This month, the actor’s career kicks into high gear with the new primetime TV show “Bionic Woman,” though there’s nothing artificial about him.

• By Michelle Woo
• > Photographs by Eric Sueyoshi
• > Styling by Kelvin Seah of Rouge Artists
• > Grooming by Mary Klimek of Rouge Artists

On a sunny May afternoon, Will Yun Lee stands on a four-foot-tall concrete barricade alongside a strip mall parking lot. Clad in an all-black blazer and jeans ensemble, he carefully swings one foot in front of the other as the photographer follows his steps from the sidewalk, snapping the first shots of the day.

“Only for KoreAm would you put your life in danger,” Will says, holding his arms out for balance. With his hair tied back into his signature low-ponytail, he plants his feet apart, furrows his brow and gazes intensely into the camera. Two middle-aged women walk by and stare.

When the photographer signals a break, Will leaps to the ground, landing sneakers-first onto the pavement.

“OK, we’re done,” he declares. “Let’s go get some soju.”

Koreatown, Los Angeles. It’s a familiar playground for the 32-year-old actor. He suggested the backdrop for the daylong photo shoot and our editors enthusiastically agreed. There’s something about the raw, urban district that screams Will Yun Lee. Walking toward the nighttime hotspot Café Bleu for an outfit change, past a Korean video store and a shop serving big bowls of jampbong, the man seems at home.

Inside the air-conditioned lounge, Will jokes that he should jump behind the vacated bar and pour a round of drinks. He leans over the sleek bar top and takes a peek at the inventory.

“I have many interesting memories here at Café Bleu,” he says with a sly smile. “Too many.”

When the reporter asks him to dish some stories, he laughs and tugs at her notebook: “Hey, WHAT ARE YOU WRITING?”

Playful and disarmingly funny, Will is at a rest stop on his dizzying Hollywood journey. On Sept. 26, TV audiences will watch him in action with the premiere of his NBC series “Bionic Woman,” a dark reinvention of the ‘70s sci-fi drama. The show is about a woman named Jaime (Michelle Ryan), who receives bionic body parts after a near-fatal car accident. Will plays Jae, the specialized operations leader of the bionics team, who trains Jaime how to control her new superhuman powers and use them to execute top secret, spy-style missions.

While the show has already generated major pre-season buzz — due in part to the controversial casting of Isaiah Washington, who was fired from “Grey’s Anatomy” after dropping an anti-gay slur — Will speaks about the series with careful optimism. “We’ll see if we can last more than six episodes,” he says calmly. “Whenever you do a pilot, you have to be pretty reserved about it. You can’t be too emotionally attached.

“But,” he adds. “I’m pretty amazed at how good it is.”

For the moment, Will doesn’t seem to be feeling any pressure. Sitting in the passenger’s seat on the van ride to the next photo spot, he looks behind him to chat with the three female crewmembers squeezed in the back. With his view obstructed by a large silkscreen the photographer propped up in front of them, Will instead conducts his own version of “The Dating Game.”

“Bachelorette No. 2,” he begins. “What’s more important? The size of a man’s wallet or the size of his … you know … heart?”

The girls roll their eyes and chuckle.

On his long road to stardom, Will appears to be enjoying the journey.

***

Born in Arlington, Va., Will remembers a childhood of constant transit. His father, Song Won Lee, was a taekwondo grandmaster and moved from city to city, opening training studios across the nation. When times were rough, Will was sent to live with various family members. From Hawaii to the Bronx, he attended more than 20 different schools.

While Will says the experience of moving around so often was difficult as he was very shy, he looks back at his youth with fondness.

“I always saw it as a blessing because I got to see so many things and adapt to so many different environments,” Will recalls.

Will became an avid martial artist himself and eventually earned a spot on the University of California, Berkeley taekwondo team. In his spare time, he volunteered with at-risk youth, with his sights set on becoming a criminal justice lawyer.

But his career path took a drastic shift after a friend, a screenwriter, sat down with him to discuss a possible career in acting. Throughout college, Will wondered what it would be like to become an actor, but never pursued his curiosity.

“He had me ask myself what I would feel like 10 years from now if I never at least tried,” Will says.

At that moment, he decided to give it a shot. He scored a small guest spot on the ‘90s TV show “Nash Bridges,” which was filming in the Bay Area. He only had about five lines, but fell in love with the environment.

“I couldn’t believe I had my own trailer and I got to do a scene opposite Don Johnson,” he says.

After finishing his degree in political science, he decided to pack up and move to L.A. to test his luck in the business. Friends and family members tried to stop him, telling him he was crazy.

“I guess I was a little bit naïve,” Will says. “But I’ve always been a little rebellious. I never wanted to be down the middle. Sometimes you just have to close your eyes and ears and just do it.”

His first years in Hollywood were rough. He worked the graveyard shift at a bank, while auditioning for roles during the day. He started taking acting classes, but felt frustrated when he wasn’t quite “getting it.”

“I was looking for a set of rules to follow, like in martial arts,” he says. “At that time, I didn’t realize that coloring outside of the lines produces the best work.”

Eventually, things started happening. Easily typecast as the fierce-looking Asian bad guy in a ponytail, Will rode a steady stream of TV and film work. In 2000, he appeared in the made-for-TV action flick “The Disciples” and the dysfunctional-family drama “What’s Cooking?” He then went on to land roles on the TNT supernatural series “Witchblade,” the biker film “Torque,” alongside Ice Cube and Christina Milian, the comic book movie “Elektra” and FX’s short-lived “Thief” — all resume-boosters, but none of which catapulted him into mainstream stardom.

“I haven’t had those big box office tickets,” he says matter-of-factly. “I want to play more characters that aren’t just running from superheroes and saving the world.”

Lately, Will says the roles he’s been auditioning for have been meatier, which he believes is partly due to the shifting attitudes in Hollywood. He spoke out about the changes in the industry in the 2006 documentary “The Slanted Screen,” which explores the portrayal of Asian men in American cinema. He says he feels lucky to be working as an actor at such an exciting time.

