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2 영어 ------------ Korean -------- <Humans must possess a strong heart. It is often said that this is determined by genetics, but that is incorrect.> <<< Preface >>> ▶I am not a doctor, nor do I have any medical training. While I lack formal academic credentials, my life has been filled with turbulent experiences—overcoming pain and hardship—which have led me to contemplate the nature of the world. Grounding my thoughts in the principles and truths of God, I have constantly sought answers to the questions that arise in life. For instance, when God created human beings—which brings us to today’s topic—did He perhaps endow each person with a different kind of heart? It is with such questions in mind that I explore today’s subject: Why does the health—or the very nature—of the heart vary from person to person? <<< Main Text >>> ▶I have lived a life marked by many such questions—wondering, for example, why some people suffer from weak hearts and eventually succumb to heart disease—and I have previously written about the path of faith (evangelism). Then, one day, through the Lord’s blessing, I was granted discernment and wisdom. Consequently, I now write about the various mysteries of the world in a way that is logical and consistent with divine principles. While it is up to each individual reader to form their own judgment, my writings—regardless of whether they are deemed "right" or "wrong"—are rooted in the truths and principles of God. Today, I will discuss the human heart. ● A human heart is formed while a child’s body is being developed within the mother’s womb. This means the child is influenced by the mother; in fact, it is no exaggeration to say that the heart is largely shaped by her. So, what does this entail? ▶First,> the mother herself must have a strong heart. She should not be easily startled, nor should her heart race or pound unnecessarily. If a mother’s heart begins to race or flutter, the heart of the child in her womb will also race. Could it be that a child’s tendency toward fear, their outbursts during adolescence, or even a complete loss of self-control in adulthood stems from a weak heart? When an infant nurses, they sense their mother’s heart. If the mother’s heart is calm, the child’s heart finds stability, too—leading to moments of happiness and joy, sometimes even causing the baby to burst into laughter while feeding. But what if the mother’s heart is weak or unsettled? When her heart races, the nursing child senses this anxiety, and their own heart begins to race as well. If this happens frequently—the heart fluttering or pounding—the child remains in a state of constant unease. Growing up under such conditions inevitably leads to issues with the child’s heart. It is merely a question of when these problems will manifest—later in life, or perhaps sooner? Consider a home environment that lacks peace—frequent arguments between parents, or a father who comes home drunk, shouting and acting out. Such experiences inflict deep wounds on a child’s heart. The child lives in a state of perpetual anxiety, constantly walking on eggshells around the father; each day, the child’s heart suffers another blow. What about domestic violence—a father who is frequently prone to rage, mistreats the mother, or resorts to physical abuse? This is devastating to a child’s heart, causing it to weaken. I am not a medical expert. My perspective is rooted in the belief that I developed a strong heart thanks to my own mother. She never fussed or interfered; she always spoke in a quiet, gentle voice, saying only what was absolutely necessary. For instance, after graduating from middle school, I decided not to pursue high school. For nearly a year, I spent all my time—day and night—in the changing rooms at the Ttukseom Resort with a group of troublemaking friends who had no interest in their studies. (One of my friends’ older brothers ran the changing rooms.) I would often stay out all night, too. Back then, the Ttukseom resort area was far superior to any other sandy beach in Korea—Haeundae couldn’t even compare. In reality, however, it has all vanished due to the destruction of nature. Whenever I returned home, my mother would prepare a meal and ask in her quiet, Pyongan-do dialect, "You're not coming home tonight either, are you?" I’d reply, "Yes! I’m staying at a friend’s place—I won’t be back tonight, either." She knew I was heading to Ttukseom; she understood that because of the long distance and poor transportation, it was impossible to get home if I stayed out too late. While I enjoyed myself, I was constantly dissatisfied with my aimless daily life. I felt like I was just wasting my time, so I decided I might as well get my military service out of the way—but the days dragged on so slowly it nearly drove me mad. To pass the time, I’d spend nights on the sandy shores of Ttukseom, drinking and hanging out with friends and older acquaintances. My