Oct 22nd, 2005
The Internment Camp
I was only about eleven-years-old during the early stages of the Korean War.
I have a dim memory of walking by an abandoned school that must have been converted into an internment camp because I recall catching a glimpse of a dozen or so American soldiers through the school’s iron gate.
They were leaning against one of the school buildings, and all of them looked frail and exhausted. Their uniforms, tattered remnants of what they once were.
One of the soldiers, a young black man, called out to me as I peered through the gate from a distance. Glancing around to make sure there were no guards nearby, I gingerly approached the gate.
The black man remained seated by the school building, but one of the other young men slowly rose to his feet and approached the gate by him. As he drew near, I realized that he looked much younger than the others - he couldn’t have been much older than eighteen.
His sallow eyes and forlorn facial expression conveyed a deep sense of misery that I had not witnessed in my short life and for some strange reason, I found myself wondering if he had any better notion than I, of why he was here: being held prisoner in a school yard in Pyongyang.
As I watched, practically hypnotized by the strange figure before me, the he reached his hand through the gate and muttered something. Although the words were unintelligible, the tone was unmistakable. Without so much as another thought, I turned and sprinted back to my house, which must have been at least 3 miles away.
I ran into the kitchen, grabbed something out of the cupboard, and ran back to the school as the sun began to set.
When I returned to the school, I saw that it was deserted. I stood near the gate for several moments as the sun made its final descent.
When I walked into the house, my mother looked at my quizzically and asked why I was holding a bit of cooked rice wrapped in paper. I shrugged noncommittally before setting the food on the table and walking into my room.