“I used to only get a shot for ‘the Asian guy,’” he says. “But now I can be in a room where there are 12 different guys, all different colors and sizes, trying out for the same role. Networks are becoming really open to different races, which is really inspiring.”

Last year, Will had a role in HBO’s “Tsunami: The Aftermath,” a two-part miniseries exploring the devastation along the coast of Thailand. Filming took place in Phuket and Khao Lak, two of the worst hit areas in the country.

“A lot of things haven’t been fixed yet,” he says. “The imagery was really tough to handle.”

Will also has a starring role in the indie action flick “6th and Santa Fe,” which will be screened at Sundance in January. He plays a guy that pulls off a diamond heist with his two best friends.

Will believes that his own hesitations may have prevented him from expanding his niche. Asked whether he feels he is breaking racial stereotypes, he’s quick to praise the work of more recognizable Korean American actors such as Daniel Dae Kim and John Cho. He says he’d love to star in a romantic comedy, but doesn’t know if he’s ready.

“If I think there’s someone better out there for the part, I’ll pass on the audition,” he says. “I’m not as willing to fall on my face. If I don’t feel like doing it, I’ll make some excuse as to why I can’t go in.”

In a reflective tone, he adds, “I definitely have a long way to go.”

***

In the opening scene of the “Bionic Woman” pilot episode, Will’s on-screen love interest, played by Katee Sackhoff, undergoes a bionic procedure meant to amp up her physical abilities. Instead, her body is taken over by evil as she bursts into a sudden killing rampage. With no other choice, Will turns his gun on his lover and heroically pulls the trigger.

It doesn’t take much effort to see Will as a romantic lead, a rare role for any Asian American male actor. Just about every online bio gives a nod to his 2002 achievement of being voted one of People magazine’s “50 Most Beautiful.” Internet message boards hail his broad sex appeal.

Still, Will shyly shrugs off references to his rising heartthrob status, re-directing the focus to his acting. On the “Bionic Woman” set in Vancouver, he’s constantly thinking of ways to give his character depth and dimension. His directors and co-stars say he’s a standout performer.

“Will takes a very precise approach to his scenes and makes his character come to life,” says David Barrett, who directed the second episode. “He’s driven by his research and homework and comes in with a very clear point of view.”

The production team originally planned to bring in a stunt double, but soon realized they didn’t need one when they witnessed Will’s martial arts skills. Barrett says he had to shoot some of Will’s scenes in slow motion because he moved so fast.

Michelle Ryan describes Will as a “dream” to work with: “He has a real presence on screen, a subtle, beautiful energy. Off-screen, he’s such a nice person. He always loans things that he finds interesting, like DVDs of martial arts movies.”

Will is simply grateful for the opportunity. “Vancouver has been amazing,” he says. “The cast, the producers, the storyline — just having the chance to be part of the action is great. I’ve been really lucky this past year.”

With his hands in his pockets, Will stares straight ahead as the photographer snaps from various angles. In the middle of the shoot, two girls walk by, do a double take and ask if he is Will Yun Lee. When he answers yes, they giddily ask for his autograph.

“Sure,” he says. “What are your names?”

Looks like Will may be further along on this journey than he thought.

***

During a quick break at Café Bleu, Will sinks into a plush booth. In between brief moments with his Blackberry, he chats casually about his younger brother, who recently graduated from college, his pad in Sherman Oaks, Calif., and his newfound knack for barbecuing.

“I just love being home,” he says. “I moved around a lot, so this is the first place where I’ve had stability.”

While he enjoys frequenting his regular haunts in K-town, Will says he’s pretty detached from the L.A. party scene. When he’s not working, he’s usually practicing taekwondo (he makes it to the gym three times a week), playing with his Boston terrier, Rusty, or hanging out with his girlfriend, whom he declines to name. (“She’s an actress,” he confesses. “I like to keep it mysterious.”)

Actress Moon Bloodgood, who met Will through a friend a year and a half ago, says Will can be both shy and “a total goofball.” She says Will was the one who first connected her with the Korean American community.

“He’s very proud of his father and very proud to be Korean,” Bloodgood says. “He’s also really smart and focused and takes his work very seriously.”

Will maintains a close relationship with his parents, who have become very supportive of his acting career. He says they’ve kept all his magazine and newspaper clippings to share with every visitor who walks through their door.

“Our phone conversations haven’t changed since I went to college,” Will says. “It’s always, ‘What did you eat?’ ‘Don’t get sick.’ ‘When are you coming home?’”

His plan is simply to keep doing what he’s been doing. Whether or not “Bionic Woman” becomes a big hit and regardless of where his career takes him thereafter, Will is confident that he is heading in the right direction.

“It’s fun,” Will says. “I’ve been doing this since 1999 and I’m still amazed that I get to be a kid and be stupid and silly and all that. I’m still so excited to do what I do.”

Wearing a simple black T-shirt, Will stands in a rundown parking lot just across the street from where the photo shoot started. For the final shots of the day, the photographer asks Will to slip off his hair tie. He does so and then tousles his wavy locks over his eyes, creating a boyish moppy ‘do. It’s a startling sight for those who only know him as the fierce-looking Asian bad guy in a ponytail. With his sudden transformation, he seems like such a malleable figure, one that could be easily shaped into anything the script calls for — perhaps even a star.

 By Nina Ahn                                  Photographs by Eric Sueyoshi

In the pit of the legendary Troubadour in West Hollywood, a mass of trendy, glam-rock 20-somethings bounce and twist their hips to an unmistakable four-on-the-floor dance beat, their hands thrown in the dank air. The gig is packed.

Onstage the band’s frontman, 31-year-old Craig Pfunder, stands in front of the mic with his pointy-toed boots planted firmly on the ground. Strikingly slender, he rocks methodically to the beat as he grips the guitar, his shaggy layered hair shielding his eyes from view. With a smooth, powerful voice and commanding stage presence, Pfunder owns the room.

