In Tsaoliang, 200 yards across from the Pusan train station is the area where most of Pusan's Chinese are concentrated. The middle school, primary school, Overseas Chinese Association, Chinese Medicine Hospital and Chinese restaurants are all neighbors there. With strong efforts by the Korean Government to alter the face of the city, except for that street sign reading, "Ching Hall Street," the flavor of Chinatown is weakening.

On the slope behind Tsaoliang is a forest of modern apartment buildings. Walking up the winding small lanes and alleys toward the top and pushing open the large double wooden doors, that is Chunghsiao village. Beside the door is hung a plaque with the calligraphy of Ambassador Wang Dong Yuan. Above the door live three families, in ground floor, mid-level, and upper family compounds. Because of additional construction and piled-up odds and ends, it feels very crowded.

By the old doors are hung Chunghsiao's wooden tablets. Most young people aspire to go beyond these doors, out into the world to further their educations.

Three families, one hall:

Every morning Wang Lan-ting--Uncle Wang--draws running water to fill the large water barrel in front of each household. The consumption of more than 50 families depends on this single water pipe. A worker delivers coal for burning to each home. Each time he carries up one load he receives 500 Korean won in moving expenses (about 17 NT dollars) per level (the houses are built in small clusters on ascending terraces). Inside the courtyard colorful Korean style blankets are being hung out to dry in the sun, and half-closed doors bring forth the sound of a Korean mother singing a little tune.

Han Chan-lin, the 74 old village mayor, explains "In the past we had an unwritten rule here that houses could only be rented or sold to Chinese. It is just that now many have married Korean wives and that is why there are people speaking Korean." At present one half of the people who live here are waiters or cooks working in Chinese restaurants. The second largest number are elderly people whose children have all emigrated, and there are also a few teachers from local schools who stay because it is more convenient.

The main reason people stay is that it is cheap. It costs five times as much at the bottom of the mountain for a similarly sized house. In addition work in the restaurants means going out late and coming back late. All the people in the village are Chinese and there are also teachers present so that parents can leave their children alone at home without worrying. This place had become a temporary refuge for Chinese having a hard time getting by.

But the houses are really very small. When you push open the front door the front area is less than one meter deep and is filled by a gas stove and sink. Pulling open the paper door, in the sleeping area of less than 180 square feet, after discounting the space for the closet and the appliances, there is only enough room for three people to sleep shoulder to shoulder. This cubicle serves as the living room in the daytime, the cafeteria at lunchtime and the bedroom at night. "It's hard to imagine there is still a place like this in Korea's second largest city," sighs Sun Yuan-ling, who has opened a painting classroom with her husband in Tsaoliang. She adds, "Even though I live here, even today I can't really understand it. How could ten or more people live in a place like this?"

In front of the houses, with their iron roofs and wood room dividers, are a rank of water barrels for a day's worth of drinking water for a family.

Three years of war:

They live like refugees, and in fact most of them were fleeing from the fires of war.

On June 25, 1950 the Korean War broke out, and North Korean forces occupied the South sector by sector; ordinary people--including the overseas Chinese--began to flee south. In October, United Nations Forces liberated Seoul and schools reopened, but in January of the following year the military situation reversed again and North Korean forces moved all the way down to Taegu. Pusan became the only location to which the war had not spread and the government, schools and ordinary citizens all flooded in.

Chin Li-lan, who was twelve at the time, recalls his parents herding along he and his five siblings, hiding during the day, hurrying along the road at night, with corpses all along the way . . . . Each day when stopping for a rest, seeing the whole family still present, his father would say "God protects us."

The overseas Chinese having become refugees, after discussions between then Ambassador Wang Tung-yuan and the American military base at Pusana supply of lumber was brought in to construct this refuge. First priority was given to teachers and civil servants with one room for each family of seven people or less, or two rooms if there were more than seven. It was crowded, but was at any rate better than a tent.

The war lasted three years. The hard won possessions of Shantungese, who had originally fled to Korea to escape continuous years war in China, were turned into dust. With the loss of the mainland they could not return home either. Chin Li-lan describes how his mother reacted after she heard someone tell her that everything they owned in Pyongyang had been destroyed: "She didn't cry. It's just that all the fight went out of her, and she was melancholy until the day she died."

A 180-square-foot "big" room only has this small space left after the closet is in place. The record was ten people living in such a room.

First choice is Taiwan:

In the residential compound where living is close, there is an especially strong traditional ambiance. In particular, over Chinese New Year each family prepares Shantung date pastries. Each one is a straight tube 40 centimeters long. There is one placed on each level of the steamer. And if dates can't be bought, then dough balls are colored red and used instead. The fish hanging out to dry below the houses wobble in the wind, pointing toward a new day.

