Chapter 12: The Wall
It started with a wall.
Not a symbolic wall. A real one. The kind every school in Korea had: painted, plain, and largely ignored. Until we decided to use it.
I was in high school, full of conviction and still finding my voice. Along with three close friends, we had been reading outside of class. Books like Hwandan Gogi and Samguk Yusa, which told a broader, prouder version of Korea's early history than what we found in our textbooks.
Those books weren't considered "mainstream history." Some dismissed them as pseudo-history. At the time, we didn't know or care. We believed we had found the truth that had been buried or ignored. And we believed it was our duty to speak up.
So we formed an informal student group, completely unsanctioned, and started writing.
Our first "publication" appeared overnight: handwritten manifestos on large sheets of paper taped directly to the main corridor wall. We wrote about the Gojoseon kingdom's true boundaries, ancient Korean cultural achievements omitted from textbooks, and connections to Manchuria our official history downplayed.
Students gathered, some curious, others dismissive. A few asked questions. Most just whispered and moved on. But they were talking. And that was enough.
We weren't trying to start a revolution. But we wanted people to think. To feel something.
When the school found out, everything changed.
I was called to the principal's office. The look on his face wasn't just anger, it was fear. Fear of disruption. Fear of attention. Fear of having to explain why his students were staging a one-wall protest over ancient history.
"Do you understand the position you've put me in?" the principal asked, his voice controlled but tense.
He told me what we did was unacceptable. That we were spreading misinformation. That we were violating school policy and setting a bad example. He used words like "insubordination" and "disciplinary action."
Then he summoned my father.
I thought I was done.
I sat in silence as the principal laid out the case. He spoke with formality, but there was heat under every word. When he was finished, my father nodded, thanked him, and promised to talk to me.
That promise saved me from suspension.
But what happened next surprised me.
On the way home, my dad didn't yell. He didn't scold me or lecture me about consequences. He said, "I'm proud of you for caring about something that matters. And I'm proud you had the courage to speak up."
Then he paused and said, "I don't agree with your view. But that's not the point. I want you to keep reading, keep learning, keep challenging your thinking. Just don't do it in a way that gets you expelled."
He smiled when he said it. Not a big grin, just a knowing one.
His response disarmed me. I expected punishment. Instead, I got permission to think more deeply.
But as I kept researching, something unexpected happened. I found scholars who convincingly challenged the very texts I had championed. I discovered nuances I had overlooked. The black-and-white certainty I'd felt began to dissolve into shades of gray.
This wasn't comfortable. It's easier to be certain than to stay curious. Easier to defend a position than to evolve it.
Over the next few months, I kept reading. I explored counterarguments. I talked to teachers quietly, asked more nuanced questions. I started to see the holes in my earlier position, and also the value in parts of it.
I didn't land where I started, but I arrived at something more thoughtful. Something more humble.
That day I learned something about leadership that would guide me for decades:
Real leadership doesn't come from being right. It comes from creating space for people to think, evolve, and find their own path to wisdom.
My father didn't shut down my thinking or demand I conform to his views. He gave me room to be wrong, and the encouragement to keep searching. The best leaders don't just tolerate different perspectives - they create environments where people can think authentically, speak honestly, and still belong, even when they start from a place you disagree with.