by Chris Tharp
We walked away from the trailhead, eventually making our way onto a small road that wound through farms carved out from the rock. We lumbered down the slope, searching for a car from which we could thumb a ride. The place smelled of damp soil and pine. Cows lolled in some of the fields, and at one point we passed an ancient man carrying an impossibly large pile of sticks on a backpack, which itself was made of wood. He didn’t even glance our way as he struggled up the slope, a lifetime’s worth of hard work pushing him on. I couldn’t help but wonder where his children were.
CHAPTER 9: TAKING IT TO THE STREETS
As an American growing up in the ‘80s, I had almost zero idea of what Korea was all about. As I mentioned earlier, my only impressions came from my military brat friends; the convenience store cashiers I encountered; the handful of shy, studious Korean kids at my school; and what I could glean from the nightly news:
“Anti-government protests continued in South Korea today, where militant students battled with riot police…”
This lead in-was a common one throughout the 1980s, and was always followed by footage of street mêlées featuring masses of bandana-wearing students, Molotov cocktails hurtling through the air, water cannon blasting through walls of people, plumes of tear gas, metal poles banging against police batons, riot gear and shields, and cascades of stones and bricks. Clashes of pure intensity; total chaos. I remember shaking my head while watching, not really knowing how to take in what I was seeing; I was both fascinated and horrified as I tried to digest clip after clip of these crazy students taking the cops and soldiers on. Though the reasons for these images escaped me at the time, I immediately knew one thing: these people were very committed and very pissed off.
What is wrong with Koreans? I thought. Why are they so angry?
Koreans have a rich history of street protests, dating (in modern times at least) back to the Japanese colonial period. In 1905, after defeating Russia in the Russo-Japanese War (to the shock of the Western world), the Japanese occupied the whole of the Korean Peninsula, officially annexing it as a colony in 1910. This happened with both the acquiescence of the U.K. and the United States, the latter of whom recognized Japan’s “interests” in Korea in exchange for Japan turning a blind eye to the American colonization of the Philippines. President Theodore Roosevelt actually brokered this agreement, known at the Treaty of Portsmouth, for which he received the Nobel Peace Prize, an “honor” that still turns the stomach of many a Korean to this day.
The Koreans bristled and resisted the Japanese occupation from the beginning, but it is what’s known as the March 1st Movement which really laid the foundation for modern street protest in Korea. In 1919, inspired by President Woodrow Wilson’s doctrine of self-determination, thirty-three representatives of the Korean people drafted a Korean Declaration of Independence and presented it to the Japanese authorities, which resulted in their immediate arrest. Word got out, and students were the first to peaceably take to the streets, soon joined by farmers, shopkeepers, workers, and a variety of other citizens. These peaceful protests quickly spread all over the country and caught the Japanese occupiers entirely by surprise.
Unfortunately for the Koreans, Wilson’s words did not translate into action, and the Japanese quickly and ruthlessly put down the demonstrations with military force. The Japanese shot protestors and set fire to schools, churches, and homes, which, according to historian Lee Ki-baik, resulted in 46,948 demonstrators arrested, 7509 killed, and 15,961 injured.
With their defeat in World War II, the Japanese were forced to withdraw from the Korean Peninsula, which then was split into two zones along the 38th Parallel, a dividing line chosen somewhat randomly by two US State Department functionaries in an office in 1945. Instead of granting full and immediate independence to the Koreans, the country was temporarily put under a trusteeship overseen by the Americans, Russians, and British. This resulted in massive, violent demonstrations throughout the country; after languishing under the thumb of the Japanese for forty years, the people had no stomach to trade in one colonial overlord for yet another.
Soon the Soviets set up a communist government in the North and withdrew their troops, with a minor anti-Japanese rebel fighter (and Soviet army vet) named Kim Il-sung handpicked to take the helm. By 1948, the Americans had set up a government in the South, with Dr. Syngman Rhee (the very Anglicized version of his name)–a US-educated anti-communist hardliner–elected to head this new, pro-Western republic. Both sides then squared off against each other for some five years (with minor skirmishes along the border), until the wee morning hours of June 25th, 1950, when the Russian-supplied North Korean army poured across the weakly defended 38th Parallel. This ignited the Korean War, which drew out for over three gory years, “ending” in a stalemate in 1953. Technically, of course, the war never ended, but to this day exists in the suspended-combat state known as a “ceasefire.”
