Remembering Itaewon

Courtesy of Tim Umphreys

There are moments in our lives during which we can remember exactly where we were, what we were doing, the smells, and the sounds. These moments range from the trivial and mundane, arising as whimsical moments of deja vu, but also include the great extremes of our existence: the moments of unbridled joy and the devastating shock of terror and tragedy.

And so it was, one year ago, when I was sat at my desk working late into the night, listening to Nujabes and eating far too many biscuits, when a friend sent me a message. It was a link to a video on Twitter. Happy for the chance to procrastinate, I tapped my foot and opened up a new window on my computer. What happiness I had was soon replaced by that unnamed feeling.

It was the shock that hit me first. I knew I was seeing something I shouldn’t be seeing. Or it was something that I didn’t want to see. Or perhaps something that I had to see. The feelings were all there at the same time. It was the same experience when I heard the voice messages of those young Korean children trapped on a boat. And the same when a camera cut to the footballer Christian Eriksen on the pitch following his cardiac arrest. It was coming face to face with death.

Age and loss

I was asked to write and read the eulogy at my grandmother’s funeral. I travelled back to England when my uncle passed away. I have spent three days on the floor keeping the incense burning for my mother-in-law when cancer took her and now visit her final resting place next to a tree behind a temple in Ganghwado. I have attended funerals for friends near and far, some somber and devastating affairs and others more in the tradition of a celebratory wake. I have spoken on television and radio following disasters, both natural and man-made. Attending and being part of funerals, rites, and ceremonies has become a sadly all too familiar occurrence.

Sometimes when a call comes during the day or I see a message on my phone, I hesitate. My stomach drops out of my body. “Surely not”, I think to myself. “Please, no.” These feelings trigger a deep existential search inside of me. It’s something that generally lays dormant. Asleep. Travelling to and from work, lecturing, meeting friends, attending events, speaking in media, the world rushes by me. Caught in a forever moment of now, days becomes weeks which then, in turn, become months and years. The hair recedes, the wrinkles grow, the eyes sag and dim somewhat.

And then a message, a song, or an event like the one that took place in Itaewon in 2022 reminds you of something so moving it makes you stop and reevaluate everything. I was allowed to see my hair recede, granted the opportunity to see wrinkles form, and permitted to experience my eyes sag with the passing of time. Others, so many many others, were not given such a ticket. Their future snatched away from them. Their lights dimmed.

With Korea

I love the country of Korea and its people. I say that without shame or fear. The culture and the environment has made me a better person, teaching me respect, the value of education, the importance of memory, and the sacredness of family and collective spirit. Korea has fundamentally changed my view of the world and how history is to be understood. It has provided me with a perspective that I would not have had anywhere else. It has taught me to sing and to weep. While I will never be Korean, there is no doubt that I have become Koreanized in many ways. And I am not alone.

Korea, through its people and its culture, is having such a positive impact on the world. Its pop stars motivate and help millions of people young and old. Its soldiers help create peace. Its nurses and volunteer workers save lives and act with noble selflessness. Its scientists work on ways to make people’s lives better. Its youth remind us that there is a world that comes after us. A sense of the future.

In love

I cannot begin to understand what those who lost someone on that day in Itaewon are feeling. I attend ceremonies and pay my respects, particularly at Hanyang University where we lost students that evening. In mid-April, I pause and think of those affected by the Sewol tragedy. I listen to stories about the Sampoong Department Store and Seongsu Bridge. When lecturing, I speak of those lost in the sinking of the Cheonan, the people onboard Korean Air flights 858 and 007. Korean democracy would not be the same without Lee Han-yeol or Park Jeong-cheol. Its freedom not as beautiful without An Jung-geun or Yu Gwan-soon. It’s labor movement different without Jeon Tae-il.

These are all different events, with different causes, effects, reasons, and historical, cultural, and political implications. But they are realities that live with us today. The names remembered. The importance unforgotten. The memory remains.

And so it does with Itaewon. Despite the hurt, despite the feeling of terror that it causes in oneself, and despite the rage that many so rightly feel, love will preserve those who were lost in a way that we humans are capable of doing. Love will keep their light shining. Love will keep them with us.

Dr. David A. Tizzard (datizzard@swu.ac.kr) has a Ph.D. in Korean Studies and lectures at Seoul Women's University and Hanyang University. He is a social/cultural commentator and musician who has lived in Korea for nearly two decades. He is also the host of the Korea Deconstructed podcast, which can be found online.