This is, in fact, the second cemetary, having replaced the original in 1997. Many families are displeased, saying they no longer have control over how to recognize their deceased loved ones. Others feel that by creating the new site, which includes a museum, the government has taken over the narrative of the 5-18 uprising itself. Thinking back to Dr. Shin's commentary as our tour guide a couple of days ago, we are mindful of these considerations as we enter the front gates.
We are asked to create a five line formation for the solemn walk to the memorial sculpture in the centre of the courtyard, before the cemetary itself. This sculpture has great symbolic value; there are two tall posts, representing hands, which, near the top, hold an egg that represents new life and hope for the future. Due to his knowledge of religious ritual, Rob is recruited to light the incense, after which we bow silently in the Korean "muknyeom" style, while music plays. Rob is humbled to have been granted this honour, and we are collectively humbled by the whole experience, which sets the tone for the entire visit.
We start by watching a documentary film about 5-18. A number of people in the crowd gasp and whisper when we hear of involvement of a CIA trained operative, and the fact that the United States backed the military crackdown to ensure that the unrest not spread and that an American friendly regime be installed. Later, after determining my nationality, several in the crowd comment on U.S. penchant for fomenting discord, destabilizing governments, and propping up U.S. friendly regimes, no matter the impact on the citizens of those countries. We are told that since 1980, the Korean attitude to Americans has never been the same.
The film is moving, and very graphic. We see grisly images of the dead and wounded, and hear deeply disturbing stories. The museum tour reinforces the message with artifacts like stopped watches and bloodied flags. One particularly jarring sight is a display of blood stained rocks used by the protestors next to an M16, used by the militia. We see thought-provoking art work, and an open grave with a jumble of bones inside. One gets a keen sense of the brutality of it all.
Unsparing images include: a broken young student in pyjamas, with several armed militia men interogating him outside his dorm room, a despairing young man lying beside his dead friends, a group of soldiers standing together singing, one of them, eyes downcast, is silent. I can't help but think of students today, and the kids just like them, a mere 30 years ago. The parents of my students. It's close, and getting closer.The government originally claimed 196 died during the military's "operation gorgeous vacations," but this number seems ludicrous when watching the video footage which plays, like a memory, on a loop, in the museum. In fact, there are 350 graves at Mangwol-dong, and historians claim as many as 2000 people remain unaccounted for, though there have been rumours that many ended up in a reservoir just outside the city. So many people who just vanished. No graves, no stories, no memorialization.
The museum tour is a precursor for what is to come. We walk through the cemetary itself and hear heartbreaking stories. A young girl gunned down on the way to honour a grandparent at his grave site. An eight months pregnant woman caught in the crossfire. A young couple, married in death by families seeking to unite them in eternity where they could continue to share their common spirit. And, in a story that seems to sum up the randomness, the futility, and the complete breakdown into chaos, we learn that the first man killed was a 30-year old deaf mute who, that very day, was celebrating his child's 100th day birthday, an auspicious occasion in Korea. He was beaten to death because he couldn't answer the militia's questions.
We pull away from the cemetary in a sombre and reflective mood. Korea has been enduring invasions and occupations since the Japanese first stormed the beaches in 1592. The attack from within bowed, but did not break Korea's citizens. They continue to rise, and look forward. As our bus merges with the highway traffic, the mood starts to lift.
We tuck into the snacks provided and check out our giftbags which include commemorative books, and a beautiful case with coloured pencils. These gifts have been provided by our gracious hosts, the families and friends of those who have been pummelled and beaten over time by forces from within and outside Korean borders. The people who remain forward looking, and hopeful, who are forgiving enough to welcome the families and friends of Americans who supported their oppressors. I glance at Ryan, proudly displaying the Canadian pins we've given him, and marvel at how people, as the British said in World War Two, "Stay calm and carry on."
In the afternoon, we take Eric to our favourite barbeque place, but it's closed! The front door is decorated with a red, white and blue balloon archway, fitting since tomorrow is July 4th. As we're considering our options, an old man named Chuei approaches and leads us to a nearby kimbap shop. He holds my hand, and laughs as he tries to talk communicate with us in broken English. We try to treat him to lunch, but this man, clearly old enough to remember what Koreans consider the betrayal of the Americans, arm-wrestles Rob for the bill, and wins.
After lunch, he takes Eric by the hand, and leads us to his place of business. Eric later says it was a bit awkward for him, but he kept thinking, "He's my grandpa. He's my grandpa." The man's business is running a hostel for university students. The 6 x 8 foot rooms are spartan, with single, child sized beds. Down the hall is kitchen that is only marginally larger.
In the end, we discover, through a phone call to Ryan for clarification, that the man very much wants an English tutor. Ryan must break it to him that we are only here for a short while and already have heavy schedules. The old guy walks us back to the university gate, shakes our hands, and shuffles back into the alley. We all wish we could do more than just offer a "Kumsa Hamnida." Rob and I plan to return with a thank you card and a Manitoba pin.
Dinner is another event, in an already event filled day. We stop at the back gate vendor to finally partake of the much ballyhooed corn dogs with fries in the batter. Surprisingly, these aren't especially salty or sweet, though the vendor offers to roll it in sugar after pulling it from the bubbling oil. (We decline.) When we turn around, mouths crammed with fat and white flour, we're face to face with our Winnipeg friend, SharaLee, and her Korean buddy, Sue.
They're on their way to a movie, and ask if we'd like to join them. In the end, they choose a later showing, and we go for a chicken barbeque. In the ultimate example of how there are but six degrees of separation in this world, we discover that SharaLee spent part of her childhood living in the hamlet of Hamiota, Manitoba. The memory is forever etched into her mind, for this is where SharaLee was victimized by her worst teacher EVER, a woman so nasty that SharaLee dropped her French class and vowed never to study the language again. The teacher? Rob's sister! Reflecting on her disclosure, SharaLeeseems relieved to have finally unburdened herself of this painful memory, and is optimistic about moving on.
Of course, we can scarcely believe this connection, and we regale ourselves dishing about this, and various other matters, including our shared experiences as children of Germanic descent, and the difficulty in finding size 10 shoes in Korea. SharaLee was advised thusly: "If you want them, you'll have to make them!"
Dinner is followed by latte at Holly's Cafe in Hu Moon, and then we're off into the night.
No comments:
Post a Comment