We saw street protests and agitation all through this time–from the time the Japanese left, to the moment the terms of the ceasefire were announced. There were always segments of Korean society against what was going on, and they never hesitated to let it be known in the loudest and boldest manner possible. 1948 saw a bloody uprising on Jeju Island (which was met with severe repression, resulting in the death of tens of thousands of people); in 1960, after some fishy election results and the murder of a student, massive protests managed to bring down the great Dr. Syngman Rhee, who then fled to Hawaii to live in self-imposed exile. The next important leader of South Korea was Park Chung Hee, who came to power in 1961 in a bloodless coup. He ran the country as a de facto dictator, overseeing its modernization and economic development, all the while stifling dissent and doing constant battle with pro-democracy students. He was assassinated in 1979 by his own chief of national security (the head of the dreaded Korean Central Intelligence Agency), which ushered in the most politically volatile decade in the history of the Republic of South Korea: the 1980s.
Eruption
May 18th, 1980 was a very significant day for me, growing up. On this day, Mt. St. Helens–one of the most beautiful peaks in the Cascade Range–decided to blow its top, resulting in one of the most violent and dramatic eruptions ever witnessed in modern-day North America. I was 9 years old at the time and lived in Washington State. I remember sitting on the roof of our house and watching the massive plume in the distance, like a dark mushroom cloud. I remember listening to the initial news reports, my heart racing at the alarm so evident in the announcer’s voice, and feeling a certain pride that we–the State of Washington–were on the world map for the first time in my life. We were famous. I remember playing in the volcanic ash that fell to the ground and having to wear a surgical mask to school–a novelty for us kids at the time. Like the Battle of Britain depicted from a child’s perspective in the terrific film Hope and Glory, the eruption of Mt. St. Helens–a major natural cataclysm which had the potential for massive human death–was pretty much just fun and games for any kid who witnessed it. It was an excuse for not going to school, and for collecting grey, pulverized rock in Mason jars.
If the news reports mentioned South Korea or the city of Gwangju that day, I missed it, as did most Americans, I’m sure. The story of Gwangju was buried under Mt. St. Helens’s ash, like everything else. It just couldn’t compete with a big fat American volcano. And while St. Helens was a terrific story–nature at its purest; an intransigent old-timer named Harry Truman who in the face of death refused evacuation; the amazing time-lapse footage of an immense mountain literally blowing apart–less than sixty people were killed by the eruption. The city of Gwangju, which erupted on the exact same day as Mt. St. Helens, would prove to have a much higher body count.
President Park Chung-hee was immediately succeeded by Choi Kyu-hah, his prime minister, who acted as president in the wake of Park’s assassination. The power vacuum left by Park’s absence was just too tempting for an opportunistic major general named Chun Doo-hwan to resist: he took over in a coup d�
�état six days later. This move proved to be very unpopular among the population–with students in particular–who, after eighteen years of military rule, were desperate for the democratization of their country. Demonstrations once again broke out around the country, and on May 17th, just over five months after he took over, Major Chun declared martial law.
Gwangju is located in South Jeolla Province, which sits in the southwest corner of the Korean Peninsula. South Jeolla people have long been considered among the prickliest and most rebellious in all of Korea. Residents of South Kyungsang Province, where Busan is located and I call home, generally don’t care for their subversive neighbors to the west. This disdain is reciprocated, I’m told. So it’s no surprise that the greatest resistance to martial law occurred amongst the most hardheaded folks on the peninsula. The protests in Gwangju started among students at Chonnam National University. Troops were called in to quell the demonstrations, and they were allegedly heavy-handed in their approach, cracking down not just on the militant students, but also on the other, more peaceful citizens of Gwangju, who at the time were just trying to go on with their daily lives. This proved too much for the locals to bear, and on May 18th, the students were joined by many ordinary citizens in a general uprising against the military. Government armories were raided; weapons were seized. Some police officers were killed. The population of Gwangju began to arm itself against the troops called in against them. A general insurrection was on.
