Chrysallization Part 3

North Korean Soldiers


“Okay, folks, gather around again. I just want to point out something else of interest to all of you. See that village over there, on the other side of the Demarcation Line,” he asked, pointed to a group of buildings surrounding a 480 foot tall flagpole on the North Korean side of the armistice line. “The North Koreans constructed that village as a propaganda move. No one actually lives in the village, and the flag is 90 feet long. It waves over there to show the South Koreans over here who is in charge. Not that the South Koreans pay any attention to it!” he joked. “The only inhabitants who actually live in the DMZ are South Korean farmers, and they may only tend their crops under constant military protection. Most of the villages have moved out of the DMZ to avoid this constant nuisance.”

“Imagine that – having to farm under guard,” Rich murmured. “How terribly… oppressive.” Rich’s uncle ran a farm in Michigan, and I think that he was making a very personal connection.

“This is all giving me the creeps,” I whispered. “I’ll be glad when we’re back safely at our hotel in Seoul. I’ve never felt this exposed and vulnerable before.”

“That’s kind of the point, isn’t it?” Rich responded. “What do we Americans know about real danger? In our relatively short history as a nation, we have not had to deal with true threats of war on our own soil. Imagine having to live with the daily possibility of an attack? It’s mind-blowing.”

Mind-blowing, indeed. I was having a hard time wrapping my mind around these events of the day, trying to reconcile what we were experiencing with our comfortable, happy middle-class life back home.

The Major cleared his throat to get our attention again. “Ok, folks. Over to your right is a monument to the fallen of the Korean conflict. You might want to wander over to take a closer look. Just be sure to stay on THIS side of the monument. We don’t want you wandering into Northern territory. We’ll meet back up at the bus in 15 minutes and head back to your tour bus.” He dismissed us with
a wave of his hand.

Rich and I strolled slowly over to the monument, my eyes still scanning the area surrounding us. There were many military personnel around, now that I was paying attention to them. I saw South Korean uniforms, and U.S. uniforms, and some other uniforms that I could not identify. I assumed they were part of the UN force. We reached the monument and I stopped to read the inscription, written in several languages at the bottom. When I finished reading, I turned to say something to Rich, but he was no longer beside me.

Spinning in a circle, I called his name loudly. “Rich! Where are you? God, Rich, don’t leave me alone like this!”

As I finished my rotation, I was startled to a stop by the sight of a platoon of soldiers jogging down the road on the other side of the monument. Dressed in uniform pants, white t-shirts, and of course army boots, it took me a minute to realize that this was a platoon of NORTH Korean soldiers, obviously participating in basic training exercises. The sight of a platoon of enemy soldiers, mere feet from me, took my breath away. I stood rooted to the spot, unable to speak or move, until I felt a hand on my shoulder.

I jerked to life, spinning with a cry, only to find Rich standing there. “Chris? Are you ok? I only walked over there to talk to Rudy for a moment. What’s the matter with you?”

All I could do was point in response. Rich’s gaze also fell on the training North Korean soldiers. His response, however, was a bit less intense than mine had been. “Oh, cool!” he said, whipping out his camera to snap a number of photographs as they passed by. “These will be great for my scrapbook!”

“Rich! How can you be so calm? Don’t you realize that they are the ENEMY?” I said.

“Whose enemy? Not ours. Not here, not now. There’s a truce, remember…”

“Yes, but didn’t you read the waiver we signed? There have been a number of attacks, or acts of aggression here, since 1953….We could still be in danger.” I started to retreat back towards the waiting military bus. “I’m going to get back on the bus now.”

Rich trotted to catch up with me, apologizing. “I’m sorry, Chris. I didn’t mean to upset you. But I don’t think we’re really in any danger, and it’s just so … COOL to be this close to something like this. I’ve never experienced it before!”

I sighed and accepted Rich’s apology with a wan smile. “It’s ok, Rich. But I’m tired. You go explore a bit more, and I’ll meet you on the bus.” With that I quickened my pace and left Rich to catch up with our friends.

Back on the bus, hunched down in my seat, I pulled out my journal and began to record my experiences. It had been a rather powerful day, and I had so much running through my mind that I wanted to get down before I forgot it. When I had left home just three weeks earlier, I had been a naïve teenager from Wisconsin, who had never been challenged by much of anything in life. We lived a comfortable, lower-middle class existence, I had stability in my family, and relative certainty in my future. Although I was a student of history, I hadn’t thought much about current events or global conflicts, except as a course of study. But now, here, being faced with the realities of global conflict, I began to see just how uninformed we really were.

