ABSTRACT
I was sitting in front of Seoul Railway Station, proud but also somewhat intimidated to be part of the sea of students. I kept looking towards the other side of the station where my brother was. Appearing easy and confident, he had become part of the demonstration. A rumor about an impending crackdown by military troops had reached us hours earlier. Concerned about his safety as well as mine, I wondered whether we would be back home that evening, back to our “normal” domestic coziness. I also wondered if, once we were back in our everyday space, 1 he would reassume his usual benignly protective, yet still authoritative position and advise me, his younger sister, against taking part in mass demonstrations. When we were younger, he used to make sure I stayed home when he played outside so that he wouldn't have to worry about my “well-being.” Thus my solicitude for his well-being on that day felt incongruous and even presumptuous. Later that day, when we returned home together holding hands, I didn't quite realize how what happened that day would change how I related to him as well as how I conceptualized women and men in struggle in general. The day was May 15th, 1980, just a few days before the government's massacre of Kwangju citizens.
