Sophia Mok, Grade 12
UWC Li Po Chun
"This piece of writing may contain content which is a bit discomforting as it describes pretty vivid imagery of suffering victims."
Help me. Please.
Save her. Free her from this nightmare. She’s only seven- just like Sarah- so young, does she not deserve safety? Care? Hope?
I saw her suffer; I felt her pain. But ploddingly, I knelt down, pulled up the camera, and I shot. A brilliant, blinding blaze. A perfect picture, with absolute transparency- unmeant indignity. Published. Fame.
It was a dole to alleviate her distress.
Or was it chafing salt to her throbbing wounds? Are you any different from those who created her suffering?
I jerk up from the nightmare, which has harrowed my lucid senses ever since that day. Three years, rousing in a nightgown saturated with cold sweat of dismay and repentance; three years, yearning for guileless solace from God for committing the sin, but only to receive contrived self-assurance and extravagant accolade from shallow publications. I go to check on Sarah- sleeping soundlessly, covered in a thick, soft duvet, hugging a teddy gifted by one of my readers - she’s safe. Thank God. If only she knew; if only they knew…
1953, early morning, 8:27 AM, the US military forces dropped an incendiary bomb on Yongsan, which missed the targeted station substantially, in lieu, wiped out an immense region of civilian facilities. An urgent requirement for photojournalists to document the tragedy was received from the headquarters; my team immediately took on the propitious opportunity.
We arrived at a vast expanse of emptiness. It was mid-spring, when the invigorating breeze should have been scented with the fragrance of blossoming flowers, permeated with the vitality of youth and nature; but the air there was arid, suffocating, and had a pungent sooty miasma. Nothing was growing; nothing was… alive. The remains of ordnance diffused in the atmosphere softly caressed my skin, grazing shallow cuts with its sharp blades. I flinched, but gradually dismissed the fleeting pain. We scavenged around dilapidated debris of buildings, lumps of land, and eroded soil, occasionally having to step over scorched carcasses of innocent civilians. The surpassing calamity of it should have stunned- overwhelmed- me, but throughout the years, visiting these sceneries have become as ordinary as going to work; a trifling disconcertion was all that skimmed across my mind. I briefly captured some images but was unpleased as they seemed to lack some spirit, some vigor, some animated…suffering.
It wasn’t until noon when we finally discovered a village with some form of movement- it was passionately burning. The chaotic symphony of exploding bombs and collapsing houses was accompanied by incessant wails of children, harrowing cries of mothers, and assertive commands of soldiers. Snap. “Local village flaring in flames”. “Mothers and children in disparity from the destruction of town”. Not enough.
Suddenly, a young girl ran out from a nearby falling building. Her torso was bare, and only a pair of loose pants hung around her youthful bloated belly. The bleached, flimsy rag comprised of feathery holes, some which were sewn together with colored patches, others which exposed a pair of gaunt limbs. What stunned me was the puppet-like figure which dangled from a sling on her back- a typical-looking marionette, with a head too big for its fragile, twiggy body. Except, it wasn’t a doll, it was an infant (her new-born brother, I later learned.) His frail legs, scarcely the girth of my forearm, limply drooped down her sides, and the sling creased into his wizened, sallow bottom, gashing festered blisters. His neck was like a withered branch battered by the raging wind, flopping back and forth, crisply, uncontrollably, as she ran. My heart lurched.
She froze. Before her eyes, her paradise was slowly, mercilessly ablaze. Standing there, she watched her playground and school deteriorate into rubble, heard her friends and neighbors scream in fear. She stood there, motionless- lifeless. “Eomma! Appa!” she ached to cry out, but where were they? Widowed, and murdered. Holding her tears back, she raised her grimy thumb towards her mouth, and bit it with all her remaining strength, allowing the pain to numb the concoction of despair, anger, and fear. I stood there, watching her.
She noticed me, and looked my way. Her pleading eyes called out to me in the hope for help.
Take her with you, save her from this nightmare.
Take the picture! Seize this perfect frame! The voice of my peers, the voice of the press, the voice of my lust for fame- they permeated my sanity, deafening my gnawing sense of morality. Ashamed, I knelt down, pulled up my camera, and I shot. A shot to her innocence, by a shot for publicity. I had exposed her to the sinister reality, in exchange for a futile, transient sting of pity from my readers. I immediately checked the image- yes, this will please my editors- then arose to walk towards her. I can now take her to the journalism headquarters, she’ll need a bath, food, and relief. But she had gone- left in despondency. For the rest of the day, I searched around for her, but she was nowhere to be found…
“Young Girl standing in rubble during the Korean War”. The image triumphed, and still, today, remains as one of my greatest achievements- an absolute success, which my pride cherishes, but my heart abhors. Every time I see the Young Girl, in a polished frame or prideful publication, my heart pierces, slowly, deeply, by her pleading eyes- of fear, of disparity, of disappointment.
Image Courtesy: https://www.gettyimages.com/photos/the-korean-war#girl-standing-in-rubble-from-the-korean-civil-war-carrying-a-baby-in-picture-id50775292
Help me. Please.