***

Four hours before the show starts, Pfunder is relaxing on a leather couch in the Troubadour’s bar as his band, the genre-defying VHS or Beta (made up of Pfunder, bassist Mark Palgy and drummer Mark Guidry, as well as pianist Chea Buckley and guitarist Mike McGill who tour with them), prepares for sound check. Clad in ripped skinny jeans and a tight, black T, the singer/guitarist is leveling about the new direction heard on the rock/dance/post-punk band’s upcoming album “Bring on the Comets.”

“I just wanted to write a pop record,” he says unapologetically about the album inspired by a wistfulness for pop music during his childhood and a desire to write music people would actually listen to and live with — music that wasn’t exclusive to, say, kids that frequent dance clubs.

“I think at a point you have to decide — am I making this just for me or am I making this with the idea that other people are going to listen to it as well?” says Pfunder.

“But I don’t think I was trying to consciously be like, ‘Let’s write a record so that 8 million people buy it and we can have a private jet!’”

Pfunder’s parents, who adopted him from Seoul as a toddler, didn’t expect their son to make a career out of music. His mother, a teacher, and father, a corporate executive, thought that music was just another hobby. But by the sixth grade, Pfunder knew what he wanted to do with the rest of his life.

“They didn’t understand why I wanted to live in a sh-thole apartment and make music,” says Pfunder. Ultimately, however, it was his parents who taught him that, no matter what the setbacks, it was essential that he believe in himself.

So the budding rock musician, who grew up in Georgia, Maryland and Oregon, made the mid-sized city of Louisville, Ky., with its bourgeoning indie rock scene, his home. Starting out as just another band formed in the shadow of local indie greats like Slint and Rodan, the then-foursome grew frustrated by what Pfunder called Louisville’s “uptight” and “scenester-ish” music scene.

“When we used to go to shows, it wasn’t cool to dance,” explains VHS or Beta’s bassist Mark Palgy, 30. “You just stand around. It felt like there was an elite crowd and if you didn’t understand what was going on then you didn’t understand music.”

Their resolution? A return to disco.

The band began experimenting with dance music, ultimately releasing “Le Funk” in 2002, a four-song EP heavily influenced by French house music, but produced with real instruments rather than relying on sequencers and turntables.

Their next album, the critically-acclaimed “Night on Fire,” brought comparisons to Duran Duran (who they toured with in 2005) and Depeche Mode. A dance-punk throwback to the ‘80s and new wave, it was the first album to feature the vocals of both Pfunder and Zeke Buck, their now departed guitarist/vocalist.

Buck, who had been with the band since its inception, did not leave on good terms.

“It was really just a personality conflict in the end,” says Pfunder. “If you’re not happy with the people you surround yourself with than it’s not f-ckin’ worth it. We felt like there was a cancer in [the band].”

Buck’s departure, a painful chapter for the now-trio, and the soul-searching that followed was part of the impetus for “Bring on the Comets,” released in August.

A product of furtive sessions alone in his bedroom, Pfunder wrote the album almost entirely on his own.

“He asked for a little bit of faith — ‘Let me do this and you guys can still do your thing,’” recalls Palgy of his bandmate and best friend of 12 years. “In the beginning, there was a little uncertainty. Once the album started, once it had a face to it, we weren’t questioning anymore. We’re all really, really proud of it.”

Pfunder says “Bring on the Comets” also complements his natural voice, partly because it was the first time the vocals and music were written simultaneously. Featuring light, hook-heavy, but danceable tunes like “Love in My Pocket” and “Can’t Believe A Single World,” the album takes on an almost apocalyptic twinge with “Burn It All Down,” a rising anthem with a heavy dance beat.

Pfunder’s fluid, tenacious voice booms out during the chorus: “Burn the flags, burn the house, burn the churches — burn it all down!” (According to Pfunder, the lyrics were written out of frustration regarding the seemingly never-ending conflict in the Middle East and aren’t to be taken literally.)

And although he intentionally wrote a record that would have more mass appeal — ultimately, he says, VHS or Beta writes music first and foremost for itself.

“I would say that we are definitely concerned about keeping fans, but I can’t say that we’re writing music for fans,” offers Pfunder reflectively.

“I just want to make music and not think about what I shouldn’t do. I want to do the things that make me happy, and I’ll deal with all the other bullsh-t when it happens.”

 By Ellyn Pak

Umma is lost in her thoughts, every so often shifting her body in a stuffy airplane seat between her two grown children.

She’s only slept a few hours in the past day, afraid to close her eyes and miss a moment. At 53 years old, she’s finally making the trek back to Korea after 26 years, and she’s bringing my younger brother Mark and me along for the journey. Umma doesn’t know what to expect. The images from the Korean melodramas she religiously rents from Videotown in Maryland are her only modern-day reference points.

She knows Seoul isn’t the same city she visited in 1981 with my dad and me, then just a year old. But she still wants to look for some of her old haunts: the park where Appa took her for long strolls when they dated; the cafes where she spent hours gabbing with her best friend, Jung Hee; the neighborhood where she lived during her formative years before immigrating to the U.S. in the early ‘70s. She wants to visit the memories of a past life.

My umma — normally a feisty, control-freak — has no itinerary for our near two-week trip, leaving my brother and me surprised at her sudden free-spiritedness. She’s finally unencumbered by the endless bills, chores and responsibilities that prevented her from re-visiting her homeland for so long.

My brother and I are excited about the long-overdue trip. Mark, who loves to follow Korean pop culture through music and YouTube videos of popular television shows, has never been to the country. He looks forward to soaking in everything Korean: the smells, food, culture and people.

I consider this my first real visit to Korea because I was still in diapers the last time I was there. I expect Seoul to be a huge version of Los Angeles’ Koreatown and can’t wait to be immersed in it.

Umma is more than eager to show us her roots; our roots.

