Universal language: art
By Winston Wonjoon Chang
At the 38th parallel in the northeastern sector of the country is Haemaluchon, a small agricultural village encased within rings of mountains crested with the majestic greenery that once used to blanket the peninsula.
Here, time has stopped, but one purpose continues strong. The villagers, proud guardians of South Korea’s northernmost democratic stronghold, remind the rest of us of not only the country’s painful divided state, but the spirit and the strength of a people’s deep founded belief in democracy.
Today, the village is a place of pilgrimage, where a handful of tourists come to pay homage to one of the last remnants of the Cold War.
However, Haemaluchon is about more than the quiet astonishment and amusement experienced by tourists, for it is home to many generations of families who guard their property despite everything, like brave soldiers quietly awaiting the enemy at the front lines.
The tension, although never discussed, is always present. Despite the strategic and historic significance of Haemaluchon, the village is more often than not forgotten, like an old buried relic of war.
Living in a divided peninsula, where political insecurity seems so natural and the advent of war looms close then steps back just an inch, Korea is a land full of threat.
At the same time, the forever impending sense of calamity also leaves the people looking for a vessel of security, and South Korea, freed from tyranny and oppression, has grown into one of the world’s largest economic powers.
Since I was a child, I naturally questioned the roots of the conflicts between the two closest but most distant neighbors.
What possibly could bring up so much controversy between the once unified, brother states? Will we ever find true peace, something beyond the temporary truce? What can the division teach us about ourselves, and are there anything we can do, as ordinary citizens?
As a son of Korea, I wanted to do more than wonder. I dreamed of contributing to a solution, or at least becoming engaged in an activity that will place me closer to the problem, for passive observation seemed too detached.
So, I set out for Haemaluchon brimming with an idea, and in July of 2010, I was taken by the “DMZ DNA” Project sponsored by Dongseo University in Busan.
At first, the project was simply a mural project designed to enhance the town’s center square by decorating the exterior of a rusted storage container with paintings of deer, an animal symbolizing naturalization and peace.
The locals seemed to enjoy the small transformation, and mainly positive remarks were expressed in the follow-up survey given to a sample population of Haemaluchon’s residents.
The positive feedback encouraged us to engage in this project again in July.
This year, the project veered into a different direction. As a returning veteran artist, I served as a leader of public art and communication, and started projects to create 3D designs and sculptures in Haemaluchon’s public spaces.
In addition to creating a wooden deer, built to decorate the main gates of Haemaluchon, I led several high school students in designing multiple billboards displaying the direction and the distance to 22 different capital cities from the village.
What was the purpose of this? Every sign displayed a large number, indicating the distance the DMZ stands from other countries.
Yet, one sign displayed Seoul and Pyongyang, showing the lowest number and signifying the short distance between the two capitals. Combining artistic ambition with symbolism for peace and unification imbued power and significance into simple art pieces.
The DMZ DNA Project has had an impact on the lives of Haemaluchon’s residents.
Flowering their village with new innovations and expressing their opinions and peaceful yet firm existence through something simple like art is definitely a fascinating development, but, at the same time, we wish for something more — that even the most war torn or forgotten areas can become temples of hope symbolizing humanity and liberty’s striving for universal existence.
The writer is a senior at Blair Academy in New Jersey.