20대 중반에 내가 처음으로 썼던 영어에세이. 다시 읽어 보내 옛 기억이 새롭다. 내 인생의 전환점이 되었던 고교시절의 한 사건을 기록하고 있다. 언젠가 내 삶의 한 페이지를 기록했던 이 일화를 우리말로 기록하고자 한다. Under the Sun of June Rarely can I pass by a site of a house under construction without being struck by the amount of toil, sweat and even blood that workers pour on it. Whenever I look at a grandiose edifice standing like a work of God, a haunting memory in my head halts my steps for a while and makes me absent minded recalling bygone days to my mind. And I am apt to identify myself with the workers who are shouldering heaps of bricks in hot and humid weather. “They are carrying out a burden of subsistence imposed fatefully on themselves while I am bearing up the qualm of a wounded soul inflicted by young students’ suicide.” Two years ago, after being discharged from roughly two and half years of military service, I was devoting myself to my work looking forward to getting back to college in a few months. I also tried to enjoy my free time to the fullest because I just got out of the fetters of army service. I was steeped in painting too rosy a picture of things. I painfully tried to turn my face away from the turbulent state of affairs surrounding me. To confess the truth, I became callous to the sufferings of others. The situation, however, was taking a turn toward the unexpected, a direction that I could never be unmindful of any more. Two students who staged a vehement demonstration against government committed suicide at the height of a confrontation with hot policies in April 1986. What was worse; their death gave people a dumfounded shock by opting self-burning as a last resort to the goal. The whole society, let me alone, sunk into deep frustration and despair. What in the world drove them to kill themselves? Could their choice be justifiable in the name of justice that they pursued? I have been obsessed by these sorts of doubts ceaselessly since the tragedy occurred. Our campus began to be embroiled in a series of disturbances about that time of year. That year was not an exception. They refuged doggedly to take a compulsory military drilling intended for college students. And this issue triggered an intensive protest on campuses which was followed by two students’ self-burning. A month after the accident another student committed suicide by jumping from a parapet of a building on campus while a Christian minister, Ik-whan Moon, who was invited by students, delivered a speech in front of a large audience. I found something seething with fury and grief in my heart on hearing the news. Nonetheless I couldn’t make sense of what it was all about. I felt so heavily oppressed that I stepped out and took a breath of fresh air deep into my lungs. The scorching sun of June was blazing away on the rosebush in the garden. A couple of gadflies were buzzing around the tree as if nothing happened under the sun. “I have nothing to do with their death. Their sacrifices are in vain. I need not feel guilty since I am absolutely innocent,” a voice whispered in my ear. Yet this excuse didn’t relieve me in the least of my aching heart. I had suffered from everlasting guilt-consciousness like this even though it was something intangible. What on earth pricks the consciousness of original sin that I don’t know where it comes from? I began to brood over the enigma on the ramble in the garden. My thinking was running back to the day when I was a third year student of Dae Jeon High School. At that time, in 1980, I had been involved in a student movement in which I happened to play a key role in setting the direction. The major issue at the moment was not so much a political problem but an educational one. By holding hearings between students and teachers several times, we won a far-reaching assent in the conclusion that the existing educational system should be reorganized in a revolutionary way. We claimed that out of school study, which was rampant nationwide just like a plague, be scraped out, and that a school uniform be taken off right away because it was the heritage of Japanese rule. But to my regret, the plan couldn’t be carried out as scheduled as a result of the advent of the new military regime led by Doo-whan Chun. Just right after the Kwangju uprising broke out, martial law was proclaimed all over the country banning all kinds of political activities such as rallies and demonstrations regardless of their purpose. Consequently almost all opposition leaders and student activists were cracked down upon and taken away mercilessly. Numerous innocent people died trampled under the military shoes in Kwangju city. They refused to yield their will to sovereignty at the risk of their lives. I was busying myself about to draw students’ attention to the gravity of the situation, but colleagues were not willing to listen to me. Their sole concern was the forthcoming entrance examination for university. I was disappointed at the students’ lukewarm attitude and egoism. In retrospect I don’t really know what made me so zealous. I had nothing to be afraid of as long as I had an adamant belief in self-righteousness. I couldn’t help but burst out crying in my heart. I was forced to do something to lessen the burden of scruples. So I was determined to make leaflets to circulate through my colleagues. I hesitated to disseminate what they called “The truth of the Kwangju Incident” because I was not a firsthand witness. Thus the tile of the leaflet was dubbed “On the current situation” in which I urged students to face up to the reality. “The fate of our country is at stake. Whether of not our country gets over this current political turmoil depends on our genuine patriotism. Now is the moment for us to rise up against the injustice.” I wrote with my heart’s blood. To confess, I didn’t anticipate what would happen to me in the future with regard to this printed- material. I just had a hunch that even to make a leaflet on such a sensitive issue might violate martial law and cause a lot of ensuing troubles. The aftermath of the distribution of the leaflets in the school was beyond my expectation. I can hardly describe the pang I suffered since then. It seems to me that a series of sore experiences I had at the age of 19 became a turning point in my life. After 20 day’s detention, I was fortunately released from the police station of Dae Jeon city. But I didn’t realize until later that my acquittal was possible thanks to desperate efforts of many people. My old principal allegedly even bended his knee begging to have me set free to a young security officer who took charge of the case. It took me three months to get back to school because of the unlimited suspension from school. The school authorities urged me to pledge not to abet again the students until my graduation. One of my teachers admonished me full heartedly. “The sunflower which blooms early will not bring forth fruit. You have to wait until you have strong enough