The Island of Sea Women(86)
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 . . .