bombings, I would probably not have been able to experience such devastation. However, things weren’t going so well in Japan, as the war seemed to sway towards the Allies. Germany withdrew from war in May 1945, and Japan was alone against the United States and the other strong European countries. The Japanese were being beaten in the Philippines, and the Islands of Okinawa and Iwo Jima were conquered by U.S. forces. The Soviet Union turned against the Japanese. I was relocated to a base near Kyoto. I did not know the reason for this move, but I, from several eavesdropped conversations, inferred that the United States was planning to attack the northern parts of Japan.

Fear. That’s the word.

Although my resentful mind against the Japanese was still strong, I was shocked when I heard that the Japanese were losing the war. I knew that my family was in a vulnerable position during Japanese occupation, but I realized that, in a way, it was better for the Koreans to hide behind the strong army that Japan had assembled. Without Japan, Korea would become an easy target for anyone in the world.

When I met Fuji Yamaguchi, my strong prejudice against Japanese soldiers concealed my conscience, and disabled my ability to cure him. He was stuck under the barracks that was destroyed during the bombing of Hiroshima on August 6, 1945. Luckily, he was situated on the outskirts of the actual location of the bombing, but the shelter he was in collapsed due to secondary impacts of the atomic bomb. The base that I was relocated to was in chaos, and using the circumstances, I quickly fled from the army. I was wandering around for I had no place to go, especially in this devastation. At first glance at the soldier, I was able to recognize that a rock had fall on his head. Fortunately, he was still conscious enough to realize that I could help him.

“Help! He...l..p... me....”

As soon as I heard those words, I went close to him, teared a small piece of my white gown, and tried to stanch his bleeding. In order to recognize which army he was from, I read the name tag inscribed on the right pocket of his uniform.

‘//Fuji Yamaguchi//, //a Japanese.//’

An image of this soldier raping little Korean girls suddenly came across my mind. This soldier was no different. There was no reason for me to help him. No one was watching, no one cared whether he lived or not--he was just another casualty. However, I knew that if I just walked away, there would always last a feeling of guilt, and it would never let me go.

I opened my suitcase, all worn and ragged, and took out a disinfectant. I quickly poured in on his forehead. He started screaming and cussing in Japanese, and all I did was wait. When Fuji began to endure the pain, I wrapped the scar with a band.

Together, we sauntered in the area for about three days straight without food or water. No place to go, no place to return. We were stranded on this large island, ghettoed between the devastation of war and the US army. Emotions were distant elements to life, maybe except for the feeling of shock. The scenes I saw were inexplicable--small remains of skin were stuck on walls of buildings, ashes remained everywhere, corpses were unidentifiable.

I cannot recall the exact date or place, but Fuji and I were captured by US troops. Emperor Hirohito declared Japanese surrender, and the war was over. The Tokyo Trials occurred, and several Japanese commanders and chiefs were executed. It was ironical for such results; Japan was in total loss and devastation, but why were they accused for the war? I had a hard time understanding the situation, and was confused. I felt pity for the Japanese, but then again, recalling the soldiers abusing little girls and myself, anger and resentment evoked.

The US troops took me back to Korea, where I looked for my family members. I realized that revolution had commenced, and it was almost impossible to find them. I perceived that my experiences during the war in Japan was not everything. I had lost my family, friends, home--and my life. Who was I now? Maybe, just maybe, I would be able to reunite with the people I separated with, and redeem my identity as a husband, a doctor, a Korean.