Violence and Humanity - A Saga

Borders

Poring over a map I had acquired about a year and a half before at the Cheorwon Peace Observatory – where you can gaze across the DMZ and into the North – I found a point of interest: a church near the dividing line. While trying to locate a taxi to take me there, I discovered the keys to the school where I worked were still in my pocket. By the time I had dropped them in the mail, it was mid-afternoon. I wanted to be at the church on the other side of the checkpoint a little before sunset.

Once we were underway, the taxi driver had only a little trouble finding the dirt road that led to my destination. As it happened, the square white concrete church was adjacent to a very small military post, or maybe it was a supply cache. I saw four or five soldiers exit a military truck and enter a nondescript building. The taxi driver was willing to wait once I realized the church was locked up, but I paid him and indicated it wasn’t necessary. It was at that moment that I got an international telephone call – from whom I can’t say, because I ignored it, assuming that my sister had read my e-mail9 and that she or another relative was phoning to talk me out of what I was prepared to accomplish.

Wanting to find shelter from the elements – it was a late January day in 2010 – and to avoid being noticed by the militia, I circled to the rear of the church. Built into one of the sidewalls were stairs leading to a flat roof. From the snow-laden roof and the partially exposed spire where a bell once hung, I kept watch on my surroundings, spying out into the direction the map indicated for a wall that could be climbed. Crouching within the most concealed part of the weather-beaten spire, I urged the clock on my phone to send the military men on their way and to lower the sun and assist me in my stealth. Fortunately, though, the sun seemed to stand still on the horizon for a bit after they left. This temporarily allowed me to tread through the frozen, overturned remnants of the produce fields in my path.

Once darkness had settled in, I found myself using my phone’s lamp to guide me toward the mountains. Later, the overcast sky cleared, and the moon and the snow helped me see my way. Once or twice when a vehicle crept along a long stretch of road, I concealed myself beside dung mounds, along with some scurrying, unidentifiable fauna. After a while, I encountered a well-lit bridge over a small, partially frozen river, which I thought must be a heavily guarded passage. After debating if I had the courage to cross, I made it to the other side undetected, only to find that the road led me farther toward civilization.

Changing course and heading toward the ominous black mountains, I eased myself over a frozen part of the stream. In deep woods now, woods layered with snow, I scaled the varying inclines toward a summit. As I recovered there, it was apparent this apex offered no clear views that would allow me to scope out a route north, and so it was at each successive height. In the frozen knee-deep snow I could discern trails of footprints, which I followed, assuming they had been laid down by refugees fleeing in the opposite direction. At any turn, I anticipated encountering a defector. Only after I noticed that the prints wandered and intersected did I think they might have been left by animals.

Finally, after my wet and nearly frozen feet mounted a plateau where I could scan above the treetops, they had to rest and be warmed. I used the battery of my cellphone. After learning to endure random sounds from the sudden movements around me, I reclined on low-hanging tree branches and eventually drifted into a dreamless sleep until near dawn. Now, lacking a cellphone signal, I couldn’t know the time accurately.

When I awoke, I ate a little beef jerky, along with handfuls of snow, before continuing on. At every peak I approached I was hopeful it would be the one to point me toward my destination, but that was not so. I walked up and down one side of a mountain, only to be presented with another, and then another. The dense, tall forest was disorienting. But there was an awesome, eerie and strangely encouraging sight: endless lines of barbed wire. Their presence confirmed I was heading in the right direction. I pushed on, and found that in some locations the barbed wire was stacked higher, and all manner of rubber tires and helmets were strewn along some of the mountain wedges. I marveled that everything was the way they left it.

Using a line of barbed wire as leverage, I hiked its outline uphill toward a strategic web of deep trenches on the mountainside that branched off into a series of small cement bunkers. Each cramped bunker could hold two or three people. Besides the crawl-through entrance, the only other openings were small rectangular slits. Next to them were painted diagrams of potential flight paths and the angles to position the weapons. Disconcerted by the scene – and by the thought of the fear that still lingered in those spaces – I rested in one of them only long enough to readjust my clothing, lighten my load, and eat more beef jerky.