***

We land at Incheon International Airport after 12 grueling hours. My mom gazes into the crowd of people waiting to greet their loved ones, even though she knows there’s no one to welcome us. My mom’s siblings immigrated to the U.S. long ago, leaving  Korea behind for more opportunities. Still, Umma had hoped her best friend Jung Hee would show. “She’s busy, Mom. She’s probably working and couldn’t drive down to meet us,” I say.

She doesn’t respond, her disappointment palpable. When we get to the transit hotel in Incheon, Umma expresses her frustration. But she calls Jung Hee anyway, to tell her that she’ll meet her in Seoul the next day after we get some shut-eye.

“You’re at the airport? I thought you couldn’t make it!” Umma cries out. Her friend had taken a bus from Seoul to the airport, but she couldn’t find us. She was on the brink of catching a bus back into the city and is relieved to hear we are staying nearby. She taxis it over to our hotel, and after half an hour, the elevator opens to a stranger. My mom and Jung Hee stare at each other for a few moments before they squeal. “I can barely recognize you! You’ve gotten older!” Umma says.

“Of course I’ve gotten older! We haven’t seen each other for so long. We’ve both gotten older,” Jung Hee says.

Mark and I don’t want to intrude. We shift awkwardly on the edges of our beds in the room, inserting ourselves into their conversation when appropriate. We are relieved when they ask us to pick up some food in the city. We escape to the streets, dodging the rain and ducking into shops before settling on fried chicken and sodas.

Back in the room, Umma and her friend are still engrossed in conversation. They talk for hours, until Jung Hee falls asleep next to Umma. Umma doesn’t sleep a wink. Maybe these moments will last longer if she doesn’t blink.

***

The four of us take a shuttle back to the airport, where we find buses to take us to Seoul. Umma and her friend — who insists that we call her Imo (“aunt” in Korean) — agree to meet later that day in Shillimdong, where they both grew up.

Umma, Mark and I head over to the heart of the city, Myeongdong, where my dad spent his childhood before his only immediate family member, his mother, died. We stay in the district for that reason — the connection to my dad’s past, which he only talks about when we probe. Work has prevented Appa from joining us on the trip.

The noisy streets and sky-high towers bewilder Umma, who is searching for recognizable sights. The buildings are taller than she last remembers them, the streets are clogged with hundreds of taxis, and the teahouses with live music are long gone. She doesn’t find anything familiar. She trails her children, who are eager to explore the city and stop at the street stands and shops.

She tells me that her marriage certificate and documents are located somewhere in Myeongdong in case I want to look for more information after she and Appa pass away. I’m stunned that she’s talking about her own mortality, and I dismiss the statement.

After we make rough plans for the next 10 days, we meet up with Imo and her two grown kids in Shillimdong. The “kids” eat kalbi and knock back countless bottles of soju at a nearby restaurant to ease the awkward moments. Umma and Imo are unfazed by their tipsy children; they are too busy reminiscing.

Umma wants to see the old house in which she, her two brothers and two sisters were raised. She’s not surprised to hear that the place is long gone, replaced by apartment buildings. Instead, she and Imo find an old café they visited as pig-tailed, high school students.

We go to a nearby noraebang, or karaoke house, and get to know our “cousins” Sera and Yoo Yong. We instantly forge bonds with them. They are the closest to family we have in a country to which we’ve never before felt a strong connection.

Though we grew up eating kalbi and kimchi, plastered H.O.T. posters in our rooms, and spoke Korean, Mark and I were equally American and felt somewhat disconnected from our parents’ roots.

It may not last, but each day we spend in our motherland, we feel entirely Korean. 

***

Every morning, Umma buys dozens of pastries and coffee from the bakery next door to our hotel. She is amazed by the number of cafes and shops carrying red-bean-filled goodies and cream-filled bbang, or bread.

Cafés are enormously popular in the city and are filled with caffeine-addicted young people. It was no different in the ‘70s, Umma explains, except the food and drinks were less expensive.

Food is one of the highlights of the trip. The trendy clothes and shoes we find in the boutiques and shopping centers are pricey, but the food is fairly affordable. We prefer food from the street stands: kimbap, deokbokgi, sundae, fried everything. We gorge on patbingsu — shaved ice topped with red bean — and stop into frozen yogurt shops that sparked copycats in my stomping ground, Southern California.

Umma seeks certain foods that are tied to certain memories of her past. During pit stops to and from Gyeongju, she buys ears of grilled corn that remind her of the ones she bought with Jung Hee during their train rides to the countryside or beach. She buys bags and bags of dried cuttlefish and squid at the Lotte supermarket, though she knows we won’t eat much of it.

Like a typical Korean mom, Umma overspends and feeds us constantly during the trip, in part because she misses being a doting mom.

Now in our 20s, Mark and I have branched out with our own lives, and we have few opportunities to spend quality time with each other and our parents. Since I moved to the West Coast from Maryland nearly three years ago, I’ve seen less and less of my family. Mark’s move to law school an hour away from my parents’ house in Rockland, Md., means the house is even emptier than it used to be.

So Umma tries to make up for lost time by forcing food down our throats. Her efforts are endearing, but it’s enough to convince us to do crunches every night to flatten our bloated bellies.

***

Umma eventually realizes she won’t be able to find many of the places she frequented in a city that has changed so drastically. She decides to take us to the sights she’s never seen.

We take a day trip to the demilitarized zone dividing North and South Korea; we check out the N Seoul Tower which boasts a breathtaking view of the whole city; we watch a changing-of-the-guards ceremony at Deoksugung Palace. We spend four days in Gyeongju — the old capital of the Silla Dynasty hours away from Seoul — and check out the Buddhist temples, hillside tombs, pottery-making villages and museums.

Umma soaks in every minute of the trip, as if she’ll never come back to the country. She buys souvenirs at each sight we see, stocking up on trinkets and jewelry. She takes endless photos that she’ll sift through later, after the trip. She’s like an elementary school kid on her first field trip, dragging her chaperones around with her.

