MORNING CALM TALES The night I survived a terrorist attack

By Jeffrey Miller

• Published Sep 16, 2026 5:20 AM KST

Twenty years ago, I said goodbye to Korea. At least, I thought I did.

Within days, I found myself in a smoke-filled street in southern Thailand, surrounded by sirens, soldiers, emergency vehicles and people running for their lives. I had no idea that the road taking me away from Korea would eventually lead me right back.

Without getting into all the circumstances behind my sudden departure from the Land of the Morning Calm for the Land of Smiles, several other teachers and I resigned from what had once been one of the best teaching jobs in Korea. For me, that chapter was over. I packed my bags and left, convinced Thailand would offer a fresh start.

I had heard there might be teaching opportunities in southern Thailand, so I flew to Bangkok and then continued south to Hat Yai. I booked a few nights at the Novotel in the city center. Before looking for work, I planned to take a few days to rest and explore a part of Thailand I had never seen before.

After checking in that Saturday afternoon, I went looking for something to eat. A market and department store were just down the street, with a row of cafes and restaurants beyond them.

As I wandered in that direction, something struck me: it was quiet. Strangely quiet for a late Saturday afternoon.

Outside one cafe, a foreigner sat drinking a beer. We struck up a conversation, and since he seemed to know the area, I asked where I could get a good meal. He rattled off several possibilities — Thai food, Western food, just about anything I wanted.

As travelers often do when they meet another foreigner far from home, we quickly fell into easy conversation. Where are you from? How long have you been here? What brought you to Thailand?

I thanked him and continued on, but the long day of traveling was beginning to catch up with me. After only a few more steps, I changed my mind and turned back toward the hotel.

At the time, it seemed like an insignificant decision.

It wasn’t.

In the basement of the shopping center next to the Novotel was a Japanese chain restaurant I knew from Bangkok. I went inside, sat down and ordered.

Then everything changed. A commotion erupted outside. Voices rose. People began moving quickly. A server hurried to my table.

“I’m sorry. We have to close.”

“Why?”

He answered with one word: “Bomb.”

For a moment, I wasn’t sure I had heard him correctly. Then I stepped outside. The quiet street was gone. Smoke hung in the air. Sirens screamed through the city. Police cars, fire engines, ambulances and military vehicles converged on the area. Soldiers carrying weapons moved through the streets. People were running from the direction of the market while others stood staring through the smoke, trying to understand what had happened.

It was like a war zone.

Only minutes earlier, I had been waiting for dinner. Now I had no idea what had happened — or whether something else was about to happen.

I headed back to the Novotel. Guests were already leaving, dragging suitcases through the lobby. I overheard one man say there was no way he was spending another night in Hat Yai. Outside, the sirens continued.

That morning, I had believed I was beginning a new life. By nightfall, I was sitting in a hotel room wondering what in the hell I had gotten myself into.

The next morning, curiosity got the better of me. After breakfast, I walked back toward the market.

In daylight, the destruction was even more unsettling. Broken glass covered the sidewalks. The side of the department store was blackened by smoke. Two burned-out cars sat in the street. Police and cleanup crews were still on the scene while dozens of people wandered through the area, pointing at the damage and trying to piece together what had happened.

Then I saw someone familiar across the street. It was the foreigner from the cafe, but now he was wearing a hospital gown.

For a moment, I just stared. He saw me and started across the street. As he came closer, I could see cuts and abrasions covering his face. He looked pale and shaken.

“Man, you’re so lucky,” he said.

I didn’t understand.

Then he pointed toward one of the burned-out cars. “Right after you left, a bomb went off in that car.”

I looked at the wreckage. That was where I had been, only a short time before the explosion. Had I stayed and talked a little longer, I might have been there when the bomb went off.

I might have been the one wearing a hospital gown, or worse.

Later, I learned it had been a terrorist bombing. Several people had been killed and many others injured.

That afternoon brought another surreal turn. Members of Thailand’s royal family and government officials came to Hat Yai in the aftermath of the bombing. I watched the royal entourage pass through the area.

Later, a former prime minister walked along the crowd lining the street, shaking hands. I appeared to be the only foreigner there, and perhaps that caught his attention. When he reached me, he extended his hand, and I shook it.

So much for a few quiet days of R&R.

Three days later, I flew north. I thought I was leaving the chaos behind. I wasn’t. Thailand was in the middle of a military coup.

And then there was a tank, parked outside my hotel.

I stood there staring at it, trying to take in the absurdity of the past few days. I had left Korea expecting a fresh start in Thailand. Instead, I had narrowly missed a terrorist bombing in Hat Yai and arrived in Bangkok in the middle of a military coup.

The whole thing was becoming almost too improbable not to laugh about.

And for the first time since leaving Korea, a thought began working its way into my mind. Maybe I had been too quick to say goodbye.

Jeffrey Miller is the author of several novels. His latest is "The Tree at Panmunjom," about the 1976 Axe Murder Incident. Reach him at daejeonscribe@yahoo.com.