Van Gogh Reborn!

Chapter 240:

240

It wasn’t there, but it appeared (8)

“Exactly. Why not?”

The answer to why terrorism and discrimination cannot be justified is clear.

“Because it takes away the freedom of others.”

“Grandpa thinks so too. Everyone can speak and act freely, but only as long as they don’t harm others.”

Only those who respect the freedom of others can truly receive respect for their own freedom.

“All conflicts start from there. It would be great if we could understand and respect each other, but if we want to infringe, we can’t avoid it.”

I can’t just sit still when someone violates my freedom.

I think I know why Grandpa explained the French position.

For them, their freedom was violated, so they had to be hostile.

Is it right to respond with moderation to the extreme act of killing civilians?

If the other side doesn’t think so, they will only suffer.

I’m getting more worried.

Grandpa waited quietly.

“I don’t know exactly what kind of people Muslims are.”

“Grandpa doesn’t either. They are divided into Sunni and Shia, and within that, they are divided into many branches.”

“What about the people who commit terrorism?”

“They are called Islamic extremists rather than sects.”

The word ‘divide’ means that there are Muslims who don’t do that, so the problem lies with the Islamic extremists.

Their actions might provoke resentment.

“I don’t understand.”

“What part?”

“Why do Islamic extremists terrorize places that are not Islamic countries? It’s a simple crime, so there’s no need to worry.”

“Hmm.”

“Why do Muslims living in France do that? If they don’t like French society, they can live separately.”

“Many people fled to Europe because of the wars and civil wars between Islamic countries. They looked for jobs in the countries that colonized them in the past.”

It’s absurd.

Did France also have the ghost of imperialism?

“Hoon.”

“Yes.”

“I tried to be objective, but I spoke badly of Muslims. At least Grandpa thinks so. They are really bad guys.”

“Yes.”

“But is that completely equivalent to the discrimination issue?”

“Do you mean it’s a different issue?”

“Yes. Grandpa thinks we should respond strongly to terrorism. It’s a matter of life and death for me and you.”

Grandpa sincerely thinks so.

He seriously considered staying at the Marsonne house because of the safety from the terrorist threat.

“But hate crimes are not justified. It’s true that hatred arose from Muslim terrorism, but that’s not the only reason.”

“Then?”

“Well. But seeing that it’s the same for Asians, I don’t think terrorism is the only reason.”

“I don’t understand.”

When I lived in France in the past, Asian countries were mysterious places.

A world I had never experienced before.

My previous generation admired Eastern Europe, and in my time, many artists were inspired by East Asian culture like ukiyo-e.

Discrimination and hatred.

I can’t understand.

“Racists don’t hate Muslims only. Grandpa also gets ignored sometimes, you know.”

“Are you serious?”

Grandpa was respected wherever he went in the world.

Someone always came to pick him up at the airport, and some countries even booked a place for him.

It’s hard to believe that Grandpa was discriminated against.

“Have you ever seen Grandpa lie to you?”

I shook my head and Grandpa sighed deeply.

“Now that my name is known, there are no people who do it openly, but I can definitely say. They still exist. That’s why I hesitated to send you to study abroad too early.”

He was worried that I would experience something I shouldn’t at such a young age.

“Grandpa can’t tolerate the actions of Islamic extremists. How can I accept those who say they have to kill anyone who goes against their doctrine?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t want to defend the racists. It’s because of what my grandfather went through.”

“…”

“So I hope you don’t accept the two problems as each other’s cause and effect.”

It wouldn’t be without influence.

But my grandfather warns me not to justify the two types of crimes because of the other’s actions.

“Many smart people have thought about it, but nothing has changed.”

An unsolvable conflict.

“But, grandfather thinks like this.”

“How?”

“Even if we think we can never understand each other, there are definitely emotions that all humanity shares. I wonder if that’s the only way to understand each other.”

If they knew that others were not different from themselves, they wouldn’t hate them so much.

Would the Islamic extremists and the racists try to understand others?

If they did, would the situation have reached this point?

But if there is a very small hope, I should rely on the universal emotions that my grandfather said.

Whether they are Europeans, Muslims, or Koreans, their hearts would swell when they see the beautiful scenery.

There must be something that humans feel, even if they live in different worlds, such as the love of parents for their children, the friendship between friends, or the thirst for their dreams.

At the very least, would there be anyone who hates chocolate and snacks?

I want to believe that there is no one who hates music and art.

It’s sad that they fill their lives, which are already lacking in love, with terror and discrimination.

I’m angry.

The wounded will not be comforted in any way until they are severely punished.