She also gives Mark and me our own free time, because she wants to visit the Namdaemun and Dongdaemun outdoor markets while we check out the more trendy shops in Myeongdong. I worry about Umma and get flustered when she doesn’t return to the hotel when she says she will. I have adopted the motherly role, worrying about her every move, wondering if she’s getting eaten alive on the busy side streets of the city.

I am also fascinated by Seoul, a place that reminds me of other Asian cities I have visited. Unlike in Japan and Singapore, I can easily communicate with people in Korea and can’t help but probe the young tour guide at the DMZ with random questions about North Korea, and ask the aggressive saleswomen at the Lotte department store if they actually like the clothes they are trying to sell.

I am self-assured here, comfortable engaging with strangers while creating new memories each day.

For Umma the connection is more about old memories, and I can sense that she wishes she had come back to her homeland earlier.

***

Toward the end of our trip, I am sated with everything Korean. I crave carne asada, fries and daydream about driving my car, though I know I’ll quickly get sick of navigating traffic-choked freeways. I long for my own bed and, surprisingly, miss the daily grind of work. I can tell Mark is ready to go home, too, to get ready for his first year of law school and spend time with his girlfriend.

Umma, on the other hand, wants to fit more into our crammed schedule.

We meet with Imo the night before we fly back to Los Angeles. I can sense the dread Umma feels about saying goodbye to her dear friend. They eke out as much time as they can before parting, talking for hours at a basement teahouse while their children shoot billiards on the floor above. The two women promise to see each other every few years and keep in touch through phone calls. “Let’s not wait another 26 years to see each other,” they both say.

Tears stream down our faces as we hop into a taxi back to our hotel. Already, Umma says she feels empty. The ride back to Myeongdong is solemn, our faces turned to the windows of the car to hide our tears. Our dreamy trip is about to end.

Our last day in Korea feels heavy. We check out of our hotel room, but decide to visit one last place before our plane ride home. We taxi over to Sajik Gongwon, a park near Appa’s childhood home. It’s the park where Mom and Dad hung out during their courtship, where they talked about their future together long before they got married and had children.

Umma is excited to see the place, though it has changed drastically. The windy stone steps that lead to a few trails remain, but it doesn’t feel the same, Umma says. She lingers at the statues in the middle of the park and looks for old water fountains.

I’m eager to get to the airport so we don’t miss our flight back to the U.S., but Umma wants to stay at the park as long as she can. I realize it may be many more years before she returns, and she needs a moment to herself. She doesn’t say much and retreats to her thoughts.

“I’m going to miss this place,” she finally says.

Stories by Nina Ahn, Corina Knoll, Suevon Lee, Chris Paek and Michelle Woo, compiled from news and wire reports

Forty-one days after 23 South Korean church volunteers were captured in Afghanistan by Taliban insurgents, South Korea’s government announced it had reached an agreement with the kidnappers to release all remaining 19 hostages, under the condition that it would ban further church-sponsored missions in Afghanistan and withdraw its troops from the region by the end of the year.

“The government will take all necessary measures for the safe return of all the hostages,” South Korean presidential spokesman Cheon Ho-seon announced Aug. 28, adding that the timing of the hostages’ release was still being worked out.

The agreement was reached during the fourth round of face-to-face talks between Taliban leaders and South Korean negotiators who traveled directly to Afghanistan to meet with the kidnappers, the Korea Times reported. The meeting was mediated by the International Committee of the Red Cross.

The first round of talks resulted in the Aug. 13 release of two female hostages, Kim Kyung-ja, 37, and Kim Ji-na, 32, who were said to be in frail health.

Captured in mid-July, the South Korean hostages were members of Saemmul Presbyterian Church in Bundang, a suburb located 20 minutes outside Seoul. The group, consisting mostly of women in their 20s and 30s, was on a 10-day relief mission when the bus, on its way from the country’s capital, Kabul, to the southern city of Kandahar, was intercepted by Taliban insurgents.

The group of South Koreans comprised the largest number of hostages seized in Afghanistan since the U.S.-led invasion of the country began in 2001.

Using the seized hostages as leverage, the kidnappers demanded the return of 23 Taliban prisoners captured by Afghan and U.S. security forces. When a series of deadlines set by the kidnappers passed without being met by the Afghan government, they shot and killed 42-year-old Bae Hyung-kyu, the group’s leader, and 29-year-old Shim Sung-min, a former information technology worker, whose body was found on the side of the road in the Andar District.

The prolonged standoff prompted South Korean civic groups to angrily call upon its government to exert more pressure on its diplomatic allies. “As everyone knows, the Taliban’s demand is something the U.S. government can help resolve, not the Afghan or South Korean government,” the Seoul-based People’s Solidarity for Participatory Democracy said in a statement issued July 31. “Why can’t [the South Korean government] use the spirit of the alliance to help persuade the U.S. administration and save its own people?”

Seoul first deployed troops to Afghanistan in 2002 at the request of the U.S. government. Approximately 200 South Koreans, most of them engineers and medics, are currently stationed in the country.

Saemmul Church also faced strong criticism for sending its members to such a politically unstable region, but repeatedly denied the members were conducting evangelical work in the Islamic region.

Kim Ji-na, one of the two released hostages, told Arabic-language television news network Al Jazeera that church members had been in the northern city of Mazar-e-Sharif distributing medicine to patients and cutting children’s hair, before heading to southern Afghanistan to volunteer at a hospital and school.

The recent hostage crisis has provoked heated debate in South Korea about the country’s recent surge in global church-sponsored missions. In 2004, eight Korean missionaries traveling to Iraq were briefly kidnapped, then later released. In 2006, more than 1,000 South Korean Christians congregating in Afghanistan for a peace festival were forced to leave due to safety issues.

The head pastor of Saemmul Church, Park Eun-jo, said in an interview with the New York Times that 200 South Korean aid missions were conducted without incident in Afghanistan this year alone.

