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one, to thank some American for what our country had done for him and his people, for bringing them freedom and independence. I bowed in acceptance and, with all sincerity, thanked him for his words. We bowed together one last time and I departed.
Mr, Carrigan sits down now. The minister gives a short prayer and we rise and sing The Star Spangled Banner. A sudden whooirit ripples from the edge of the lake and overhead a glorious starburst erupts to the accompaniment of a loud crack. Fireworks over Namsan Mountain in Seoul every August 15th celebrate Korea’s liberation from Japan. I do not know if the old monk, tucked up there in his little mountain valley, ever had the chance to tell his story to an American before. But somehow, I do not think the fervor of his voice would diminish with repetition. Historically, intellectually, I have always understood that the significance of our independence day resonates far beyond our own borders. Now, thanks to rfh old monk who never gave his name, I know, in my heart what American independence means to the free and freedom loving peoples or our world.
I have felt proud to be an American many times: the day my parents pinned my new lieutenant’s bars on men, the day I got my army master parachutist wings, the day our jets opened the battle to liberate Kuwait, the day our soldiers restored Haiti to its people. But I do not think I can ever be prouder of being an American than I did in Korea that October day in 1985, in that small Buddhist temple.
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