We waited for our flight out of my home country. Those few minutes seemed to last forever. Frightened by my father's tense and fearful gestures. Customs agents checked our bags thoroughly, even slicing open the linings of our luggage. Men in black suits and dark sunglasses hounded us, whispering into tiny lapel microphones. My father's weak smile, intended to reassure me and my siblings, only succeeded in turning my stomach. I accidentally farted, but no one cracked a joke—not even my younger brother. Waiting for the airplane to start rolling, too young to know that we were political refugees.
In his retirement, K.G. Song has been writing a memoir of his life, spanning many countries and continents, over many turbulent historical events.