wings to fly high in the sky. Otherwise your wings will be broken before you can soar up.” At that time, I remember, I was not willing to agree with him, murmuring to myself; “my wings were not broken yet. I can fly much higher than ever as long as I want to.” Fortunately, after enrolling myself at Kyung Hee University with full scholarship, I began to find myself that my way of thinking had changed drastically. It came to me that the teacher’s advice might be right. That is, there is no reason why there should be only one way available in order to reach a goal. Gradually I came to know how to compromise ideals with reality. I used to say to my friends that I would take a roundabout way to get at my destination. Since then I could lead a comfortable life under the disguise of deceitful hypocrisy. I could be indifferent to the painful reality remaining as an idle spectator. Now I was barely able to get wind of what pricked my conscience. Without knowing it, evening twilight was surging little by little looming the shadow of a tree in the garden. Before long darkness engulfed all sceneries with dank wind mollifying my pain-stricken heart. I knew I had to look for a way to atone for my own original sin. One day, it seems a few days later, when I passed by a house-building site on my way home from the library of Han Nam University. I saw some people including old women working at the site. They were climbing long a scaffold up to the top of the building under construction carrying some materials on their backs. Sweat was pouring down their tanned faces under the relentless sun of June. Their faces looked so blank and hollow that I could easily imagine how heavy the weight on their life was. Strange as it may sound, they, it seemed to me, were living in a quite different world that had nothing to do with a student’s death or democracy and the like. I felt a strong thirst to plunge myself into an unfamiliar world. I felt like bearing a heavy burden of conscience on my back as much as I could. I wished to totter under the heavy load leaving my two incompatible selves struggling with each other. I went to one of the men who looked to be a foreman and asked “Can I work here from tomorrow?” He looked me up and down and asked, “Have you ever experienced this kind of job before? This job may be very tough for you.” I answered, “Well, I’m a novice but I think that I can make it.” He gave me his permission and my work began from the next day. My work day lasted starting from 7 AM to 7 PM with one hour pause for lunch time. In the beginning I was in trouble in balancing myself with my A-frame fully loaded. I had to go up and down from the first floor to the third floor continuously without a break. At times, I was shaky on my legs. To be honest, the job was never easy for me. An aged woman glanced at me pitifully saying, “Don’t overstrain yourself, or you’ll get sick.” But I couldn’t stop my work. I whipped myself ruthlessly with clenched teeth. On the third day, I had a bloody nose with accumulated fatigue. I was almost reduced to pulp after finishing my work. But as time elapsed day by day, I got accustomed to the work. I also came to know the fact that there were migrating people from here to there around six to seven o’clock just before daybreak. Riding on the bus in the early morning, you may come across them. I became better acquainted with some workers. They had diverse former careers such as a hawker, a sailor, and an ex convict and a widow etc. What they had in common is that they didn’t have any means of living but the harsh physical labor. They barely managed to scrape a crude life trying to make ends meet. Ten day’s cooperation at last worked out a decent three storey building. But it was worthy of note that the building was an outcome of labor’s travail. Thousands of bricks were laid one on another, and more than a hundred sacks of cement were consumed. It is necessary to know that many a worker’s sacrifice was concealed behind a stately building. When we look back on history, it seems to me that history is just like the course of construction. A great number of people have appeared on the scenes of history to play a nameless role and then went out of sight like the fog. They are none other than bricks and cement which make up of the frame of history. All right! I see. I couldn’t keep back the strong impulse to scream. The young students doused their bodies with gas in order to set aflame their own will to do what their conscience dictated. They might be resolved to be a bricklayer of history as if workers poured their sweat and blood on the numerous bricks. On my way from the job site, I suddenly realized with a shudder that a spark of hope remained within myself. And a thought flashed in mind with the throbbing of a wounded conscience. “Now I am standing on the threshold of resolution. From now on what am I going to do?” I felt a soothing breeze of hope in my heart. I walked and walked in the full conviction that their death would live long in the heart of the people who would become a brick of history. And my wounded soul might be healed by their sacrifices. I inhaled the fresh air of evening into my lungs as much as I could. And I looked up into the sky. A star was shining over the city just like a ray of hope. The sun of June in 1986 was very hot for me. Epilogue As far as I was concerned, it was not so easy to reveal my hidden story enshrined in my deep heart. Since the story is not only the sorest experience in my life but also the most deeply embedded memory, I hesitated to reveal my story in a written form. However, truth exposes itself someday, and speaks out by itself under any circumstances. This belief motivated me to set about my story even though I am not confident of my English wiring skill. I am quite sure that there are still many people who suffer from the guilty-consciousness being up against the present gloomy reality. Standing at the crisscross road of history, we are urged to choose where to go and what to do. This is none other than the crisscross road of conscience. Some make up their mind to go this way while others decide to take that way. That is up to one’s own conscience. How difficult it is to guide ourselves to the right path according to our conscience! How shameful it is deluding ourselves! Several days after getting the congratulatory call from The University Life informing that my essay was selected as First Prize in a nationwide essay contest, I witnessed another tragic self-sacrifice. A young student plunged himself to death again claiming the release of conscience-prisoners etc. It appeared to me that he urged us to recover our lost conscience by giving up his life. Now I ardently wish that the third sacrifice of young students wouldn’t have taken place again. The University Life (May 1988)
Posted on: Sat, 20 Sep 2014 07:29:12 +0000
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