She felt the harsh grip of a soldier's hand dragging her into a dark room filled with the smell of sweat and fear. The floor beneath her was cold and hard, coated with something more than just despair. Sumi’s thoughts drifted back to how it all began. Life in her village was hard. Her family usually went to bed with their stomachs empty, their futures bleak and uncertain. Then one day, men from the district office arrived with promises of overseas jobs that could sustain the families of the village. They offered positions to the young women as nursing assistants or factory workers, portraying them as opportunities to provide for their families. The promise sounded like a lifeline, a chance to escape the crushing poverty and make something of herself. Everyone around Sumi thought this was her way out, an escape from poverty. The officers spoke with authority, their words weaving dreams of money and safety. Sumi’s family trusted them because they had to, because the alternative was watching their little ones starve. Saying no wasn't an option; it was made clear that this was what they were meant to do for their country. So, like nearly 200,000 other young women, Sumi left home with a heart full of hope, clutching the few belongings she had, not knowing the truth. But the truth was a trap, and by the time she realized where they were really going, it was too late. The reality of being a comfort woman was far from the noble role she had envisioned. It was a nightmare crafted by lies. The comfort station she served in was a big Japanese house with two floors and 20 rooms. Many women were there before her. They looked old and wore kimonos. The proprietor’s wife, a mean, cold woman who ran this establishment, made them wear dresses the older women gave them. They were scratchy and plain. The owner told the new arrivals to call these women ‘nesang’, or ‘big sister’, and follow their orders. At 7 am, the "big sisters" would ring a bell and their day would begin. The women had barely slept, a few hours at most. The walls and the floor were all wooden planks, nothing else. Upon arrival, they were each given a military blanket to sleep on. But it wasn’t enough, the wood floor was hard. Sumi winced as she found the courage to leave her room, her body screamed in pain. Her mind drifted to how many it would be today… 30 men? 40? She took a deep breath and went to join the others. Initially, prostitutes were brought to the comfort stations, but they weren't enough to meet the demands of every soldier. That’s when the recruiters expanded their search - targeting small villages and the families who were the most vulnerable and easiest to deceive. Their lack of education and naivety made them easy prey for those who sought to exploit them. From 7 am to 8 am, the women ate breakfast. It was just a small amount of gruel, sometimes millet, sometimes rice. It was never enough. They felt hungry all the time. They always started the day with tears. Every morning, they cried silently as they ate. Today, at around 8 am, as they were finishing their breakfast, the proprietor walked in. His face contorted with disgust as he covered his nose. The smell of their sweat was always there, but today it seemed to anger him more. He berated the women, telling them to go and wash. The water was always freezing cold. They all hated bathing for that reason. One woman, her eyes hollow from too many sleepless nights, shook her head and refused. The room fell silent. They all knew what was coming. The proprietor's face turned red, and he grabbed a wooden stick from the corner. Before any of them could react, he rushed at her, beating her with the stick. They heard each thud, each cry she made, until she didn't make any more sounds. Then, she slumped to the ground, unconscious. The rest of the women were frozen, too scared to move, too scared to breathe.The smell of sweat was stronger now, mixed with the faint scent of blood. The proprietor threw the stick down and stormed out. Some shrank back to the corner of the room, finishing their breakfast as tears streamed down their cheeks. But most of them stared at the young woman who still hadn’t moved. The dirt floor was cold and gritty under her feet as Sumi moved closer to the unconscious woman. Sumi knelt down, her hands trembling as she touched the unconscious woman’s shoulder… Sumi couldn't tell if she was alive. One of the big sisters came in and ordered them to move the woman into her room, away from prying eyes. From 8 to 9 am, the woman took turns washing their clothes in cold water. Their hands would get numb trying to scrub out the dirt, but some stains never left. Sumi washed the unconscious woman's clothes, thinking she would need them if she woke up Like clockwork, at 8:55 am, the big