by Chris Tharp
As we drove out of the Joint Security Area, the passengers of the bus were palpably more relaxed. People chatted and laughed and put their minds on more immediately pressing matters, like what to eat for dinner or what souvenirs to pick up before going home. I think I was one of the only folks on the bus who actually lived in Korea full-time, outside of the protective womb of the army base. Behind me were a father and his daughter. He was an American soldier and she must have been about ten, with bobbed brown hair and round glasses. The girl was fascinated by what she had just absorbed, though the experience threatened to overwhelm.
“Is there going to be a war?”
“I don’t know. It might happen, darling.”
“Will you fight?”
“If I have to.”
“Why does North Korea hate South Korea?”
“Because of the war.”
“Why do they hate America?”
“Same reason.”
“If America fights North Korea, what will China do?”
“They may help North Korea like they did last time.”
“Why did they even have the war last time?”
We ate an overpriced dinner at a canteen inside the Dorasan train station. Most of the tour members opted for the bulgogi (with tater tots, bizarrely); I chose the bibimbap (mixed rice), because I know it’s hard to fuck up. I sat with the soldier and his daughter, along with his wife and son. They seemed confused by some of the food on their aluminum cafeteria platter, so I explained a couple of things:
“Those are mushrooms in the bulgogi. And that–there–is lotus root soaked in sweetened soy sauce. It’s one of my favorites.”
“Wow,” the wife said. “You know a lot about Korean food.”
“Yeah, well… I live here.”
“Really? Why?”
I paused for a second. Her question had tripped me up. My right hand–which gripped a heaping spoonful of mixed rice–stopped cold between the metal bowl below and my mouth.
“I… I don’t know, really. I just came here and… stayed. Expat life suits me, I guess.”
The woman gave me a slight smile. I shrugged and stuffed the spoon into my mouth, leaving it at that.
The Cost of Doing Business?
One Tuesday afternoon I was teaching my usual interminable two-hour slog to the same three listless college boys–retreading a lesson from a book that I have squeezed dry for the last five years–when my phone buzzed. I glanced at the screen and saw that it was a text message from my girlfriend:
Ah… North Korea, it read, in terse Korean.
Minhee, my girl, usually eschews politics in her frequent text messages. These missives most often deal instead with when or where we shall meet, what we’ll have for dinner, or more simple and heartfelt expressions, such as I miss you and kiss. The shuttered state to the North had never entered into our texting dialogues, and I knew right then that something was up.
What do you mean? I tapped back.
Check the internet. I’m on the subway and some guy turned up the news loudly…
“Ten-minute break,” I told my students, and dashed to the nearby faculty office, where I commandeered the first computer I could find. The homepage was set to Naver, a popular Korean portal. Usually Naver is filled with photographs of leggy girl groups and famous soccer players. What I saw instead was a vivid photo of an island, with several columns of black smoke billowing into the sky.
I gleaned what I could from the Korean headlines and quickly jumped over to the New York Times for an English-language version of the shit that obviously had just gone down. The story was short and sketchy on specifics, other than that North Korea had attacked the South’s Yeonpyeong Island with artillery, killing a couple of marines and wounding several more. (It wasn’t until the next day that we learned that two civilians had been killed as well.) The article quoted the time of the attack as two thirty-six in the afternoon. It was now four, less than ninety minutes after the first shell had fallen. Was the South going to hit back? Would the North bomb more targets? Was this it–the awakening of the specter that lurks in the room every day on the peninsula–the real resumption of the Korean War, in all of its catastrophic, shitstorm glory?
I told my three students, all recently out of the army, to close their books and get out of class; that their country was under attack. I then headed home and proceeded to have about six different hurried and sweat-inducing phone conversations with some of my expat buddies, as well as my girlfriend. We felt a bit safer as each moment went by and the air raid sirens didn’t blare, but one thing was for sure: North Korea had deliberately attacked the South, raining shells down on a civilian-occupied island. This was a brazen act of war, a dangerous and almost unthinkable provocation coming on the heels of the sinking of the Cheonan (which sent 46 young sailors to their watery deaths). But was I surprised? Could I be surprised by such a thing? After all, North and South Korea have technically been at war since 1950: an armistice ended the first round of the Korean War, but a peace treaty never followed. That Tuesday’s attack was a startling reminder of this fact.
