by Lisa See
Young-sook’s friends from the collective are already gathered on the main road by the time she arrives. Hado still has more haenyeo than any other village on Jeju, but they’re disappearing every day. Today there are only four thousand haenyeo on the island. More than half of them have passed their seventieth birthdays. Many, like Young-sook and the Kang sisters, are well beyond that. No one is following them into the sea. The daughters of Young-sook and others like her traded their wet suits for business suits and hotel uniforms. Now, as Young-sook looks at the aged faces around her, she thinks, We are but living myths, and soon we will be gone.
Each woman is dressed in her best. The Kang sisters have gotten new permanents and dye jobs. One woman wears a bright green sweater with blue and white pom-poms decorating the collar. Several wear dresses. Some carry bouquets. Others have baskets hanging from the crooks of their arms. The current head of the collective pins a white chrysanthemum to honor the dead on each woman’s lapel or sweater. They’ve waited sixty years for this day to arrive, and each has chipped in to rent a bus. The women should be subdued—somber even—when they climb aboard, but they’re haenyeo. Their voices are loud. They tease each other and make jokes. But some, it’s easy to see, weep through their laughter.
The road that skirts the coast is paved. At every village, Young-sook sees people boarding buses—some public, others private—but plenty of cars, vans, and motorcycles also head in the same direction. When the bus passes Bukchon, Young-sook closes her eyes. It hurts her to see the hotels and inns that rise along the shoreline. Next comes Hamdeok. As always, Young-sook revisits her pain, as she thinks of the olles between the two villages and the person she used to meet there. But it’s not just that. Both villages are ugly now, as are most across Korea, including her own. The New Village Movement caused that—replacing many stone houses with stucco boxes and all thatch roofs with tiles or corrugated tin. It’s supposed to be an improvement, making villages safer from fires and typhoons, but much of the island’s charm has diminished.
The driver turns inland, and the bus begins to climb. Horses nibble grass in fields. Pine trees sway in the breeze. Grandmother Seolmundae—dignified yet immutable—watches over everything. Young-sook has now flown on planes, seen the sights in Europe and across Asia, even gone on safari in Africa. The Kang sisters on the other hand . . . They’re always telling her about this or that museum, park, or attraction they’ve visited. “Right on our island!” they’ll burst out in unison. The Museum of Greek Mythology, the Leonardo da Vinci Science Museum, the African Museum. “Why would I go to those places when I’ve seen the real thing?” Young-sook has asked indignantly. When the Kang sisters brought up the Jeju Stone Cultural Park, Young-sook waved it off. “I’ve lived in and among stones my entire life. Why do I need to go to a park to see those?” (This question initially stumped the sisters, until Gu-ja said, “They have things you don’t see anymore. Stone houses like we used to live in, stone barrels for holding water, stone grandfather statues . . .”) They suggested the Museum of Sex and Health. “I don’t want to hear about it!” Young-sook exclaimed, putting her hands over her ears. They tempted her with Chocolate Land and the Chocolate Museum, debating the pros and cons of each. They offered to take her to see natural vistas and lookouts. “Jeju is a UNESCO World Heritage site! Do you want to be the only old woman on Jeju who hasn’t seen the sunrise on Seongsan Ilchulbong Oreum peak?”
The bus pulls into a driveway that leads to a complex of buildings and gardens. The main structure stands immense and majestic, like a giant offering bowl. Attendants wave buses forward so they can drop off their passengers. Young-sook and her friends fall silent, awed at last by the grand solemnity of the occasion. They’re here for the opening of the Jeju April 3 Peace Park, which will commemorate the years-long massacre and honor the dead. Young-sook’s knees tremble. Feeling very old and very weak, she sticks with her friends, but they look just as wobbly as she feels. Again, attendants direct them. The women walk around the side of the museum and along a paved path toward the memorial hall. On the huge lawn between the two structures, row after row of folding chairs have been set up. Thousands of people are expected. Signs with village names mark each section. The women wander the aisles until they find the sign for Hado. Here, they see friends and neighbors. Young-sook’s entire family is present, and she’s grateful for that, but she sits with the haenyeo anyway.