The others began to pour back on the bus, and our driver made the engine roar to life as they all took their seats. The last ones on were Major Willis and Sergeant Carter, who smiled at the group and then took their seats in the front row for the ride back to the base. I looked down at my journal, and saw that I had written a bunch of gibberish. Nothing was making much sense today, it seemed.

Finally, after a long, hot trip, we were back at the visitor’s center, rejoining the other half of our less merry band and trooping onto our tour bus once more. Our driver blissfully had the air conditioning blasting as we threw ourselves aboard and into our regular seats. Rich had pulled out his Walkman and was listening to Air Supply, one of his favorite tapes. He gestured to me to plug my headphones in so we could listen together, which we often did. I shook my head at him, and let him melt into his seat in contentment with his music. I was much too thoughtful to enjoy the music now. I spent the bus ride staring out the window beside me.

Roughly 45 minutes later, our tour bus pulled into the outskirts of Seoul. As we drove through the city towards our hotel, the Major’s words resonated in my head. “Seoul is just 25 miles from the border. It is just a 60 second ride by jet from North Korea….” I sat up straighter and scanned the city sights more carefully than I had on our initial arrival in the city yesterday, and began to notice things I had missed earlier.

There, on the rooftops, were strange constructions that I did not recognize. I saw them on almost every high rise roof. As I looked closer, I noticed that they seemed to be military in nature. Suddenly, it dawned on me: they were anti-aircraft guns. Of course! They would have to have a way to defend the city from an aerial attack from North Korea. These buildings were innocuous, civilian buildings – banks, apartment houses, department stores – and yet they all had weapons on the roof. What must it be like to live with guns on top of your house? I just couldn’t even fathom that reality.

As we tumbled off the bus in front of our hotel, the group seemed slow to disperse. It seemed that everyone had been deeply affected by our excursion that day. The chaperones announced that dinner would be served in the dining room in two hours, and that we should all go get cleaned up and rest before we ate. They then disappeared as a group in the direction of the hotel lounge.

We all stood there, awkwardly, reluctant to leave the relative security of the group. I finally offered, “Hey, does anyone want to come up to our room and hang out and talk? I think I could use some company.”

Finally, the group began to move. About two dozen of our colleagues rode up the elevator with us and made their way down the hall to our room on the 14th floor. I slid the key in the lock (an actual key, no automated key cards here), and threw open the door and gestured for my friends to enter first. We gathered in the room, taking up every inch of available space on the beds, single chair, and floor, and sat in contemplative silence for a few moments. After travelling together for three weeks, our band had become quite close.

“So…..” I ventured. “Any thoughts about what we saw today?” I threw it out there, hoping to get the ball rolling.

“It was so … surreal,” said Mike , a student from my home high school, who was a year younger than I was. “I just can’t imagine living like that.”

“I know,” said Shannon, a bold red-headed Southerner with a booming voice. “It made me start thinking about what we have in the United States. We are so lucky. And we take it all for granted, every day. Every stinking day.” Her voice cracked a bit as she spoke.

Mike reached over and put a hand on Shannon’s shoulder. “Does anyone know anyone who has fought in a war? I mean, like recently? Not an old war, like WWII or anything…”

“I have an uncle who served in Vietnam.” Brad said. “He told me that when he got back, he couldn’t wear his uniform on the bus home, because people were throwing stuff at vets who came back. That’s just wrong.”

“Yeah, my uncle fought in Vietnam, too. He just doesn’t talk about it. At all,” said Mike.

“My dad was in the army during the 1960s, too, but he never served abroad. He drove an ambulance at Fort Augusta, Georgia. He never saw any action, thank goodness,” I added.

“We really haven’t HAD any wars since Vietnam, right? I mean, that WE were in – the U.S., that is. I guess we’ve been lucky to avoid conflict,” said Rich.

“Yes, the United States has not seen any direct conflict on our own shores since the bombing of Pearl Harbor. And before that, since the Civil War.” I said. “It’s easy to forget that war can be devastating, when you are in the middle of it.”

“We don’t know what it’s like to be under threat,” Rich agreed. “Not at all. I can’t imagine how you can have a normal life. How do you just go about your business?”

“And what about all these Koreans who have relatives on the other side of the border? What would it be like to live so close to your family and yet never be able to contact them? To see them? To know if they are ok? I think that would be torture.” Shannon said.

