Silent

Host: Please welcome our guest speaker - the renowned author of “Silent.”

Guest Speaker (in a heavily-coated accent): Thank you, thank you, thank you. It is a pleasure for me to come here and tell this story.

Host: You have chosen to keep the genre of this piece of writing a secret. Are you planning to reveal it today?
Guest Speaker (with a twinkling grin): My, my. That I shall leave to my readers’ imagination, who, hopefully, will also find truth and hope in this story.
Host: What a sparking answer! Would you mind reading a moving excerpt that conveys your message to the readers?

Guest Speaker: I would love to…

The following is an excerpt from award-winning, “Silent.”

Cries

I stifled the forewarning cries of the aegi, gently cooing in hopes of producing the petrified silence that always satisfied the Japanese. Gritting my teeth, I clasped my hands and recited the silent prayer Eomma had made me repeat at least a thousand times. This was the only method of communication I so fervently believed couldn’t be heard by the Jjokbaris. Eunseo always scoffed at me, expressing disbelief at my certainty in the Japanese’s ability to stalk our conversations. As I thought about it, it was stupid. But I admit. I was convinced the devils could hear my most quiet mutters.

And just as God had ignored my previous prayers, the baby’s cries loyally summoned the gunins who scuffled into our kitchen. The pail of soiled water in the corner sloshed all over the floor to the rhythmic beat of the tormenting black boots. Each haunting step resonated in my ear, and just like how they took over my homeland, they controlled the rhythm my heart, forcing it to beat identically to their synchronized, accented strides. Armed with pitch-black straps, the gunins resembled a cult dedicated to a satanic Jesus.

Shuffling backwards, I slung the baby sling around my shoulder, clutched the aegi, grabbed Eunseo’s quivering hand, and tiptoed underground. Adrenaline was pumping through my veins, and all I could hear were the suppressed wails of Eunseo who was desperately clutching onto my battered hanbok. Clouds of dust and dirt blossomed off the ground as I quickly hurried to the shadiest spot of the den. From this area, I could peer from underneath the wooden planks without them seeing me. This was the hot spot during our daily hide-and-seek games, yet now, it served another purpose. Aegi happily gurgled, tugging and tangling my stray strands of hair, too young to understand this jeopardizing situation. I grudgingly kept my eyes wide open to the murderous scene above me. Through the planks, a beam of light was a horrendously perfect source of reflection to present me with this horror movie. It was almost as if the Jjokbari’s could even control the angle of light to recreate the most alarming nightmares in our heads as we sleep. I had heard in the widespread rumors that the Jjokbaris do terrible things to women. But I never imagined it like this. All of this unfolded above me.

Eomma was forcefully held down by the two devils, victim to consecutive thwacks. I knew that they had hit her. Cast to the ground, she was hard on her knees, fervently begging and maintaining her eye contact on the polished tips of the Jjokbari’s suspicious boots. With his grimy fingernail, the soldier to the right made the slightest bit of contact with Eomma and with a repulsive stare, lifted Eomma’s head, and laughed. Laughed at her. Laughed at us. Laughed at her pathetic state on the floor. The soldier behind her carelessly seized a patch of hair and yanked her head back, until he relentlessly flung her to the ground. Eomma slightly flinched, attempting to conceal her pain, but I knew she had struck her face to the floor. Blood sputtered out of her nose and a silent string of warm blood trailed down from the crook of her eyebrow down to her bare chest, now shamefully exposed to the soldiers who had monstrously ripped her blouse open.

I am young. But I am not stupid. I knew what would occur after. The wicked, selfish penetrations. The despairing pleas. The beast of man unleashed. The pale rose at its most vulnerable. Now, all I could digest was the memory replaying in my head:

“Nahee, if the jjokbaris ever come for you, you go downstairs with Eunseo and the baby. You don’t look up. You keep silent. You don’t say anything to anyone. You keep silent. You don’t cry. You keep silent. Or else they take you. You keep silent. Or else they kill you. You keep silent. You survive. You live. Stay silent.”

This is what my mom commanded me to do. So I stayed silent.

Silence

I opened my eyes to find my aegi stolen from my embrace and to hear Eunseo’s shivering, uneven breaths from the corner of the pitch-black room. I groped around and cautiously used the tips of my fingers to create an image of the room in my head. The ground was covered in hay while the walls were frigid. Exhausted, I awaited for a cascade of tears. The clenching of my throat and a salty taste to the mouth. Nothing came. It was silent. Silent. My eyes widened in surprise. This was completely different from my recreation of a hopeless circumstance in Japanese captivity where I could do nothing but cry.

I observed the rest of the cubicle, which was also dead silent. I peered around, a full 360 degree roundabout, intently watching each raw virgin in my cell. We were all around the ripe ages of thirteen to sixteen. Cautiously, I broke the silence: “Did anyone see my aegi?” A small voice piped up, “I think I saw him but they took him. Maybe you’ll see him later… ” A sigh. “Don’t count on it. Don’t keep your hopes up.”

