Bowing at the Gates of Injustice:
Goodness and Humility as Protest
Susannah Stubbs
FEBRUARY 18, 2020
In mid-December, I visited Jeju Island with my YAV family and our friends in the Mennonite SALT service program. I had just finished my first few months as a volunteer/community member at the Late Spring School, and coming to Jeju was a chance not only to be in community with others and to learn about the island, but also to step back and reflect on everything I’d experienced so far. It was a beautiful, refreshing time, with a lot of light and a lot of dark moments. We picked oranges and walked through museums, played board games and talked about our struggles, danced and looked at art, breathed in freezing cold wind while we visited memorials, climbed green hills in the sun and listened to stories of pain and resilience.
One of the most memorable parts of our trip for me was the time we spent in Gangjeong village. Gangjeong is full of citrus trees like many places on Jeju, and it is right on a rugged, gorgeous edge of the island. The waters around the village hold vibrant communities of aquatic life. But much of this life has been destroyed or endangered by the construction of a Korean naval base on the coast. Gangjeong’s people strongly protested the construction of the base for years, but the Korean government ignored them and built it against their will. Now, long-time residents and activists who have settled down in Gangjeong specifically to aid resistance to the base have been working to call for the base’s conversion into a civilian-accessible, peace-forward space that does less harm to the nature around it. (Learn more about what they’re up to at savejejunow.org)
Some who read this might wonder why the people in this village would so strongly oppose something like a naval base. It’s their own military, so why would they be endangered by it? Wouldn’t a naval base stimulate the town’s economy, open more doors for tourism, even keep the town safer? I am not an expert on this topic by any means, but I’ll do my best to explain what I’ve learned.
This is not the first time that people living on Jeju have dealt with a military presence threatening their way of life. This is not the second. There is history here that heavily colors the ways in which many of Jeju’s residents perceive any type of military activity in their home. The question of whether or not Jeju should be used for military purposes is not just a matter of facts or logistics; it’s a matter of memories and deep emotions.
Jeju’s strategic position to the South of the Korean peninsula– in between China, Korea, and Japan– has repeatedly put it in the middle of the conflicts of powerful nations, the rope in a game of geopolitical tug-of-war. During the Japanese occupation of Korea in the first half of the 1900s, Jeju was heavily controlled by the Japanese military. Islanders were ousted from their homes and sent to do hard labor. Women were forced into sexual slavery as “comfort women” for soldiers.
In the mid-1900s, conflict in newly liberated (and newly divided) Korea lead to the people of Jeju being labelled as communists when they tried to resist the actions of their corrupt (and, note: US-supported) government. Jeju islanders were raped, robbed, and murdered by the thousands. The exact total is unclear, but it is estimated that 30,000 men, women, and children died at the hands of their own military and radical right-wing groups who supported the South Korean government. A significant amount of the forces, policemen, soldiers, and unofficial military groups who took part in the massacres were Christians, especially the Northwest Youth Group, which carried out some of the most brutal violence. Some of those Christians saw themselves as pious agents of God’s will in what they thought was a war against communism. (There is so much I could tell you about this, but I’ll just suggest that if you’d like to, you can read more about the Jeju April 3rd Uprising and Massacre here.)
Currently, the US military still has access to a large amount of the South Korean military’s resources (see the “ROK-U.S. Mutual Defense Agreement”), meaning that this base in Gangjeong is also open for their use. A stronger US military presence on the island would add to the possibility of Jeju’s people finding themselves in the crossfires of an international conflict again, despite the fact that in 2006, as an effort to begin a healing process after the Jeju Massacres, Korea dedicated Jeju to be an Island of Peace.
I was just barely beginning to process all of this information when I got up early to visit the base one morning. A friend of ours, a peace activist in Gangjeong, invited any of us who were willing to join her to protest at the naval base. A small group of people gathers there every day at 7 am to perform “100 bows,” a spiritual practice of Buddhist origin that Gangjeong activists adapted for their own purposes when they started protesting before the base’s construction years ago.