“Our people went to Afghanistan because they loved the country,” he told the newspaper. “They were people with a noble dream who saved money and used their summer vacation to realize humanitarianism.”

SUB; Lives Lost Two die at the hands of the Taliban

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Bae Hyung-kyu

Pastor Bae Hyung-kyu, deputy head pastor of Saemmul Presbyterian Church, studied at the Presbyterian College and Theological Seminary in Seoul and became a minister in 2001. He led the trip to Afghanistan despite the fact that he was suffering from respiratory complications that required medication. In a sermon addressed to his congregation only two weeks before his departure to Afghanistan, Bae said, “Dying for Christ is a glorious thing. Don’t cry for me if I die in service to my Lord. Put on my tombstone, ‘He died training young people to make a difference in the world.’”

Bae’s bullet-riddled body was found on a highway in the Ghazni Province on July 25. It was his 42nd birthday.

Shim Sung-min

Before traveling on the mission to Afghanistan, Shim Sung-min was preparing to attend graduate school. Friends and family described him as a “gentle soul” who had a passion for volunteer work. Shim left his work as an information technology worker to prepare for graduate school and to focus on his volunteer work. With an aunt who is visually impaired, he devoted much of his time to helping people with physical and mental impairments. He did not tell his family of his plans to travel to Afghanistan. Just hours before the group was kidnapped, he called his mother and told her not to worry.

The 29-year-old’s body was discovered in the village of Arzoo, about 90 miles south of Kabul, on July 30.

SUB; Free, But Still Burdened The first two released hostages speak

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On Aug. 13, three days after talks began between Taliban militants and Korean negotiators, two female hostages identified as Kim Kyung-ja, 37, and Kim Ji-na, 32, were released as a “goodwill gesture” toward the Korean people.

“When we were released, I couldn’t really feel happy,” said Kim Kyung-ja to news outlet Al Jazeera. “My heart was breaking. I was thinking about the remaining 19 hostages.”

They also confirmed reports that another hostage, Lee Ji-young, 32, forfeited her chance to go free so that Kim Ji-na would be released instead. Lee was allowed to write a note to her parents to be passed on by the two freed hostages.

“I’m faring well and am healthy. Don’t worry,” wrote Lee to her family in Seoul. “I’m eating well and am OK. Don’t get sick and please be OK.”

While in captivity Kim Kyung-ja and Kim Ji-na were unaware of the deaths of Bae Hyung-kyu and Shim Sung-min. They reportedly broke down in tears when they discovered the news.

Initially, it was reported that the two women were seriously ill, but they appeared to be in good health upon their release. “They provided us with basic necessities: food, medicine, water, bedding; they didn’t mistreat us,” said Kim Ji-na.

In an exclusive interview with Al Jazeera’s television network, the two ex-hostages pleaded for the release of the remaining aid workers.

SUB; Held Captive The 19 final hostages

Ahn Hye-jin, 31, Web designer  |  Cha Hye-jin, 31, piano instructor  |  Han Ji-young, 34, English teacher  |  Im Hyun-joo, 32, guide who has been in Afghanistan since 2004  |  Je Chang-hee, 38, English teacher  |  Kim Yun-young, 35, mother of two  |

Ko Se-hun, 27, college student  |  Lee Jeong-ran, 33, nurse  |  Lee Ji-young, 36, involved in aid work in Afghanistan since 2006  |  Lee Joo-yeon, 27, nurse  |  Lee Sun-young, 37, designer  |  Lee Sung-eun, 24, preschool teacher  |  Lee Young-kyung, 22, college student  |  Park Hye-young, 34, guide who has been in Afghanistan since January 2006  |  Seo Kyung-seok, 27, brother of Myung-hwa  |  Seo Myung-hwa, 29, nurse  |  Song Byung-woo, 33, company worker  |  Yoo Jung-hwa, 39, English teacher  |

Yoo Kyung-sik, 55, Saemmul church pastor

SUB; Mission Possible?

Church leaders are under pressure to scale back their aggressive evangelism efforts

In the past two decades, South Korea has rapidly risen as the world’s second largest source of Christian missionaries, trailing only behind the United States. According to the Korean World Mission Association, 16,600 Korean missionaries were stationed in 173 countries as of last year. Leaders of Korean churches and mission agencies had planned to send out 100,000 missionaries by 2030.

But since the news of the kidnapping of 23 South Korean missionaries by the Taliban arrived, the aggressive evangelism efforts of South Korean Christians have been put under a watchful eye. This isn’t the first time Korea’s missionaries have run into trouble. In 2004, a translator looking to do missionary work was beheaded in Iraq. That same year, seven other missionaries who ventured into Iraq were kidnapped but later released. Last year in Afghanistan, more than 1,000 Korean Christians were deported.

Today, critics of the Korean missions movement are speaking out with increased fervor. The Chosun Ilbo, one of South Korea’s largest newspapers, called efforts to evangelize in highly restrictive areas such as Afghanistan “futile,” claiming such activities can put the entire country in crisis. According to Sung-Deuk Oak, a professor in Korean Christianity at the University of California, Los Angeles, the recent events have fueled negative sentiments toward South Korea’s “mega-churches,” generally classified as churches with more than 10,000 members, which organize and fund many of the short-term trips.

“Now [anti-Christians] attack the churches’ triumphalism in mission, lack of sensitivity toward other cultures and religions, and theological fundamentalism of the conservative Protestant churches,” Oak said.

While the pressure to scale back on such evangelism has intensified, many Korean Christians, both in Korea and the U.S., say that the kidnappings will not stop missionaries from moving forward with their plans, despite the dangers. Jonathan Park, an assistant pastor at the Wilshire United Methodist Church in Los Angeles, which works closely with Korean missionaries, says that while he doesn’t know what safety precautions the hostages in Afghanistan took, they were there to fulfill a divine duty.

