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“For God's sake," I begged, "let me inside. Or just tell my son we're here. Tell him to come out, just for a moment." Your brother couldn't stand by any longer; he declared that he'd go and fetch you out himself, but one of the militiamen shook his head. "If you go in now, that's it, we can't let you back out again. Everyone who's stayed behind has decided to do so at their own risk. They're all prepared to die if they have to." When your brother raised his voice to say that he understood and was prepared to go in anyway, I quickly cut him off. "There's no need," I said, "Dong-ho'll come home as soon as he gets the chance. He made a promise...." I said it because it was so dark all around us, because I was imagining soldiers springing out of the darkness at any moment. Because I was afraid of losing yet another son. And that was how I lost you.”

“You disliked the shadowed places where the trees blocked out the sun. When I wanted to walk there to escape the heat, you tugged me by the wrist as hard as you could, back to where it was bright. Even though your fine hair sparkled with sweat, and you were panting so hard you sounded as if you were in pain. Let's walk over there, Mum, where it's sunny, we might as well, right? Pretending that you were too strong for me, I let you pull me along. It's sunny over there, Mum, and there's lots of flowers, too. Why are we walking in the dark, let's go over there, where the flowers are blooming.”

“How could I stop it from happening? The person who had told me all this had disappeared somewhere, and I was standing in the middle of the street clutching my cell phone, totally at a loss. Should I call someone official, some kind of authority, and let them know what was about to take place? Even once I'd informed them, would they be able to stop it from going ahead? Why had this knowledge come to me of all people, someone who had no power whatsoever? Where should I go, how can I...as these words were smoldering inside my mouth, my eyes snapped open. Another dream. Just a dream.”

“Is it possible to bear witness to the fact of a foot-long wooden ruler being repeatedly thrust into my vagina, all the way up to the back wall of my uterus? To a rifle butt bludgeoning my cervix? To the fact that, when the bleeding wouldn't stop and I had gone into shock, they had to take me to the hospital for a blood transfusion? Is it possible to face up to my continuing to bleed for the next two years, to a blood clot forming in my Fallopian tubes and leaving me permanently unable to bear children? It is possible to bear witness to the fact that I ended up with a pathological aversion to physical contact, particularly with men? To the fact that someone's lips merely grazing mine, their hand brushing my cheek, even so much as a casual gaze running up my legs in summer, was like being seared with a branding iron? Is it possible to bear witness to the fact that I ended up despising my own body, the very physical stuff of my self? That I willfully destroyed any warmth, any affection whose intensity was more than I could bear, and ran away? To somewhere colder, somewhere safer. Purely to stay alive.”