ABSTRACT
I am walking down the streets of Seoul, and with each woman I pass I ask myself, “Is she my mother?” I search through the blank expressions, the smiles, the sorrows, the stern and the serious, looking for something familiar amid the sea of faces, hoping that some forgotten instinct will rise from the depths of my memory and at last guide me back home, to her. She is my shadow—always close enough to see but unable to capture. I am haunted.
