버즈니아 공대 총격사건이 일어난지 정확히 일년이 지났다.
몇일전 화창한 봄날 아무런 생각없이 펼쳐든 신문의 첫장은버지나아 공대 총격 사건의 1주년을 추모하는 행사에 대한 기사였다.그리고 그 기사에 이어 조승희씨 가족들이 사건 이후 겪었던 어려움에 대한 기사는때마침 떨어지기 시작한 벚꽃잎들과 함께 내 마음을 더욱 아프게 했다.힘든 이민 생활을 자식들이 잘되어 가는 것 만을 바라보며 버텨왔던 그의 부모가 겪어야 했던 자절감.그리고 사회적으로 성공한 자리에 한층 가까워져 가던 그의 누이가 겪어야 했던 사회적 편견영어 소통이 원할 하지 못한 부모님을 위하여 모든 수사에서 통역을 하며 이 과정에 충격적인 사실을 부모님에게 전해야만 했을 그녀의 고통...
A Year After Massacre, Family Lives 'in Darkness'Parents of Va. Tech Gunman Secluded
By Sandhya Somashekhar and Sari Horwitz
Washington Post Staff Writers
Saturday, April 12, 2008; A01
Like so many thousands of Virginia Techparents, Sung Tae and Hyang Im Cho spent the day of April 16 callingtheir son's cellphone and sending him e-mails, hoping he hadn't fallenprey to the man who was shooting students and professors at VirginiaTech.
The Chos' fears were confirmed when police officers, FBI agents and a chaplain showed up that night at their Centreville townhouse.
But the news was worse than they had imagined.
Their shy, quiet 23-year-old son was the student gunman who fatally shot 32 people before killing himself.
Nearly a year later, Seung Hui Cho's parents have virtually cut themselves off from the world. Relatives from South Korea have not heard from them. The blinds are always drawn at their home, and several windows are papered over.
The Chos, through an FBI agent who communicates with them regularly, declined a request for an interview.
"They continue to live in darkness," said Wade Smith, a North Carolinalawyer who has been assisting the family. "I think there will come atime when they are able to speak, [but] for now, they have made itclear to me they just want to be quiet and not say anything."
Thefamily went into hiding the night of the shootings, according to theFBI agent, who has been a liaison between the family and lawenforcement in the past year. She related the details of that firstnight on the condition of anonymity because of the sensitivity of theissue.
About 9 or 10 p.m., when a group of law enforcement agentsarrived at the Chos' door, "there were tears right away," the FBI agentsaid.
The agent said she tried to make the Chos and theirdaughter, Sun Kyung, comfortable by asking them to sit together on asofa in the living room. The agent pulled up a chair to face Sun Kyung,who was translating the news into Korean for her parents. The agent satso close that their knees were almost touching. She put her hand on thedaughter's knee and told her that her brother had been shot and killedat Virginia Tech that day.
As that news was sinking in, the agent told them that there was more.
"Itwas extremely difficult," the agent said. "I had to tell a family thattheir son was gone and that he was also responsible for this horrifictragedy."
'Humbled by the Darkness'The story of the Cho family is a familiar one in diverse, immigrant-rich Northern Virginia. Sung Tae and Hyang Im rose from a dank basement apartment in Seoul to an upper-middle-class neighborhood in Fairfax County. They labored six days a week as dry cleaners. Their hard work was rewarded when Sun Kyung was accepted to Princeton University.
Littleis known of the family's life now except that the Chos still live inthe two-story townhouse they bought in 1997, five years after theyimmigrated. Neighbors say they are rarely home and work long hours. SunKyung, 27, works for the State Department's Bureau of Democracy, HumanRights and Labor.
Relatives in South Korea, who used to hear fromSeung Hui Cho's mother on major holidays, say they have not heard fromher since the massacre, the deadliest shooting by an individual in U.S.history.
"I understand why she never called us, even once, sincethe incident," said Kim Yang Soon, Cho's great-aunt, who lives on theoutskirts of Seoul. "It must be too shameful and painful for her to sayanything now."
The night of the tragedy, the Chos packed theirbags after the agent warned them that they would be the subject ofintense public scrutiny. After leaving their home about midnight, theChos moved around the Washington area, packing up every time it seemedthat reporters might find them, the agent said. They turned off theircellphones to stay even more isolated from the public. In the meantime,they were answering authorities' questions about their son.