birthday is October 29th. I wanted to enlist in the Marine Corps and head to the battlefield in Vietnam, but you had to be at least 17 years old to join. At the time, the Marines held recruitment drives once a month, meaning I would have to enlist in November. Even so, I managed to submit an application, along with 2,000 won. The recruiting sergeant looked at me and said, "Hey, you won't turn 17 until November—and with so many applicants, you’ll probably have to wait until next year." I insisted, "No, please! You have to let me go in November!" and handed him an envelope containing the 2,000 won. Seeing the envelope, the sergeant said, "Alright, come in for your physical at the end of October! Follow the instructions, show up on that day, and I’ll make sure to look out for you." Hahaha! As it turned out, I later ran into that same recruiting sergeant in Vietnam. I was stationed at the 2nd Battalion headquarters, and that is where I first met the men from the 2nd Battalion’s 5th Company. ---------- After graduating from middle school, I decided not to go on to high school—which I would have started in March—leaving me with nothing to do until November. My seniors and friends were all away at school during the day, so the neighborhood was completely empty. As luck would have it, though, an old elementary school classmate—a real troublemaker and a total blockhead—was attending a "dump" of a high school. It was a chaotic place; you could get admitted unconditionally as long as you paid the tuition. Some of the troublemakers in that class were already married, and many were over the age of 20. Hahaha! They were the "wealthy" kids from the countryside who had come to Seoul to study. I started hanging out with them. Three of these "blockhead" students had rented a place to live while attending school—but, hahaha, they had also brought their girlfriends up from the countryside, and they were all living together in one room! It was nothing but drinking, every single day. Thanks to that, I became a heavy drinker myself. They liked me, partly because I had attended Daegwang—a school known for bright students—so they assumed I must be a genius. I spent my time hanging out with these misfits, but I grew to hate that kind of life. Every evening was just spent giggling and drinking; the time wouldn't even pass. ▶ Eventually, I passed the selection process and enlisted in late November. Good grief—the Marine Corps really puts you through the wringer! Forget about Vietnam—I wasn't even sure if I’d be able to survive the three months of basic training. I couldn't guarantee it at all. There were about 1,400 of us enlisting in the Marine Corps. The Corps has a seven-day "provisional enlistment" period. During these seven days—literally a trial period—you don't even have a military serial number yet. In other words, you could just walk away and leave whenever you wanted. Upon waking in the morning and looking out the window, I would see about a hundred men fleeing—climbing over barbed wire and crossing the low hills beyond. The pressure and torture were so intense that, unable to endure, men would escape every single day. ▶ When the wake-up call sounded, the platoon leader and the instructors would appear, baseball bats in hand, barking out orders. "Strip down and gather on the parade ground!" Good god—standing there stark naked, shivering violently in the biting wind, stomping my feet because they were freezing. << The platoon leader’s command: "Everyone, run to that tree at the far end of the parade ground and come back! First come, first served!" >> ▶ Each platoon had started with about a hundred men, but after so many escapes, only around eighty remained. I ran like a madman—anything to be among the first—and managed to finish in the top ten. I immediately regretted it. The eighty of us lined up in a single row. In front of each man stood a drum—meant for fire-fighting water—with the ice on top broken open. One by one, we were forced to climb into these ice-filled drums. "Stick your head under! You won't?" *Whack!* A baseball bat slammed against the drum, forcing our heads deep into the freezing water. They hit us just hard enough to keep us alive—but only barely. After climbing out, we stood in line again, but the fierce wind felt like a razor blade. I had never experienced such agony—it was as if the wind were slicing my skin with a blade. It was pure, excruciating torment! Damn it all! The whole ordeal—the race, the ice-filled drums, the razor-like wind—was repeated for every single one of the eighty men. I had gone early, so I had to stand there, shivering uncontrollably—my teeth chattering—while the rest of them took their turns. (Damn it! Every time we line up, I end up at the very back! Ugh!) (I’m deserting tonight. I’m heading to the Army!) (Hey! Wait for me! I’m coming too!) ▶And so, more men deserted that day, leaving 68 of us in the platoon. Seven days later, we were issued our official military serial numbers. Once you have a serial number, deserting makes you a deserter in the eyes of the law. As a first-year high school student, I, too, felt the urge to run away—but I suppressed it, over and over. After all, the older boys, friends, and younger guys from my neighborhood had even thrown me a farewell party! And then there was a girl—we called her a "gal-chi" (a slang term for a girlfriend or sweetheart)—who cried and pleaded with me: ("Do you really have to go? What if you end up in the Vietnam War? *Sob, sob!