It’s the middle in November in the year 1950. We reside in Pyongyang, North Korea. Everything used to seem all normal to me, but this month, everything changed. What I thought was right seemed to be wrong.

My mom said I was lucky. She said the bad guys were defeated when I was only two-years-old. In school we just learned the bad guys were called Nazis and they were killing good people.

On the night of November 13, 1950, My mom tucked me into bed. She did this every night and told me that the bad guys were long gone.
The next morning, I heard loud noises. Awful, loud noises. I was crying. My mom was holding me very tight. She was running very fast. Everything seemed to be a blur but I heard the noises.

My mom froze for a second. I looked up in the sky; there were planes. They were dropping things. I didn’t know what they were, but when they hit something, they exploded.

“I thought the bad people were gone,” I whimpered at my mom.

“These are a different kind of bad people. They used to be good like us, but they turned bad within this year,” my mom replied. The noises still continued.

I just turned 10-years-old today. Everything seems normal again. I can finally have a peaceful life with my mom like four years ago. I don’t care if it’s the wrong way. This is the way I like it.