I fixed my gaze upon the rigid shadow in the corner which I assumed was the source of the second voice. I doubted that no matter how bad the gunins are, they wouldn’t harm a mere baby. A baby who didn’t even know the alphabet, let alone the political situation. At that exact moment, the door was thrown open, revealing an overbearing outline who threw a motionless bag to the corner. My breath hitched. No. No, it couldn’t be true. No way. No.

Eunseo choked my wrist, shaking her head and avoiding my gaze. I jerked my hand away in disbelief, and turned her head to look at me firm in the eyes. He was not dead. He was not dead. No. He couldn’t be dead. Trembling, I unzipped the bag, met by a lifeless, glassy reflection in his eyes. He lay motionless, no twitch of his chubby fingers - the occasional habit when he slept. He lay still. So still. So silent.

I had raised a brother who always cheered us up with his exuberant gurgles. This wasn’t him. The stationary figure wasn’t him. It couldn’t be. My beautiful aegi. I can’t send him like this. The second voice boldly interrupted again: “Bury him. It’s for your sake and his sake. It will be easier for you. Trust me.” I lashed out, “How would you know?! How would you know what it’s like to bury someone who is younger than you? Someone who didn’t get a chance to live!” Silence. A sigh.

“Because I’ve done the same.”

Sweeping the hay to the side, I shoveled mercilessly through the underlying dirt with my hands enveloped in my ragged outfit, and formed a makeshift grave. My mind was empty, and I felt as if I were plowing to hell. Slowly, my motions came to a halt. I zipped open the bag, kissed him gingerly on the nose, tenderly wiped the grime off of his face, and zipped the bag back up. Carefully placing the bag in, I herded the soil and refilled the hole, patting the ground to return it to its flat state.

I lay beside it, unconsciously petting the ground just as I would to bring the baby to sleep. I whispered the Korean lullaby, “There are three bears in one house ~ Daddy Bear. Mommy Bear. Baby Bear. ~ Daddy Bear is fat. Mommy bear is skinny. And Baby Bear is so, so, so, cute.~” I recalled the aegi’s satisfied sighs that always concluded the song.  One hand fell asleep under the weight of my head, while the other one continued to stroke the matted hay, imagining the curve his rotund belly would make. My eyes fluttered close and once again, I anticipated the tears. But nothing came. They were dead. My heart was dead like how they killed my aegi.

“Nahee, if the jjokbaris ever come for you, you go downstairs with Eunseo and the baby. You don’t look up. You keep silent. You don’t say anything to anyone. You keep silent. You don’t cry. You keep silent. Or else they take you. You keep silent. Or else they kill you. You keep silent. You survive. You live. Stay silent.”

This is what my mom commanded me to do. So I stayed silent.

Konichiwa

Back home, it was a cultural duty to master the respectful bow to elders and carefully enunciate each syllable: “An-nyeong-ha-sae-yo.” On the lifeless days where the soldiers were preoccupied, the girls in the cell would muster up courage to mutter under a quiet breath in their own languages, relieving and reassuring themselves of their remaining sanities. Our native languages guided the brush to paint bold lines for each character onto our mental whiteboards. It was the only source of consolation for the possibility of returning home.  But soon, we lost all hope. The native tongues we had sought after so desperately were now stolen from us, and unfamiliar pronunciations were forced into our eyes and out of our mouths. The fluent word I had spent so many years practicing precise articulation for transformed into blocky letters engraved in the chink of my teeth - just like the sound my shackles made. My “an-nyeong-ha-sae-yo” became their “ko-ni-chi-wa.”

“Nahee, if the jjokbaris ever come for you, you go downstairs with Eunseo and the baby. You don’t look up. You keep silent. You don’t say anything to anyone. You keep silent. You don’t cry. You keep silent. Or else they take you. You keep silent. Or else they kill you. You keep silent. You survive. You live. Stay silent.”

This is what my mom commanded me to do. So I stayed silent.

Labels

That monster of a man evilly tread in front of the rigid line of virgins, attentively scrutinizing every flaw and every scar on our nearly naked bodies. The winter gale swept through the barred window, causing waves of shudders amongst us girls. We stood in skimpy tank tops while our gaunt thighs hung through our nude-colored underwears and our hair bundled in loose braids. I sustained my piercing stare at the ground, taking the time to envy the strange monarch that had flown through the window. The intricate patterns of black and orange, with its gaps occupied by thin translucent sheets reminding me of the stained silk sheets I had always envied at the street markets back home. It was breathtaking in its existence. It was so silent. So silent.

