2025 Sejong Writing Competition
Winning Entries :: Essays :: Senior third place (tie)
Title: Aeneas
Perhaps one of the most renowned stories in literature is the legendary epic “Aeneid.” As the Greeks sack Troy, Aeneas—a Trojan prince and our protagonist—flees, carrying his father on his back and leading his people toward a preordained destiny. However, left behind was everything he held dear to himself: his homeland, his past, and even his lover Dido. Upon Aeneas’s sudden departure, Dido is thrown into a bout of despair as she writhes between love and anger until she suddenly becomes resolute. As a great fire burns behind her, she throws herself upon a blade, cursing Aeneas with her dying breath in a final act of indignation. In much the same way, Dr. Yi cries, ”Havoc!” upon his past, abandoning both his allegiances and his family in the name of survival. Yet, Aeneas’s cowardly act allowed him to create Rome, and Dr. Yi’s cowardly act granted him survival. In such a quandary, an elementary explanation is simply impossible, and thus, I shall not pretend to a minute description of Dr. Yi. Yet, I am in earnest; and I will try. So, our little Aeneas, who art thou?
Although Dr. Yi’s pragmatism most likely saved his life, it also killed him. In Yi’s pursuit of survival, he abandoned the very quality that constitutes one's character: principle. He condemned himself and his family to a life devoid of direction and purpose. Simply put, one’s beliefs define their identity, yet if that person forsakes their beliefs for survival, they lose themselves, thereby making survival meaningless. Dr. Yi was so averse to death and pain, he abandoned his nationality, his countrymen, and even his family. The death of his wife and the disappearance of his son did nothing to change his attitude towards the Japanese invaders, for his fascination with survival overrode his principles. No one sits idly while their home gets ransacked and pillaged, yet that is exactly what Dr. Yi did. So, a question emerges: is death so abominable that it justifies ceding principle? To the contemporary reader, no, for abandoning principle is equivalent to abandoning oneself. To the contemporary reader, martyrdom is noble. To the contemporary reader, the ideal man shakes his fist, chanting his barbaric yawp into the teeth of the world in true Promethean fashion. In Henry Thoreau’s words, "Disobedience is the true foundation of liberty. The obedient must be slaves."
In 1910, Japan annexed Korea, sparking a thirty-five-year period of subjugation, colonization, and barbarousness. The empire of Japan made it a priority to eliminate and stifle Korean culture. The Korean language was banned in teaching and official settings, protest was brutally suppressed, and hundreds of thousands of Korean women were forced into sexual slavery. Thus, it is not surprising that Korean people hold a certain animosity for the Japanese, especially older Koreans who were on the vanguard of Japanese oppression. In other words, Dr. Yi was a Japanese apologist—or 친일파—who abandoned his nationality and culture. Conversely, most older Koreans hold a strong affinity for loyalty and patriotism, which stems from a long legacy of Confucian values embedded within Korean history. Yi’s ability to move between powers, aligning with those in control rather than standing firm in resistance, is emblematic of the kind of opportunism that many Koreans, especially in the post-war years, despised. Thus, in the eyes of older Koreans, Yi is not shrewd or practical—he is a spineless coward.
Yet, there is no denying the inherent logic of Dr. Yi’s adaptability. Contemporary readers in the U.S. are allowed the comfort of political stability, and although this solidity wanes, it has endured for the past thirty years or so. It is from this equanimity that U.S. inhabitants are afforded the agency to advocate for their beliefs. Conversely, Yi was not afforded this luxury. Indeed, the political landscape in which Kapitan Ri takes place proved unforgiving to protest. As South Korea’s leadership changed hands, first from the Japanese and then to the Russians, dissent was expressly disapproved. Thus, practicality verifies Dr. Yi’s pragmatism as optimal. His adaptability, while opportunistic, reflects the reality that not everyone can be a hero—many are simply trying to endure. While his choices may not be admirable, they are understandable, for we all are men, in our own natures frail, and capable of our flesh; few are angels.
History does not tolerate those who hesitate, nor does it reward those who remain still. It is a raging current, dragging men like Dr. Yi through its depths, spitting them out wherever the tide decrees. To both the older Korean and the contemporary reader in the U.S., Yi is no more than flotsam, a man who surrendered to the waves rather than fight against them, an emblem of a generation that knelt when it should have stood. Though time and culture separate these perspectives, they converge upon the same truth: survival without principle is not survival at all, but a slow, hollow death. Yet in this condemnation, a theme emerges—one that stretches beyond Yi himself. War does not distinguish between good and evil, only the victors and the lost, and in its wake, the lines between honor and disgrace blur. It demands unwavering allegiance from those beneath it, yet the world it creates is one where loyalty is a liability and adaptation is the only means of endurance. Kapitan Ri forces us to ask whether morality is a fixed entity or a privilege of those not pressed against the edge of a blade. Yi does not revel in his betrayals—he merely understands their necessity. And so, the question remains: is he a coward, or is he simply a man who knew better than to drown? Perhaps the truth is neither. Perhaps, as with all things touched by war, the answer is not meant to be clear at all.