NORTH OF THE FORTRESS, SOUTH OF THE FOREST

Aram Tanis​

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​Today I received the news you have been found. They send you three letters, but they remain unanswered.

I don’t know how giving up a child lives on in you physically and mentally. Maybe in the beginning, you feel pain, numb, try to feel nothing at all. At a certain point, emotions soften, become less sharp, and somewhat blurry. This moment in your life becomes just like a second in a minute, then an hour, a year, and eventually a decade. Something that can even be forgotten. It may pop up now and then, but it can also be tugged away more quickly and smoothly over time. Have you told your partner and perhaps other children? Has it become a secret that no one can ever unearth? This darkness, which must be overshadowed by light, so that everyone in your surroundings stays blinded. I believe that almost every painful experience eventually loses its original impact and becomes more tolerable. Perhaps for you, I have reached the status of tolerable and somewhat uneventful.

~

There is an upside to being abandoned. It toughened me up. I don’t let disappointment and rejection bother me longer than a few minutes. There are some exceptions. I recently received a note from a former high school classmate: “I’m sorry for how I treated you in those high school years. I have a few memories of that time myself, but I do remember being in your class, and that says something. I don't know exactly what or how to describe it: that you made an impression on me, that you were different.“ About thirty years ago, she also took the time to write me a note: ”I hate you and wish you were dead.”

~

Last week I was cursing at my laptop, which was breaking down on me, and refused to do anything anymore. I had pushed every button and tried to reboot the damn thing several times over. At a certain point, I was contemplating throwing it against the wall. Something in me said it wouldn’t be helpful, but I did it anyway.

Now I am working on a new laptop.

While the washing machine is running, my thoughts drift to you. It is late in the afternoon in Seoul. I wonder what you are doing right now.

I found out you lived in Seongbuk-gu, which means ‘North of The Fortress’, when you were 21 and pregnant with me.

I tried to send you a short message before, it said: “Hereby, I am sending you a note, because I would like to let you know that I have been thinking about you for a long time now. Although we don’t know each other, for me, there is an invisible connection. You have always been close to me in that sense.

I recently became a dad.

I hope this note will find its way to you, and I hope we can meet somewhere in the future in Korea.”

~

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After his birth, there were some signs that something wasn't right, but we were sent home anyway. The next day, we were back in the hospital, but the pediatrician didn't believe me when I told him something was wrong with our son. Twenty-four hours later, we entered the neonatal unit. Despite the darkness, I could see us entering a large ward. Only above the incubators and medical baby cribs was a small light burning. I could see the outlines of people standing around their baby. Now we would also be standing around a crib, holding our son's hand.

~

As he keeps jumping in the puddles of water, my son is laughing out loud as he looks at me with much joy. Observing him makes me feel happy.

~

When I visited South Korea twenty-five years ago, I didn’t speak the language, and I didn't know my way around the country. Now, twenty-five years later, South Korea, and in particular Seoul, has become a place of home and familiarity. It’s a place where I feel more complete and connected with my Asian roots. The smells, sounds, lights, architecture, and food have become part of my conscious identity. When I walk the streets and I can smell the bulgogi or the bibimbap, it triggers a sense of happiness. When I am on the subway and I hear familiar sounds coming from a speaker, it feels so normal, like it has always been a part of my life.

This notion of ‘feeling at home’ has always been a complicated one. For me, home is inextricably linked to my identity. As a child, I always wanted to look Caucasian. No Asian eyes. No flat nose. Looking white was the answer to my uncertainties. Over time, it has become clearer what it means to be Korean, and as I feel more at home in my own skin, I also feel more at home in South Korea. Now that I have become a father myself, my Korean identity plays an even bigger role in my personal and work life.

~

Last night I had a dream in which you appeared. You were speaking Korean to me, and I somehow understood what you were saying, which is strange because I don’t speak or understand this language at all. You were asking about my son and wanted to know if I was feeding him well. You ordered me to make him homemade kimchi, topokki, and japchae. I also had some questions for you, but you conveniently disappeared. After that, I woke up somewhat confused.

~

For over two decades, I have been collecting pieces from the places I visit during my travels: forests, gardens, palaces, temples, and other sites. It’s a way to try to hold on to my memories.

I believe memories change colour and shape over time. They become easier to deal with, which is a good thing. Once I saw a documentary about people who remember everything like it happened 46 seconds ago, while it was actually 46 years ago. It was a true horror for them. Every moment of pain, sadness, and embarrassment they could remember vividly.

~

I think forgiveness comes down to accepting a person or a situation isn’t as you want him, her or it to be.

~

I have always been curious to meet you, but now that I am a dad, I also wonder who my birth father is.

I can see she feels anxious. After a slight hesitation she walks up to me. As we hug I look at the man standing close by. He looks away from me. I don’t know how he feels. Is he bored? Maybe he feels ashamed.

I walk towards him to introduce myself. When I take his hand, I see how fragile it is. I can see the contours of his bones and veins through the skin. We hold each other tight as we walk to the car.

This is how the first meeting goes in my fantasy.

When I think of death I wonder what the point of life is. We live a relatively short period of time. Most people are forgotten. I don’t know who my grandmother is. I don’t know who your grandfather is. I don’t even know who my biological parents are.

We remain anonymous for so many.