“I don’t think that they were reckless or not thinking straight in any way,” said Park, who heard about the kidnappings while on a mission trip in Kazhakstan. “They answered the call that they received in their lives. With all missionaries, there’s the understanding that persecution is always a potential. It’s part of their life in Christ, who paid the dear cost on the cross.”

Christianity was introduced in Korea about 120 years ago, but only took a firm grasp in the 1960s, after the Korean War. Today, about 30 percent of South Korea’s 49 million citizens are Christian. In the past two decades, after the government allowed its citizens to travel freely, missionary work flourished. While about half of Korean missionaries travel to other East Asian countries, a growing number venture to areas in the Middle East. Following the example of foreign missionaries, South Korean missions almost always have humanitarian agendas, as volunteers set out to build homes, work at orphanages or provide medical services.

Oak believes that South Korean missionaries must learn how to present themselves in cultures where a Christian presence is unwelcome. He said that currently, missionaries in Korea receive limited training on adapting to the foreign environment: “They live in a homogeneous culture. The leaders were mostly trained in conservative seminaries in Korea. Many speak very little English. They need to be more accommodating and sensitive to the attitudes of other cultures without losing the identity of Christianity.” Oak said that a revision of the Korean church’s mission policy is crucial.

SUB; House Of Worship Saemmul responds to the kidnappings

Saemmul Presbyterian Church, located in Bundang, a commuter city just south of Seoul, has been sending its members on missions since its establishment in 1959.

Its 5,000-member congregation is encouraged to serve in poverty-stricken and perilous areas where they can be of the most help. At the time of the Taliban kidnapping, the church was sponsoring more than 40 Christian workers in 14 countries, seven of whom had been based in Afghanistan for the last five years.

But since 23 of its members were kidnapped by the Taliban in Afghanistan, and two subsequently killed, Saemmul’s mission program has come under scrutiny.

Park Eun-jo, the church’s senior pastor, apologized for the grief and pain their families were experiencing.

“I know that dying for the Lord is noble and that these men will be rewarded in heaven for their sacrifice,” Park told the Baptist Press on Aug. 14. “But to actually lose two friends was something that was unexpected and for which I was unprepared. To see it happen has been very, very difficult.”

He maintains, however, that the hostages were there for humanitarian reasons and not to proselytize, noting that evangelizing was impossible because the aid workers did not speak the local language. He also said the church would exercise greater care and wisdom regarding missions in the future.

SUB; From Capture To Release Forty-three days of terror

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n July 19 Taliban fighters kidnap 23 South Korean Presbyterian Christian aid workers traveling on a bus from Kandahar to Kabul in the Ghazni Province. It is the largest abduction of foreigners in Afghanistan since the fall of the Taliban regime in 2001.

n July 20 The Taliban gives South Korea 24 hours to remove its 200 troops from Afghanistan in exchange for the lives of the hostages. Korean President Roh Moo-hyun calls for their release.

n July 25 South Korean pastor Bae Hyung-kyu, 42, is executed by the Taliban when its demands aren’t met. South Korea’s foreign ministry identifies him as the leader of the group. President Roh issues a statement on the killings: “The government strongly protests their act of brutality in killing an innocent civilian.”

n July 28 Several Afghan elders and a former member of the Taliban join the negotiations over the release of the remaining 22 Korean hostages. They condemn the actions of the Taliban as being contrary to the tenets of Islam and Afghan culture.

n July 29 The Taliban sets a concrete deadline for July 30. They demand the release of 23 Taliban militants being held prisoner by the Afghan government. Afghan President Hamid Karzai indicates that a prisoner exchange will not be possible. Pope Benedict issues a statement from the Vatican, calling the kidnappings a “grave violation of human dignity that clashes with every elementary norm of civility and rights and gravely offends divine law.”

n July 30 A second hostage, 29-year-old Shim Sung-min, is killed as the second deadline passes. Meanwhile, one of the female hostages speaks on the phone with the BBC pleading, “We want from the Koreans, from the U.N. and human rights people to exchange us, and that they do this. We are all sick and we have a lot of problems.”

n July 31 A new deadline is set for Aug. 1, 7:30 a.m. GMT.

n August 1 Deadline passes and no hostages have been killed. The Taliban agrees to a face-to-face meeting with members of the Korean delegation. North Korea also calls for the release of the hostages.

n August 5 Afghan doctors drop $1,200 worth of medicine, including heart pills, antibiotics and painkillers in the Qarabagh district of the Ghanzni province. This is done with the approval of the Taliban rebels who are holding the remaining hostages.

n August 10 Two Taliban leaders meet with four South Korean officials for the first round of talks concerning the Korean hostages. Also attending this meeting are four members of the international Red Cross who facilitate the discussion.

n August 13 Two female hostages, identified as Kim Kyung-ja, 37, and Kim Ji-na, 32, are released as a goodwill gesture “without any condition or return.” They are released amidst reports that they were “seriously ill” during their captivity.

n August 17 Kim Kyung-ja and Kim Ji-na arrive at Incheon International Airport. They are transferred to a military hospital under government supervision so as not to interfere with ongoing negotiations for the remaining 19 hostages. The U.S. and Afghan governments reiterate that they will not release any prisoners in exchange for the hostages.

n August 20 Negotiations between Taliban militants and South Korean officials have stalled over a key Taliban demand: the release of eight Taliban prisoners being held by the Afghan government. Signaling a growing impatience, Taliban spokesman Zabihullah Mujahed claims that efforts by the Korean negotiators to meet this demand have not been sufficient.

n August 23 The two ex-hostages beg for the release of the remaining 19 hostages, saying that the relief of being released is overshadowed by their concern for the others. In their first one-on-one interview since returning to Korea, Kim Ji-na insists that they were not harmed.

n August 24 Afghan doctor Mohammad Hashim Wahaaj, who has direct contact with Taliban commander Mullah Mansor, is told that the remaining hostages are in good health. They have been split into groups and are being moved every 6 to 8 hours to avoid detection by Afghan security forces.

