In the spring of 1950, everything changed for me. I was only a junior in high school, my brother, Buhm-Je, was a sophomore. Despite the long years since that day, I can still recall the memory, a moment so important that it would change the course of my life.

 My brother and I are marching up the steps to our school side by side as we did everyday. The weather is not particularly memorable, the sky is gray and dreary and the clouds are a thick blanket that blocking out the sun. Our school is a grand building with multiple floors, shiny glass windows, and an imposing figure. As we enter the school, Buhm-Je greets his many friends while I wave to a few of mine. As the President of the Democratic Student Union, Buhm-Je is especially popular. While he is talking to his friends, I break off and walk to the newspaper stand. After inserting a few coins and hearing them jingle down the slot, I reach-in and pull. Frowning, I read the headline and with an exasperated sigh. I approach my brother and tap him on the shoulder to show him the title, “ANOTHER STUDENT MURDERED AS TENSIONS RISE BETWEEN COMMUNISTS AND DEMOCRATS.” It is a volatile time in Korea, where the Communist North is threatening to invade the Democratic South. As a result, tensions are flaring between the Communists and the Democrats. Buhm-Je has the same reaction as me, a gloomy face and a slump of his shoulders. We share a look, both knowing what the other was thinking. Before we can say anything, an altercation breaks out. Three Communist students are shoving a younger kid. Moving instinctively, Buhm-Je and I rush over and separate the Communists from the kid. They sneer at us and make a threat, “Watch your back” before retreating down the hall. While we help the kid get back on his feet, I cannot get the scene out of my head. It continues to bother me as the day goes on, the ominous words playing over and over in my mind, like a broken record player. I try to tell Buhm-Je about my concerns, but he brushes me off, saying, “You worry too much big brother,” before changing the subject. 

That night sleep eludes me and I toss and turn in my bed. The house is silent, only Buhm-Je and I are here. Since our father is a leading Democratic figure, he has moved our family to a safe house in the countryside. Well, everyone but me and Buhm-Je. Father assures us that we are safe here, yet as I think back on today's events, I don't feel secure. I can’t seem to let go of the Communist threat, it lingers like the scent of old eggs. When I do manage to drift off, I’m plagued with nightmares. The images that I see chill me to the bone. I stand in a field of wilting flowers, boxed in by four raging fires, which grow closer and closer. I swat at them in a futile attempt to fend off the flames, but their burning tongues lap the ground at my feet. Warm droplets of sweat streaks down my cheeks and the scorching heat singe the hair of my arms as I start to wail. 

I bolt out of sleep, my eyes wild with fright, as I frantically scan the room. Realizing that it was all a dream, I sink back onto sweat drenched-pillow and cover my face with my hands. Unable to sleep, I get out of bed and walk around the house. For some reason, I can’t find Buhm-Je. My mind strains as I make a mental recollection of all the possible places he could be. I just saw him last night before bed, so he must have left early in the morning. Everywhere I look, I find nothing. I’ve searched the back room, the front porch, his bedroom, but Buhm-Je is not here. My initial concern grows as I search the town and no one seems to know where Bugm-Je is. Nightfall soon comes and there is still no sign of him. I head home to the rest of the family, who are all equally distressed. No one says anything, but the tension is almost palpable. The talkative atmosphere of our house is absent. Mother’s usually busy knitting needles, lie static on the table. Even my normally chatty sisters are silent. Although they are young, they seem to sense the gravity of the situation. When it's time for dinner, none of us are able to eat; kimchi and rice grow cold on the table. It's as if a vacuum has sucked all the joy and happiness from our family. The only sound present in our once-jovial dining room is the absent-minded clacks of silverware on empty plates and the shuffle of feet beneath the table.

The next day, I’m sent to the school in search of answers. I ask everyone I know, everyone Buhm-Je knew, but no one has any idea where he is. The pit in my stomach enlarges with each shake of the head or each “no” that comes my way. The day never seems to end, the minutes of walking through the hallways asking different students feel like hours. I’m about to give up when I pass the three Communists kids in the hallway. They appear off, their normally smug faces are pale and their eyes dart from side to side. I hear one of them whisper, “What should we do? I kicked but there is no movement.” Immediately, my body freezes up. Time slows down as I can feel my heart skipping a beat. My breath becomes ragged and I start to hyperventilate. The intertwined sensations of fear and anxiety take over and it's as if an anvil is sitting on my chest. Unable to stand it, I run home, ignoring the confused stares of my classmates as tears start to well up in my eyes. 

