Excursion to so-called Enemy Cemetery in Paju
The picture shows row after row of north-facing graves in the Cemetery for North Korean and Chinese Soldiers in Paju, Gyeonggi Province. The gravesite is informally called the “Enemy Cemetery” for the soldiers fallen in the 1950-53 Korean War. Courtesy of Richard Pennington
By Richard Pennington
Not long ago, my friend Audrey and I got into her metallic blue Volkswagen and headed north to Paju's Jeokseong township ― coming within five kilometers of the Demilitarized Zone. The highway on which we drove is known to locals as Jayu-ro, or Freedom Road.
Our destination was the Cemetery for North Korean and Chinese Soldiers. It, too, has an informal name ― Enemy Cemetery. It was created in 1996 partly because so many bodies had been recovered from the Korean War.
South Korean soldiers got full military honors at the national cemeteries in Seoul and Daejeon, and those of their allies were repatriated with gratitude on both sides. What, though, of the North Koreans and Chinese? Somewhere between 400,000 and 530,000 of them died in the war.
Only a fraction were ever brought to Paju; at one time, it held the remains of 770 men, but that was cut by more than 50 percent in 2014 when all 437 Chinese bodies were exhumed and taken to the Resist America and Aid Korea Martyrs Cemetery ― I swear that's the name ― in Shenyang.
None of the North Koreans have been repatriated on the basis of the DPRK's claim that it is the rightful government of the entire peninsula.
The cemetery does not only hold the remains of North Koreans who fought in the war. Also buried are 29 of the commandos who, in 1968, tried to storm the Blue House (one was taken alive, and one made his way back north).
It is the resting place for Kim Sung-il, partially responsible for the bombing of Korean Air flight 858 in 1987 ― killing 115 people. Also buried there are nine sailors who died in 1998 in a murder-suicide in the confines of a mini-submarine after they failed to infiltrate the South.
We were not far outside of Seoul before we began to see barbed wire, watchtowers and other signs of military preparedness. This would be my ninth visit to the DMZ area.
There are no road signs for the Enemy Cemetery, and no reference could be found on the map we secured at a public office in Paju. This is where Audrey ― Korea born and raised ―proved to be a real heroine. She told the man we wanted to see bukhangun/junggukgun myoji je 1 myoyeok.
He did a bit of research and gave her directions. We followed them but did not find the place, so we stopped and asked a lady at a fruit stand. She, too, gave directions, aided by a male farmer. No go. We stopped at a police station and tried again.
Two other times, Audrey spoke with people who seemed to know of the cemetery's existence and location. We were close, of that we were sure. Finally, one of them pointed and said, “It's right over there.” We turned and saw rows of graves and knew our search was over.
A sign greets rare visitors to the Cemetery for North Korean and Chinese Soldiers in Paju, Gyeonggi Province. There are two sites: The site on the left side is exclusively for North Korean soldiers and the other on the right side is for both North Korean and Chinese soldiers. Courtesy of Richard Pennington
The cemetery had undergone changes since the Chinese soldiers were taken home. What had been a series of crude mounds with plain wooden markers had been flattened out and simple headstones lain; they face north, a respectful gesture, I think.
Audrey and I walked around the 6,000-square-meter cemetery, which is divided into two parts, surrounded by rice paddies, and discussed what we saw. Few people go there, not that you would expect it to be popular.
There are unconfirmed reports of cameras that seek to identify North Korean sympathizers, which applies to neither Audrey nor me. Almost every grave we saw identified the deceased as mumyeongin: “unknown.”
Tending one of the adjacent rice fields was an elderly woman who wore a bonnet on her head. I wanted to know her feelings about the cemetery, so I asked Audrey to prod her a bit. Does it get many visitors? “Not many,” she said succinctly.
What do you think of having this cemetery full of North Korean soldiers next to your field? “It's OK. It doesn't bother me.” Needless to say, their conversation was not held in English.
This place, where a Buddhist monk used to beat on a drum and chant to ease the suffering of the spirits of the dead, has seen changes in recent months.
After meetings of the heads of state of South Korea, North Korea and the U.S., responsibility for managing and operating it was transferred from the ROK Army's 25th Infantryto Gyeonggi Province. Use of the name “Enemy Cemetery” will be discouraged.
Audrey and I said goodbye to the farmer lady and drove further north to Munsan, a city of 100,000. There we found a restaurant and had a nice meal of gamjatang. Munsan had just been featured in a New York Times article about what it is like to be so close to the most isolatedcountry in the world.
Richard Pennington (raput76@gmail.com), a native of Texas in the U.S., works as an editor at a law firm in southern Seoul. He has written 20 nonfiction books, including “Travels of an American-Korean, 2008-2013.” He is the director of an NGO, the Committee to Bring Jikji Back to Korea.