“Tell me, guys. What would you be willing to fight for? What’s worth risking your life to defend?” I posed.

“Freedom.” Mike said. “Duh.”

“Yeah, Mike, but what does that really mean? Did you catch how they were tossing the word Freedom around today? ‘Freedom Bridge,’ ‘Freedom Road,’ the ‘Freedom House’ – as if it were all just one big propaganda movie or something. What does Freedom even mean here? What does it mean to us as Americans? And if we were invaded tomorrow, what would you do? Would you be willing to serve in the military? Would you enlist to protect our freedom? How far would you go to do that?” I countered.

“Well, I would certainly enlist,” interjected Rich. “It’s what we are supposed to do.”

“Well, what about us girls?” Shannon asked. “We can’t serve in active military. And I don’t know that I could kill anyone, even if I were allowed to serve.”

“Not even to defend yourself, or your family?” Rich asked.

“I just don’t know,” Shannon replied.

The room was pensive. “Did you guys notice the anti-aircraft guns on the tops of all the building in Seoul?” I finally asked. “I didn’t notice them yesterday. It was only our visit to Panmunjom that made me take a closer look. Can you imagine living like that? With guns on your houses? Afraid that any day there might be an attack on your city from the enemy?” I shuddered.

Heads bobbed slowly around the room, as my colleagues digested that scenario.

“What if you were allowed to enlist? How many of you would do it?” I asked the group. As I surveyed the room, I saw all of the hands go up in the air, though Shannon’s was the last to rise. It was unanimous. We would all agree to help defend our nation against threat. I wondered what the response would have been back in my high school history classroom. Would any of them have raised their hands? Would they care? Would they even know what we were fighting for?

The group fell silent, each contemplating their own responses to the day’s events. Suddenly, one voice rose from the silence. It was Rudy, and he was singing our national anthem. With tears in our eyes, we all rose, latched hands, and joined in with Rudy, raising our trained voices in harmony. It was a powerful moment, in which each of us embraced the true meaning of being Americans. It was more than a song; it was a declaration of our pride and understanding.

We had already used our anthem on this trip as a powerful tool: while we were in China, we were “forbidden” to sing it by the Chinese officials, so we had defiantly taken to singing it whenever we were together, on a bus, in a hotel room, on a sidewalk. It had become our way to show that Americans can’t be told what to do. But this act of defiance had started as a bunch of smart teenagers standing up to authority.

Today, when we joined hands and voices and embraced our nation’s song, we were embracing the very ideals upon which our nation had been founded, and acknowledging that they were worth defending with our lives.

This moment was a transformation, my Chrysalization.

From that moment on, each of us would no longer be the naïve young people who had took flight from America’s shores just three short weeks earlier. We would never see our lives in the same light again. In embracing how fortunate we are to be Americans, despite America’s flaws, we also recognized that we cannot be complacent in our lives. We had journeyed to Panmunjom as a group of silly teenagers, but we had returned as discerning and perceptive adults.

Chrysallization Part 2

The Bridge of No Return

Chrysallization, Part 2

...Once we were all aboard and everyone was settled and quiet, the Major barked out our itinerary, informing us that we would make a short stop on the way up to the DMZ at an overlook which had a memorial and historical marker and also provided an overlook to the “Bridge of No Return,” a famous piece of Korean history.

Located in the Joint Security Area, the so-called "Bridge of No Return,” also known as the Freedom Bridge, crosses the Military Demarcation Line between North Korea and South Korea. It was used for prisoner exchanges at the end of the Korean War in 1953. The name originates from the fact that prisoners were given the choice to remain in the country of their captivity or cross over to the other country. If they chose to cross the bridge, they would never be allowed to return. In 1983, it was also the single road connecting the two halves of Korea, and was closely monitored by military personnel.

Still traumatized by the bullet holes in our bus window, I had a hard time relaxing on the drive. The bus had no air conditioning, but we had all of the bus windows wide open, allowing for hot, dusty waves of air to pummel their way through the aisles. My throat was parched, so I reached into my tote bag for the bottle of water I always carried.

As the countryside rolled by outside my window, I rested my head against the seat back and thought about my family. I wondered what my mother would think if she knew what we were doing right at this moment. She would probably faint with fear. I was glad that she wouldn’t know until after we were safely home again.
After about 30 minutes, we pulled off into an innocuous looking parking lot, seated beside a park-like area. “Ok, everyone out here. We’ll have about 30 minutes here to take a look. Be sure to read the historical marker and look at the model. It’s very interesting stuff.” The Major directed before he hopped off the bus.

