November+1,+1937

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 Park, 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.