Not as a Giver but as a Receiver

Fathers share a common sentiment: the desire to pass on the most valuable lessons from their past experiences to their children. In the winter of 1999, my father wanted to show something special to his son who had recently completed the college entrance exams. It was the heart of Seoul, a city he had helped build over half his lifetime working as a banker.

Early in the morning, we boarded an express bus to Seoul. Our first destination was Gwanghwamun, mainly because I had always wanted to visit the Kyobo Book Centre. I heard it was a colossal bookstore underground at Gwanghwamun, with an endless selection of books. Seeing it in person surpassed everything I had heard. For someone like me, who had only been to local bookshops for textbooks, Kyobo Book Centre was a revelation. The foreign books section, in particular, left a lasting impression with its abundance of English books printed on fine-quality paper, something I had not had easy access to before.

After spending considerable time at the bookstore, lunchtime approached, and we moved near the City Hall to a Chinese restaurant run by a Chinese-Korean family. My father mentioned it was a place he often visited during his working days. The interior was lavishly decorated in red, and he recommended a dish called “Peking duck,” which unfortunately wasn’t available that day due to a lack of ingredients. Instead, we tried a noodle dish with an unfamiliar name. For someone whose experience with Chinese food was limited to Jajangmyeon (black bean sauce noodles), Jjamppong (spicy seafood noodle soup), and Tangsuyuk (sweet and sour pork), this was a novel culinary adventure.

Next, we headed towards Seoul Station. The brisk, dry weather made us bundle up more. Although we contemplated taking the bus or subway, we decided to walk, embracing the journey despite the chill. Seoul Station Plaza was a mix of millennium-end excitement and the remnants of the IMF financial crisis that had swept our country a few years prior. On one side, churchgoers were fervently preaching repentance for salvation to passersby with their voices amplified to the point of bursting. On the other, those who seemed in need of salvation themselves were staggering in isolation, possibly once family to someone but now lost to despair, gathering in small groups for makeshift drinking sessions. I had seen such scenes on TV while eating in the school cafeteria, but confronting them in person was starkly different.

The sight of homeless people hastily consuming food caught my eye. They seemed to be surviving on bread and milk, presumably from a blood donation center. Unknowingly, I paused to look at them, and my father, hands clasped behind his back, quietly asked me, “Do they seem pitiful to you?” I nodded, and he continued in a matter-of-fact tone, “Remember, the blood they donate after being hungry could one day save your life.” That moment struck me profoundly, challenging everything I thought I knew. To me, homeless individuals were people to help, not ones who could potentially save lives, including mine. As I aspired to become a doctor, hoping to someday heal others with the knowledge and skills I would acquire, I hadn’t considered that I might also be on the receiving end of such life-saving generosity.

The concept of giving back is beautiful — it signifies compassion, warmth, and even a sense of nobility. However, it can also make us forget the gifts we’ve received. The notion often carries an underlying message: “I am sharing what I have earned with you, the less fortunate.” But no one truly thrives in isolation. Especially for those who have learned and earned, it’s essential to recognize that we are merely returning a portion of what we’ve received. A significant shift in perspective is necessary, along with the courage to embrace it.

That day, my father’s words redefined the path I intended to take as a doctor. It wasn’t about giving but returning. “As someone who has received, not as a giver, where do I stand?” The answer to that question has become the direction of my journey.