The program begins with speeches and musical interludes. One speaker comments on the beautiful scenery, and Young-sook agrees. If she keeps her eyes open, that’s what she sees: beauty. But she’s afraid to close her eyes for all the dark images that are coming back to her. “Who can name a death that was not tragic?” the speaker asks. “Is there a way for us to find meaning in the losses we’ve suffered? Who can say that one soul has a heavier grievance than another? We were all victims. We need to forgive each other.”
Remember? Yes. Forgive? No. Young-sook can’t do that. Being allowed to speak the truth? Too, too long in coming. Thirty years ago, back in 1978, a writer named Hyun Ki-young published a story called Aunt Suni. Young-sook couldn’t read it. She never did learn to read, but she heard it was about what happened in Bukchon. The author was taken to the national spy agency, where he was tortured. He wasn’t released until he promised never to write about the 4.3 Incident again. Three years later, the guilt-by-association system finally came to a close. This program had devastated many families across the island. If someone had been accused of being an insurgent or someone had been killed, then the rest of his or her family might not be hired, receive a promotion, or travel abroad. When the program ended, it was said that police stations destroyed their files, but people kept their mouths shut, just in case. Eight years later, in 1989, a group of young people hosted a public commemoration of the events of the 4.3 Incident. Young-sook didn’t go, because what difference would it make when the government insisted no proof existed that anything had happened on Jeju? Yet again, silence fell across the island.
A new speaker addresses the assembly. “Every person I know—from old to young—suffers from mental scars,” he tells the crowd. “There are those who experienced the massacre directly, those who were witnesses, and those who’ve heard the stories. We are an island of people suffering from post-traumatic stress syndrome. We have the highest rates of alcoholism, domestic violence, suicide, and divorce in Korea. Women, including haenyeo, are the greatest victims of these problems.”
Young-sook pushes the speaker and his statistics out of her head, returning to her own memories. Sixteen years ago, eleven bodies were discovered in the Darangshi Cave, including those of three women and a child. Strewn around them were not rifles or spears but the items people had carried from their homes: clothes, shoes, spoons, chopsticks, a pan, a pair of scissors, a chamber pot, and some farming tools. They’d sought refuge in the cave but were discovered by the Ninth Regiment. Soldiers heaped grass at the entrance, lit it on fire, and sealed the cave. Those inside suffocated. Here, at last, was the tangible proof the government could no longer deny, except President Roh Tae-woo ordered the cave to be once again closed. The evidence was literally covered up.
Then, in 1995, the island’s provincial council published a list—the first of its kind—with the names of 14,125 victims. The list was far from complete, however. Jun-bu, Yu-ri, and Sung-soo were not among the thousands, but Young-sook had considered it too dangerous to step forward. Then came the fiftieth anniversary, in 1998. More memorial services were held, as well as an art festival and religious activities, all tied to 4.3. The following year, the Republic of Korea’s new president, Kim Dae-jung, promised that the government would give 3 billion won to build a memorial park. “We cannot carry forward the twentieth-century incident into the twenty-first century” became the slogan. At the end of that year, the National Assembly passed a Special Law for the Investigation of the Jeju 4.3 Incident and Honoring Victims. The investigation committee planned to interview survivors on Jeju, as well as those who’
d moved to the mainland, Japan, and the United States. Materials—such as police and military reports and photographs long hidden in institutions and archives in Korea and the United States—were found and examined. But only in 2000 was speaking about the massacre finally decriminalized. Investigators came to Young-sook several times, but she refused to see them. They sought out her children and grandchildren, who approached her with the same message. “It is the duty of the next generation to bring comfort to victimized souls,” her grandson said. “We’ll do that, Granny, but only you can tell your story. It’s time.” But it wasn’t time for her. Even now, she’s too accustomed to her anger and sorrow to change.
