The Tale of Starting the Saemaul Movement in South America (4)

Eight months had passed since the Saemaul Undong began. The summer rains had ended, and with the coming of the early-autumn dry season the sky stretched overhead in a blue so deep it seemed endless. The tobacco fields of Santa Maria had transformed into something even more brilliant than that sky.

The harvest had come.

Five hundred trainees, led by their representative Carolina, began picking as one.

Pluck. Pluck. Pluck.

Practiced hands. Ripe tobacco leaves dropped into the baskets one after another.

"Don't rush! If the leaves tear, they lose their value! Handle them like you'd handle a baby!"

Training had roughened their hands and darkened their faces, but their eyes were alive with energy. Treating each leaf as if it were a gemstone, the trainees filled their baskets with care, then filed in a line toward the curing barns.

For ordinary tobacco, you chose machine-fired kiln drying. It was fast, and it cost less. San Marcos did it differently. They hung the leaves upside down in open-sided, well-ventilated shade barns and let the wind alone slowly draw the moisture out. It took incomparably more time and far more labor, but it was the traditional method — the sugars in the leaf matured slowly, and the aroma grew deep.

Another four weeks passed.

Shhhk. Shhhk.

Kim Heung-soo carefully selected a well-cured brown leaf and rubbed it between his fingers. It was not the brittle crackle of a dead autumn leaf. The sound was supple, weighty — a leaf that still held just the right amount of moisture. The scent that brushed his nose had shed its harsh, acrid bite. In its place came a faint sweetness, the smell of earth, and a sharp, lingering savor.

Silence fell. Five hundred trainees, Carolina among them, held their breath and watched Kim Heung-soo's mouth. With trembling hands, he rolled the leaf into a cigar on the spot.

Fssst.

He lit it and drew a deep pull. The smoke he exhaled drifted slowly into the air. He closed his eyes, savoring the finish that lingered on his tongue.

A silence in which every second felt like a minute.

"Hoo."

Kim Heung-soo slowly opened his eyes. A look of deep satisfaction spread across his weathered face.

"This is top grade. Hard to find even back in Korea."

He declared it with complete conviction.

"You've all done well."

That single sentence snapped the taut string of tension.

"Waaaaaah—!!"

"We did it! We actually did it!"

"Oh my God! Is this real?! We made this?!"

The trainees threw their arms around each other and leaped into the air. Carolina's legs gave out. She sank to the ground where she stood and wept, tears pouring down her face, and the colleagues beside her wrapped her in their arms and cried with her. Those thoroughly dried leaves felt like a lifeline — a rope that would haul them up out of the wretched pit of poverty.

"Viva Eugene! Viva San Marcos!"

Five hundred voices, ready to burst, echoed across the blue sky of Santa Maria.

"......"

Kim Heung-soo and Carolina looked at each other.

The Presidential Palace. The office.

I was presiding over a cabinet meeting, same as always. In the pleasantly cool conference room, the air conditioning humming along, the senior secretaries' faces were flushed with excitement.

"I will now report."

The Senior Secretary of Agriculture opened in a voice full of pride.

"The tobacco harvest and curing at the Santa Maria demonstration complex have been completed successfully. The Korean advisory team's final quality inspection has graded the entire yield as top class."

"Oh, that's impressive — especially for a first attempt."

"Yes. The five hundred trainees have completed their graduation ceremony and been dispatched to their respective hometowns. If they spread the techniques as agricultural instructors, nationwide cigar production should be possible by this time next year."

My hand clenched under the desk before I even realized it. If we could produce high-quality cigars nationwide, we could go after not just the American market but Europe as well. The cigar market was already growing every year, now worth over twenty billion dollars. Sell a quality cigar made with San Marcos's cheap labor, and we could dominate the market outright.

With the money from selling cigars, we can lay more roads, build hospitals — there's so much to do.

Just thinking about raking in dollars made the corners of my mouth twitch.

"We should start preparing for that now. Chief of Staff Isabella."

"Yes."

"Let's proceed with establishing Tortilla Cigar. I want vertical integration — from seed distribution through purchasing to production — so we can put real muscle into quality control."

"Understood."

"And don't forget to put real weight behind the premium branding. I'd like you to bring in a CEO with experience in that area."

"I'll scour the world if I have to."

Once the discussion of Tortilla Cigar wrapped up, the Senior Secretary of the Interior continued the reports.

"The social ripple effects of the Saemaul Undong have also exceeded expectations. The old laziness is hard to find now. Your Excellency's slogan — He who does not work, neither shall he eat — has taken hold."

"What kind of changes have you seen?"

"The residents have fully adapted to waking at six in the morning. After tending to their own livelihoods early, participation in village communal work has exploded. On top of that, competition between villages has grown fierce, and the backward countryside is transforming by the day."

