I would like to reintroduce my longtime friend Nam Shinwoo, who made an appearance in a previous column about memories shared with Captain Lee Hwan-hee. Shinwoo and I were classmates at Kyunggi Middle and High School and later studied together in the Department of Architecture at Seoul National University. We were also dormitory roommates and later colleagues at the same architecture firm—a friend who truly walked through life with me.

 

After moving to the United States in 1968, Shinwoo built a career as an architect while actively engaging in human rights work for North Korean defectors. More than twenty years ago, he garnered attention by publishing a translated biography of President Abraham Lincoln, tailored to the Korean context. He has since been a tireless activist, working on the ground in support of North Koreans’ human rights both domestically and abroad.

 

Seventeen years ago, Shinwoo sent me a series of letters reflecting on the state of affairs in Korea. These letters not only gave me much to think about but also stirred similar reflections among many people around me. Believing they contain insights everyone should read, I’ve decided to share them in full.

 

▲ This Yonhap file photo shows Nam Shin-woo. (Yonhap)

 

The following is the opening letter Shinwoo sent to me:

 

To Won,

 

Won, you were always the person I aspired to be.

 

Back in middle and high school, you were far more emotionally mature than I was—you had a sense of style and grace. I was always the brooding type, and though I wanted to ask, “Won, is this the right way? Should I do it like this?” I never actually did.

 

Instead, I simply followed your lead. If you said yes, I said yes. If you said no, so did I.

 

I loved you deeply, and I still believe you loved me just as much.

 

After moving to the U.S., I practically forgot about Seoul. But around 1990, I suddenly took on the design project for Samsung’s U.S. headquarters. Flying back and forth to Seoul—a city I barely knew—I relied on you for nearly all the marketing.

 

“Won, is this right? Am I doing okay?”

 

You always kept it simple.

 

“Hey, you idiot, why are you overthinking it? Just go with your gut!”

 

Thanks to that advice, from 1990 to 2000, I landed a lot of architecture projects in Seoul’s corporate world while sitting comfortably in the U.S. I worked for Samsung, SK, and Daewoo. Not that you handled everything for me, but I discussed every job with you.

 

After 2000, the IMF crisis brought all Seoul-based work to a halt.

 

Even local friends were struggling to survive, so I, a Korean-American, felt too ashamed to snatch up jobs in Seoul. My final project in Korea was designing Daewoo’s automotive offices in the U.S.

 

But life is strange. Around 2000, this reckless man, Nam Shinwoo, threw himself into North Korean human rights work. I don’t even know how or why it happened.

 

Looking back over the last decade, I feel certain it was President Lincoln who set me on this path.

 

In August 1999, when I published my Korean translation of his biography, the first people to celebrate with me were Youngjin and you, Won. That this hopeless drunkard Shinwoo managed to publish a book—well, you and Youngjin, along with Moonshin, organized the launch and celebrated with me.

 

But I never imagined how drastically the world—and we ourselves—would change after that.

 

The country shifted under a progressive government, I transformed into an obsessive human rights activist for North Korea, and you became someone I couldn’t quite understand.

 

When I heard you were supporting presidential candidate Roh Moo-hyun and helping with Rep. Kim Hee-sun’s campaign, it felt like the world was ending. Ten years passed, and I still lacked the courage and readiness to confront you—I was a coward.

 

I’m still not ready. To publicly confront and criticize you would be like ripping open my own belly.

 

A few years ago, I visited your design office in Dongsung-dong. You greeted me warmly. Sitting face-to-face for nearly an hour, I agonized—should I speak my mind, or keep it in?

 

I couldn’t bring myself to say anything. As I trudged away, I kept muttering to myself,

“Won, I’m sorry. I’m such a fool. I should’ve punched you, or gotten punched myself. We should’ve settled it today. I’m sorry.”

 

Since then, I’ve never had the chance to speak to you frankly.

 

I don’t have the strength to persuade you, and even if I did, persuading one person won’t change the Republic of Korea. Korea must find its own way. Only after hitting rock bottom will it rise again. But before you die—or I do—I must tell you what’s in my heart.

 

Won, all my life I looked up to you, but you, with your depth and character, should have been the one fighting for North Korean human rights. If you had, I would’ve followed, saying, “If Won is doing it, so will I!”

 

When I think of you, I think of Union General Winfield Scott Hancock and Confederate General Lewis Armistead during the American Civil War.

 

They loved each other more than brothers. But at the Battle of Gettysburg, Armistead charged forward shouting, “To hell with this!” longing for Hancock, and fell in battle.

 

“If I ever raise a weapon at my friend Hancock, Lord strike me down!” Armistead said—and so he died at Gettysburg.

 

Tonight, with the help of two glasses of alcohol, I write what I’ve long needed to say after ten years in the North Korean human rights movement.

 

This is not a venomous attack on you. I still love you at the core of my being.

 

I admire your intelligence, patience, and sincerity. I also believe in your love for me, unconditionally.

 

Having a friend like you has been a blessing far beyond what I deserve. But before I die, I have to say what must be said—only then can I believe that we will remain friends until death.

 

Won, Soonkwon is very ill. We don’t know which of us will go to the next world first.

 

Knowing that Soonkwon is sick hurts more than being sick myself. I believe you feel the same way.

 

Before I die, I want to believe—and I do believe—that deep down, you too felt sorrow for the suffering of North Koreans.

 

My fingers ache and so does my heart after writing this long soliloquy. That’s enough for now. Farewell.

 

September 10, 2009

From Shinwoo

 

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