Hearts Undivided…
Nearly a week ago, I visited the DMZ, the demilitarized zone that separates North and South Korea. At first I hesitated—my mother’s stories about the Korean War and the country’s division had always made me sad—but I’m glad my friend Cindie persuaded me to go. Standing there changed something inside me: the experience gave me a clearer perspective on what Korea has endured and helped me understand my mother’s life in a deeper, more compassionate way.
The atmosphere at the DMZ is quiet but heavy with longing. You can feel it in the way people of every age look toward the horizon: a yearning to come together, to belong, and to find comfort in shared moments. That yearning is one of the most human responses to separation. Perhaps the greatest cruelty of war is not only death, but the barriers it erects between loved ones—barriers of fence, border, memory, and silence.
Our tour guide, Hanki Lee, was young and had grown up on stories of wartime hardship rather than on firsthand memories. When I told him my mother’s story, something in him shifted; grief showed itself in his attentive listening. In a gesture that felt both personal and communal, Hanki had learned to play a wooden flute so he could perform a cherished folk song for visitors. He explained that the song, Arirang, is sung across the peninsula—by people in the North and the South alike—as an expression of shared grief, pride, and identity.
When Hanki played Arirang, the notes seemed to gather history and home into a single sound. In that music I heard the echoes of my mother’s voice, the weight of her memories, and the resilience of a people who keep singing despite separation. The song carries sorrow, yes, but also a deep, unshakable dignity—a reminder that culture and connection survive even the harshest divisions.
Leaving the DMZ, I felt quieter and strangely uplifted. The visit did not erase the pain of the past, but it tempered it with understanding and empathy. It reminded me that stories—of war, of loss, of hope—are how we keep memory alive and find common ground. In the shared notes of Arirang, in the faces of those who listened, and in my mother’s remembered voice, I found consolation: an enduring belief that belonging and reconciliation remain possible, one human connection at a time.