Nevertheless Shantungese are basically conservative and stubborn. They feel that China is a superior nation and their sense of cultural superiority is deeply rooted. Even if it is the second or third generation that has been born here, they still read Chinese texts and speak Chinese without giving it a second thought. They carry passports from the Republic of China and marry other Chinese. There hasn't been any assimilation to speak of. This is not only because the Korean Government has restrictions in which property or personal talents must meet their needs in order to receive citizenship. Even more important is that once assimilated they would have to abandon their original nationality. Therefore, the document they all carry is a continuous resident permit which must be extended in person every three years. "Each year when I change the calendar, the first thing I'll mark out is the date for extending the permit; this is even more important than birthdays," stresses Sun Yuan-ling.

Despite the fact that those with foreign status can have the same preferences in entering universities as are enjoyed by the children of diplomats, in order to realize the ideal of Chinese studying Chinese texts, the rate at which second- and third-generation overseas Chinese returned to Taiwan to attend university was as high as 80 percent right up through the 1980's. "The students who did well all went back to Taiwan," states Li Kuan-chun, who lives in Tsaoliang and studied in university locally in order to carry on his father's Chinese medicine business.

Cheng Shou-chins, who serves in Li's Chinese medicine hospital, adds that as soon as they got to high school, his classmates all talked about what it would be like going to Taiwan in the future; it seemed like the greatest wish a person could have. He had been forced to go out into society because his family lacked the wherewithal to allow him to go on in school. He most fears winter and summer vacations--classmates and neighbors come back from Taiwan talking about Taiwan's weather and bringing scarce pineapples, bananas and melons. His mind turns with mixed feelings. This longing for Taiwan stimulates the heart and mind of each child in the village. This means that though they are born and grow up in Korea, most of them speak very poor Korean.

This one meter wide addition is where the three daily meals are cooked.

First send the vanguard:

Sending the children back to the home country is also a natural outcome of another traditional view held by parents--the hope that they will get married in Taiwan, so that their children will not have to marry a "hook shoes" (Korean girl) or their daughters to marry an "Ah Li Lang" (Korean boy). If they do in fact establish a home and business in Taiwan, they become the vanguard troops for the rest of the family to return home to stay. Tung Wen-chang, who currently lives in Taipei, recalls that that is what her parents encouraged her to do. Li Kuan-chun is the only one among his high school classmates who is still in Korea; even his younger sisters have all married into Taiwan. This example makes the other parents in Chunghsiao village envious.

Sun Pi-yang, a teacher in the Pusan Middle School, is a "model" among them. His four children are a National Taiwan University dentist, a Chung Hsing University lawyer, a graduate of the Accounting Department at Chengkung University, and his youngest will graduate from Chung-shan Medical College. "The oldest has opened a clinic in Yungho and bought a house. When I have finished providing for the youngest, I will retire to Taiwan, and then I will have no other desires," states Sun.

These two public toilets are the most familiar - and most inconvenient - places to Chunghsiao residents.

The side door is always open:

Besides those who go to Taiwan to study and do not return, 15 years ago there was an even bigger movement out of Chunghsiao village--emigration to the United States. "A lot of my old friends had been saying hello just a few days before and within a few more days they had emigrated," says Sun Pi-yang, who can quickly reel off a list of more than ten names. Analyzing the reasons, Chu Po-ling, who has served as assistant director of the Seoul Overseas Chinese Association, points out, "The main thing is fear of war and also the increasing number of limits Korea places on foreigners."

In the 1970's North Korea repeatedly threatened the South and dug many tunnels. At that time a joke was making the rounds that this time the North Koreans would definitely come by boat because last time only Pusan, at the southernmost tip, did not fall. For those overseas Chinese who personally experienced the Korean War, there is nothing funny about this joke. Add to this that the restaurant business in Korea was not doing well while chefs were welcomed in the United States as specialists, and Korean overseas Chinese rushed toward this safer place. According to statistics of Korean Chinese in the United States, they have established more than 2,000 restaurants on the West Coast alone. These include people from Chunghsiao village.

Some old people also followed their sons and daughters to emigrate in order to return to their old homes in Shantung from the United States. "In those days the side door was always open," is how Han Chan-lin describes it. This is because the main gate of Chunghsiao village is only a small path large enough for two people to squeeze through. If you want to move house it is necessary to go around the back of the mountain, which is to say, through the side door.

The number of overseas Chinese has in this way gone from more than 40,000 in the 60's to 22,000 while the head count in Pusan has dropped from more than 10,000 to 2,800.

Like overseas Chinese elsewhere, Korean overseas Chinese often run restaurants. But the scale is very small.

Stifled and passive:

Those who haven't left still have to make their way here. "Overseas Chinese in other areas often produce entrepreneurs or scientists, but we Korean Chinese haven't produced anyone," laments an oldtimer. The reason is that Korean Chinese are under too many restrictions. For example, shops cannot exceed 1800 square feet and total land cannot surpass 7200 square feet. Residences are only for personal use and cannot be rented out. Chinese cannot own more than half the stock in trading companies and it is necessary for Koreans to have a controlling interest. Further, foreigners cannot become civil servants, lawyers or accountants.

Yang Chao-li, who has a graduate degree in education, ended up working as the boss and chef in a restaurant for eight years after being unable to find suitable employment. It was only last year that he was able to put his studies to use by becoming principal of the Pusan Primary School. "Life is very passive!" says Yang sharply, thinking about the limits to his development.