Save her. Free her from this nightmare. She’s only seven- just like Sarah- so young, does she not deserve safety? Care? Hope?
I saw her suffer; I felt her pain. But ploddingly, I knelt down, pulled up the camera, and I shot. A brilliant, blinding blaze. A perfect picture, with absolute transparency- unmeant indignity. Published. Fame.
It was a dole to alleviate her distress.
Or was it chafing salt to her throbbing wounds? Are you any different from those who created her suffering?
I jerk up from the nightmare, which has harrowed my lucid senses ever since that day. Three years, rousing in a nightgown saturated with cold sweat of dismay and repentance; three years, yearning for guileless solace from God for committing the sin, but only to receive contrived self-assurance and extravagant accolade from shallow publications. I go to check on Sarah- sleeping soundlessly, covered in a thick, soft duvet, hugging a teddy gifted by one of my readers - she’s safe. Thank God. If only she knew; if only they knew…
1953, early morning, 8:27 AM, the US military forces dropped an incendiary bomb on Yongsan, which missed the targeted station substantially, in lieu, wiped out an immense region of civilian facilities. An urgent requirement for photojournalists to document the tragedy was received from the headquarters; my team immediately took on the propitious opportunity.
We arrived at a vast expanse of emptiness. It was mid-spring, when the invigorating breeze should have been scented with the fragrance of blossoming flowers, permeated with the vitality of youth and nature; but the air there was arid, suffocating, and had a pungent sooty miasma. Nothing was growing; nothing was… alive. The remains of ordnance diffused in the atmosphere softly caressed my skin, grazing shallow cuts with its sharp blades. I flinched, but gradually dismissed the fleeting pain. We scavenged around dilapidated debris of buildings, lumps of land, and eroded soil, occasionally having to step over scorched carcasses of innocent civilians. The surpassing calamity of it should have stunned- overwhelmed- me, but throughout the years, visiting these sceneries have become as ordinary as going to work; a trifling disconcertion was all that skimmed across my mind. I briefly captured some images but was unpleased as they seemed to lack some spirit, some vigor, some animated…suffering.
It wasn’t until noon when we finally discovered a village with some form of movement- it was passionately burning. The chaotic symphony of exploding bombs and collapsing houses was accompanied by incessant wails of children, harrowing cries of mothers, and assertive commands of soldiers. Snap. “Local village flaring in flames”. “Mothers and children in disparity from the destruction of town”. Not enough.
Suddenly, a young girl ran out from a nearby falling building. Her torso was bare, and only a pair of loose pants hung around her youthful bloated belly. The bleached, flimsy rag comprised of feathery holes, some which were sewn together with colored patches, others which exposed a pair of gaunt limbs. What stunned me was the puppet-like figure which dangled from a sling on her back- a typical-looking marionette, with a head too big for its fragile, twiggy body. Except, it wasn’t a doll, it was an infant (her new-born brother, I later learned.) His frail legs, scarcely the girth of my forearm, limply drooped down her sides, and the sling creased into his wizened, sallow bottom, gashing festered blisters. His neck was like a withered branch battered by the raging wind, flopping back and forth, crisply, uncontrollably, as she ran. My heart lurched.
She froze. Before her eyes, her paradise was slowly, mercilessly ablaze. Standing there, she watched her playground and school deteriorate into rubble, heard her friends and neighbors scream in fear. She stood there, motionless- lifeless. “Eomma! Appa!” she ached to cry out, but where were they? Widowed, and murdered. Holding her tears back, she raised her grimy thumb towards her mouth, and bit it with all her remaining strength, allowing the pain to numb the concoction of despair, anger, and fear. I stood there, watching her.
She noticed me, and looked my way. Her pleading eyes called out to me in the hope for help.
Take her with you, save her from this nightmare.
Take the picture! Seize this perfect frame! The voice of my peers, the voice of the press, the voice of my lust for fame- they permeated my sanity, deafening my gnawing sense of morality. Ashamed, I knelt down, pulled up my camera, and I shot. A shot to her innocence, by a shot for publicity. I had exposed her to the sinister reality, in exchange for a futile, transient sting of pity from my readers. I immediately checked the image- yes, this will please my editors- then arose to walk towards her. I can now take her to the journalism headquarters, she’ll need a bath, food, and relief. But she had gone- left in despondency. For the rest of the day, I searched around for her, but she was nowhere to be found…
“Young Girl standing in rubble during the Korean War”. The image triumphed, and still, today, remains as one of my greatest achievements- an absolute success, which my pride cherishes, but my heart abhors. Every time I see the Young Girl, in a polished frame or prideful publication, my heart pierces, slowly, deeply, by her pleading eyes- of fear, of disparity, of disappointment.
Image Courtesy: https://www.gettyimages.com/photos/the-korean-war#girl-standing-in-rubble-from-the-korean-civil-war-carrying-a-baby-in-picture-id50775292
www.unitedworldwide.co