We laid out soft mats a couple of yards in front of the base’s gates, and facing the base, through which we could see the edge of the island, we bowed 100 times– from standing, to kneeling, to fully prostrate, and back up again. It was windy, cloudy, and unseasonably warm. I was sweating in my December layers. And I was anxious about being so close to the armed guards at the gate, even though they had definitely grown accustomed to protesters’ presence long ago. Despite these discomforts, while doing the bows I felt more empowered and at peace than I had in a long time.
We were guided by a soundtrack, a list of 100 different meditations to accompany the bows. Take, for example, the English translation of the narration for the first three bows:
When we did the bows that day, I didn’t understand the meditations I was hearing. And when I looked up the translations, I was surprised. I was struck by the fact that they were about me. They were first-person reminders of truth, of things to “hold in my heart”; they were personal resolutions to pursue peace and integrity.
Knowing this made the protest even more powerful to me. It’s one thing to stand in front of something you know is wrong and to proclaim the truth of its wrongness. It’s another thing to stand in front of something you know is wrong and to commit yourself to living more rightly. To commit oneself to the pursuit of goodness in the face of injustice seems especially Christlike to me.
Later that day, our group got to be a part of more protests in the village. We participated in Catholic mass, we carried colorful flags, we sang, and some pastors taught us some very fun choreographed dances in the streets. We were provided with delicious meals and we listened to activists’ stories of being arrested for protesting the base on kayaks. I saw so much light that day, so much good that had come even as a result of something harmful and frustrating.
I’m halfway through my YAV year now, and I want to take this time in the middle to step back and look inward. I want to stay vigilant about where my heart is as I keep growing in service and community here, and no matter how much I learn, I want to stay humble in the knowledge that I still have much more growing to do. Every day during the next half of this year might not look like a full-blown protest, but if I commit myself to it, I can learn every day to better reflect Christ’s character, Christ’s radical compassion, his courage to love people in a way that destroys societal barriers. Maybe I’ll even start doing 100 bows on my own every now and then, if my legs can take it. The time I spent in Gangjeong reminded me just how beautiful and creative protest can be. It also reminded me that an essential part of working for change in the world is working for change within myself
One of the most memorable parts of our trip for me was the time we spent in Gangjeong village. Gangjeong is full of citrus trees like many places on Jeju, and it is right on a rugged, gorgeous edge of the island. The waters around the village hold vibrant communities of aquatic life. But much of this life has been destroyed or endangered by the construction of a Korean naval base on the coast. Gangjeong’s people strongly protested the construction of the base for years, but the Korean government ignored them and built it against their will. Now, long-time residents and activists who have settled down in Gangjeong specifically to aid resistance to the base have been working to call for the base’s conversion into a civilian-accessible, peace-forward space that does less harm to the nature around it. (Learn more about what they’re up to at savejejunow.org)
Some who read this might wonder why the people in this village would so strongly oppose something like a naval base. It’s their own military, so why would they be endangered by it? Wouldn’t a naval base stimulate the town’s economy, open more doors for tourism, even keep the town safer? I am not an expert on this topic by any means, but I’ll do my best to explain what I’ve learned.
This is not the first time that people living on Jeju have dealt with a military presence threatening their way of life. This is not the second. There is history here that heavily colors the ways in which many of Jeju’s residents perceive any type of military activity in their home. The question of whether or not Jeju should be used for military purposes is not just a matter of facts or logistics; it’s a matter of memories and deep emotions.
Jeju’s strategic position to the South of the Korean peninsula– in between China, Korea, and Japan– has repeatedly put it in the middle of the conflicts of powerful nations, the rope in a game of geopolitical tug-of-war. During the Japanese occupation of Korea in the first half of the 1900s, Jeju was heavily controlled by the Japanese military. Islanders were ousted from their homes and sent to do hard labor. Women were forced into sexual slavery as “comfort women” for soldiers.
