At The Korean International School
Gun Park → So, this is the place where he studies huh.
??? → You can come in now.
Gun Park → Yes, sir
Yoon Hwan → So, Dear student, he is a transfer student here and his name his Tae hyun lee
Seok jin
Gun Park → hey, you are preety bad at talking. Do whatever you can.
Seok jin → What!! , I will let you know what I can do after this session you basta**.
Seok jin → Now I will tell you what I can do you as*ho**
Seok jin → what is with your eyes, what are you a monster.
Gun Park → let me tell you a short a story.
I never thought I'd return to Seoul, the city that once molded me into who I am. The streets, the alleys, the neon lights—they all whispered tales of ambition, despair, and survival. After years abroad, I found myself wandering these familiar paths, seeking something I couldn't quite name.
One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over the city, I took a detour through a neighborhood I hadn't visited in years. The scent of street food wafted through the air, mingling with the distant hum of traffic. It was then that I heard it—a muffled cry, followed by mocking laughter.
Curiosity piqued, I followed the sounds to a secluded alley behind a convenience store. There, a group of teenagers surrounded a boy, no older than fifteen. His uniform was disheveled, his face bruised, and his eyes filled with fear. The others taunted him, pushing and shoving, reveling in his helplessness.
"What's the matter? Can't fight back?" one sneered.
"Maybe he needs a lesson in respect," another added, raising his fist.
Before I realized it, I stepped forward. "That's enough," I said, my voice calm but firm.
The group turned to me, surprise evident in their expressions. "Who the hell are you?" the apparent leader challenged.
"Someone who doesn't tolerate bullies," I replied.
They hesitated, sizing me up. Perhaps it was the way I stood, or the cold determination in my eyes, but they decided against confrontation. Muttering curses, they dispersed, leaving the boy trembling on the ground.
I helped him up, noting the gratitude in his eyes. "Thank you," he whispered.
"What's your name?" I asked.
"Jin-ho," he replied.
"Why were they targeting you?"
He looked away, shame coloring his cheeks. "I don't fit in. I'm not from a wealthy family, and I don't have connections. That makes me an easy target."
His words struck a chord. The hierarchical nature of our society, especially in schools, often bred such cruelty. I couldn't ignore it.
Over the next few days, I began observing. I visited various schools, blending into the background, watching interactions. The pattern was consistent: those perceived as weak were preyed upon by those who believed themselves superior. Teachers turned a blind eye, either out of ignorance or fear. The system was failing its students.
Determined to understand the root of the problem, I decided to immerse myself in the environment. I chose Seoul International School, known for its academic excellence and diverse student body. With my background and resources, gaining admission wasn't difficult.
On my first day, I walked through the gates, the weight of purpose heavy on my shoulders. The campus buzzed with activity—students chatting, teachers preparing lessons, the usual hustle of academic life. Yet, beneath the surface, I sensed the same undercurrents of hierarchy and intimidation.
In the classroom, I introduced myself simply as Gun Park. The teacher, Ms. Lee, welcomed me warmly, and I took a seat near the back. As the lesson progressed, I noticed subtle dynamics: certain students dominated discussions, others remained silent, their eyes downcast.
During lunch, I sat alone, observing. A group of boys entered the cafeteria, their presence commanding attention. They strutted to a table, laughing boisterously, casting disdainful glances at others. I recognized the type—self-proclaimed kings of the schoolyard.
One of them, tall with a smug expression, approached a smaller student. "Hey, where's my assignment?" he demanded.
"I... I couldn't finish it," the boy stammered.
The tall one sneered. "Then you'll pay for it."
He raised his hand, but before he could strike, I intervened. "Is this how you assert dominance? By picking on those weaker than you?"
He turned to me, surprised. "Who are you to interfere?"
"Someone who believes in justice," I replied.
He scoffed but backed off, muttering under his breath. The cafeteria buzzed with whispers, eyes watching our exchange.
Later that day, I found myself in the library, seeking solace among the books. A student approached me—Jin-ho.
"You enrolled here?" he asked, astonished.
I nodded. "I want to understand the system from within."
He looked around nervously. "It's dangerous. They don't like outsiders challenging their authority."
"I've faced worse," I assured him.
Over the following weeks, I became more involved. I joined clubs, participated in discussions, and built relationships. I listened to students' stories—their fears, aspirations, and the challenges they faced. The more I learned, the clearer it became: the problem wasn't just individual bullies but a culture that enabled them.
One afternoon, I was approached by a student named Min-seo. She was known for her intelligence and quiet demeanor.
"I heard what you did in the cafeteria," she said.
"I couldn't stand by and do nothing," I replied.
She hesitated before speaking again. "There's a group—students who want change but are too afraid to act. They meet secretly, discussing ways to combat the bullying."
"Take me to them," I said.
That evening, I attended their meeting. In a dimly lit classroom, a dozen students gathered, sharing experiences and brainstorming solutions. They were passionate but lacked direction.
So, I decided to make a change, and that change is very harsh for the bullies you know.