Within a couple of hours I joined Sam, our friend Nick, and David Scraggs for some pints down at the Rock and Roll Bar, where we watched the grim newscasters read from teleprompters, the usual backdrop of nighttime Seoul replaced by a massive photo of Yeonpyeong’s burning buildings. This wasn’t like before. Images of war were being splashed across the TV sets of an otherwise passive nation. This would be sure to inflame public opinion, which can be a dangerous business in a nation so susceptible to groupthink. As of writing this, 70% of South Koreans polled favored some kind of military action against the North. This was up from just 30% after the Cheonan disaster. Are they finally sick of eating shit?
“This is serious stuff, mate. The worst I’ve seen in eight years here,” said David, staring at the crimson-and-amber colors on the screen.
* * * *
That night, I had a long conversation with Angry Steve, who is always good counsel during such times of strife and political instability. Angry’s up on the issues: he’s a thinker and a reader and his opinion matters. I have some smart friends, and he just may top the heap. We talked through some scenarios, trying to predict which way this thing really could go, but in the end were left with no real answers. It’s fun to play at pundit, but in reality no one knows what will transpire. Steve, as a reasonably cautious and practical man, predicted nothing would come of it:
“I don’t know, but the South just has too much to lose. Are they going to risk it all with some sort of revenge attack? Or is living with these provocations just the cost of doing business? I think the latter is much more likely.”
Most people seem to agree with Steve–that the South will suck it up yet again, keep making steel, cell phones, cars, and semiconductors, and brush off world perception that they are weak when it comes to facing down their bellicose Northern brethren. But hey, who cares what others think, as long as the money’s flowing? Right?
“You know the world is laughing at you guys?” I told my girlfriend during a late night chat. I was a bit boozed-up and feeling candid. “How long are you gonna let them pull this shit?”
“You may think that, but this is different,” she said. “We are carefully weighing our options and will act as we must.”
South Korea is kind of like a nouveau-riche family that recently bought a mansion in one of the nice parts of town and has finally come to be accepted by their wealthy neighbors. The South knows that it’s new to the club and is desperate to keep up appearances. North Korea is the South’s poor, pissed-off, white-trash cousin that lives in a trailer park on the crappy side of the tracks. Sometimes North Korea gets drunk and ornery and drives over to their snooty cousins’ house at three a.m. They blast loud music, throw beer bottles out of their pickup, and do donuts in the front yard. Sometimes they even take out a stop sign with their twelve-gauge shotgun. They’re a pain in the ass and an embarrassment, but, in the end, they are family.
/> However, even family members are capable of killing each other.
* * * *
Should I stay or should I go? That is the question. In the event of a breakout of open hostilities, do I stick it out or skedaddle? Will I even have a choice, or just be rounded up and shipped out? I do know that there are evacuation plans for American nationals in the event (I would say unlikely event but I don’t really believe that anymore) of war. There are several collection points around the country. The nearest one to Busan is at the Korean naval base in Jinhae, about 45 minutes away, providing that traffic isn’t totally evil.
I’ve decided that I would, or will, stay. This is my home now. This is where my life is. My parents are gone. My girl is here, as are many friends, my house, most of my possessions, and two adorable, naughty cats. Busan is far from the DMZ and cut off by a big-ass river. It was the only big city not to fall to the North the first time around; I doubt that they could make it here this time, if there is a this time. Also, as a writer, it’d be too good a story to walk away from. Whether this is a ridiculous romantic notion, selfishness, or the height of naiveté is for you to decide, but if the shit goes down, I’m staying put.
But will it go down? Will it come to that?
I don’t know the answer. No one does. But my hunch is that something will break along the way. Small bouts of war may very well be the cost of doing business, but at some point that cost will be too high, more emotionally exorbitant than anything else, and that’ll be enough. When that happens, there will be no going back. I’d like to bank on peace winning out, but history gives us pretty shitty odds as far as that’s concerned.