A sudden crackling jerked my head up, searching for its source. Mistakenly, my gaze landed straight into the glare of the chief. He smiled a filthy smile revealing the ends of his rotting gums and yellow-tinted teeth. He dared to lay his vile finger to tuck a stray strand of my hair behind my ear, and stroked the cold right cheek of my static, silent face. “Totemo utsukushī,” he muttered. With my months of forced education in Japanese language, it translated to: “So beautiful…” I felt sick to the stomach as he continued tracing my facial features and gently touched the exterior of my jutting shoulder bones. Placing his blistered hands on both my shoulders, he stared straight into my eyes: “From now on, you shall be called Akiko - bright and sparking like autumn.” My fingertips toyed with the frays of the loose string from my ragged tank top, and eventually returned to the imprints in my ghastly palms from excessive clenching. They took my homeland. They took my brother. They took my language. Now, they are taking my name?

As he left, the heel of his shoe lifted off and I could see the demolished figure of the monarch lying so still on the ground. Like my aegi. I closed my eyes in hopes of erasing this series of horrific memories. Only silent tears were produced, tracing their way down, forming a puddle on my protruding collarbones. So silent.

“Nahee, if the jjokbaris ever come for you, you go downstairs. You don’t look up. You keep silent. You don’t say anything to anyone. You keep silent. You don’t cry. You keep silent.Or else they take you. You keep silent. Or else they kill you. You keep silent. You survive. You live. Stay silent.”

This is what my mom commanded me to do. So I stayed silent.

A Terrible Beauty

Cherries popped. Ironically popped underneath the blossoming cherry trees embellishing this foreign country.  Crimes occurred under the lofty trees that colored the land like so. Hues of light shades of pink tinted with the purest white that I had ever seen. A white that cleansed the sins forced unto me, a white that tragically reminded me of my Home’s peace and purity. The peace that I cherished so much, framed by the four patterns of black stripes that contrasted so perfectly. Perfection. My Home’s circular island of Yin and Yang, red and blue. A perfect balance. The balance we tried so hard to keep back Home.

Until the masked demon arose in its most violently stunning form, its shimmering black locks dancing frenziedly with the wind. It approached me with bloodshot eyes so similar to the redness of my kidnapper’s lair and its trademark.

A forceful grasp clamped my shoulder and whirled me around. I gasped as he crammed my face in his tight grip and gruffly said, “Kirei,” flinging me to the neat bed with red linen sheets.

As he finished, I squeezed my eyes shut and painfully turned to my side. Silently, I adjusted and re-tied my robe, ignoring the pool of tears accumulating under my cheek.

“Nahee, if the jjokbaris ever come for you, you go downstairs. You don’t look up. You keep silent. You don’t say anything to anyone. You keep silent. Or else they take you. You keep silent. Or else they kill you. You keep silent. You survive. You live. Stay silent.”

This is what my mom commanded me to do. So I stayed silent.

Comfort

They call us “comfort women.” Yet, where does this “comfort” go? Does our agony give comfort to those ruthless beasts? What is this “comfort” that we give? Is it our vulnerability that feeds their monstrous thirst for power? Or is it our raw state that provides them the unnecessary pride of being able to touch something so new, something unwrapped, something - something - something - something so untouched?

“Nahee, if the jjokbaris ever come for you, you go downstairs. You don’t look up. You keep silent. You don’t say anything to anyone. You keep silent. You don’t cry. You keep silent.Or else they take you. You keep silent. Or else they kill you. You keep silent. You survive. You live. Stay silent.”

This is what my mom commanded me to do. So I stayed silent.

Dreams

“Nahee! Nahee! Nahee!” Who was repeatedly calling my name? I craned my neck around the scarred trees, herding the stray strands of my brown hair back into its neat braid. I was alone in the forest. The olive, viridescent trees were tinted with a lustrous silver as the blinding, aureate sunrays peeked through and gave birth to moss and the forest brush. I raised my hanbok and dashed through the forest, searching for the voice. The voice was feminine and coated with love, but concentrated with desperation.

I was scared. I was fearful. What happened? Why does the voice sound so discouraged and hopeless? I kept running. I just kept running. I didn’t know what I was running from or where I was running to, but I just kept running.

A glossy shine soon accumulated into a layer on my skin, my braid became undone, and the salty tang of sweat crept into my mouth. The air made the brush twinkle with a tragic tinge of iridescent lining. Unconsciously, I kept whirling back, feeling a shady presence behind me, but turning to find only empty space. I kept running. Running. Running. Until, abruptly, invisible fingertips crawled up the nape of my neck and swished in one turn to choke me.

“Nahee, if the jjokbaris ever come for you, you go downstairs. You don’t look up. You keep silent. You don’t say anything to anyone. You keep silent. You don’t cry. You keep silent. Or else they take you. You keep silent. Or else they kill you. You keep silent. You survive. You live. Stay silent.”

This is what my mom commanded me to do.

Guest Speaker (with a distant gaze): This is the story - no, a memoir - of a family who was forced to forgo their memories, their identities, their childhoods, their love, and their lives. This is the story that was forbidden. This is the untold story shared by so many others. This is the story I live to tell because this story is me. This is my story. This girl is me. And I just want to say,

I’m sorry, Eomma. But this is my life. This is my story. I can’t stay silent any longer.