"That's remarkable."

I was genuinely impressed. I never thought the results would be this good.

Finally, Isabella spoke.

"A report on the founding of the National Saemaul Women's Association."

"This quickly?"

Isabella offered a faint smile.

"The women's associations at the village level ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠were already fully organized. Once the government stepped in and provided the conditions, a nationwide organization was born… naturally."

"Hmm. That's ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the Chief of Staff I know."

I meant the praise. As Isabella said, the mere existence of the National Saemaul Women's Association would be a policy-promotion machine all by itself. You could shout yourself hoarse for a hundred days about hand-washing and vaccinations on every poster in the country, and it wouldn't stick. But if the auntie next door said, "Skip this and your kid's gonna get sick!" — they'd swallow it in one gulp.

"From now on, we'll be able to spread policy into every corner without even breaking a sweat."

"It is all thanks to Your Excellency's grand design."

Sergio, the Senior Presidential Secretary for Education, raised his hand cautiously.

"The remaining issues are the night schools and the expansion of health clinics. We simply don't have the budget or ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the specialized personnel to roll them out nationwide. We're short on doctors. We're short on teachers."

"That's going to take some time."

I thought for a moment, then reached a conclusion.

"Don't force it. We'll push those once we have the budget and the people. For now, as a stopgap, let's request support from international medical volunteer organizations. If we provide the funding and the medicine, they won't turn us down."

"Yes, understood."

Once all the reports were finished, I looked around at the senior secretaries.

"This must have seemed like a policy that came out of nowhere, but you've all worked hard. Thanks to you, the countryside actually seems to be developing. It's reassuring. Honestly, the way I feel, I could quit and step down right now."

"Y-Your Excellency..."

The cabinet members' faces went ashen in an instant.

"It's a joke. A joke. Don't take everything so seriously."

"......"

"There's a mountain of work still ahead. Please keep doing what you're doing."

"Yes!"

Listening to their confident replies, I thought:

I retire in ten years.

If things kept going like this, FIRE wasn't far off at all.

That evening, after the cabinet meeting.

A secret room in the basement of the Presidential Palace. In air so ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠heavy it was hard to breathe, four members of Ujin Forever had gathered — everyone except Pedro, who was out inspecting regional units. In the center of the table sat a poll result, conducted by the National Saemaul Women's Association.

They were astonishing numbers — the kind that could not appear in a democracy. Or rather, the kind that absolutely must not. And yet the faces of the UF members, Lucio among them, were twisted into something ugly.

Lucio's fist crashed down on the table.

"Ungrateful wretches, the lot of them!"

He yanked at his tie, breathing hard.

"95.3%? So that means 4.7% of the people are against His Excellency?!"

"Please calm down, Director."

Even Lessa's attempt to restrain him, the Senior Secretary of Resources and Tourism, could not hide Lucio's fury.

"You expect me to calm down right now? Do you have any idea how much His Excellency has devoted himself to this country...? We gave them a life fit for human beings, and they dare oppose him? Does that even make sense?!"

His voice rang off the walls of the secret room.

"I'm going to root out these reactionaries immediately. Track down which region, which village, which person — drag them in and show them the majesty of the state."

Ana stepped in front of Lucio with a look that said she found him pathetic.

"Director, that way of thinking is far too outdated. They didn't even say they dislike His Excellency. The number includes undecideds who answered that they weren't sure."

"It's the same thing! Not knowing His Excellency is a crime!"

"It's not the same. They could be elderly people in remote mountain villages who haven't received the benefits yet, or conservatives who find change unfamiliar."

True to her American background, Ana laid it out from a democratic point of view.

"In a democracy, it's hard for any policy to satisfy everyone in a short time. Given time, those people will come to understand His Excellency's sincerity. If anything, a 100% result would look more like manipulation and only draw suspicion from the international community."

"Kh..."

Even under Ana's logical rebuttal, Lucio seemed unable to swallow his anger, still breathing hard — until Isabella, who had been standing with her arms folded in silence, spoke in a voice like ice.

"Director Lucio. Compose yourself. Secretary Ana is correct. Do not forget: it is the sun, not the wind and rain, that makes the traveler remove his coat."

"...I apologize."

At the words of his former superior — and the second-in-command of the current regime — Lucio quietly tucked his tail.

"That said."

Isabella's gaze turned cold.

"It is true that an approval rating of 95.4% is incomplete."

She took a red pen and drew a large circle on the map of San Marcos hanging on the wall.

"We'll have to work out the precise schedule, but there are less than six months until the presidential election. In that time, we will turn the hearts of every last one of those remaining 4.6%."

"......."

"For the time being, devote yourselves to promoting His Excellency. From the dinner table to the village hall — make it so the only stories anyone hears are about him."

"Understood!"

The members' reply rang through the secret room.