The One I Long For

Written by Peter Li-Chang Kuo

The one I long for in my heart,
Why did you leave my side?
Because of you, my heart pines day and night,
Deeply longing for you.
My love, please come back,
Come back to my side—

Every time my grandmother, Kuo Chen Shu-Jean (1896–1970), heard Hung Yi-Feng’s song “The One I Long For” playing on the radio, she would silently shed tears. Whenever I witnessed this scene, I couldn’t bear to change the station. So, I could only let my grandmother wander through time and space, reminiscing about her dead son.

Fig 1: “The One I Long For” (AI-generated image)

Since the Lunar New Year of 1966, after the police violently broke my grandmother's bound feet, she spent most of her final time lying in the corner of my workspace so that I could take care of her.

Late at night, when everything was quiet, I would return from night school and prepare materials for the next day. During these moments, grandmother would reminisce about playing the role of the matriarch for the thirty years she spent. My grandfather’s He-Mei Trading Company sounded like a business empire—his fleet sailed not only to Tang-Shan (Mainland) and Japan but also ventured as far as Southeast Asia and India, selling spices to Paris, France. Grandfather was more than a ceramics merchant, philanthropist, and photography artist; he was a great navigator who helped market the products of his fellow countrymen to the world.

Grandmother would say, “Back then, our family of seven was truly happy and joyful!”

Fig 2: Kuo Biao's family portrait (1. Kuo Biao, 2. Kuo Chang Bian-Niang, 3. Kuo Chen Shu-Jean, 4. Kuo Chiong-Ying, 5. Kuo Kun-Feng, 6. Kuo Kun-Yi, 7. Kuo Kun-Cheng)

Sadly, the only remaining family portrait of my grandfather, Kuo Biao (1892–1953), was scribbled over by us ignorant children. Fortunately, I later retrieved it from a pile of trash. Perhaps in the future, when AI technology advances, I can restore it.

Grandfather had a "Great Maritime Plan"—not only did he help Taiwanese villagers sell their agricultural products worldwide, but he also funded numerous major infrastructure projects for the Japanese government. However, a time when justice was turned upside down and morality twisted beyond recognition in 1937, my grandfather was stripped of everything—his home, his business, and his land—by the Japanese army as punishment for refusing to transport comfort women.

Even worse, my eldest uncle, Kuo Kun-Feng, mysteriously died of poisoning, while my second uncle, Kuo Kun-Yi, was forcibly conscripted into the Japanese army. In 1942, Uncle Kun-Yi departed from Kaohsiung’s Cijin Harbor, where my grandfather’s large ships had once anchored. And Uncle Kun-Yi never returned.

October 1970: Grandmother’s Final Month

During her last month, my grandmother spoke of Uncle Kun-Yi almost every day. She would say, “Li-Chang, if you ever have the chance, you must find your second uncle Kun-Yi and bring him back to reunite with me—”

Grandmother refused to believe that her son had died in Southeast Asia. Even when the family was notified that uncle Kun-Yi had fallen in battle in New Guinea, she never accepted it. Since no personal belongings were ever returned, she clung to the hope of a miracle, longing for her son’s return. Through her love for Uncle Kun-Yi, I came to understand the deepest emotions of the human experience—and how grief had trapped her in a state of denial.

One day, the telephone rang. I picked up the receiver, and from the other end came a voice:

"Hello, I’m Kun-Yi—"

A chill ran down my spine. Every hair on my body stood on end. I covered the receiver and turned to my grandmother, saying, “It’s Second Uncle Kun-Yi!”

Her eyes lit up instantly, illuminating the entire room.

I brought the receiver back to my ear—only to hear:

"Hello, hello, this is Kun-Yi Rice Store!"

For two fleeting seconds, we were overjoyed for nothing. But in that brief moment, I caught a glimpse of my grandmother’s decades of longing.

Only then did I truly understand why, every time my grandmother heard Hung Yi-Feng’s "The One I Long For" on the radio, she would silently shed tears.