As someone who was crushed under the huge power of the state, religion, society, and group, I want to comfort them somehow.

There would surely be people who curse me for that.

Because it’s unfair.

It would look like I’m comforting the same bastards.

But I want to embrace even those who think that way. Because they are also wounded.

“It’s hard.”

“It is.”

How hard would it be to make everyone interested in this difficult story?

But I have to do it.

The pity for the victims of terror and their families, and the sympathy for Vida Rabbani, who can’t even live a normal life, are all my emotions.

I can’t lie to myself and draw any picture without feeling uneasy.

I decided on the direction of my next work.

Saturday.

I prepared a desk and an easel for Vida Rabbani, and put some snacks on them. As I was sketching, it was lunchtime.

My grandfather sent me a text message to come up and eat, so I climbed the stairs.

Following the sweet and rich smell, I reached the kitchen and saw a full table of food.

“What is all this?”

Beef rib stew, cabbage kimchi, and salad. It was different from what I usually ate.

“I paid more attention because a friend was coming.”

“You must be busy.”

It was a pity that my grandfather had prepared it for me.

I picked up a spoonful of salad and tasted it. The nutty flavor was deep.

“It’s delicious.”

“Do you like it?”

“Yes. It’s good.”

My grandfather also tasted it and nodded.

“Is it sesame?”

“It’s tahini. I bought it because they said they eat it a lot in Arabia. It’s not bad.”

It would have been nice if I had a way to contact him, but it was unfortunate.

I guessed how hard my grandfather had worked to prepare food that Vida Rabbani could eat.

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t sure when he would come.”

“No. It’s fine. We can eat it ourselves. Let’s sit down and eat.”

I sat down facing my grandfather.

“Let’s eat.”

I bit a piece of rib stew and the beef melted softly under the greasy sauce.

The thick aroma spread in my mouth and made me dizzy.

“It’s delicious.”

“Ha ha. Grandfather can cook now, right?”

“You could be a chef.”

“Ha ha ha. You. Eat some kimchi too.”

“Yes.”

The kimchi you made before was too salty to eat, but the recent one you pickled is excellent.

Especially when eaten with braised ribs or boiled pork, it enhances the taste of the kimchi I know so much that I wonder if it’s the same one.

The meat and the sauce are so tender and flavorful that they cool down my mouth. I can keep eating if I alternate between them.

“I enjoyed the meal.”

“Are you done?”

“Yes. I can’t eat any more.”

I felt like my stomach was going to burst, so I took a break and got off the chair.

I collected the plates from the table and put the leftover food in the food waste disposal. I put the empty plates in the dishwasher.

When I closed the side dish container and put it in the refrigerator, Grandpa smiled.

“You’ve grown up. You’ve grown up a lot.”

“Of course. That’s why I’m going to take turns cooking with you now.”

“That’s dangerous. What if you cut your hand with a knife?”

I had been bothered by Grandpa being the only one to set the table, so I seized the opportunity, but he didn’t buy it.

Cleaning and laundry are all done by machines, so the only housework left is dusting, hanging laundry, and walking the dog. But even that is uncomfortable for Grandpa.

I do what I can, but it doesn’t please Grandpa.

“So. How’s your idea coming along?”

“I’m thinking about this and that, but I can’t figure it out.”

“It might help to see how other writers handled it.”

“Right. I’ve been looking around, but Guernica keeps catching my eye.”

“Hmm.”

Pablo Picasso’s , depicting the people wounded and screaming from the Nazi bombing.

It’s a work that bluntly portrays the victims of the massive violence.

“A Nazi soldier asked Picasso. Did you paint Guernica?”

If it were Picasso, he would have proudly said he did, even with a gun barrel in front of him.

“What did he say?”

“No. It’s a painting you guys made.”

“…That’s Picasso for you.”

Vroom- Vroom

I checked my smartphone, admiring the anecdote Grandpa told me.

“It’s Michelle.”

Grandpa nodded his head and told me to answer quickly.

“Yes, Michelle.”

-Hoon, do you know what happened to Rabbani?

“No. What’s going on?”

-Rabbani is very sick. I got a call from his mother this morning and it seems more serious than I thought.

I gasped.

“What? What’s wrong with him?”

-Well… Don’t be shocked. Is Grandpa with you?

“Yes. We’re listening together.”

-He got in trouble for painting the Guardian of Freedom.

“The painting got him in trouble?”

-From their point of view, he painted an idol. It seems like some people beat him up. Badly.

I was so shocked that I couldn’t speak.

-You don’t have to come, but I’ll send you the hospital address.

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