Treading through the maze of snow-filled trenches, obviously dug by someone’s army, I was certain I was heading up the right mountain and in the right direction. Atop the mountain, I beheld a countryside panorama but was still uncertain about which parallel I was situated on. Built into the landscape were a few old and seemingly abandoned structures, made of cement, brick, and wood. The more dilapidated sheds held aged military equipment. I cautiously investigated each structure for clues about which side they belonged to but concluded nothing.

A little farther down a paved road, housed in a barnlike building, I saw an unusual object that appeared to be a large, egg-shaped pod or a blackened, cast-iron, pot-bellied oven. It was suspended somehow at waist level and attached was a heavy metal door. Off to the side was a pair of old boots. I decided that before I left I would exchange them for the worn, soaked, and flimsy patent-leather pair I was wearing.

It wasn’t until I walked farther down the paved descent that I beheld a newer structure, off in the distance to my left. A flagpole towered near the front entrance. Stopping short at the sight of a military truck, I hid in the brush long enough to see the flag of South Korea. Not wanting to be captured before reaching the other side, I rushed back toward the abandoned buildings. Figuring to spend the night there, in the former sleeping quarters, I went first for the boots. Reaching for them, I noticed they were positioned as if they had been set aside. Slowly opening the pod door revealed a young Korean in fatigues, wearing a headset and seated before an intricate equipment panel. He did not appear alarmed when our eyes met. In fact, he nonchalantly turned back to his work after I nodded, smiled, and moved to reseal the door. As I hustled toward the shelter, satellite equipment and similar gear came into view. Hidden inside, I waited, expecting at any moment to be seized.

When it became apparent no one was in pursuit, I looked desperately for some way to find warmth amid the howling winter. As a last resort, I stripped dusty, worn synthetic-fiber drapes from the windows and wrapped myself in them, head to foot. It wasn’t long before dusk suggested it was safe to rest. I stretched out on a wood platform and fought for sleep. Suddenly, lying down was causing my stomach to cramp and acid to form at the base of my throat and my jaw to tense. I thought it was the beef jerky, or maybe the water from mountain springs. As it persisted, unsettling my mind, I thought I must be fighting off lockjaw or some bacterial infection from the many rusty-barbed-wire pricks in my hands, legs, and feet.

In the morning, though, after I had consumed handfuls of snow, the symptoms subsided. Deciding that following the paved road was too risky, I exited through the trenches, resolving to make one last attempt to find the border. Despite the rain that had arrived, I maintained my pace and determination – but all for naught. A clearing at the foot of the mountain revealed a small cemetery full of burial mounds at the edge of a relatively busy road. I made my way toward a house and a vehicle on the other side of the road, in hopes of getting a ride back to the bus station in Cheorwon.

Exhausted, muddied, and not just a little disgusted with the entire situation, I greeted a gentleman who was loading his blue pickup truck. After we muddled through the language barrier, he offered to drive me to Cheorwon. I sat on the bed of the pickup. My stomach cringed as we arrived at a checkpoint. I could not hear what the driver said to the guard, but I was immediately taken into custody.

In a modular structure brightly lit with fluorescent bulbs, I was photographed and questioned. After I presented all of my documents and while waiting for the taxi driver and my school to verify my version of events, I was offered hot ramen soup, which I accepted. They concluded I was lost, an unfortunate tourist. Two young military men escorted me to the Cheorwon bus station, where local police waited for me to board the bus back to Uijeongbu.

Seated near the bus’s floor heater, I warmed up and dried my socks and pants while contemplating my three-day journey. I tried but failed and was prepared to return home before it registered that I had mailed off my keys, shipped all of my clothing, and written letters of resignation. What if those three days were just a test of my dedication?

I decided to bypass Uijeongbu and head to Itaewon, the foreigners’ paradise. I was much too dirty for the love motels, so I opted to get refreshed and cleaned up in a hotel where there was...