I sat on the edge of a narrow subway seat, reading
the last paragraph of The Brooklyn Follies. Flustered,
I closed my book. The twelve page narrative
recounted Kafka's last days- a little girl feels
miserable because she has lost her doll, and Kafka,
though fully aware of his impending death, composes
fictitious letters as if the vanished doll has written
them to her, as if it's married into royalty in a faraway
land, met new friends, experienced thrilling
adventures. And she's comforted by the thought,
glowing by the time Kafka is too weary to go on.
As beautiful as it was, it convicted me.
July. Seoul. I was on my way home after a protest
near the Turkish embassy. A silent protest, as incited
by Erdem Gunduz who stood mute at the Turkish
national park for hours on end, wordlessly dissenting
his oppressive government and eulogizing the martyrs
who were no longer "radical" or "political", but only
silent. The small campaign seemed me to be of the
gravest importance; how could I sit around while
others jeopardized their lives for the most basic
rights? But on that grey subway seat, I was tormented
by another thought-my sister's request. A stupid play
called The Adventuress of Oz. A production financed
by a local supermarket. A trivial matter.
Trivial. My eight- old sister had seen its faded
yearposter just the day before. And to a girl who spent her
entire life in a remote village of the third world, the
poorly photoshopped flyer appeared as, I assume, an
By Soon Hyung Kwon
enchanting thing. Only after much hesitation, keeping
with the reticent girl she's always been, she asked me if
I could take her to the play in place of our busy parents.
“I have something important to do," I replied.
She didn't object, just made her origami flowers and
crept off to bed. As I took her to Aunt Lee's house the
next morning, we came across that same poster on the
street. I glimpsed her saddening stare. I could see that
the thought still lingered in her little head. And the
thought lingered in my head as well, as I passed water
bottles to the silent demonstrators, as I stood there
amidst curious onlookers. I felt guilty for some reason.
Kafka. Kafka presented a brutal contrast.
Perhaps goodness can't be calculated. I liked to
define myself as a humanitarian because of the weight
of the word, but my good deeds were abstract for
people who were distant from me, and my own sister
had never been a subject of this supposed
humanitarianism. I had a choice to make: be a good
brother, or a good "humanitarian". One good eclipsing
yet another, but I decided to go where my heart led me.
I left a message to Tomoko that I wouldn't make it
to the protest the next day. When I arrived at Aunt
Lee's, sweating in the July heat, my sister was chasing a
pet dachshund. She laughed at the way the dog
stumped around on its stubby legs, and I laughed as
well. I picked her up, asked her if she would still like to
watch the play, and she nuzzled my neck as a reply. I
flushed. I knew I had made the right decision.
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