MORNING CALM TALES The accidental journalist

Jeffrey Miller visits the ruins of the workers' party headquarters in Cheorwon, Gangwon Province, in this photo printed in The Korea Times June 24, 2000. Korea Times Archive

By Jeffrey Miller

• Published Jun 25, 2025 3:20 AM KST

It began with a book.

One cold, gray afternoon in early 2000, I found myself wandering through the Kyobo Book Centre in downtown Seoul when I came across a book that would quietly, yet profoundly, change the course of my life. It was "Retrieving Bones," an anthology of short stories and poetry about the 1950-53 Korean War. The moment I spotted it, pulled it off the shelf and held it in my hands, I knew. I would read it — and I would review it for The Korea Times.

At the time, I had been submitting the occasional op-ed to the paper’s “Thoughts of the Times” column — one or two pieces a month for over a year. Nothing flashy or particularly groundbreaking. Just reflections, small stories and impressions of a life lived in Korea since my arrival in 1990.

Before blogs, podcasts and social media, these columns were one of the few platforms where foreign residents could share their voices. Eventually, something inside most long-term expatriates begins to push outward — the need to process, to explain, to be heard. Some write about the quirks and wonders of adjusting to a new culture. Others turn to heavier themes — xenophobia, homesickness, loss. A few just want to tell people what it’s like to live overseas, warts and all. And, of course, there were always those with an axe to grind.

Me? I just loved to write.

When I pitched the review to the editor, he was immediately interested. Back then, there were only two English-language newspapers in Korea, and neither had much cultural coverage. I mentioned the upcoming 50th anniversary of the Korean War and proposed reviewing war-related books.

“When can you have it ready?” he asked.

“Next week,” I replied.

That one review launched a journey I hadn’t anticipated. Soon, I was doing two reviews a month. Then one a week. The English selection at Kyobo was slim, so I began ordering from Amazon. Eventually, publishers started sending me advance copies, and the paper even reimbursed me for earlier purchases. But I didn’t do it for the money. Something deeper was at work.

Then I came across "From Busan to Panmunjom," the memoir of Gen. Paik Sun-yup who fought in the Korean War.

I mentioned it to my editor.

“You know he’s still alive,” he said. “Lives in Seoul. Has an office at the War Memorial. Maybe you can interview him.”

Suddenly, I wasn’t just a book reviewer — I was a feature writer.

The first time I visited Paik’s office, I was awestruck. Above his desk hung a painting of Gen. Douglas MacArthur at an airfield in Suwon, Gyeonggi province, standing with Paik and other officers just days after the North Korean invasion began. MacArthur had flown in to assess the crisis — just before he conceived the Incheon Landing.

And here I was, across from the man who had been there.

Paik spoke softly but firmly, recounting how some of his soldiers tied dynamite to themselves in last-ditch efforts to stop advancing tanks. He described giving his “stand or die” speech at Dabu-dong during the desperate defense of the Pusan Perimeter.

“I told my men there was nowhere else to go,” he told me. “I told them, if I retreated, they could shoot me.”

That interview connected me to Korea in a way no book ever had. For the first time, I felt truly anchored to the history unfolding around me. While later revelations about his alleged collaboration with the Japanese Army during the 1910-45 colonial period complicated his legacy, his courage and service during the Korean War remain undeniable.

Not long after, a colleague suggested another subject: Dr. Horace Underwood.

“You should talk to him,” he said. “He was an interpreter at Panmunjeom.”

I had taught at Yonsei’s Foreign Language Institute since 1993 and was well aware of the Underwood legacy. I first met him at our 100th graduation ceremony in 1994. His grandfather had been one of Korea’s first Christian missionaries. But no one had ever mentioned his wartime service.

A single phone call later, we arranged to meet at his home — just a short walk from campus — on a cool June afternoon. As we sat in his living room, Underwood recalled the early days of the war.

“It was a wrenching sight to see Seoul in flames,” he said, his voice steady but edged with the weight of memory.

That sent shivers down my spine.

He’d landed with U.S. forces during the Incheon invasion and later became an interpreter at the peace talks in Gaeseong and Panmunjeom alongside his brother Richard. His memories were vivid, grounded in humility and laced with quiet sorrow.

As it happened, the day we spoke, President Kim Dae-jung was in Pyongyang meeting Kim Jong-il — the first-ever inter-Korean summit. History, once again, was close enough to touch.

The interview ran on the front page. We spoke several more times before his passing in 2004. He was a gracious man — humble, sharp and deeply committed to Korea. His wartime service was just one part of a life shaped by education and service.

Impressed by the article, the managing editor assigned me to write a story about the Iron Triangle — one of the bloodiest battle zones of the war, just south of the DMZ. I still remember the ruins of the North Korean Workers’ Party headquarters, its jagged frame silhouetted against the sky. The scars of war lingered in the air.

I also visited one of the infiltration tunnels dug under the DMZ in the 1970s. Four had been discovered by 1990. Inside, the cool air and tight silence were unsettling. Every echo felt like a whisper from a war that had never truly ended.

That article also ran on the front page, with a photo of me standing in the skeletal remains of the workers’ party building.

And that — well, that was just the beginning.

Jeffrey Miller is the author of several novels including "War Remains," a story about the early days of the Korean War, and "No Way Out," a thriller set in Seoul in 1990.