Rich and I gathered our things and filed out of the bus with our friends. Once on the ground, I stopped and looked around. It was actually quite a peaceful spot. There were flowering trees, and grass, and benches, and pebble-covered paths. One could almost forget that we were in a military zone.

We walked to the overlook to gaze down on the Bridge of No Return. From this height, it seemed just a country bridge, quite unimposing or spectacular. I thought about the history we had learned, about how the Koreans had to choose which side of the border they wanted to be on when they were finally closed at the end of the war. How could one choose? What if you had family on both sides of the line? What if your family were on one side, but your political convictions drew you to the other? It was all so complicated. I was happy that I had not had to make such a choice.

I snapped a number of photos with my 35mm camera (no digital cameras in 1983!), wandering around and taking in the atmosphere. We had been instructed that we could not take pictures from the bus while we were in motion, but that we could take all we wanted at this spot. I was taking advantage of the opportunity. I was in a very thoughtful mood.

Suddenly, there was a shout from the overlook. The Sergeant who had accompanied us was pointing excitedly down at the bridge and yelling at the Major. The Major took one look down the hill, and turned to start barking orders at us.

“NOW. Back on the bus. Hurry!”

We looked around amazed for a moment. Was this the same man who told us there was nothing to worry about a few hours earlier? I couldn’t tell what the problem was.

“I said NOW, PEOPLE! Let’s move!” He barked again.

Startled out of my thoughts, I started hustling towards the bus. Once aboard and back in my seat, I hunched down, trying to stay below the window line. I didn’t want to make myself a target. I whispered a fervent prayer that we would be able to escape whatever threat was out there, and be returned safely to our families back home. I thought about my mother and father, who had put me on the plane with tears in their eyes, and my brother, who had cheerfully slapped me on the shoulder and said “have fun!” I screwed my eyes shut and hoped that I would see them again.

Our group threw themselves aboard the bus in record time, and the driver had the door closed and was tearing off down the road even before everyone was in their seat. The Major seemed to relax once we were far enough down the road to be out of sight of the Bridge beneath us. He sighed, and turned to face the group, bellowing at us.

“Sorry for the scare there, folks. It was probably nothing at all, but my Sergeant spotted an unidentified vehicle coming down the Freedom Bridge from the Northern side at a high rate of speed. We can’t take any chances with civilians, you understand.”

I just looked at Rich, and grabbed his hand tightly. I wondered if the Major was telling us the truth, or if there had actually been any danger for us. I was starting to wonder if I should have stayed behind.

As the bus moved further from the Bridge of No Return, I forced my breathing to return to normal. Watching the landscape as it slid past the open bus window, I let my mind roam. I thought about the whole concept of war and its consequences for society. I wondered if war was ever worth it in the end.

About thirty minutes later, Rich poked me in the ribs to get my attention. “Hey, Chris. Are you sleeping? I think we’re almost there. Look!” He said, pointing out the front window of the bus. Ahead, I saw military gates, fencing, and the tip of a tall stone monument with a key hole opening in it.

The Major stood up and addressed the group. “If I could have your attention, please, folks. We are approaching the DMZ and Panmunjom. We will have about an hour here, but please stay with the Sergeant and me. We need to be sure that you stay in the authorized areas within the DMZ. No wandering off.”

The group murmured a little in response, I’m sure wondering the same thing I was – what threats might be lurking here, especially after our scare at the Freedom Bridge. As the bus pulled up to the gates, we began to gather our belongings and move towards the front of the bus.

Stepping down onto the concrete, I stopped and looked around. It was obviously a military installation, with gates, fencing, and lots and lots of concrete. And there was an eerie sensation in the air, one that I could not quite identify, that made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. I took a deep breath and grabbed Rich’s hand for support, wishing my family were here instead.

“This way, folks,” the Sergeant directed, leading us through a set of barricades and a guard house and into the installation itself. As we walked, he explained where we were. He lectured, “Panmunjom is actually an abandoned village on the de facto border between North and South Korea. In 1953, the Armistice Agreement was signed in Panmunjom. The building where the armistice was signed still stands, on the north side of the Military Demarcation Line, and the North Koreans have since renamed the building the Peace Museum.”

