Groups of children swarmed the park, all of them in the same little uniforms, shorts for boys and skirts for girls. They traveled in packs of five to eight. We thought they were field trips to the park and maybe all of them were. If they saw us they yelled hello, which was the first of such behavior we'd witnessed the whole trip. The kids more rural, I thought. Or, the closer to Korea you get, the more common it becomes for children to yell hello at caucasian people. At first I ignored them because I expected that they wouldn't leave us alone if I played along as would happen in Korea. But these kids were not as assertive and after awhile I decided to reply because it seemed harsh not to.

The first group to really approach did so furtively, when we were relatively isolated. They approached me with a hello, ignoring Andrew, as all the others had. But this time, one of the kids added, "Excuse me. Do ... you ... speak ... English?"

I said I did. "Yes"—and the little flock erupted in hushed voices. They commiserated and arranged themselves in formation. They were tiny, all in the same uniform. The boys wore their little shorts and little baseball caps, the girls blazers and skirts. All the girls were considerabily taller than the boys. Each had a gigantic clipboard on a rope around his or her neck. They spoke in chorus:

"We're in the fourth grade and such-and-such school. We're studying English. May we ask you a few questions?"

"Yes."

They went nuts, whispering and prodding each other until one of them spoke, the smallest little boy of them.

"What country are you from."

"United States."

A dud. They turned and asked each other if they knew what country that was. One of them produced a map from a clipboard. I saw that it said in Katakana "America." So I said, "America."

"America," each repeated to themselves and to each other, passing the answers around to make sure everyone marked it down right.

"What ... is ... your ... favorite ... color?" the same little one asked, his eyes closed and belting it out in clear perfect English.

"Red."

"Red Red Red Red Red," they whispered until they all had it right.

"What ... is ... your ... favorite ... sport?" He asked.

"Baseball."

"Baseball! Baseball! Baseball! Baseball!" some said, some bewildered until they'd heard it enough times.

I spoke to them in Japanese a little bit then. Said something small such as ちょうとたのしですね? But they just stared at me like they had no idea. I couldn't tell if it was just that my accent was so thick or whether seeing this foreign woman speaking Japanese just didn't compute.

One of them produced a bookmark then, and all of them recited, "Thank you for speaking with us. Here is a little gift."

The bookmark is handmade with a little crayon coloring on one side and the date on the other. On the colorful side it says "kaede," or "maple."

Once they had completed their transaction, they took off in a flurry of triumph. On to their next conquest, I guess.

Thereafter, other groups approached us but none were as organized or as thorough as that first group. Others asked only yes-or-no questions and none left me with a little token of our exchange. All ignored Andrew completely.

This might be the highlight of our visit here. I'm struck by this chance human encounter in a place where one of the most inhumane events in history occurred. To see the surprise, concentration, and joy in the kids' faces, to feel the delight in myself at the whimsy and to remember how simple satisfaction is. I believe that most people seek a modest sense of security and subsistence in peace. So, it's difficult for me to understand how whole groups, whole nations, are incited from that small quest to conquests of destruction. I know that the seed is the deficiency of basic sustenance and the manipulation of that honest need in order to feed megolamaniacal purposes. It's just difficult to grasp the power of that mechanism, even as I can see its many-layered forms including the complacency of a too-hard-working populace. Still.... The bookmark is a treasure, a thing I didn't seek that came to me only by chance good will.