On April 18, when NBCaired the hate-filled video that Cho had mailed to the network, hisparents and sister were as shocked as anyone. Two days later, the Chosmade their only public comments. "We are humbled by this darkness," SunKyung wrote in a statement released to news organizations.
Then, silence.
Reporterswho had spent days camped out at the home left, describing thetownhouse as abandoned. Neighbors and others speculated that the Choshad fled permanently.
But months later, neighbors said, the family quietly returned to Centreville.
Awareof the Chos' desire for solitude, several neighbors and acquaintancessaid they did not try to speak to the couple or offer help.
"Itwas very, very obvious they didn't want to be contacted by anyone,"said Jeff Ahn, president of the League of Korean Americans in Virginia, who knew Seung Hui Cho's father through his work in the dry-cleaning business.
'We Just Did Not Know'In early August, the Chos granted an interview -- not to the media but to the panel appointed by Gov. Timothy M. Kaine (D) to investigate the tragedy.
Atan undisclosed private home in Northern Virginia, they poured out theirhearts to Aradhana A. "Bela" Sood, medical director of a children'streatment center at Virginia Commonwealth University and a member of the Virginia Tech Review Panel.
Inthe emotional three-hour interview, Hyang Im described her struggle tosocialize Seung Hui, who rarely spoke as a child in South Korea andwithdrew even more after the family came to the United States when hewas 8.
Hyang Im, with her daughter translating, told Sood how shehad tried unsuccessfully to find friends for her son. She later turnedto psychiatry, despite the stigma -- in Korean and American cultures --of mental illness. She and her husband worried when Seung Hui decided,against the advice of a counselor, to go away to Blacksburg.
Theparents told Sood about their shock when they learned, after his death,of his violent writings; the red flags raised by professors andstudents who said they were afraid of him; and his briefhospitalization after a judge determined he was a suicide risk.
Hadthey known, "we would have taken him home and made him miss a semesterto get this looked at," the Chos told Sood. "But we just did not know .. . about anything being wrong."
Sood felt a "great sense of empathy and sympathy for them," she recalled this week.
"Itwas, by any description, a very poignant and touching interview," shesaid. "It was a double whammy for them, losing a son and then not beingable to grieve in a traditional sense because of his actions."
Soodsaid she is not surprised that the Chos have declined to speak publiclyor accept offers of help from friends and family. Most parents feelresponsible for the actions of their children, she said, a feeling thatwould be amplified in collectivist Asian families.
Moreover, she said, some kinds of grief can seem too intense for any kind of solace.
"Inthat circumstance, there would be a feeling of, what can people do tohelp you?" she said. "There is nothing that can be done."
Cho's great-aunt in South Korea began to weep as she imagined Hyang Im's pain.
"Myheart aches for my niece as I think about what she could have beengoing through, to pick up the pieces and carry on with life," Kim YangSoon said.
On Wednesday, a shaken Virginia Tech community willgather at the university to remember the students and professors whodied in Cho's rampage exactly one year before. There will be acandlelight vigil at dusk. Each of Cho's 32 victims will be honored,their names read during a ceremony on the Drillfield.
Cho's name will not be mentioned.
Butthe breadth of human compassion has room for people such as Cho. For atime, some family members of Cho's victims considered reaching out tohis parents. "We said amongst ourselves, 'They've lost a son, too,' "said Andrew Goddard of Richmond, whose son Colin was shot but survived.
Animpromptu memorial, a semicircle of stones, that was assembled on theDrillfield shortly after the shootings initially had 33 stones,including one for Cho.
Over the past year, the university hasreceived a flood of letters, Bibles, teddy bears and other condolencesfor the dead, including Cho.
"I remember that there were a lot of letters of forgiveness," said Tamara Kennelly, the university's archivist.
TheFBI helped deliver to Cho's family hundreds of letters and other itemsleft at Virginia Tech, the FBI agent said. Some of the letterscontained threats, blaming them for what happened. But most were filledwith prayers and words of comfort and sympathy, assuring them that whattheir son did was not their fault.
Church groups from across thecountry also sent prayer quilts, shawls and blankets that members hadcrocheted with prayers pinned into the corners. "May our prayers keepyou warm," some said.
"They've been overwhelmed with the supportthey have received from complete strangers," the agent said. "They area very warm, loving and giving family. Now they are trying to get theirlives back on track."
Researcher Meg Smith and staff writersDavid Cho, Amy Gardner, Tom Jackman, Chris Jenkins and Cecilia Kangcontributed to this report. Special correspondent Stella Kim reportedfrom South Korea.