The Profound Connection Between Music and Memory

The emotions stirred by this song likely stemmed from a deep psychological connection between music and memory, the boundless depth of a mother’s love, the trauma of war, and the resonance of its lyrics.

Hung Yi-Feng’s "The One I Long For" is an achingly beautiful song about longing for a lost love. However, for my grandmother, its sorrowful melody and lyrics became a direct reflection of her yearning for her son.

A son sent off to war, vanishing without a trace—this agonizing uncertainty of life and death was the most unbearable pain of all. She thought of him day and night, yet there were no answers. It was this uncertainty that deepened her sorrow.

Her tears were not simply because of the song’s poignant lyrics but because it triggered her deepest memories and emotions. Each time the song played on the radio, it was as if, for a fleeting moment, her son had returned to her side. But the weight of that longing was too much to bear—she could only weep in silence.

In psychology, this phenomenon is known as "Music-Evoked Autobiographical Memory" (MEAMs)—when a piece of music unlocks deeply buried memories and emotions.

Because my second uncle, Kun-Yi, perished in war and the tragic news was sent back to our family, my father was spared from being assigned to the “Zero Fighter” (Kamikaze Special Attack Unit). He survived, and as a result, I was born. This, in turn, led to the creation of Taiwan’s precision industry, which eventually gave rise to the global e-commerce industry and its cashless payment systems.

Had the Japanese government’s genocidal campaign succeeded, a “Butterfly Effect” would have undoubtedly emerged, profoundly impacting global history, technological advancements, and industrial structures in a negative way.

Because my father survived, I had the opportunity to forge my own path through adversity, honing a level of craftsmanship that few possess. Today, when I see an old film canister, I open the lid and pour out the “Fine Eyelet” I sold to an American company in 1966. Now that our eyesight has deteriorated with age, my wife asks, “This eyelet is so tiny that it’s impossible to even hold. How did you manage to make it back then?”

The answer: A 13-year-old craftsman, working with nothing but a drill press and his bare hands to make it.

Fig 3: The precision "Eyelet" made by Li-Chang Kuo in 1966

Later, in 1979, an American businessman invited me to dinner at the Twin Towers in New York. He told me, “In 1966, you were the only person in the world who could manufacture precision ‘Eyelets’ to meet the required specifications. That’s what made Apollo’s journey to the moon possible!”

Because of this, not only did my family celebrate our first truly prosperous Lunar New Year in 1967, but I eventually built Taiwan’s precision industry, as well as the global e-commerce and cashless payment system.

This interplay between historical coincidence and inevitability compels me to reflect: “What would the world be like if Japan’s genocidal campaign had fully succeeded?”

One thing is certain—the global technological landscape would have been vastly different. The United States might not have won the Space Race against the Soviet Union. And as for today’s global e-commerce and cashless payment systems? They would never have existed.

This once again confirms the immense impact of every historical turning point. The life or death of a single person can shape the global technological and economic landscape decades later.

Fortunately, Japan’s genocidal plans failed, and history took a different course—one that allowed Taiwan to emerge as a technological pioneer, influencing global politics and economic systems.

During World War II, Japan promoted the ideals of "Hakkō Ichiu" (Universal Brotherhood) and the "Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere," claiming to "liberate Asia." In reality, however, they forcibly conscripted large numbers of soldiers and laborers from their colonies—Taiwan, Korea, Manchuria, and beyond.

My father, Kuo Kun-Cheng (1926–1999), once said, “Your second uncle was forcibly drafted into the army at 18, and I was conscripted into the navy at 15. But the Japanese made us sign ‘volunteer forms,’ forcing us to declare that we were ‘willing’ to die for them!”

My grandmother watched helplessly as one son after another was taken away to war. She could do nothing to stop it. The pain she endured is beyond imagination.

Music as a Portal to Memory

The lyrics of "The One I Long For" seemed to mirror my grandmother’s sorrow, reminding her of the son she had no idea if she would ever see again. Waves of longing flooded her heart, and tears would fall naturally.

Compared to the hypocrisy and self-deception of Japan’s militarists, my grandmother’s tears held a nobility beyond words.