According to a survey done by the Overseas Chinese Rights Commission in Korea, it can be discovered that if the living environment in Korea does not improve, only 30% of the overseas Chinese would choose to remain.

"Unless there's a family business to pass along, or one has parents or siblings to look after, who would ever come back?" As a result one of the special features of the Chinese remaining in Chung-hsiao village is that there are a great many eldest sons. "To be the oldest! There's always responsibility for the family so they get buried here," explains Fan Yan-ming, himself a first born.

"That's not the limit to the difficulties, it's also really brutal trying to find a wife!" says Chin Li-lan, appealing on behalf of all the young men. Because the girls mostly look down on the local Korean Chinese, this had led to an ever increasing proportion of Korean wives and mothers. In this kind of family the level of the Chinese of the children is naturally not up to what it was before. Add to this that restrictions on overseas students in Taiwan have become increasingly strict, not only reducing the quotas but also stipulating that overseas Chinese cannot remain in Taiwan after graduating, and these have caused the proportion of Chinese children testing for Korean universities to reach around 50% in recent years.

What we call "Chinese medicine" and the Koreans call "Korean medicine" is the occupation with the best potential for overseas Chinese here.

Treated as equals neither home nor abroad:

Nevertheless things change. Korean Chinese who did not have a sense of security to start with last year had to face the shock of the break in diplomatic relations between Korea and the ROC.

When you open the newspaper, the title "Republic of China" has been changed to Taiwan. And the bar strip just below the village is now filled mostly with Russian and mainland Chinese sailors. Chinese restaurants now hang Chinese and Russian menus out. In the village mailboxes you can find the Shantung Overseas Chinese Report sent from the mainland. And then there was the incident of the lowering of the flag at an overseas Chinese primary school in Seoul, more than 400 kilometers distant.

On the surface there has been no major change in life in Chunghsiao village, but that insecurity in people's minds has increased. And facing the debate in Taiwan over reunification and independence, they worry "if the island becomes independent and the Republic of China just becomes a historical label, then what are we, who hold passports from the ROC? It's really like a plant that has lost its roots," they say emotionally.

After the break in Sino-Korean relations. family and friends who had opened little Korean crafts shops in Yungho in Taipei County were verbally assaulted by their neighbors and called Koreans. These slights made the Korean Chinese, who had always thought of themselves as Chinese first, wonder where they would go from here. Even compared to war, legal restrictions and visa problems, the greatest pressure on Korean Chinese is the sense of powerlessness.

Ninety percent of Korean Chinese are Shantungese. They make date pastries for New Year's, ancestor worship, and birthdays.

A falling leaf:

If it is difficult for falling leaves to either return to their roots or to set down new roots, "then at least we have to adapt to local customs wherever we go," says Chen Cheng-li, founder of a travel agency, who has already moved out of Chunghsiao village; this way of thinking is completely different from the previous generation. "To do business, besides money you also need friends. If you just stay inside the narrow circle of overseas Chinese, how can your business grow?" Chen Cheng-li plans that his children will all attend Korean universities.

Sun Yuan-ling, who has sent her children to Korean kindergarten to learn Korean, has a similar perspective. "The world is changing too quickly -- who knows how things will develop between Korea, the United States, mainland China and Taiwan in the future? It can only work if we train our children to have many directions to develop in." Mrs. Cheng, whose viewpoint is slightly more conservative, emphasizes that wherever they go they want their children to know they are Chinese: "I've been educating them this way since they were small. Only if they do not forget their roots can I give them complete freedom in the future."

From the first generation to the second, perhaps the external image is different, but in their hearts they are still torn between a leaf falling and returning to its roots or a leaf falling and setting down new roots.

Throwing off the burden:

Last summer Chin Li-lan went to the United States to visit her older brother. Purely by coincidence she ran into an old neighbor at the airport and asked her if she wanted to go back to the village to have a look. The friend replied, "What is there in that place that you would want to remember?"

Going into Chunghsiao village, the surface appearance hasn't changed much from 40 years ago, but there are satellite dishes on the roofs and most of the houses have been completely renovated on the inside. Sun Yuan-ling spent two million Korean won to install a small bathroom in her little hutch. The children no longer have to go outside in the cold and she says in a satisfied way, "Although a sparrow is small, it has a complete set of organs."

Fan Yan-ming, who originally promised his wife they would go back to Taiwan three years after getting married, has passed 16 years here in the blink of an eye. They lack nothing in their house from air conditioning to a refrigerator. Thinking back on his previous idea not to stay for long, he says, "If it weren't for the fact that the village is going to be rebuilt, we'd never have acquired this pile of appliances." It is planned that in June or July of this year, Chunghsiao will be reconstructed into modern apartment buildings.

From "there is only hope in leaving" to choosing to stay, from dilapidated family compounds to modern apartment buildings, perhaps in the future children will have more beautiful memories of their village, of Korea, and of their own status as Overseas Chinese, no matter where they end up.