A new speaker steps to the podium. “Three years ago, the central government announced its intention to declare Jeju an Island of World Peace. And here we are.” He pauses to let the applause die down. “In that same year, Hagui, which after the incident was divided into two separate villages, declared forgiveness. There would no longer be a village for victims and one for perpetrators. There would be no more labels of reds and anti-communists. Together, the people petitioned to reunite the two villages. It would once again be called Hagui. They built a shrine of reconciliation, with three stone memorials: one to remember those who suffered during Japanese colonialism, one for the brave sons who died in the Korean War, and one for the hundreds of people on both sides who died during the Four-Three Incident.”
Nausea tumbles Young-sook’s stomach. A monument will never change how she feels. It’s unfair that victims should have to forgive those who raped, tortured, and killed, or burned villages to the ground. On an Island of World Peace, shouldn’t those who inflicted terrible harm on others be forced to confess and atone, and not make widows and mothers pay for stone monuments?
“We still have many questions we must ask ourselves,” the speaker continues. “Was this tragedy a riot that got out of hand? Was it a rebellion, a revolt, or an anti-American struggle? Or do we say it was a democratic movement, a struggle for freedom, or a mass heroic uprising that showed the independent spirit that has flowed in the blood of the people of this island since the Tamna Kingdom?”
He receives a long round of applause, for all native-born Jeju people cherish that self-reliant part of themselves that came from the Tamna.
“Should we blame the Americans?” he asks. “Their colonels, captains, and generals were here. Their soldiers saw what was happening. Even if they didn’t directly kill anyone, thousands of deaths occurred under their watch, but they do not take responsibility. And not once did they intervene to stop the bloodshed. Or do we accept that they were trying to suppress the very real threat of communism at the early stages of what would become the Cold War? Was the Four-Three Incident America’s first Vietnam? Or was it a fight for people who craved reunification of north and south and wanted to have a say in what happened in our country, without interference or influence from a foreign power?”
At last, the speeches end. Village by village, people are led past headstones that commemorate the victims whose bodies were never recovered. Young-sook pauses for a moment. She remembers when the mass grave in Bukchon was dug up and people came to tell her that her husband, sister-in-law, and son had been identified. She and her other children were finally able to bury them in a propitious site chosen by the geomancer. Jun-bu, Yu-ri, and Sung-soo now forever lie side by side, and Young-sook visits their grave site daily. Others are not so fortunate.
She gives herself a small shake, looks around, hurries to catch up to the rest of the Hado group, and together they enter the memorial hall. Here, on a long, curved marble wall, are engraved the names of at least thirty thousand dead. Offerings of flowers, candles, and small bottles of liquor are heaped on a ledge that serves as an altar and runs the entire length of the room. Young-sook splits off from her haenyeo friends when her family approaches. She has enough flowers and offerings for them to present as a family, but she’s pleased that they’ve each brought something too. Min-lee, Young-sook’s oldest daughter, holds a bouquet of flowers wrapped in cellophane. Kyung-soo—paunchy and dull, Young-sook must admit—carries a bottle of rice wine for his father, a bag of dried squid for Yu-ri, and a bowl of cooked white rice for his older brother. These were things Young-sook’s husband, sister-in-law, and son liked six decades ago, but have their tastes changed in the Afterworld?
Min-lee’s eyes are swollen from crying. Young-sook takes her daughter’s arm. “It will be all right,” she says. “We’re together.”
The hall is packed, and people push and shove, eager to find the names of those they lost. People yell at each other to make room or get out of the way. Min-lee doesn’t shy away from using an elbow to jab those blocking their passage. They reach the wall. The rest of the family is right behind them. If this weren’t so important, Young-sook would feel desperate to escape the crush of bodies, the lack of oxygen, her sense of claustrophobia. Edging along the wall, Min-lee searches for the Bukchon section. Some villages have only a handful of victims. Others list name after name in row after row. People around them shout their discoveries. Others wail laments.
