original title：趙治勲 私の履歴書（13）凱旋帰國
Original article: The Nikkei
Author: Cho Chikun, Honorary Meijin
In 1980, I challenged Hideyuki Otake for the Meijin title in a best-of-seven series. After a game that ended with no result, I was leading 3-1 as we headed into the sixth game.
The match took place in Atami, Shizuoka Prefecture. As we entered the final stage of the game, both Otake and I had already counted the points and knew the outcome. As my senior and in a considerate gesture, Otake allowed the reporters waiting outside the playing room to enter before the game officially ended. After the board was cleared and the points confirmed, it was determined that I had won by a margin of 1.5 points.
It had been 18 years since I came to Japan at the age of six. As a child, I believed, “I can’t return home until I become a Meijin.” This was the moment I finally achieved the title I had longed for.
After the game ended, I was asked many questions, but I don’t remember how I responded. I probably called my family and received their congratulations, but the exact words escape me.
Of course, I was very happy. Although I felt a sense of fulfillment at achieving my goal, I also found myself surprisingly calm. With many other title matches ahead of me, I viewed winning the Meijin as just the beginning.
In addition to the Japanese media, reporters from my homeland of Korea also swarmed to cover the story extensively.
At that time, Korea was still heavily affected by its occupation by Japan and the Korean War, and the gap in national power between Korea and Japan was much wider than it is today. In such a period, a Korean boy had come to Japan on his own and reached the pinnacle of the Go world, which was undoubtedly a source of great pride and inspiration for the Korean people. In a sense, this achievement was even more remarkable than that of someone like Shohei Ohtani. In fact, it sparked a Go boom in Korea.
The following month, I was awarded the Republic of Korea's Silver Crown Medal for Culture in a ceremony held in Korea. This was the first time I had set foot in my homeland since coming to Japan. I even met the President, truly fulfilling the idea of “returning home in glory.”
The only thing I vividly remember from that trip is what happened on the flight to Korea. I was sitting in first class, and during takeoff, the juice that my wife hadn’t finished spilled and stained her new dress. I don’t remember if she wore that dress to the ceremony.
As a Korean, it’s surprising that at such an important moment, all I remember are trivial things. This is likely because I felt immense pressure during the press conference after the ceremony, and some unpleasant things happened.
Whether it was after losing to Sakata Eio in the Nihon Ki-in Championship or at the press conference following the Meijin match, my poor Korean always became a focal point for the Korean reporters.
At this press conference, I overheard Korean journalists whispering, “He can’t speak Korean.” This deeply hurt me. Although I couldn’t express myself fluently, I understood what they were saying.
At least at that time, there was a general expectation: “Since he’s a Korean hero, he should be able to speak Korean.”
I wanted to explain, “I came to Japan to study Go and won the Meijin title, so I didn’t have time to learn Korean.” While most of the reports praised my achievement in winning the Meijin title, there were also some negative remarks. These comments made me very uncomfortable.
I had worked so hard, thinking I would return home triumphantly, but instead, I was met with some cold stares, which shocked me greatly. It took nearly 40 years for me to fully heal the wounds in my heart and to start loving Korea as much as I love Japan.
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