* You jerk! What am I supposed to do?") That was how I ended up enlisting. If I had deserted, how could I have faced the mockery? And, more importantly, my mother would have been so disappointed. Years later, when I returned from Vietnam and came home on leave... ▶My mother said, "I had hoped you would come back," but she also wondered, "What if you *had* come back?" In a way, she might have been disappointed. After all, if a man draws his sword, how can he sheath it without ever swinging it? My mother never got angry, nor did she ever raise her voice. No matter how dire the situation, she never panicked—her heart rate never even quickened. Back when I was in elementary school, a fire broke out in our neighborhood and began to spread. Everyone was in a frenzy, rushing to drag their belongings outside to safety. My mother simply grabbed the essentials and stood there, calmly watching the flames spread. Even I, her son, felt no anxiety; my own heart remained perfectly steady. What happened back then if a fire broke out and a house burned down? People would live in tents for a while until they could rebuild. Neighbors would pace anxiously, pleading with the firefighters to spray water toward their own homes—it was total chaos. Yet, my mother remained calm. At the time, my father was living in Gangwon Province, having purchased a coal mine there. My family had fled from North Pyongan Province in the North to live in Seoul. Back in the North, my mother’s family operated a gold mine, and my father—who also ran a gold mine—needed to drain water from his site into my maternal grandfather’s mine. He obtained permission from my grandfather to do so, and that was how he came to marry my mother. After they married, my mother endured nothing but hardship. Friends and acquaintances of my father, who had traveled from North Pyongan Province to Manchuria to join the independence movement, would come to my father for gold. My mother would leave a bundle of gold by a small window, and someone would come to collect it under the cover of night. If they were caught by the Japanese police and forced to confess under torture, my father would be dragged away—only for my maternal grandfather to step in, bribe the officers, and secure his release. This happened time and again. Each instance left my mother deeply anxious, yet she possessed such a stout heart that she never said a word to my father about it. Even after fleeing to the South, my father was constantly away, traveling through the mountains of Gangwon Province to develop mines; he was hardly ever home, and I rarely even saw his face. -------- Perhaps because I inherited this strong heart, I never once felt my heart race—not even in the heat of combat during the Vietnam War. Does a strong heart lead to happiness? And what of those with a weak heart—are they destined for an unhappy life? << This story covers the period up to when I enlisted in the Marine Corps at the age of 17—while still in high school—and subsequently served in the Vietnam War. This goes to show that a strong heart...Those with a "strong gut" (resilience/fortitude) can endure difficult times, which later become nothing more than interesting memories. ▶ In reality, however, some people have a "weak heart"—not necessarily in a medical sense, but in terms of emotional or psychological fragility. When faced with various unexpected incidents or overwhelming fear, their hearts—metaphorically speaking—become constricted. Once this pressure exceeds their capacity to cope, they may lose all control, leading to tragic outcomes—even acts as severe as murder. Back when I lived a reckless, wandering life—often labeled a "thug"—fights were frequent. Among my peers, those with a "weak heart" often couldn't handle the terror of a confrontation. To cope—or perhaps in an attempt to strike fear into their opponents—they would resort to self-harm, slicing their own abdomens with a razor blade. As they bled profusely, they would spiral into a state of uncontrollable agitation. Faced with this, the other party would usually back away—either out of genuine fear or simply to avoid the dire consequences that would follow if the police got involved. This is a form of self-defense used by those with a "weak heart." People who engage in self-harm—those whose bodies bear many such scars—are, in essence, individuals with a "weak heart." ---------- ▶ There is a sobering reality here. I have visited acquaintances with "weak