That One Winter Evening in Korea

Exactly four years ago from today, my dad persuaded me to join the 14th Gwang Hwa Mun Candlelight Vigil. I didn’t mind, except for the fact that the temperature outside had dropped below -10 degrees Celsius. I didn’t know if I wanted to stand in the middle of a packed crowd; I didn’t know if I wanted to shiver in the middle of winter, struggling to move my frostbitten toes. Also, I never identified myself as a Korean; I lived in Malaysia for almost my entire life and always thought I had nothing to do with Korea. The thoughts which ran through my head, however, didn’t matter as my dad had won the argument; and a few hours later, I found myself standing in front of the Gwang Hwa Mun Square.

Contrary to what the JTBC news had aired, the area felt empty. Ahead of me, a couple of crew members pre-occupied themselves with setting up the stage, and some volunteers went around distributing candles. As I walked mindlessly through the empty square, I saw layers of outrageous placards and posters that read "DOWN WITH PARK GEUN HYE." And then I collided into something solid. When I looked up, a ghoulish set of eyes, illumined with a bloodshot glow, glared down at me. My body jolted for a split second, and I covered my mouth rapidly. As I picked up myself, laughing uneasily, I found myself face-to-face with a cardboard figure of President Park Geun Hye, standing along with several other known Korean government traitors. Their oversized heads hung over the rest of their frail bodies like overblown balloons. President Park’s mouth slanted slightly towards her right chin, creating a deformed smirk. The crafter, wanting to emphasize the state of her infamy and her fanaticism, had made her look like some crazed, wild chimpanzee.

In a distance, several parents sobbed in front of two rows of fifty-two life jackets lined up consecutively. I crouched down for a better view and noticed that each life jacket had a flower, a yellow ribbon tied to its socket, a photo of a student, and a name etched onto a stone plaque--the name of each dead student from the Sewol ferry disaster.

I stepped closer to one of the life jackets and looked into the cheery face of a student named Park Ji Young. A somber sense of bitterness pierced me. The scene suddenly morphed into something fresh and surreal. I could hear the distant wails of the students as they found themselves trapped inside the tilting ferry. This girl, Park Ji Young, a high schooler and a daughter of two parents, sees bodies crash into the windows and slamming against tables, mirrors, and walls. Crying out for help, her friends and teachers start digging their fingernails against the windows and walls, smearing blood everywhere. As the water rushes in until her waist, she frantically grabs for the nearest metal bar; but the ground betrays her, and she starts plummeting down. Her body submerges into the turmoil of bloodied water, broken nails, ripped skin, and dead bodies. She cries out her last words, “Somebody help! Mom! Dad! ANYONE!” before the water cuts out her breath. The scream echoes through the air, yet no one arrives to help her.

Later that night, as the moon illuminated the Gwang Hwa Mun gate and the wet cobblestones, people scuttled out from buildings, train stations, and buses. They scrambled for seats and huddled together for warmth. Mothers cuddled their children, wrapping them in scarves and blankets. Several middle-aged men situated themselves on the icy floor, grunting beneath their layers of padding. By the right, students wearing black and white uniforms broke into small conversations and waved their candles in the air. In a matter of minutes, hundreds of thousands of people filled the area, just like how JTBC aired last week.

All the noises de-crescendoed into solid silence when a man stepped up on stage--a parent who lost his son in the Sewol incident. As he shared his testimony and as tears formed in his eyes, people started to rise and to sway their candles, creating a scintillating wave of soft, red light. The hundreds of thousands of people started singing a beautiful and melancholic song in unison, its tune ringing in the chilly air like a celestial chime, “Someday we’ll meet again, just like how we were when we last parted…”

At that moment, everything collapsed, my cynicism towards Koreans and my misconceptions of their mono-cultured, narrow-minded, and vulgar tendencies all collapsed around me, washed away by the voices and tears of the citizens. I had forgotten the cold, its presence far away from my consciousness, drowned in the sea of emotions and sorrow; and my fingers rose to dab at my eyes, the corners dripped wet. A renewed sense of hope blossomed within.

I walked back later that night, noticing the police buses that I had passed by thoughtlessly just hours ago. I passed by buses covered not with graffiti, not with swear words, not with obscenities, not with broken pieces of glasses, but with flowers.