“Although the village itself was abandoned and disappeared, the name is now used to refer to the Joint Security Area, where discussions between North and South still are held in the blue buildings that straddle the Military Demarcation Line. You can see the line of buildings off to your left, over there,” he said, pointing ahead of us.

“The actual building in which the armistice was signed was constructed by both sides over a 48-hour period. North Korea provided labor and some supplies, while the United Nations Command provided supplies, generators, and lighting to allow the work to continue overnight.” As the Sergeant droned on about the history of the place, the group was struggling to keep up with his brisk pace. Those at the rear, I’m sure, were unable to hear his commentary.

He continued, “In September 1953, after the Armistice Agreement was signed, construction began on a new site located approximately one kilometer east of the village; this is the Joint Security Area we told you about earlier, and all meetings between North Korea and the United Nations Command or South Korea have taken place here since its completion. People now use the name Panmunjom to refer to the JSA.”
“There are 24 buildings in the 800- meter diameter area, where representatives of the United Nations and North Korea meet to confer about a variety of contentious issues,” he continued, pointing around him at the surrounding structures.

“We are currently only about 25 miles from Seoul, the capital of South Korea. That means that it is only a 60 second flight by jet. There’s a map up here that shows you exactly where we are in relation to Seoul, and shows you just how close we are to North Korean territory. Again, I must caution you not to stray from the group as we move about the JSA.”

Rich and I exchanged a nervous glance, and I grasped his hand tighter as we moved forward. This was the closest I had ever been to a military conflict. It was not a comfortable feeling.

The Sergeant then explained that the roads upon we had travelled from Seoul were named the Unification Road and the Freedom Road. Freedom Road ultimately connected with the Freedom Bridge, or Bridge of No Return, that we had seen from the overlook. He explained that the “Freedom Bridge,” would immediately be destroyed in the event of military aggression by North Korea. That bit of information made me think about the truck we saw on the bridge not long before. How likely would Northern aggression be?
“Let’s stop here for a minute,” he said, stopping in front of a large, two-story white building with a pagoda in front of it. “This is “Freedom House,” and you will have a few minutes here to take photos, if you wish. We will move on in 10 minutes. Please do not wander.”

I thought it was ironic how the word “freedom” seemed to be bandied about in this region. I figured it was a ploy by the United Nations forces to demonstrate their victory over the villainous Northern Forces – a gentle slap in the face of the Communists, if you will.
From this observation platform we could see across the line that divides North and South Korea. As I gazed across, I saw a North Korean observation tower, a North Korean visitor center, and “Conference Row,” which are the blue buildings where UN and North Korean officials meet to administer and enforce the armistice agreement of 1953. I also spotted a number of US and South Korean military personnel, lining the walk outside one of the conference buildings.

And as I surveyed the area, picking out landmarks and snapping some photographs, I also spotted a number of North Korean guards, positioned on their side of the JSA. I pointed them out to Rich. “Do you see them? Those are NORTH Koreans over there, Rich,” I whispered nervously, as if they might hear me if I spoke too loudly.

“Yeah, they are. But they’re on THEIR side of the line, so we’re good,” he joked.

Rich’s jokes weren’t making me any less nervous. I looked around at all of the military personnel I could see on both sides of the Demarcation Line, and I realized that they were all fully armed. I swallowed hard again, thinking back to our adventure at the Bridge of No Return, and prayed fervently that we would have no such encounter here.

Chrysallization, Part 1

Panmunjom, Demilitarized Zone, Korean Peninsula.

When I was 16, I traveled to the Far East for 5 weeks, visiting China, Japan, Taiwan, Hong Kong, and South Korea. The following short story recounts the experience we had when we had the opportunity to visit the Demilitarized Zone. I will break the story up into several successive posts here on the blog.

Chrysallization, Part 1

I remember the day I truly became an adult.

No, it’s not what you’re thinking. I didn’t lose my virginity, or take my first drink, or move out on my own: those events actually all seem trivial in comparison to the transformation that occurred that day.

It was 1983, and I was only sixteen. It was a bright, hot, July day, with temperatures in the high eighties and even higher humidity, so I was dressed in a brightly colored sundress and a light white sweater. And we were about to enter the Demilitarized Zone on
the Korean Peninsula.