hearts" in the hospital and witnessed this firsthand. Those who engaged in self-harm in the past often find that, as they age, any excessive strain or major shock can lead to cardiac arrest. Some end up living with a pacemaker, only to pass away prematurely. This is ultimately because their hearts are fundamentally weak. ▶ In cases like these, the responsibility often lies largely with the parents. From the very beginning of pregnancy, a mother must remain calm and free from anxiety; this is the true essence of *taegyo* (prenatal care)—it is the most important factor. Furthermore, once a child is born, they should never be subjected to anxiety—at least until they are six years old. From the age of seven, a child’s heart begins to stabilize; as they grow and run around, it gradually becomes stronger. ▶ Hahaha! This logic isn’t medical science—it’s based on my own experience. From the age of seven, no matter what kind of wild mischief or trouble I got into, I never felt fear, nor did my heart ever race or pound. Naturally, I became the ringleader of the troublemakers—the mastermind behind some truly bizarre and extreme pranks! ▶ You’re probably familiar with "cavalry battles" (a playground game where children carry one another). We invented a variation we called "cannon-style cavalry battles." One child would stand in front to act as the "horse," with the "rider" hooking their legs around the horse’s neck; meanwhile, two other children would flank them, clinging to the horse’s neck from the sides. We would charge at our opponents, and the rider would use their feet to kick the opposing "horse" in the head. If the opposing horse started bleeding from the nose, they would flee—that’s the kind of intense mischief I and my fellow troublemakers used to get up to back then. We were the ones who invented these "cannon-style" battles. We also played a game called "riding the dead horse"—about ten of us would pile onto a single person, stacking ourselves up until the poor soul at the bottom was completely crushed. Then, I would come running and leap onto the pile—guaranteed to bring the whole thing crashing down! Hahaha! If I jumped in from the side and slammed into the kids already on top, the whole "horse" would topple over. Hahaha! We’d keep playing round after round, no "rock-paper-scissors" needed. Once, one of the kids acting as a "horse" even ended up with a broken leg. ▶ There was also a top-tier student—one of the kids who consistently ranked in the top ten—a physically weak boy who kept begging to join us and play along. We let him tag along, but after hanging out with our group, his grades actually started to drop. If you come home exhausted and fall straight asleep, you can’t get any studying done. I suppose his mother would rather see her son healthy than worry about his grades dropping, right? ▶ When he broke his leg, his mother would carry him on her back or help him walk to school. She’d even invite us over, cook us delicious food, and tell us, "You boys have to keep playing with him once his leg heals!" Did he end up healthy after that? Hahaha! He attended a rather rough, bottom-tier school, and after graduating high school, he became known as a "gangster" in Myeong-dong. Whenever we’d head over to Myeong-dong from Jongno, he’d be thrilled! <Though he was physically frail in elementary school, his mother’s care ensured he had a strong heart.> ▶ What are the advantages of having a strong heart? You never panic, no matter how major a crisis you face; instead, you remain calm, weigh your options, and find a way through. And what about when you end up in a brutal environment? When I spent six months in prison—charged with "seduction under promise of marriage"—I actually managed quite comfortably. There were a few scuffles at first, but once word got around that I’d arrived, various acquaintances—seniors, friends, and juniors—came to visit me in my cell. Hahaha! There were plenty of gangsters in that prison. Some even had custom-made prison uniforms brought in—starched and pressed to perfection! When I was summoned by the prosecutor—just three days after I’d arrived—I showed up in a perfectly tailored, starched, and ironed prison uniform. Oh boy, I really made an impression on the prosecutor and the judge! Back then, "seduction under promise of marriage" was a crime that required a formal complaint from the victim; if you couldn't reach a settlement, you were looking at a six-month sentence. But what if the woman was a habitual accuser? It didn't matter—they’d just go ahead and prosecute anyway. The verdict would be read out, and—*bam*—six months, done and dusted. All of this is because I possess a strong heart. During the Vietnam War, I even laughed off brushes with death, treating the war as if it were a game—I actually enjoyed it. Has my heart grown stronger? What is there to fear? ▶ Even during the Daewang Corner fire, which claimed over a hundred lives, I felt no fear and remained completely composed. That is why I was the last person to escape. And now, it is on an entirely different level. Death, you say? I do not fear it. ● "The more a person lives a spiritual life, the less they fear death. If one lives a truly unified spiritual life, death ceases to be frightening altogether. To such a person, death is merely the spirit’s liberation from the physical body. They know that their life can never truly cease to exist." ● — Tolstoy ▶ What other advantages come with having a strong heart? <<It determines one’s happiness. In a world as complex, unequal, and unfair as this, a weak heart leads to an unhappy life. Let me share an anecdote about how I used my strong heart to resist such injustice.