I am now the chief editorial writer of The Korea Times. I also worked as the managing editor of the newspaper for 26 months from April 2018. Before that my stints included Politics Desk editor, Business Desk editor, City Desk editor and Culture Desk editor. As a journalist of The Korea Times, the most influential English newspaper of Korea, I have been committed to promoting 'international justice' beyond the social justice pursued by vernacular papers. My career includes working as a visiting scholar in Britain's Cambridge University from 2006-07.
A short life, a long breath: Farewell to my father
By Shim Jae-yun
My father passed away recently at the age of 86, his final breath stilled by respiratory failure complicated by pneumonia. Sitting by his bedside, I watched the slow fading of life’s most vital sign — the breath — and realized how thin the line between life and death truly is. It is, quite literally, a question of whether one can breathe or not.
Though his suffering lasted only two days, his passing was peaceful, like slipping into a gentle sleep. True to his nature, he left quietly, sparing us additional pain. His final act was an echo of a lifetime marked by modesty and care. In a world where many endure prolonged suffering, I am grateful his farewell was merciful.
We chose to lay him to rest in a forest burial site in the northern mountains of Gyeonggi Province. Surrounded by sunlight, gentle winds and the quiet dignity of nature, I find comfort imagining him there — finally free to breathe without struggle.
My father was a man of few words, stoic and reserved. Sometimes, after a modest drink, he would share a brief, tender insight — a glimpse of a steady and deep love beneath his quiet exterior. He enjoyed spending his spare time catching fish from a mountain stream and being together with his children, leaving unforgettable precious memories for us.
He came to Seoul from the countryside during hard times, working in construction to support our family. We lived simply, without luxury, but he was generous. Land once owned in his hometown slipped from his hands, lost through kindness, trust or circumstance. In the end, he left little in terms of material wealth.
As a child, I sometimes resented him. My mother’s labor was grueling, and our family’s survival often seemed to rest on her shoulders alone. But with time, I came to understand that what my father gave us was far greater than possessions. He treated his children with respect and belief. That trust became the foundation on which we built our lives — a quiet, unwavering root that helped us stand tall.
Only much later did I learn of his own struggles. As a boy, he fled his abusive stepmother and lived like an orphan in Busan. That hidden story transformed my resentment into compassion.
His passing led me to reflect on life and death. To live a healthy life and to die peacefully — surely that is one of life’s greatest blessings.
In mourning, I found resolve. I want to live the rest of my days with kindness and conscience, to act justly and leave behind a modest legacy of goodness. This, I believe, is the kind of life my father lived and the kind I now aspire to.
In stark contrast to the quiet dignity of my father, recent footage of world leaders unsettles me. Chinese President Xi Jinping and Russian President Vladimir Putin were seen discussing health and organ transplants not as part of global peace or economic recovery, but as ways to extend their own lives. After decades marked by repression and conflict, their focus remains on personal survival.
Donald Trump similarly embodies this pursuit of power and longevity. His policies — tariff wars, immigrant crackdowns, attacks on democratic institutions — serve his personal legacy rather than the public good.
These leaders seem intoxicated by power, seeking to stretch their breath at any cost. Their breath may last longer than most, but it grows darker with each passing day.
In response, I hope we all — leaders and citizens alike — will return to lives lived for something beyond ourselves. A short life devoted to others is far more honorable than a long life hoarded for oneself.
Recently, the skies have been dazzlingly blue — the kind of days that take my dad's breath away. On such days, I think of my father as he no longer sees this beautiful world.
Then I remind myself that he has gone to a place far more beautiful, beyond pain and struggle. Rather than mourn, I choose to say this: Go well, father. Rest peacefully.
You lost your own mother months after your birth and lived quietly yearning for love. Now, I believe, you are reunited with those you longed for. May you finally breathe in peace.