I’ve barely eaten in the past two days as we’ve looked for him. I’ve asked practically everyone and each empty response tears a little piece of hope out of me. My last chance is Byungchul. Despite being a Communist, Byungchul is a good friend of mine. He might know about Buhm-Je. I find him in the hallway and head his direction. Each step is one step closer to my brother, or one step to my despair. As I come near, Byungchul’s expression transforms from one of neutrality to one that is stern and foreboding. My chest expands with a deep breath before I ask the question whose answer I fear, “Byungchul, do you know where my brother is?” Unable to look at me, he responds with a short, “Yes.” I smile, sighing with a relief that releases the heavy strain and worry of the past couple days. “Can you tell me where he is?” I ask hopefully. Looking down at his feet, he whispers “I can’t tell you.” Instantly my heart starts pounding again. The reassurance that filled me rushes out as if I were a popped balloon. Why was he hesitating to tell me? All types of scenarios begin to race through my head. What if he is lost? What if he has been taken away? What if I can’t find him again? Desperation grips my body as I ask him again, “Where is Buhm-Je?” Looking sick, he wearily raises his head and meets my watering eyes. “I can’t tell you,” he repeats quietly. “Where is he? Please tell me. Where is my brother?” my words become shorter and faster. Byungchul’s head turns away, not wanting to see my anguish. “Please, where is my brother?” I beg before I start sobbing. Unable to hold back the fear and worry of the past days, I break down. The waves of pain and misery flow out as if a dam has opened. I grab his shoulder, as my tears drip down onto the floor. “I’m begging you, please tell me where my brother is,” I make one last attempt to find out the truth. Helplessness makes my legs buckle and I sink to my knees. I have never felt so low, the sorrow and agony clawing at my heart. My weeping has a softening effect on him. He reluctantly looks around before saying, “go to the classroom at the end of the hall.” He abruptly turns and walking away, leaving me with my own thoughts. I take a moment to dry my tears but still feel the dampness of the pain. If something has happened to Buhm-Je, I am solely responsible. I’m the older brother, I should have been awake that morning he was taken. The guilt is a pointed needle stabbing my heart, each passing moment without Bugm-Je thrusts it deeper. Slowly, I manage to push myself up from the floor. Each step I take feels as if I’m wading through muddy water, but I finally come to Buhm-Je’s classroom. Every movement is sluggish, and I feel like I’m in a dream-like trance. Only this dream is a nightmare. I try to reach for the knob but my arm doesn’t work. Mentally, I gather the rest of my strength and force myself to turn the knob. I push open the door and enter the room. I crumple to the floor as if an arrow was shot through my heart. Sprawled on the ground is the body of my brother, beaten so badly I can barely recognize him. My frail body and fragile heart ache with each heave and sob. Never before have I felt like this, totally and utterly succumbed to emotion, inundated with misery. My once proud body is collapsed, resembling a wounded animal, begging for its life. Except at this moment, death would be a mercy. I’m hot and cold at the same time; the burning anger of revenge and the frigid bite of guilt rush through my veins. My cries intensify as I realize that I’m responsible--I should have been taken instead, I should have been awake to stop this. I’ve killed my own brother with my carelessness and his blood is on my hands. The thought fuels my anger. Rage boils up in my stomach and I release a roar of hatred. Hatred for myself, for the Communists, and for the cruel world which has taken the life of my dear brother.

 When I think back to that day, the suffocating darkness of the room, my broken body lying by the side of my brothers, the agony consumes me. Years later, anytime I would get inebriated, the memory would resurface and I would cry “It was my fault! It was my fault!” The maddening fury and the icy regret I felt that day, stuck with me. Buhm-Je’s death was just one of the countless casualties of war which the world has ignored. By telling the story, his memory lives on and will serve as a reminder of the toll that violence takes.