When South Korean officials learned that the person responsible for the deadliest shooting rampage in U.S. history was one of their own, they did something that seemed unheard of to many Americans.

They apologized.

Korean ambassadors and many first-generation Korean Americans expressed guilt and responsibility for the actions of Seung-Hui Cho, who killed 32 people at Virginia Tech on April 16. 

At a candlelight vigil, South Korean ambassador Lee Tae Shik urged the Korean American community to “repent,” suggesting a 32-day fast, one day for each victim. 

Many shared his sentiments. The day after the tragedy, TV news reporter Janet Choi walked the streets of Los Angeles’ Koreatown, home to thousands of Korean immigrants.

“Talking to people in the community, the No. 1 word that comes up is ‘shame,’” Choi says. “It’s amazing how much responsibility a community can feel.”

More than a month after the massacre, such a response remains puzzling to outsiders, including 1.5 and second-generation Korean Americans, who learned of their community’s “shame” primarily through TV and Internet news reports.   

“When Koreans automatically feel ashamed and responsible, that’s completely ridiculous,” says David Yi, a student at USC. “With the shootings at Columbine, should all Caucasians feel ashamed? No, of course not.” 

The disagreement on whether Koreans, both in Korea and the U.S., should have apologized for the Virginia Tech tragedy represents a division between generations, an internal clash of subcultures. But for some Korean Americans, this tension serves as an opportunity for exploration and understanding, as they ask the big question: Why?

Why did Koreans apologize? And, because they did, what consequences are in store for Korean Americans? 

At the surface, as heavily reported by the mainstream media, Koreans felt a fear of backlash, as early headlines highlighted the fact that Cho was a “Korean national.” Perhaps the apology, therefore, was a pre-emptive move to defend themselves. It’s a predictable fear, considering America’s history with racial profiling, seen during World War II with Japanese American internment, and, more recently, after 9/11 with Arab Americans. And many Korean immigrants still feel the reverberations of the 1992 Los Angeles riots, when they were cast as oppressors.  

The morning after the Virginia Tech shooting, when it was revealed that the killer was Korean, South Korea’s Foreign Ministry said its government hoped the tragedy would not “stir up racial prejudice or confrontation.”

That day, 21-year-old Myungyu Jung of San Diego received a call from his parents.

“They told me to be extra careful at school,” says Jung, whose mom and dad are both immigrants. “I unwillingly took off the Korean flag badge that had been proudly placed on my backpack.”

But is fear enough to provoke apologies? Experts on Korean American history say the apologies were more than just a defense mechanism. In order to fully understand the guilt and shame, one must look to Korea, where expressions of sorrow are instinctive and the line between individual and collective responsibility is blurred.