March 31, 2021
I was born and raised in Sokkumoti, which was technically part of Gimcheon City but felt more like an isolated countryside beyond the river. Its official name was Sineum-dong, but everyone called it Sokkkumi or Sokkumoti. The name supposedly came from the area resembling an ox’s tail. Since the village started at the junction where Jikjinae and Gamcheon streams met, it formed a natural bend—perhaps leading to the shortened name, "Sokkumoti." It was a small settlement, with just a handful of households scattered along the two winding streams.
Right behind my house flowed Gamcheon stream, and in front lay the mountain. If you hiked for about 30 minutes through the hills, you’d reach a leprosy colony called Christian Samaewon. I was born in the mountain valley of Sokkumoti, moved twice within the village, and finally relocated to
Moam-dong, a proper part of Gimcheon City when I was about eight. Despite the move, my fondest childhood memories remain in Sokkumoti.
As a child, I was quick-witted, full of energy, and loved mischief. Every morning, I’d start the day by washing my face at the river and brushing my teeth with sand. During the day, I built sandcastles by the water or played with fire in tin cans—spinning them around wildly, a game traditionally played during the Lunar New Year but something we did throughout the year, except in summer. Adults often warned me, "Hey, kid, if you keep spinning that, you'll wet the bed at night!" We held wrestling matches among the village kids, and I was endlessly curious, always building and experimenting with things I heard about. Especially when it came to weapons—I loved them and made all sorts. The first weapon I ever crafted was a bow and arrow.
The main reason I made a bow was simple: I wanted to hunt birds and roast them. Back then, getting three meals a day was a challenge, and meat was something you only saw during traditional festivals such as Lunar New Year and Chuseok (Korean Thanksgiving Day). Whenever I spotted birds flying overhead, I thought, That’s free meat! So, at around six years old, I decided I had to catch them.
Ironically, the only thing my bow successfully hit wasn’t a bird—but a person!
They say potential shows early, and I seemed full of promise, even as a mischievous child. My bow was crafted from a curved poplar tree branch, which I heated over a fire to bend properly. I carved notches at both ends using a kitchen knife and fastened an elastic band—made from old underwear—between them. For arrows, I repurposed samdae—the hemp stalks used under thatched roofs. Interestingly, samdae is actually hemp, which we later learned had drug-like properties when certain musicians like Jo Yong-pil and Kim Se-hwan were condemned by the media for smoking it. But back then, country folk only saw it as material for weaving mats. Since a factory near my house produced woven mats, we had plenty of leftover hemp stalks lying around. The soft, pliable stems made excellent arrow shafts when cut, nailed, and bound tightly with twine.
With my bow in hand, I ran around trying to hunt birds—but had no luck. I’d scatter precious grains on the ground, luring sparrows by the dozens, only for them to dart away just as I aimed. As I squinted my right eye to take perfect aim, the moment I released the arrow, they’d vanish. Despite missing, they always returned moments later, chirping as if taunting me: "Hey, we're back! Try again!" At first, I felt guilty seeing them as potential meals, but after repeated failures, they started feeling like enemies. Frustrated, I muttered, "You pests, just take the hit already!" But despite my efforts, I was left drained and irritated.
To make matters worse, a friend watching nearby started provoking me:
"Ha! You fool. You think you can catch a bird? You don’t even know how to shoot a bow!"
He envied me for having one, but his taunts only fueled my pride.
"You think I can't shoot? Watch me."
But he kept taunting me.
"Pfft. Go ahead, then! Shoot me—I’m bigger than a sparrow, ain’t I?"
So, I raised my bow.
"Oh, you think I won’t? Fine, I’m shooting!"
To my surprise, he kept taunting me, dancing in front of me, daring me to shoot. His smugness was unbearable. I was a proud boy—I couldn’t let such an insult slide. So, I did the only thing a manly warrior would do.
I fired.
The poor kid, thinking I was just bluffing, threw up his right hand in shock—right as the arrow sped toward his face. Instead of hitting his head, it went straight through his palm. Had he not raised his hand, it would have struck him between the eyes! That incident earned me endless scoldings from the village elders.
As my injured friend wailed, the commotion drew a crowd.
"What happened to him?" they asked.
"Well, he kept telling me to shoot him, so I did," I explained earnestly.
The elders, needless to say, didn’t find my logic sound.
"What kind of fool actually shoots because someone said so?! What’s wrong with this kid?"
"Hey, he told me to do it! It’s not my fault!" I thought bitterly.
Seeing trouble brewing, I ran home and hid in our storage shed before the boy’s father arrived. Holding my breath, I stayed dead silent, but then—the door creaked open slightly. Oh no. I shrank further into the darkness. But then I saw who it was—my father.
Instead of dragging me out, he looked at me and quietly shut the door. He knew exactly where I was hiding and had come to check on me in advance. Moments later, the voice of my friend’s furious father rang out from outside.
"Kim Jusa! Where’s that rascal Jintae? Look at my son’s hand! You can’t let this slide!"
My father replied calmly, "I don’t know where he ran off to. But when he comes back, I’ll punish him myself. You should go home."
From that day on, my parents never spoke of the incident again. They had a peculiar way of handling my childhood mischief. Whenever I returned home after beating up some other kid, instead of scolding me, they’d serve me an extra dish at dinner.
After that fiasco, I never made another bow again. Had I continued, who knows—I might have ended up as a national archery champion!