In the meantime I’ll continue trudging along on the peninsula, as I have done for the past six years; I’ll don my jacket and teach, attempting to entertain my students and guide them along the endless path that is language acquisition; I’ll meet my international pack of friends for long dinners and many drinks, grateful for the fact that expat life is indeed a true equalizer; I’ll continue to explore the rural roads by motorcycle and trekking the bare ridges that are the bones of this land; I’ll spelunk the alleys that twist through Korea’s cities and towns, wander the old-time markets and dive into savory dishes at tiny, family-run restaurants; I’ll continue to marvel at the people–where they’ve come from and where they’re going–and keep trying to negotiate my own place within their ranks; I’ll continue to live in Korea, come catastrophe or boon, because this where I am. This is where I ended up, and guess what? It’s been good to me.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book is the culmination of over six years of living and working in Korea. In that time I've met countless people who have taught and inspired me, made me laugh, fed me, and generally fed the fire that has fueled me to where I am today. So, a big cheers to everyone I've come across along the way. This has indeed been a group effort.
Let me begin by thanking my editor and publisher, Marshall Moore, as well as the whole team at Signal 8 Press. This book wouldn't have happened without him. Such opportunities don't fall into an unproven writer's lap too often and I am deeply grateful. Here's to the success of new presses such as Signal 8, reinventing the way to publish books in this digital age.
Next I'd like to thank Will Jackson for the photos, and Lawrence Krauser for lending me his 3rd eye.
I'd like also to thank a whole heap of expatriates and citizens here in Korea, especially Scott Evans, Sam Hazelton, Angry Steve Feldman, Sir David Scraggs, BC Jay Haaf, Chris Peters, Brian Aylward (for the quotes), Craig Nichol, Bobby McGill and everyone at Busan Haps, Kim Dong-ha, John Bosckay, Kim Jeon-gil, Choe Se-ji, Mike Laveck, Jeff Lebow and koreabridge.com, B.R Myers, Cho Nam-in, Kenneth "K" May, Eddie Bae, Park Gu-pyo, Patrick Cole, and Kevin Hockmouth. Thanks also to all my great musician and artist friends in PNU and Kyungdae (you know who you are), as well as Roy Early and all the comics from the Ha-Ha Hole and Standup Seoul. The scene we've got going on in Busan and the rest of Korea is simply amazing.
In addition, I'd like to give a hearty thanks to all the folks who I met in Korea but who have since moved on, including the one and only Nick Bibby, Andrew Tenent (for all the great pours, as well as the job), Eric Bravo (author of Culturebook; read it!), "Scouser Stu" Driscoll, and Brian "The Caf" McCaffrey.
I also owe a great debt to my friends back home, for putting me up and putting up with me during my many visits. This especially goes for Ken and Maravick Cohen, Elizabeth Yeager and Scott Taylor, as well Jason Maniccia and Christie Drogosch. Also thanks to Liberty and Ray Conboy in L.A. for opening your home and subsequently forgiving me for fighting in it. Thanks to David Wahl and Geoff Carter at Monkeygoggles for publishing excerpts from this book and paying your writers, as well as everyone down at Unexpected Productions for all the great years of improv. I'd also like to acknowledge my former colleagues from Piece of Meat Theatre: John Q. Smith, Eric Layer, and Christopher Goodson. The ten years we spent making theater gave me the tools I needed to eventually make this book.
I would be remiss without thanking my two cats, Motgol and Myeolchi, for never once eating the manuscript, even though it was locked safe inside of my hard drive. That would have been lame.
Thanks to the nation of South Korea, for inviting so many of us in and letting us stay, even when we manage, at times, to piss you off. What you have achieved as a people is nothing short of astounding; you have every right to be proud, and I, for one, feel privileged to live among you.
Thank you, Kim Min-hee, my love and , for holding me up during the last nine months of this effort. Consider this book our first child.
Finally, I'd like to thank my brothers, Mark and Glen Tharp; my sister, Molly Crowley; my grandmother, Marion Christiansen, and the rest of the Tharp and Coates clan. My gratitude to all of you is without measure. This especially goes for my parents, John and Gloria Tharp, to whose memory this book is dedicated.