Foothills of Mudeungsan

Foothills of Mudeungsan

Yong Wan Choi (11-11-06)

Having waited for his youngest daughter to graduate from college,
the father flew thirteen hours with her
on a visit to the homeland and came to his hometown, Gwangju.
Stopping at Mudeungsan, he told stories of school picnics as a boy—
how while he was off playing with a girl he liked
the teachers and students were all out looking for them—
and father and daughter laughed.
The wind brushing the mountain was clear and fresh.
Visiting his elementary school, as he described the childhood
of a father who had become an architect in America,
to the daughter it was her father's beautiful hometown.

The memory locked away in one corner of his mind:
a unit of the national army was stationed at the school,
and communist partisans were hiding out on Mudeungsan.
One dawn he woke to the din of gunfire, the blasts of grenades,
and flames—
killing, cries, screams, a morning road soaked in blood.
The bodies of fallen soldiers were cleared away,
and ten prisoners, bound with rope, were led to the foot of Mudeungsan.
The military police handed the prisoners shovels and made them dig pits,
then shot them one by one, and as each fell into the pit he had dug,
they covered him with earth and left. A little later
families came, wailing aloud, dug the bodies out of the earth,
carried them off on their backs, and disappeared somewhere.

Wishing to leave his daughter the peaceful town found again across the sea, the beautiful mountain,
the playground where he had run and played, her father's longed-for hometown,
he did not show the painful wound hidden inside,
and, without my daughter knowing, I alone kept a moment of silent prayer
for the souls of the many who perished innocent in the war.

Mighty Mudeungsan is as warm and kind today as it was long ago.