Kurako-san: When History's Wounds Meet Human Connection

Kurako-san: When History's Wounds Meet Human Connection

When my grandmother's bitterness toward the imperialists still lingered, Kurako-san came to be a part of my childhood home. A Japanese war bride who spoke no English, she seemed destined to live a cold and lonely life in the concrete suburbs of Los Angeles.

My grandmother had her home and her name stripped away by Japanese Imperialists. As a child in occupied Korea, she had been bullied by Japanese girls at school who called her stupid and subhuman. Though she willingly attended their schools for their higher quality of education, the wounds never healed. "Don't buy their rice cookers or their cars. Nothing Japanese must be in the house!" was her mantra for as long as I could remember.

During their frequent walks to the grocery store, my grandmother and Kurako-san crossed paths many times. One day, Kurako-san finally struck up a conversation with "the other Asian woman" in the neighborhood, her Japanese accent clinging to every word as she talked about gardening and the weather. It was a moment fragile in its simplicity—two women, shaped by different sides of history, finding common ground among flowering plants.

My grandmother, a former North Korean who escaped to South Korea during the war, spoke fluent Japanese—a reluctant inheritance from her colonized childhood. An otherwise bubbly and optimistic woman, her wariness of Japanese authority never left her. If I went out alone in my teens, she'd yell, "The Japanese police are going to kidnap you!" I dismissed her warnings, knowing that whatever happened in 1930s Korea had no bearing on 1990s America.

When I was very young, my grandmother would sit with me and teach me basic Japanese. She knew it was good for me to learn multiple languages, and besides Korean, she had no others to share. What I didn't realize then was how each lesson must have tasted like memory.

Kurako-san found her one and only friend in my grandmother. She would bring over baskets of persimmons grown in her backyard, the fruit's orange skin glowing like tiny suns. They would sit for hours at our dining table, two women carving out a space where history's weight could be set aside, if only briefly.

My grandmother was a minister, although she never led a church, and her colleagues from the religious community would gather at our house every week. Women from the neighborhood would speak in tongues while pounding each others’ back and shoulders with open palms. Their prayers rose like steam in our small living room.

When the group was meeting, I would try not to be noticed lest I be summoned. Tear-soaked hands might be placed on my head as they prayed over my supposedly broken life in unfamiliar languages, while all I wanted was a snack from the kitchen.

Kurako-san wasn't religious, but she found solace in their company. She usually skipped the very intense and presumably frightening prayer sessions but would come by afterward for the food and friendship. Under her breath, my grandmother would occasionally mutter, "This useless Japanese bitch can't do anything for herself." But a few seconds later, she would laugh her big, genuine laugh and hand Kurako-san a plate of homemade Korean food—an offering of peace served with kimchi.

When Kurako-san's husband cheated on her, she came over to cry. Nearly every day, my grandmother consoled her, talking with her in Japanese, letting her stay for as long as she needed, feeding her when grief stole her appetite. My grandmother didn't want to care for her, but she did, maybe even against her will. I could hear her grumbling about the evils of Japanese Imperialists as she looked after a woman who saw her as her dearest friend.

And when Kurako-san appeared in her life—my grandmother wanted so badly to turn a cold shoulder, but she didn’t. She did whatever she could to help. And in turn, Kurako-san loved her. She showered my grandmother with affection, kind words, and all of her time.

Kurako-san passed away last year. I had meant to visit her, but never got around to it. She had always been sweet to me, and her gratitude toward our family was evident. The last I heard, she was telling my mother about how lonely she was after my grandmother had died. She had no one to come and visit her, and she cried, heartbroken every day.

As a young bystander, I witnessed the great heaving struggle it was to love while holding on to a bitter past. Their unlikely friendship taught me that love isn’t easy, and forgiveness isn’t always possible. But connection—raw, imperfect, and human—can still bloom between the cracks of history.

In their story, I saw how holding onto pain and opening to love often coexist. It is a quiet miracle, one that bridges what history tries to divide. Kurako-san and my grandmother were proof of that.