Ko Un - Maninbo - Peace & War

by any means.

The meeting started,

the first session of the very long,

very tedious

armistice negotiations.

The UN’s chief delegate was American Vice Admiral C. Turner Joy,

the North’s was General Nam Il.

Outside Panmunjeom, the fighting was still furious.

Joy proposed: ‘Let’s make the armistice line the Kansas Line,

passing through Yeoncheon and Cheolwon in Gyeonggi province,

Geumhwa and Ganseong in Gangwon province.’

Nam Il proposed:

‘Let’s go back to the 38th parallel as before the war.’

Nam Il again:

‘During the seven months of the war,

our northern forces occupied territory south of the 38th parallel for five months,

while you occupied land north of the 38th parallel for only two months.

If you insist on the so-called Kansas Line,

we’ll insist on the Nakdong River way down south as the armistice line.’

Joy:

‘No. We have gained full control of air and sea.

In the war against Japan

we made Japan surrender

without even one American soldier landing on Japanese soil.’

Nam Il:

‘You are forgetting some important facts.

What made Japan surrender

was first the Korean people’s fight for independence,

then the Chinese people’s eight-year battle against Japan,

and the entry of the Soviet Union into the war.

You fought against Japan for five years,

but you won thanks only to the entry of the USSR into the war.’

After that

they spent the next 7 hours 10 minutes in an outstaring game,

lips tightly shut.

Whoever blinked first would lose.

This scene was witnessed

only by the English interpreter,

second lieutenant Kim Hyeong-gi,

a briefing officer for the defence ministry’s information bureau,

and Choi Byeong-u, reporter for the Joseon Ilbo newspaper.

All the other reporters depended on Choi.

Later Choi Byeong-u was killed by Chinese gunfire

on the battlefield of Kinmen Island in the Strait of Taiwan.

His wife would become the wife of Professor Wagner

who taught Korean history at Harvard.

Relations in life spread.

Having escaped, I came back alive.

Grandfather, grandmother,

mother were gone.

I was all alone.

For food, I dug up the roots of alang grass,

gnawed pine needles,

ate amaranthus raw.

I lapped up a bowl

of stale left-overs.

I came back alive.

I slept under a straw mat in the shed of some house.

I slept in an empty stable.

I came back to bombed-out Seoul

after it was recaptured.

In Anguk-dong old tile-roofed houses remained,

the houses where court ladies used to live.

There was one house still empty.

I collected scraps of wood and

made a fire to heat the floor.

My body thawed out.

My name is Yi Jong-su.

How long had it been?

Lying on the warmest spot in the room

I looked up at a framed photo of the owner of the house,

who had run away.

A handful of rice remained in a jar.

I ate the rice alone, without side dishes.

I wished

for soy sauce,

I wished

for red pepper paste,

I wished

for aged kimchi.

Saying that, I fell asleep.

Dreams were unnecessary.

They say Kim Il-sung has come to Seoul.

They say Syngman Rhee is going to Pyongyang.

Who’s Mao Tse-tung?

They say Mao Tse-tung has come to Seoul.

Or else

Truman is going to Pyongyang.

They say those goddamn Seoulites

have packed their bags to flee any number of times.

They say all the folk on the mainland

are having a really hard time.

In the most remote of the Gyeongnyeol-bi Islands in the Yellow Sea

live nine fishing families,

and in one of them

is Sujin’s Mom,

so gaunt and skinny

she’s called ‘Bamboo chopstick’ or ‘Metal chopstick’,

with her flat chest.

Today too that Chopstick’s been out gathering oysters,

and now she’s mending her husband’s net,

the net with so many holes.

Three or four times a day

planes pass overhead.

Whether they pass

or not

the waves never stop breaking.

Empty boats creak,

tossing in the waves.

No news at all

from Ilmo’s boat,

still not back.

The crimson sun drops down in a flash.

The whole ocean, surprised, grows dark.

If a few planes pass overhead

or not, who cares?

In the yard of an empty house

a leftist was killing a rightist.

He battered his head

with the back of a spade.

He fell,

his hands bound with wire.

Then he struck his exposed breast

with the back of the spade.

Blood spurted out.

He made his last farewell:

Goodbye, bloody reactionary.

A rightist dragged a leftist

to the square before the station,

and the leftist’s wife as well.

You whore,

now watch your husband die.

The first cudgel blow.

A second.

The leftist fell.

A third.

The leftist squirmed.

A fourth.

The leftist lay unmoving.

The leftist’s wife, standing stock still,

shed not a tear.

The previous night

she’d been dragged out

and raped by four men.

She shed not a tear.

Let’s be off!

Let’s be off!

Old Shin, a refugee,

wanted to go back to the home he had left:

216, Sanjeong-ri, Jaseong-myeon, Gujang-gun, North Pyeongan province.

Half senile and

half insane

he wanted to go back to the home he had left.

Let’s be off!

Let’s be off!

His son came back, drunk.

Once again he’d had no luck finding a job.

Let’s be off!

Let’s be off!

His son suddenly shouted:

‘You old fool, there’s nowhere to go. Drop dead!’

The living were ashamed before the dead.

The dead were ashamed before the living.

No trains arrived at the station.

The first summer and fall of the war went by.

Winter went by.

The following spring

Yun Do-jun, having survived it all, became a simpleton.

Escaping

bombing

killing

revenge killing

escaping again.

Yun Do-jun, having survived all that,

could not help but become a simpleton.

When children called out: ‘Mister Do-jun!’

his eyes were blank.

When children teased him with, ‘Hey, Do-jun!’

or with, ‘You, Do-jun!’

his eyes were blank.

One child suddenly lost his temper:

‘Why didn’t this idiot die, why’s he still alive?

Not fair! My uncle, he died.’

His father’s last words:

Your brother’s surely still alive.

I feel so sad I am dying without seeing him again.

When your brother comes back,

tell him that.

Later

His mother’s last words:

Your brother’s coming over the hills;

hurry up and bring him back.

After Liberation, their long-absent son stood before their graves.

He shed a lot of tears after 29 years.

The anarchist Jeong Hwa-am’s homecoming

was a shabby affair.

In socialist society as in capitalist society,

an anarchist must be an object of misunderstanding,