Jae-myung Lee and Lula, two wounds, one world

Two continents, one memory

They came from different continents, spoke different languages, and had different skin colors, but the moment they sat facing each other, they recognized one another. What flowed before words were memories. One learned to survive while swallowing metal dust in a factory in Seongnam, South Korea, while the other learned in a metal workshop in Pernambuco, Brazil. President Lee Jae-myung was born the son of a farmer, and at thirteen, he injured his arm in a press accident at a baseball glove factory. He left the factory without treatment or compensation, wandering through poor working conditions with the label of 'disabled' attached to him. President Lula also couldn't finish elementary school and started shining shoes on the street at twelve. Working in a metal factory, he lost a finger in a machine at nineteen, and his wife died from hepatitis caused by an industrial accident. For them, workplace accidents were not just words in the news they were the pain engraved in their bodies.

Transforming Pain into Politics

Not everyone who feels pain turns it into politics. Suffering can break someone, but it can also strengthen another. President Lee Jae-myung went through the high school equivalency exam and night high school before entering the law school at Chung-Ang University, starting his path as a human rights lawyer and representing the voices of the socially disadvantaged. President Lula led the metalworkers' union while sweating with his colleagues in the factory and grew into a 'speaking worker' after being imprisoned while opposing the military dictatorship. Both did not view their wounds merely as personal misfortune. They recognized it as a problem of social structure and a reality that must be changed. During his time as the mayor of Seongnam and the governor of Gyeonggi Province, President Lee pushed for policies to institutionalize welfare and public interest. After taking office, President Lula implemented welfare policies that directly affected the impoverished in education and health sectors. Both became politicians who answered the question, 'What does the state exist for?' with 'a government that does not neglect the vulnerable.'

Silence's communion arising from the sound of metal

In June 2025, at a mountain resort in Canada, the G7 summit took place. In this gathering of the world's top nations, the meeting between President Lee Jae-myung and President Lula began quietly but ran deep. President Lula quietly asked, "At what age were you injured?" After a brief pause, President Lee replied, "At thirteen, I injured my left arm in a press accident at a baseball glove factory." Then President Lula silently revealed his left hand, where a severed pinky bore witness to that moment. In that instant, the venue transformed from a stage of diplomacy into a place where human memories intersected, and silence became a language. The two men embraced and exchanged laughter-laced comfort, but the underlying message was singular: "I understand you." This scene was not a mere display of emotion. Diplomacy typically operates on strategy and interests, but that day’s meeting was different. It became evident that emotions outlast strategies, and memories are more enduring than agreements.

Memories lead the national administration

President Lula spoke softly. 'Do not forget why the people chose you.' This was not just advice, but a resonance. He was aware of why he was running for a third presidential term, and he felt why President Lee Jae-myung did not stop amid political attacks. The two did not merely reminisce about past pains instead, they etched that memory into today's politics. The main agenda of the meeting was responding to climate change, solidarity in the Global South, and economic cooperation. However, the force sustaining it was not merely ideology, but a belief that 'only those who understand the language of the weak can create policies for the weak.'

Ending – From a Young Boy to a World Leader

It may be difficult to say that this summit is a historical turning point. However, it was a clear signal of how future diplomacy could change. The two spoke not in the language of the powerful, but in the language of the workers, looking at each other not through the eyes of the president, but through the eyes of a young child. Could the tears they shared become the language of diplomacy? We saw that possibility. The world envisioned by those who have endured the pain of the lungs filled with metal dust and hands crushed by machines is certainly different. And the silence shared by them at the height of power was once again a moment that proved that politics is ultimately about people.