Things That Keep Me Fighting..., pt. 2
Daechuri Siempre - a memoir
-For Min Byeong Dae and all my family
http://saveptfarmers.org/blog/
I first arrived in Daechuri out of curiosity. The man I was dating at the time had a friend who was working against the Humphreys base expansion who he wanted to visit before leaving on a trip. When I arrived that day, I was overwhelmed no only by the beauty of the fields and serenity of the village, but also by the murals that literally covered every available square meter of wall space. The murals were of peace, of people living in harmony with the Earth. They were messages of hope and community. The Daechuri primary school had been painted with the portraits of the villagers. Every window sang with the precious smiles of the elderly, of the children, of the hard laboring farmers who had built this village, literally with the sweat of their backs, after they had been forcibly evicted from their village by Camp Humphreys in 1953. Children were running around the yard, with balls and bikes. two boys were sharing one pair of skates - each wore one on his outside foot while pushing with the inside feet in tandom and grasping hands.
When we entered the Tea House, we were greeted warmly and invited to sit with residents and solidarity activists, and I began to hear the stories of the village and the land woven through the casual conversation. The Tea House, like so many structures in Daechuri, had been abandoned by their previous occupants and had been taken by the village in common and turned into community services. One house was a free guest house for overnight visitors, another was turned into a childrens' play house where the residents and solidarity activists held art, educational and cultural activities for the children. The Tea House had become a warm, dry place to wait for the hourly bus that goes into Pyeongtaek and a place for the village to sit around the large wooden central table and laugh and hold community events. We even held free, community English lessons there a few times.
I kept coming back, in large part because of the incredible warmth and community. The villagers had been organizing their own affairs, independently of the local government for years, possibly as long as the village has existed. They built their own roads, they donated land for the primary school. Together they had reclaimed land from the sea when they were evicted for the construction of the Camp Humphreys air strip.
Over time I got to know the villagers. Most of our exchanges began as challanges. "Who are you? What do you want here?", because of my caucasian face, they immediately felt threatened. And you would, too. I have personally witnessed US Army MPs yelling and harrassing the villagers through the fence line that seperates the village from the base. If I had seen a white person in the village, I would have been frightened. As soon as I explained to them that I supported their desire to live in their homes, on their lands in peace, they would embrace me. It was surreal at times, to have an ancient Korean farmer confront and then embrace me. Over time some of us became close. When spring came, the whole community and their visitors would work together to prepare the spring planting. We would talk and laugh, the old women would talk about their old husbands, and we would all join together in joyful laughter. The small children played around us. The joy of that hard labor, done for ones self and ones friends and family, in voluntary community is the most precious joy and overwhelming beauty that I believe exists in this world.
After the devestatation and destruction of the primary school on May 4th, I returned to the village to make sure my friends were well.
When I came around the bend in the road and could see the smoldering rubble, the trees uprooted and on their sides, the childrens' play equipment twisted, burnt, distorted and scattered across the yard, I could neither speak nor move. And the villagers had erected a great, white flag bearing the word "Peace" over the center of the rubble. I wept so bitterly. I can not express the sorrow nor the rage.
All this beauty in ruins. Why? For a military base. A foreign military base. An American military base. My supposed contry's military base. In my ears rang the words of my own primary school teachers, "Liberty and Justice for All." So was this "liberty"? Was this "justice"? If that rubble is America's - or Korea's "liberty and justice" then I want no part in either.
I crossed the ruined school yard and tried to find my friends, the villagers who I had come to consider my own family, my own grandmothers and grandfathers. Many were gathered atop the hill just in front of the Catholic church, which overlooks a wide expanse of the fields. The fields which were now swarming with troops, police and Concertina wire.
When I found some of my friends, we embraced and wept. We sat together there to sing and to try to soothe our sorrow with the strength of our human bonds and community. And then the police came to arrest us. They were defeated, at that time.
Towards the end of a very long and tense day, over the wide fields, we could see hundreds - no! was it thousands? - of people marching towards us bearing colorful flags. What was happening? Again my grandmothers and I embraced and wept. We sat together again on the same grassy hill, this time accompanied by a beautiful array of people, and Mr. Min Byeong Dae found us and sat down.
Mr. Min collapsed to the ground, overwhelmed. He talked and talked, of farming, of his heart, of the long-past eviction, of the battle the day before. He wept and wept, and I could do nothing but cradle this tiny man, withered with advanced age, in my arms and cry with him. He, and all of the villagers, are my true, blood family. They are all my family.
This land is the land of the People. It is not a land for guns and bombs, or for elite power, or for someone's profit. It is a land for peace, for people to live in community, with each other and with the Earth.
And then they declared martial law. And some 10,000 troops came. And today I am again seperated from my loved ones. But the struggle continues. Through all time. Across all lands. Across all border. To all People.
La lucha sigue. Siempre.