In the mid-1900s, conflict in newly liberated (and newly divided) Korea lead to the people of Jeju being labelled as communists when they tried to resist the actions of their corrupt (and, note: US-supported) government. Jeju islanders were raped, robbed, and murdered by the thousands. The exact total is unclear, but it is estimated that 30,000 men, women, and children died at the hands of their own military and radical right-wing groups who supported the South Korean government. A significant amount of the forces, policemen, soldiers, and unofficial military groups who took part in the massacres were Christians, especially the Northwest Youth Group, which carried out some of the most brutal violence. Some of those Christians saw themselves as pious agents of God’s will in what they thought was a war against communism. (There is so much I could tell you about this, but I’ll just suggest that if you’d like to, you can read more about the Jeju April 3rd Uprising and Massacre here.)
Currently, the US military still has access to a large amount of the South Korean military’s resources (see the “ROK-U.S. Mutual Defense Agreement”), meaning that this base in Gangjeong is also open for their use. A stronger US military presence on the island would add to the possibility of Jeju’s people finding themselves in the crossfires of an international conflict again, despite the fact that in 2006, as an effort to begin a healing process after the Jeju Massacres, Korea dedicated Jeju to be an Island of Peace.
I was just barely beginning to process all of this information when I got up early to visit the base one morning. A friend of ours, a peace activist in Gangjeong, invited any of us who were willing to join her to protest at the naval base. A small group of people gathers there every day at 7 am to perform “100 bows,” a spiritual practice of Buddhist origin that Gangjeong activists adapted for their own purposes when they started protesting before the base’s construction years ago.
We laid out soft mats a couple of yards in front of the base’s gates, and facing the base, through which we could see the edge of the island, we bowed 100 times– from standing, to kneeling, to fully prostrate, and back up again. It was windy, cloudy, and unseasonably warm. I was sweating in my December layers. And I was anxious about being so close to the armed guards at the gate, even though they had definitely grown accustomed to protesters’ presence long ago. Despite these discomforts, while doing the bows I felt more empowered and at peace than I had in a long time.
We were guided by a soundtrack, a list of 100 different meditations to accompany the bows. Take, for example, the English translation of the narration for the first three bows:
- While holding in my heart that truth gives freedom to life I make my first bow.
- Believing that the first step in solving a problem is self reflection I make my second bow.
- Looking back at my foolishness of living without knowing the root meaning of life I make my third bow.
When we did the bows that day, I didn’t understand the meditations I was hearing. And when I looked up the translations, I was surprised. I was struck by the fact that they were about me. They were first-person reminders of truth, of things to “hold in my heart”; they were personal resolutions to pursue peace and integrity.
Knowing this made the protest even more powerful to me. It’s one thing to stand in front of something you know is wrong and to proclaim the truth of its wrongness. It’s another thing to stand in front of something you know is wrong and to commit yourself to living more rightly. To commit oneself to the pursuit of goodness in the face of injustice seems especially Christlike to me.
Later that day, our group got to be a part of more protests in the village. We participated in Catholic mass, we carried colorful flags, we sang, and some pastors taught us some very fun choreographed dances in the streets. We were provided with delicious meals and we listened to activists’ stories of being arrested for protesting the base on kayaks. I saw so much light that day, so much good that had come even as a result of something harmful and frustrating.
I’m halfway through my YAV year now, and I want to take this time in the middle to step back and look inward. I want to stay vigilant about where my heart is as I keep growing in service and community here, and no matter how much I learn, I want to stay humble in the knowledge that I still have much more growing to do. Every day during the next half of this year might not look like a full-blown protest, but if I commit myself to it, I can learn every day to better reflect Christ’s character, Christ’s radical compassion, his courage to love people in a way that destroys societal barriers. Maybe I’ll even start doing 100 bows on my own every now and then, if my legs can take it. The time I spent in Gangjeong reminded me just how beautiful and creative protest can be. It also reminded me that an essential part of working for change in the world is working for change within myself
|
|