n August 25 The Afghan Islamic Press (AIP), a Pakistan-based information service, reports that a deal has been struck to release the 19 remaining hostages. Citing unnamed sources, the AIP reports that in exchange for the release of the hostages, the Taliban is prepared to accept an early withdrawal of Korean troops from the Afghanistan area. A withdrawal plan had already been in place for December. Both a South Korean official and a Taliban spokesman deny that an agreement has been reached.

n August 28 Relatives cheer and hug after being informed that the 19 remaining hostages will be released. Many of them had been holding vigil at Saemmul church since their capture. “We are very sorry to have caused any problems to the country over the kidnappings,” said family spokesman Cha Sung-min.

n August 30 The final seven hostages are freed, joining the 12 who were released the previous day. The South Korean government is criticized for its face-to-face negotiations, seen as a violation of the international principle to not negotiate with terrorists. Government officials maintain that no major concessions were offered to reach Tuesday’s breakthrough deal with the Taliban, except reaffirming its existing plan to withdraw its troops from Afghanistan and prevent missionary work in the Muslim nation.

 By Michelle Woo

Framed photographs of hip-hop and reggae icons hang on the walls inside radio station studio Wild 98.7 in Tampa, Fla. In a bright sound booth, DJ Jah B dances around animatedly to a song by his next guest. “Skull! Skull!” he shouts from behind the turntables. “Yeah!”

The artist sits across from him, amused. Wearing a bright orange T-shirt and headphones that rest over his head of thick dreadlocks, he waits for his cue and then leans into the microphone: “Hey y’all. It’s your boy Skull. I just flew all the way from Korea to talk to you. Yeah, mon.” The deejays let out a loud “Whoooooo!” 

The 27-year-old reggae artist from Seoul is on a whirlwind mission to make his musical mark in the U.S. Already, he’s creating a stir. His single “Boom Di Boom Di,” which debuted in June, hit the No. 4 spot on the Billboard Hot R&B/Hip Hop Single Sales chart and No. 17 on the Hot Singles Sales chart, the highest ranking ever for a Korean artist on the U.S. charts. His solo album will be released this month.

On this mini-tour in Florida, arranged by his manager, Morgan Carey, Skull is the opening act for reggae superstar Buju Banton in St. Petersburg and a special guest at The Marley’s Myspace Secret Show in Miami.

For Carey, these are high stakes moments. In a music scene rooted in Caribbean culture, Skull is quite a novelty. Will the reggae community embrace him? As Skull takes the mic and jams out a few verses, Carey anxiously watches the crowd for the answer.   

“We’ve met some resistance,” Carey says. “At hip-hop clubs, there’ve been people who’ve yelled out, ‘Hey chink, get off the stage,’ or ‘Yo, n-gga. Where you from?’ But Skull’s not that guy who gets angry. He’s there for the music. He’s a true artist. He believes that his music can translate across color lines and it has.”

Skull, aka Cho Sung-jin, says he was a rebel growing up. While most of his peers were listening to K-pop, he would sneak away to underground hip-hop shows. One day, he was standing on the street near a record shop when he heard Bob Marley’s “Legend” album playing inside. 

“I was captivated,” he says. “I just stood there ‘til it finished. It really touched my soul.” 

From then on, Cho hunted down every reggae album he could find, which in Korea, were mostly bootleg copies. While listening to the tracks, he began mimicking the voices and developing his own raspy, Jamaican-inspired singing accent. Cho went on to perform at underground shows with a couple of short-lived bands (he kept the name of his first band, Skull) before forming the reggae and hip-hop duo Stony Skunk, which released three albums in Korea.

Meanwhile, Carey, who’s well-connected in the U.S. music industry (and Mariah Carey’s older brother), was handpicked by Korean music label YG Entertainment to scout new talent in Korea. He landed upon an underground show in Shibuya, where Stony Skunk was the warm-up band. When Skull took the stage, he was hooked.

“He was beautiful, comfortable and authentic,” Carey says. “I can recognize star appeal and thought that with the right push, we can make this happen.”

Skull decided to stick with Carey, taking a leave of absence from Chungang University, where he was studying advertising and public relations. Their goal was to successfully cross over to the United States. Carey devised a strategy. He wouldn’t promote Skull to Asian audiences, only to urban crowds. Too often, Carey says, when Asia-grown artists try to rise up in the States, they lock themselves in a niche market, never breaking into the mainstream.

Carey decided to take a song that Skull released in Korea and have it translated into English. The resulting single, “Boom Di Boom Di,” is an upbeat dancehall mix with lyrics like, “Me ready when you ready me they’ll be no need fa searching girl/ Me have de some fe you some yo me give you de working girl/ Tonight is the night they’ll be no hurting girl/ Me bring you de pleasure and that will be worth it girl.” When singing, Skull’s Korean accent goes undetected.

Jah B of Wild 98.7 hosted the Buju Banton show in Tampa and says he was amazed at the crowd’s roaring response. After his performance, girls started mobbing him.    

“Skull is the future of Reggae,” Jah B says. “‘Boom Di Boom Di’ is hot … and I expect it to be in heavy rotation here by summer’s end.”

Carey says he’s focusing much of his efforts on grassroots marketing, plugging Skull’s music video on MySpace, college radio and reggae clubs. He’s hoping that Skull will soon collaborate with other big-name artists.

Throughout his years as a reggae artist, Skull has given himself a makeover with dreads, beaded jewelry — the works. This summer, on a trip to Jamaica, he met an old man who gave him an amulet engraved with a picture of a lion. The man told Skull that he was his brother. Skull had the picture of the lion tattooed across his chest.

Humble and calm, Skull seems genuinely appreciative about his success within the U.S. reggae scene. Still, he’s not looking for a permanent transition.

“I’ll perform anywhere,” he says. “It’s just all about spreading reggae music. It’s what I love. But Korea will always be my home.”

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