The Island of Sea Women(85)

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.