who cared for him. Any effort to help him stop drinking turned futile since he, without alcohol, would lock himself up and weep for hours. It was always disappointing to see that he hadn’t changed a bit. Seeing my grandmother suffer, I started to focus more on the emotional burden and anguish that he had given to me, and this attitude rapidly turned into unremitting hatred. Last July, my grandfather fell ill; he had been withered not only from heavy drinking, but also from extreme guilt. When I heard him, even in this dire state, pleading for alcohol, I was infuriated, for such longing was incomprehensible. Nevertheless, upon looking at his bony arms waving aimlessly, I realized that I had never asked him why he drank, given the consequences and shame that resulted. That night, I knelt before him. He wouldn’t even turn towards me. Then, I asked him the question that I should’ve asked long ago. After a long silent pause, he, full of tears, told me that it was because he was scared. The horror that he went through fighting in the Korean War nearly sixty years ago was still haunting him every night. Without the help of alcohol, he became so overwhelmed by his nightmares that he could not sleep. I came to know, utterly shameful, how ignorant I had been. My grandfather was just a helpless and scarred victim of war. However, blinded by my comfort and peace, I forgot to see that the luxuries of life were only won by the sacrifices of his generation. Foolishly, I had thought that my effort to avoid being like him had shaped me into a reasonable and compassionate person, but it was actually his kind and caring
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