Music is a powerful emotional catalyst. It can instantly summon memories buried deep in the soul. I believe that every time my grandmother heard The One I Long For, images and echoes of Uncle Kun-Yi must have filled her mind—his voice, his laughter, and even the happy moments their family once shared.

The Pain of 55 Families

Grandmother kept a treasured photograph—Uncle Kun-Yi’s last picture before departing for war, taken with his fellow soldiers. Looking at it now, I see a group of teenagers. Some looked frail, while others, perhaps already married, had wives carrying unborn children.

The pain in my grandmother’s heart must have been shared by the 54 other families in that photograph.

Fig 4: Kuo Kun-Yi and his comrades' last photo before going to war

It forces one to ask: “Why were these militarists who started the war so cruel?”

War robbed countless mothers of their sons, wives of their husbands. Many of these mothers and wives never had the chance to hold a funeral for their loved ones—or even see them one last time. This unresolved sorrow made the emotions evoked by music even more overwhelming, making it impossible to hold back the tears.

A Prophetic Dream and the Fires of War

One early morning, my grandmother, devastated, told me: “I dreamed that your second uncle was burned alive!”

In 1996, my uncle-in-law, Master Shi Weili, asked me to plant an entire mountain of Pinus pentaphylla (five-needle pines) at Kaoshu Budong Temple. While there, I flipped open a sutra in the temple—"The Lotus Sutra"—which described the "Threefold World as a Burning House."

In the stillness of the grand hall, I suddenly felt flames engulf my body. The searing heat, the biting pain, and the choking scent of burning flesh filled the air.

Uncle Kun-Yi’s Sacrifice and My Own Visions

Years later, I researched the exact location where uncle Kun-Yi fell in battle: "Yakachi, New Guinea." Under orders from General Douglas MacArthur, the Allied forces launched a full-scale attack, determined to annihilate the Japanese troops. Napalm bombs and incendiary weapons were deployed without restraint.

Between my grandmother’s premonition and my own decades of investigation, these war-torn images became deeply ingrained in my subconscious. At times, I would even relive the battle in my dreams.

For this reason, I did my best to avoid listening to "The One I Long For"—to prevent those memories from resurfacing.

Just now, as I sat in my chair with my eyes closed, resting, I played some Teresa Teng songs on my phone. But for some unknown reason, suddenly, I heard the lyrics—

"The one I long for, deep in my heart..."

The voice startled me awake from my half-dreaming state. I touched my cheeks—they were already soaked with tears.

Ching-Ming Festival: A Time of Deep Remembrance

During Ching-Ming in April, the longing for our loved ones becomes even stronger.

Even though my grandmother passed away in 1970, my yearning for her has never faded.

Growing up, my childhood was very difficulty. I watched my grandmother carefully cut paper crafts to earn a little money, supporting my brothers and me. Seeing her struggle, I made up my mind to refine my craftsmanship until my hands could follow my will with absolute precision.

After finishing elementary school, I was ready to take my unique skills to Monga, Taipei and make a name in the gangsters for myself. But it was my grandmother’s tears that kept me from leaving.

A Legacy of Sorrow

It has been 55 years since my grandmother’s passing, yet the depth of her sorrow for my uncle is imprinted in my memory. The stories she told about our family, the fragments of her recollections—all of it has remained deeply buried in my heart.

So when, in that half-dreaming moment, "The One I Long For" suddenly played, the lyrics triggered long-buried emotions within me. This was more than personal grief—it was a profound experience of transgenerational trauma, a sorrow passed down through generations.

In that instant, I felt my grandmother’s mourning as if it were my own.

A Wish for Peace

I pray that in our lifetime and the generations to come, we will never have to witness the horrors of war again.

Peter Lichang Kuo, the author created Taiwan's Precision Industry in his early years. Peter was a representative of the APEC CEO Summit and an expert in the third sector. He advocated "anti-corruption (AC)/cashless/e-commerce (E-Com)/ICT/IPR/IIA-TES / Micro-Business (MB)…and etc." to win the international bills and regulations.