“Bukchon!” Min-lee cries. “Let’s find Father first.” Min-lee is sixty-three now. She was three and a half the day her father, brother, and aunt died. She’s strong by any measure, but she’s now so pale that Young-sook worries her daughter might faint. “Mother! Here!” Min-lee exclaims, her index finger resting on the engraved marble. The family parts to let Young-sook through. She reaches up to meet the spot her daughter has marked. Her fingers graze over the etched characters. Yang Jun-bu.
“Look, here are Auntie Yu-ri and First Brother.” Min-lee is crying hard now, and her children stare at her in concern.
Young-sook feels strangely calm. She reaches into her bag and pulls out a piece of paper and a nub of charcoal. It’s been decades since she made a rubbing, but she hasn’t forgotten what to do. She places the paper over the names of those she lost and rubs the charcoal back and forth. She’s about to tuck the paper inside her blouse next to her heart when she feels the eerie chill of people—strangers—staring at her. Suddenly self-conscious, she glances around. Her children and grandchildren are occupied making their offerings. But as they bow together, she sees that foreign family . . .
She sends a message with her face. Leave me alone. Then, without saying a word to Min-lee or the others, she dips back into the crowd, loses herself in the sea of people as she makes her way to the exit, and then hobbles down a path. She comes to a platform set above something that looks a bit like a bulteok with a low wall built of stones. Looking down into it she finds a bronze statue of a woman hovering protectively around her baby. A length of white cloth is draped around her legs and pulled to the side of the pit. Young-sook recognizes the image from all the memorials for lost or dead haenyeo she’s attended over the years. None of those ceremonies was more important to her than the one for her mother, and she remembers the way Shaman Kim tossed the long cloth into the water to bring Young-sook’s mother’s soul back to shore. Young-sook is so lost in her pain—with so many deaths and tragedies on her mind—that she startles when she hears a voice speaking the Jeju dialect in an accent tinged by Southern California and the luxury and benefits of limitless freedoms.
“My mom asked me to follow you. She wants me to make sure you’re all right.”
It’s that girl. Clara. She’s dressed suitably, for a change, in a dress, but of course she still has wires leading to her ears, feeding her music.
PART IV
Blame
1961
Years of Secrecy
February 1961
Jeju had always had a surplus of women, but with so many men and boys killed—with entire posterity lines wiped out—the imbalance was even greater. For the last eleven years, we women had forced ourselves to do even more than we had in the past. Those of us who ran our own households learned we could gather more wealth without husbands to drink or gamble it away. We contributed funds to rebuild schools and other villag
e structures. We donated money to repair old roads and construct new ones. None of this would have been possible if we hadn’t been completely free to dive again. And to dive, we needed to remain safe, which was why on the second day of the second lunar month we washed our minds of all trivialities, and then met Shaman Kim for the annual ceremony to Welcome the Goddess.
We gathered on the beach, totally exposed, and the back of my neck prickled. What we were doing was against the law. Although the Japanese colonists had sought to ban Shamanism, the new leader of our country decided to end it once and for all. President Park Chung-hee had come to power during a military coup, and he approached his new job in the same manner. There were more kidnappings and instances of torture, disappearances, and deaths. He ordered all shrines to be dismantled. Shaman Kim had been forced to break her drums and burn her tassels. Things that were difficult to destroy—her cymbals and gongs—were confiscated. This came at a time when we all needed—wanted—to be cleansed of the blame and guilt we felt for being survivors. Some turned to the Catholic missionaries for help. Others sought comfort in Buddhism and Confucianism. But even though Shamanism had been outlawed, Shaman Kim, and so many like her across the island, did not abandon us.
We typically took precautions and hid our activities as best we could, but this annual event was too large to be held in private. Not just my collective but all the collectives from the different villages that made up Hado had come together. Unlike the Jamsu rite, which was for haenyeo alone and honored the Dragon King and Queen of the Sea, this ceremony included fishermen. The women wore padded jackets, scarves, and gloves. The handful of men stamped their feet, seeking warmth in movement.