The people of Gwangju held their city for nine days, facing off a massive army force which had them surrounded. Chun Doo-hwan and the military command insisted that the demonstrators were communist provocateurs, North Korean agents who had infiltrated the country and were making an attempt at a communist uprising. Though there were surely leftist elements represented among the student protestors (as there always are), to write the Gwangju demonstrations off as the dirty work of commies was and is pure hogwash. It was a direct reaction to the institution of martial law.
On May 27th, the government lost its patience and moved in, gunning down an unknown number of civilians in the process, both armed and unarmed alike. The death toll is hotly debated to this day: a later investigation by the civilian government put it at 200 dead and 850 injured, while others insist that up to 2000 people were killed. This question will never be fully resolved, to be sure, but what happened in Gwangju is still a sensitive subject among Koreans, and I have yet to talk to one who will fully open up to me about it. After all, many of them blame the United States.
Fucking USA!
On the surface, to blame Big Bad America for the massacre in Gwangju is a prime example of the knee-jerk anti-Americanism seen not just in Korea, but throughout much of the world. After all, it was Korean troops who actually pulled the triggers in Gwangju. Americans were not even on the ground. Those soldiers who did the slaughtering were also not under the Combined Forces Command, and therefore didn’t have to answer to the American military. The Koreans were on their own in Gwangju, and US authorities insisted that they never signed off on any decision to go in with guns blazing. In fact, they claimed ignorance of the whole thing.
But we know that in law, ignorance is no excuse, and to many Koreans, the Americans at best chose to look the other way while Chun Doo-hwan ordered the butchering of hundreds of his fellow countrymen; at worst, they gave him a secret Yankee green light. Gwangju occurred during the first year of the presidency of Ronald Reagan, who was always willing to overlook an ally’s bloodstained human rights record as long as they were doing their part in the global fight against Communism. In this respect Chun fit the bill exactly, cracking down on those pesky Reds with such fervor that Reagan invited him to Washington in both 1981 and 1985.
Gwangju did little to inspire love for America among the Korean people, instead exacerbating an already-deepening mistrust. The fact that America’s motives on the peninsula are often viewed with suspicion (and at times hostility) by a large segment of the populace causes consternation among many of my fellow Americans who come here: How ungrateful! After all, didn’t we save their asses during the Korean War, shedding plenty of our own blood in the process? Don’t we continue to protect them? They’d be speaking NORTH Korean it wasn’t for us.
Anti-Americanism is alive and well in South Korea. It always has been. It’s a complicated and potent cocktail of history, nationalism, xenophobia, real grievances, and scapegoating. Rather than existing as some unbending, constant force, it tends to flare up in spasms, where centuries of frustration and anger get vented on the largest and most obvious target: Uncle Sam. Many Americans have this idea that we’re a force of good in the world, that despite some excesses and mistakes, American foreign policy has been dedicated to the fight against tyranny, the promotion of democracy, and the betterment of peoples’ lives. But this view is pure Pollyanna, for anyone who has carefully studied US foreign policy can clearly see that it has been finely tuned to do just one thing: benefit the economic and political interests of the United States. Sure, the language of idealism is used, but in the end it’s our ends that are advanced.
Koreans understand this better than anyone. It was America who, in an 1871 attempt to open its ports, attacked Korea militarily. It was America who sold them out the Japanese in 1905 (thanks, Teddy!). It was America who drew that line across the 38th parallel, causing undue pain and hardship to this day (the inconvenient fact that the partition was carried out in accord with the Soviet Union often slips their minds). Yes, America intervened in the war to save the Southern republic, losing over 38,000 young men in the process, but Korean losses number in the millions. Moreover, many of those were felled by US-made bullets and bombs. But most importantly, where was America during the long struggle for real democracy? Instead of supporting the Korean people, America threw its weight behind years of military dictatorships, all in the name of fighting Communism. This especially sullies the image of the United States in the eyes of many Koreans and confirms what many of them already believe: America has never had Korea’s interests at heart.