>> ▶ Back then, whenever my friends, younger associates, and I would start drinking in the Jongno neighborhood, we’d empty our pockets, pool all our money together, and head to the "hostess houses"—known at the time as "ninano-jip"—in areas like Sindang-dong, Wangsimni, Dapsimni, or Cheongnyangni. But the situation was always absurd. These places were notorious for swindling their customers. What would happen once the drinks and snacks arrived? We’d pretend to drink, but instead pour the alcohol into an empty bowl hidden underneath. As for the snacks, we’d slide the plates under the table—calling out, "Hey, could we get another couple of plates of snacks?"—and pass the untouched food away, only to have fresh plates brought to the table. Hahaha! We didn’t care at all. We’d never pay the bill at places that tried to rip us off. In the end, our group of five or six would draw lots. The person who drew the short straw would stay behind, and the rest of us would just leave! Hahaha! Then, someone would shout, "Hey! Go get a cop from the police substation across the street!" The result? A fine or a short-term detention for "dining and dashing"—usually three days in a holding cell, or seven days for a repeat offender. I’ve been through this plenty of times—I’ve served detention over twenty times, in fact. Back then, there was an elderly judge in Eungam-dong named Choi Man-yong who handled these cases. He’d call me up and ask, "Looks like you really drank a lot this time, didn't you?" I’d reply, "It was a rip-off!" But instead of the usual three-day sentence, he’d slap me with seven days. As I walked out of the courtroom, I’d grumble: "Has the old man lost his mind? What the hell? It’s supposed to be three days—why seven?" "Hey, watch it! The judge can hear you! Aren't you a repeat offender?" "Repeat offender, my foot! Who’s going to pay for a total rip-off? The old guy must be senile. Damn it—seven days in a sweltering holding cell in this heat? What the hell!" Hahaha! I nearly lost my mind—I almost fainted! When I got to the holding cell, the officer in charge asked: "Hey, just how much did you guzzle down this time?" "Why do you ask?" "I didn't get much time, though." (Wait, is it 29 days?) "No—what? I was told 7 days!" (Ah! They must have added a charge of contempt of court.) "Damn it! This old geezer of a judge must have lost his mind—29 days, the maximum sentence for detention? What the hell?" My junior associate chimed in: (Maybe it’s because you called the judge senile?) "Good grief, this is driving me crazy!" The officer in charge was grinning from ear to ear. (Hahaha! Looks like I’ve hit the jackpot with all this food!) The woman and the junior associates who came to visit me brought so much food that I was granted unlimited visitation—morning and afternoon—instead of the usual single session. (What’s this, *oppa*? 29 days? Contempt of court? Oh, for heaven’s sake—couldn’t you have held your temper? What exactly did you say to the judge?) "Ugh, don't give me a headache." (You’ve got a headache? *I’m* the one with the headache!) She fumed for a while, then got angry. (Now we can’t even go on a summer vacation! You won’t be out until summer’s already over!) "Go with someone else, then." "You son of a—! *Sob, sob...*" "I’m heading back inside. Stop crying." Hahaha! This anecdote goes to show that I have a strong heart—I managed to stay cheerful and happy, no matter the circumstances. That’s how you should live life—without sweating the small stuff. If I had gotten angry and started a fight because a bar tried to overcharge me, what would have happened? I could have ended up charged with "dining and dashing" or assault. And if the other person had sustained a serious enough injury to get a medical certificate? That would mean a one-way ticket to the "big house"—prison. This isn't to say that what I did was right. But getting worked up over injustice and inequality? In the end, you’re only hurting yourself. Honestly, it would probably be better to just rest comfortably in a jail cell. Hahaha! The police officers at the Jongno station treat me quite well. After all, whenever they’re out in Jongno and feel like having a drink, they come looking for me.

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