sisters yelled, ordering everyone to get back into their rooms. The women obeyed. They had to. If they fought back or did not do what was expected, they were punished. They would be beaten or worse. They were always scared of getting hurt. Unlike some of the others, Sumi never got beaten by the soldiers, but the owner of the place beat her often. A few women had tried to run away. But they were always found. And after each attempt, they were beaten. Some didn’t survive those beatings. Sumi was so scared of those beatings, she couldn’t even think about running away. Besides, she didn’t even know where she was. Where would she run to? So at 9 o’clock sharp, Sumi stood by her photo on the veranda, smelling the damp wood and salt air. The veranda outside was used as a reception. It was a wide space with wooden floors that creaked. All the womens’ photos were lined up there, clipped onto strings that hung down into the street. The proprietor took them on the day they had arrived at this wretched place. It was done quickly, one by one. They were made to stand in front of a plain, white sheet hung on the wall. The camera was old and big, the kind with a flash that pops. Men lined up outside, each holding a voucher they needed to get in. The line was always long, winding down the path. Sumi hoped no one would pick her. But someone always did. But today was different. At exactly 9:05, Sumi made her move. The house was fully guarded, with no real way out, but hiding could spare her from one or two forced encounters with the soldiers. When her big sister walked away from the veranda, Sumi quietly slipped off the railings on the side and found an old tree. She climbed it, her heart pounding. The bark was rough against her hands and feet, scratching at her skin, but Sumi didn't mind. She pulled herself up to a spot where the branches were thick and leafy. She tucked herself tightly against the trunk, the leaves partly covering her. From here, she could see the ground below, but the guards couldn’t easily spot her. Sumi held her breath every time one passed by. The tree's rough bark pressed into her back, offering a sense of safety unlike the room below. She stayed there, as quiet as the leaves, hoping they’d just walk by without looking up. But, at 9:40, they found her. One of the guards looked up and saw Sumi in the tree. Her heart sank as he pulled her down, dragging her back to her room.By 10:30, the proprietor had finished beating her. In a last attempt, at 10:35, Sumi cut off all her hair. Using a blunt blade, she chopped off all her hair down to the skin of her skull, thinking if she looked bad, the soldiers might avoid her. By 11 am, Sumi was completely bald, her head looked like a patchwork of desperation. But instead of being left alone, her shaved head only attracted more attention from the soldiers. They had all heard about the comfort woman who had cut off her hair and now, they all wanted to see her. The rooms where this cruelty happened were tiny. Just big enough for two people to lie down. Instead of a door, there was just a blanket hanging at the entrance. The walls and the floor were all wooden planks, nothing else. Comfort stations were open from 9:00 am until late evening. The soldiers came in shifts. From 9:00 am to 6:00 pm, it was the enlisted soldiers' time. On most days, from 6:00 pm to 7:00 pm, the women were forced to see a Japanese doctor. He was supposed to only check them for sickness, but even he took advantage of them. He would make them undress, one by one, and choose a young woman.Today it was Sumi. The smell of medicine on his skin when he was on top of her made Sumi want to vomit. The doors and windows remained open during these examinations, allowing soldiers outside to watch.They leaned on the window sills, staring and pointing, sometimes laughing. This hour often felt as bad as, if not worse than, the rest of the day. It wasn't just the fear of pain but the shame of being observed that weighed heavily on the women. It made them feel like nothing more than a spectacle. A month ago, Sumi contracted a severe disease from the men. The proprietor’s wife administered a shot of something called No. 606, or Salvarsan, an early treatment for syphilis. The injection was thick and reddish. But the illness lingered because Sumi continued to see the men, even while sick, necessitating repeated painful injections. Each shot left her arm aching, the injection site sore and purple. Nearby medical facilities were nonexistent. What passed for medical care was haphazard and negligent. If any of the women became pregnant, they were not allowed to keep the baby. Sumi was one of those women. She never knew the father of the child. The makeshift clinic where the women were treated was a small, dim room