South Korean Farmers Upset Over Planned U.S. Base
Under threat of eviction, South Koreans battle state forces seizing land for US base
-For Min Byeong Dae and all my family
http://saveptfarmers.org/blog/
I first arrived in Daechuri out of curiosity. The man I was dating at the time had a friend who was working against the Humphreys base expansion who he wanted to visit before leaving on a trip. When I arrived that day, I was overwhelmed no only by the beauty of the fields and serenity of the village, but also by the murals that literally covered every available square meter of wall space. The murals were of peace, of people living in harmony with the Earth. They were messages of hope and community. The Daechuri primary school had been painted with the portraits of the villagers. Every window sang with the precious smiles of the elderly, of the children, of the hard laboring farmers who had built this village, literally with the sweat of their backs, after they had been forcibly evicted from their village by Camp Humphreys in 1953. Children were running around the yard, with balls and bikes. two boys were sharing one pair of skates - each wore one on his outside foot while pushing with the inside feet in tandom and grasping hands.
When we entered the Tea House, we were greeted warmly and invited to sit with residents and solidarity activists, and I began to hear the stories of the village and the land woven through the casual conversation. The Tea House, like so many structures in Daechuri, had been abandoned by their previous occupants and had been taken by the village in common and turned into community services. One house was a free guest house for overnight visitors, another was turned into a childrens' play house where the residents and solidarity activists held art, educational and cultural activities for the children. The Tea House had become a warm, dry place to wait for the hourly bus that goes into Pyeongtaek and a place for the village to sit around the large wooden central table and laugh and hold community events. We even held free, community English lessons there a few times.
I kept coming back, in large part because of the incredible warmth and community. The villagers had been organizing their own affairs, independently of the local government for years, possibly as long as the village has existed. They built their own roads, they donated land for the primary school. Together they had reclaimed land from the sea when they were evicted for the construction of the Camp Humphreys air strip.
Over time I got to know the villagers. Most of our exchanges began as challanges. "Who are you? What do you want here?", because of my caucasian face, they immediately felt threatened. And you would, too. I have personally witnessed US Army MPs yelling and harrassing the villagers through the fence line that seperates the village from the base. If I had seen a white person in the village, I would have been frightened. As soon as I explained to them that I supported their desire to live in their homes, on their lands in peace, they would embrace me. It was surreal at times, to have an ancient Korean farmer confront and then embrace me. Over time some of us became close. When spring came, the whole community and their visitors would work together to prepare the spring planting. We would talk and laugh, the old women would talk about their old husbands, and we would all join together in joyful laughter. The small children played around us. The joy of that hard labor, done for ones self and ones friends and family, in voluntary community is the most precious joy and overwhelming beauty that I believe exists in this world.
After the devestatation and destruction of the primary school on May 4th, I returned to the village to make sure my friends were well.
When I came around the bend in the road and could see the smoldering rubble, the trees uprooted and on their sides, the childrens' play equipment twisted, burnt, distorted and scattered across the yard, I could neither speak nor move. And the villagers had erected a great, white flag bearing the word "Peace" over the center of the rubble. I wept so bitterly. I can not express the sorrow nor the rage.
All this beauty in ruins. Why? For a military base. A foreign military base. An American military base. My supposed contry's military base. In my ears rang the words of my own primary school teachers, "Liberty and Justice for All." So was this "liberty"? Was this "justice"? If that rubble is America's - or Korea's "liberty and justice" then I want no part in either.
I crossed the ruined school yard and tried to find my friends, the villagers who I had come to consider my own family, my own grandmothers and grandfathers. Many were gathered atop the hill just in front of the Catholic church, which overlooks a wide expanse of the fields. The fields which were now swarming with troops, police and Concertina wire.
When I found some of my friends, we embraced and wept. We sat together there to sing and to try to soothe our sorrow with the strength of our human bonds and community. And then the police came to arrest us. They were defeated, at that time.
Towards the end of a very long and tense day, over the wide fields, we could see hundreds - no! was it thousands? - of people marching towards us bearing colorful flags. What was happening? Again my grandmothers and I embraced and wept. We sat together again on the same grassy hill, this time accompanied by a beautiful array of people, and Mr. Min Byeong Dae found us and sat down.
Mr. Min collapsed to the ground, overwhelmed. He talked and talked, of farming, of his heart, of the long-past eviction, of the battle the day before. He wept and wept, and I could do nothing but cradle this tiny man, withered with advanced age, in my arms and cry with him. He, and all of the villagers, are my true, blood family. They are all my family.
This land is the land of the People. It is not a land for guns and bombs, or for elite power, or for someone's profit. It is a land for peace, for people to live in community, with each other and with the Earth.
And then they declared martial law. And some 10,000 troops came. And today I am again seperated from my loved ones. But the struggle continues. Through all time. Across all lands. Across all border. To all People.
La lucha sigue. Siempre.
South Korean Farmers Upset Over Planned U.S. Base
Under threat of eviction, South Koreans battle state forces seizing land for US base