The Korean DMZ
January 2013
Korea remains locked in the freezing clutches of winter. The past few days we have experienced a bit of a heat wave, with temperatures soaring into the thirties (Fahrenheit). Almost everyone I talk to is looking forward to the warmer months of the year-two months to go!
Between huddling under blankets trying to stay warm and drinking all the hot drinks, I managed to make time to visit North Korea…well sort of. Tours of the demilitarized zone (DMZ) happen on an almost daily basis, only some of these take you into the Joint Security Area (JSA), where you enter the conference room and cross over the border.
Cars became scarce as we drove north, passing antitank wall after antitank wall. They really aren’t anything special, just two tall slabs of concrete on either side of the road that are blown up to block the road in the event of an invasion. The frequency of the walls increased the closer we got to the border.
That wasn’t the only defensive measure. Gazing out the window I noted the barbed wire that lined the river and the motion detectors positioned every hundred feet or so.
Our tour stopped at Imjingak, a park on the edge of the DMZ. It exists as both a haven for those who have been separated from their families and a reminder of the Korean war.
After our brief stop we continued on through three security checkpoints. The first was a modest gate where a soldier boarded the bus and checked our passports. The second consisted of barbed wire tiers followed by a wooded area that was supposedly riddled with land mines. Freedom
Village slowly went by on our left and I wondered what life must be like living and farming so close to the border.
I always imagined that the North and South each had their own walls separated by an open field. Each had guards stationed 24 hours a day like sentries on a castle parapet. It always seemed impossible that anyone could run from one side to the other without being shot.
However, the DMZ was quite different. There were no walls or field, just three small buildings and a continuous concrete slab defining the barrier between nations. The point of no return.
Footprints scatter the snow on either side of the line, though none crossed over the invisible forcefield. One North Korean guard stood on the far side of the line, occasionally lifting his binoculars to gaze at us tourists; whereas there were five JSA soldiers on the South Korean side. The tension was so thick you could taste it.
We were permitted to enter the conference room bisecting the border. Inside everything was divided directly down the middle including the microphones on the table. Here and only here did we cross the barrier between sides; anywhere else and we would have been shot.
It felt strange, as if passing that invisible line created a tangible force, a reminder that I was in unfriendly territory. It wasn’t a big deal, I mean we couldn’t leave the room or see farther into that secretive country, but it still felt cool.
On our way home we passed the Bridge of No Return. The trees lining it were dead with winter and a rusted sign marked its presence. This was the place where people made the decision to go North or South at the end of the war. Once the decision was made, they could never look back, never return.