This distinctly anti-American view tends to be held by people under the age of 50, those who grew up during the pro-democracy struggles of the ‘70s and ‘80s, when the radical left re-emerged as a real force in Korean politics. Members of the older generation–the one that actually remembers the war–more often view America much more positively. Many are grateful for America’s sacrifice to keep the South free from Communism. I’ve had elderly Korean men approach me on the street just to shake my hand and say “Thank you, America.” Pro-American army veterans often rally in support of the alliance and against Kim Jong-il and the North in Seoul, sometimes flying the Stars and Stripes alongside the South Korean flag–known as the taegukgi–while they burn the vertically-challenged dictator in effigy.
A prime example of this kind of Korean is my old acquaintance, Mr. Bae, a 70-year-old former customs officer who now runs a customs brokerage near the port. Mr. Bae is fastidious and spry, almost never seen without a jacket and tie. He speaks English well, peppering his speech with well-prepared idioms:
“Oh, I see you are just the man for the job!”
“As you know, the early bird always gets the worm.”
Mr. Bae loves America and is fascinated by foreigners. He will often walk up to random Westerners he sees on the street and strike up a conversation. If they happen to be American, the handshake they receive will be that much more vigorous.
Mr. Bae is a staunch right-winger. His house is full of documents and books that he’s procured from the US embassy over the years, including a puzzling amount of literature from the Nixon and Ford administrations (Kissinger figures in highly). He was a big supporter of the last President Bush and worships at the altar of Ronald Reagan, whom he considers a near demigod: “Ronald Reagan was your best president! He was a good friend to Korea!” He speaks of the late Korean strongman Park Chung-hee in reverential tones, and spits pure vile when the subject of North Korea comes up: “Let them starve, I say! Let them
starve!” Mr. Bae once traveled to Washington, D.C. to participate in a joint training course with the US Customs Service, and proudly displays a medal he was awarded from them in his display case, right next to his retired Korean Customs hat and badge. He is a patriotic Korean who, as a boy, was forced to hide from North Korean patrols on the occupied southern island of Namhae during the war. He loves his country, but finds no contradiction in loving America and Americans too.
Despite my expectations before I arrived in Korea, I have yet to be the knowing object of overt anti-Americanism. Sure, I’ve met some Koreans who had plenty of nasty things to say about the USA, but I’ve never had anyone take it out on me personally. This may have something to do with geography, as Busan is a conservative city where the pro-US Grand National Party dominates the scene, unlike the much more left-leaning environs of Seoul. I’ve really never been hassled in any of my travels, actually–not even during the height of the world-hated Bush administration. I’m sure that many folks–both in Korea and elsewhere–hate America and Americans, but most of them have the common decency to hate us behind our backs.
This isn’t always the case here. When anti-Americanism bubbles over in Korea, it can get ugly and absurd quite quickly. The most obvious example happened during the summer of 2002, when, during the World Cup, two middle school girls were accidently run down and crushed by a US Army vehicle out on a maneuver. The soldier driving the vehicle–along with his commander–was subsequently found not guilty of negligent homicide in a military court-martial, resulting in one of the largest explosions of anti-American rage ever witnessed in Korea. Internet rumor-mongers helped to stoke up the ire, causing many Koreans to believe that the girls had been killed intentionally. We can thank the pro-North Korea hard left for that. Friends of mine who were here at the time talk of being refused service, harassed, even spat on, just on the suspicion of being American: Koreans reportedly weren’t checking a lot of passports before unleashing the abuse. Westerner = American. This was two years before I arrived in the country, but I remember watching footage of the demonstrations on American TV: in one, thousands of Koreans ripped apart a massive American flag; in another, a similar mass of people set fire to their individual Stars and Stripes. To see this sort of raw hatred directed at us made me want to have nothing to do with Koreans. Commentators and politicians openly debated pulling out our troops and cutting South Korea adrift. I can’t say I that I disagreed with them at the time.