that reeked of putrid medicine.The walls were thin, allowing the sounds of crying and moaning to fill the air. From 7:00 pm to 9:00 pm, the station reserved time specifically for the noncommissioned officers. But today, at exactly 2:02 pm, the planes came. The sky filled with the roaring sound, and the ground shook as bombs dropped nearby. Air raids were frequent there, and on some days, they had to run to safety several times. The guards screamed, telling the women to move just as the first siren wailed. They scrambled, pushing through thick underbrush towards the mountains. The leaves scratched at their skin, and branches tore at their clothes. Sumi’s heart pounded loud in her ears, almost drowning out the explosions above. During these escapes, hunger clawed at them. Today, at 2:15 Sumi found a field of sugar cane. Starving, she tore at the stalks, the sweet juice providing a brief relief on her parched tongue. But joy turned to pain quickly. A guard grabbed her arm, dragging her along the ground. The beating that followed was brutal and left her trembling- more from fear than from the blows. It was her second beating of the day. Another of the women lifted Sumi up as they were herded towards the caves. Sumi could barely stand, let alone walk. The woman spoke to her in Korean, urging Sumi to move her feet. The other woman was weak too. They all were. But they were forbidden to speak Korean. A guard lashed out at the woman, striking her around the head. There was no way he heard her with the bombs going off; he had only seen her whispering to Sumi. That was enough. The punishment was immediate, fierce and unrelenting. Two other women stepped in to carry both of them to safety. By 2:30 they found a cave. The mouth of it looked dark and unwelcoming. Inside, it smelled of damp earth. They all crouched in there together, soldiers and women, all of them barely breathing. They listened as the booms became more and more distant. At 3:00 pm, after the terrifying noise of bombs had faded, they all still sat frozen, too scared to move. The air was still thick with the smell of dust that the explosions had kicked up. All of them huddled together, waiting for the guard to give them a sign, their eyes darting around, not daring to whisper. By 3:15, it was clear the bombing had stopped. The men didn’t waste a moment. They began to set up makeshift tents, working quickly in muddy fields. They watched silently as the men drove stakes into the ground, the thuds almost rhythmic. The canvas flapped wildly in the breeze as the men hoisted the tents up, creating a temporary shelter that seemed as fragile as the women. Meanwhile, the proprietor and his wife prepared for business. They pulled out a wooden box filled with vouchers, sorting them quickly. The proprietor's wife barked at the soldiers, telling them to line up. Her voice cut through the quiet air as she pointed to the start of the line. The soldiers, tired and dirty from fighting, shuffled forward. They handed over their vouchers, eager to get their “comfort.” As the line of men grew, the proprietor's wife led the first few to where the women were still huddled together. They tried to make themselves small and invisible, shrinking into the shadows. None of them met the eyes of the men, keeping their gazes fixed on the ground, their bodies tensed in fear. The proprietor strode forward and seized one woman by the chin. He jerked her face up, twisting and turning it under the dim, flickering light- showing her off like a piece of prized cattle. The woman’s lips were bruised, split open and caked with dried blood, a silent testament to the violence she had endured.She winced, her body flinching as fresh pain shot through her face. Tears welled in her eyes, but the proprietor's grip was merciless, his fingers digging into her skin. Then, unexpectedly, one soldier stopped in front of Sumi. She lay there, still barely conscious from her earlier beating. His choice was clear and cruel. The soldier simply pointed at Sumi and waited as if picking out a meal from a market stall. Despite her weakened state, she could feel his eyes on her, her stomach knotted. At 4:00 a shrieking voice jarred Sumi back to consciousness. The proprietor’s wife commanded her into a nearby tent. Sumi needed to obey. But she was too weak to stand. She tried to crawl towards her tent, but she was taking too long. The proprietor’s wife started kicking her legs and ribs until one of her big sisters swooped in and dragged Sumi into one of the tents. Since there would be no doctor’s visit today, from 4:00 to 7:00 pm, the women were forced to see the enlisted officers. The tents flapped wildly in the wind, sometimes collapsing around them, but the men didn't care. They continued visiting the