Unfiltered Fear

The only thing that we can know is that we know nothing and that is the highest flight of reason. - Leo Tolstoy in the Zen Calendar (June 8, 2002).

Day 227. I apologize for smoke spewing from the keyboard as I write today’s blog. My captain is honking the horn from his Republicanmobile, anxious to hit the road for the tandem rally. Hopefully seven months’ practice at composing grammatically correct sentences will manifest today, because I shan’t have time to proofread. Next time I commit to blogging every day for a year, remind me to own a laptop. Or travel less. Or both. Ah, well. If nothing else, this year has taught me perseverance.

While fathoming fear on the blog over the last couple of days, I have been reminiscing about the times I was most frightened. The singular time I was legitimately terrified for my life occurred in Seoul, Korea in the last 1990’s. The incident taught me a lot about myself, namely that we cannot know for certain how we will respond to some situations until they envelope us.

I had just completed a teaching assignment on the Air Force Base at Osan and was in route to my next assignment at Anderson AFB on Guam. Due to the infrequent buses traveling between the base and the Seoul airport, I arrived for my departing flight several hours early. In line to check in, a man struck up a conversation with me. He revealed that he was, literally, “escaping” prematurely from a contract to teach English in Korea. “Escaping” as in furtively fleeing the home of his employer in the wee morning hours after shaping the pillows to look like he still lay in his bed. While checking our baggage, we met a graduate student from UC Berkley who also had some time to kill. Pleased with our serendipitous meeting, we boarded the subway and headed downtown to have a last bowl of kim chie.

After sipping a beer and impressing one another with our chop stick dexterity, we emerged from the subway level hotel lobby into the Seoul sunshine. My first impression was the loveliness of the city. My second was a visceral adrenaline flush as my body registered the dissonance of what looked to be hundreds of Seoul police officers, uniformed in full riot gear, positioned strategically up and down the block. The Berkley student, ever so casually, suggested we retreat back down the stairs to the subway station and head for the airport.

Wordlessly, the fugitive English teacher and I agreed. A subway train magically appeared at the platform, and we quickly got on. The train silently accelerated and glided down the rails. I felt the train’s momentum slow as it braked for the next stop. Gazing out the subway window, I watched a scene unfold in the uncontrollable slow motion that accompanies surreal moments. The first thing I saw was two young women balanced at the farthest end of the platform they could reach without spilling onto the tracts. They were hunched over, holding handkerchiefs over their nose and eyes. Riot police officers were clubbing a throng of other young people, who were clamoring about in a chaotic jumble on the platform.

The train slowed to a stop. The doors automatically slid open, and the toxic stench of pepper gas flooded our car. My skin, lips, nose and eyes stung as though I had been dipped in acid. Quickly, the doors shut and the train sped from the station. Though nobody boarded through the doors to our car, my new friends and I watched in horror as two armed men entered the subway two cars back. Waving automatic weapons, they shouted in agitated Korean. I choked down terror as they rapidly advanced up the aisle and entered the car just behind mine. Continuing their furious tirade, they forced open the door of my car and strode up the center.

We were the only Americans on the train. Somewhere in my whirling brain, it occurred to me that my blonde hair and blue eyes must be screaming “Convenient American Hostage.” The angry young men paced up and down the aisle, brandishing their weapons and scolding the passengers in a language from which I couldn’t decipher a single word. The Koreans in our car remained silent and motionless, staring at the floor.

We were standing because there had been no unoccupied seats when we boarded the train. I instinctively shrunk within myself, avoiding all eye contact and turning to face the windows of the subway. I stood absolutely motionless, willing myself to be invisible. The Berkley guy appeared to be in his element, observing the unfolding drama with alert interest. I raised my eyebrows at him as we slowed for the next stop. He whispered that we should probably stay on the subway, because there was no way of knowing what chaos was transpiring at street level. I held my breath and stared at the subway route posted above the door. Four more stops until we transferred to the airport subway line. The menacing young Korean men continued to swagger up and down the aisle, cocking their guns from their waists and repeating what sounded to me like incoherent protestations. I kept my back turned and remained stock still.

After the eternity of three stops, we arrived at our transfer point, the doors slid open, and I bolted from the car. The gunmen remained on the subway as the doors shut and the train sped down the track. My comrades caught up to me, and we caught the subway to the airport. We arrived there safely, and though additional security measures had been implemented, I made my flight to Guam. Sinking gratefully into my cramped coach seat, I wetted a tissue and swiped at the pepper gas residue that still stung my face. Calmed myself with the pragmatic reminder that the beaches at Anderson would be an ideal place to recover from my near death experience.

I have not returned to Korea. Even before my brush with rioting University of Seoul students, I wasn’t that fond of Osan. The experience taught me a lot about myself. When my sympathetic nervous system was activated by life threatening danger, it chose “freeze” over “fight” or “flight.” This proved to be adaptive. I can’t say what my response in different circumstances would be. The only thing that we can know is that we know nothing.

I also learned what I am most afraid of. My thoughts and emotions were not for my own safety. Perhaps it was just too incomprehensible, but I did not have concerns about being shot, or captured, or tortured, or injured in some unforeseen way. The only emotion I registered was agony for my son if his mother was killed. I was consumed with regret over my decision to venture into downtown Seoul when I could have remained in the security of the airport. I feared for my son’s suffering. I was infused with anguish in every fiber of my being at the thought of his pain if I died. Leaving him while he was so young was unbearable.

This is the fear at my core. Being separated from those I love. Severed connection is what frightens me most. In some areas, I remain very, very attached.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

P.S. I will edit and proof and embellish this blog when I return from the wilds of east Texas!