women, indifferent to the chaos or the tears on their faces. Most of the soldiers were young, barely 19 or 20—the same age as those they tormented. At 7:05 pm that night, a noncommissioned officer stepped into Sumi’s tent. He looked at her, asking something. She thought it was her name. She didn't understand Japanese well, but after a year of service, she had learned a bit. Still scared, she just sat there, shaking her head, not saying a word. If anything, that just encouraged the soldier. He strode forward, looming over Sumi, as though inspecting her. At 7:35, one of her big sisters peeked into the tent. Time was up. The soldier left with a sneer on his face. Sumi wrapped her arms around her, a futile attempt at comfort. From 7:55 until 10:00 pm, one man after another came through Sumi’s tent. She lost count of how many men she had seen that night. Because of the air raids that day, the proprietor and his wife wanted to make sure they kept profits up. None of the women ever saw a sliver of that money. Just after 10:00 pm, Sumi’s tent’s entrance flapped open again. The last soldier of the night walked in. His uniform was tight and neat, but the fabric bore the faint, mixed smell of soap and gunpowder. His boots made a soft squishing sound on the mud beside her blanket. His voice was low and almost hopeful as he asked if Sumi remembered him. Sumi stared, trying to remember his face, but it was just one of many blurred into the past. She shook her head, the movement barely noticeable. The soldier sighed, a small, sad smile touching his lips as he sat down beside her. He explained he had been with Sumi twice before. His eyes didn't meet hers as he undressed. He told her he was a kamikaze pilot. He was going on a mission later that night, never to return. But before he met his fate, he wanted to spend time with Sumi. Sumi froze, the words heavy between them. Unexpectedly, he began to hum a tune softly, careful to sing low enough so that no one outside would hear him and mock him. Through his song, Sumi learned they were in Sinzhu, Taiwan. All this time, she didn’t know where she was. The soldier stood to leave, his figure momentarily framed in the doorway. He reached into his pocket and gently pulled something from it. He handed Sumi a small photograph of himself, the edges worn. Along with it, he gave her his toiletries, items he said he wouldn't need anymore. They smelled of him- a mix of mint and sweat. As he stepped out, Sumi clutched the small photograph. It was the first act of kindness from a man she had received since being forced into this servitude. She sat back down on the cot, the rough fabric of the military blanket scratching at her skin. By 10:35 pm, the proprietor and his wife had gathered the women up, and were now herding them to the comfort house. The path led through the jungle. It was dark and terrifying. The big sisters yelled and shoved the women forward. The jungle felt alive, watching them, filled with shadows that seemed to be watching them. They clung to each other, some of the stronger ones supporting those who were weaker, helping them stay on their feet. By midnight, they had made it back to the comfort house. The building loomed dark and unwelcoming. It was supposed to be home, but it felt more like a prison. Each of the women went to their assigned rooms. They were all hungry, their stomachs empty and aching. Most of them were bruised and broken, desperately trying to block out the pain. They tried to sleep, wrapping themselves in those thin, scratchy military blankets, but the fabric did little to keep out the chill. As Sumi lay there, trying to find a comfortable spot on the hard floor, she could hear the soft sobs of the other women. Sleep, when it came, was fitful and haunted by nightmares. Those who survived the night were doomed to endure another day that stripped them of their dignity. When World War II ended, nearly 200,000 comfort women were freed, but true liberation remained elusive. Many suffered from lifelong injuries, disease, and deep psychological scars. Stigmatized by society, they were often shunned by families and left to bear their pain in silence. Trust was shattered, relationships became impossible, and isolation became their harsh reality. For those who spoke out, the fight for justice was a relentless struggle against political denial and bureaucratic resistance. Apologies were rare and recognition came too late for many. The world was slow to acknowledge their suffering, forcing them to relive their trauma in a battle for dignity. Despite their resilience, many spent their final days haunted by past injustices. Their legacy is more than a tragic chapter in history- it is a testament to endurance, the cruelty of silence, and the unyielding demand for justice.