Our group of 57 high school singers and 6 chaperones was lively as we entered the auditorium where we were to have our next orientation session. Already in the third week of touring the Far East, travelling through Japan, China, Hong Kong, Taiwan, and now South Korea, we were pros at being “oriented.” There was laughter and boisterous conversation as we casually took our seats, anxious for the program to be over so we could be on our way to the “real stuff.” We had arrived at the UN Security Forces forward base named Camp Bonifas.

The room darkened, as the slide projector warmed up in the background. Two U.S. military personnel appeared in the beam of light at the front of the room, commanding our attention and ushering us into silence without a single word. The first, a U.S. Army Major, stepped forward and said “Welcome to the DMZ. I’m Major Willis, and this is Sergeant Carter. Before we board the bus and actually take you up to the zone itself, we have some information to share with you, and there are waivers that will need to be signed by each of you.”

“Waivers?” I thought. “hmmm. Wonder what that’s all about?” I shrugged my shoulders and leaned back in my chair, feeling tired and clammy in the air conditioned darkness after the hot humid air outside.

I looked around at our group, and noticed that most of my companions were also exhibiting this same mild curiosity about the Major’s words.

Soon, images began to flash on the screen. The presentation began with a brief history of the Korean Conflict, fought between 1950 and 1953, which ended essentially in a stalemate. The Korean War was the first test of the new United Nations, created at the end of World War II, and it would also be the first armed conflict of the Cold War era. The battle between communism and capitalism, the free and slave worlds, was about to commence, and would rage for over forty years across the globe, fought in political, economic, social, and ideological arenas.

Most of this was not news to me. I had taken a particularly good history course that year, and covered the 20th century well. I loved history. The rest of the group was restless, however, exhibiting signs of disinterest in this history lesson, events that seemed like ancient happenings to the group of teenagers. A low murmur spread through the room as side conversations began.

“Can we focus, please?” our group leader and director, Dr. Morris Hayes demanded, spreading an evil eye over the room. “Settle down and listen up!” Properly chastened, the choir members were silenced once again, and attention returned to the Major and his slide show.

Major Willis then continued his presentation, explaining that the American participation was crucial to the Korean conflict, and ultimately, the U.S., UN, and South Korean forces would remain a steady, peacekeeping force in the neutral boundary that was established along the de facto border between the two warring nations of North and South Korea. Somewhat incongruously named the “Demilitarized Zone,” it is one of the world’s most highly defended borders.

The zone is 160 miles long, and approximately 2.5 miles wide, and runs along the 38th parallel, cutting the Korean peninsula roughly in half, crossing the 38th parallel at an angle, with the west end of the DMZ lying south of the parallel and the east end lying to its north. It was established by the Korean Armistice Agreement signed in 1953 in Panmunjom by North Korea, the People’s Republic of China, and the United Nations Command. This neutral zone was named the “Demilitarized Zone,” and it sat on either side of the dividing line between the two states. According to the Armistice, each side agreed to move their troops back 2,200 yards from the front line. The Military Demarcation Line goes down the center of the DMZ and indicates exactly where the front was when the agreement was signed.
I noticed that my companions seemed to be paying more attention to the Major’s presentation now. He had captured their interest.
With the next slide, Major Willis explained that as a result of the genuine hostility between the North and South, despite the theoretical peace that was signed at Panmunjom, large numbers of troops are still stationed along both sides of the line, each side guarding against potential aggression from the other side. In 1983, the United States still had 40,000 troops stationed in South Korea.
The armistice agreement explains exactly how many military personnel and what kind of weapons are allowed in the DMZ. Soldiers from both sides may patrol inside the DMZ, but they may not cross the MDL. Between 1953 and 1999, sporadic outbreaks of violence due to North Korean hostilities killed over 500 South Korean soldiers and 50 U.S. soldiers along the DMZ.

Although the Korean Conflict officially ended in 1953, to this day neither side has granted diplomatic recognition of the other, and tensions have remained high. In the 1980s, as the Cold War was sputtering its last gasps in Europe, tensions were even higher in the Pacific. Our merry little band of singers was about to enter into one of the most contentious arenas in the world, and we had no idea.

As the Major clicked through his slide presentation, filling our heads with statistics, images, and details about the history of the region, I stole a glance around the room. The whispers and snickers had disappeared, and in their wake I saw intense concentration appearing on the faces of my companions.

“What the heck are we doing here?” I wondered. “Is this even SAFE?”

Major Willis wrapped up his history lesson, and clicked on one final slide, which was an image of a waiver form. “You will each find a copy of a waiver on the desk in front of you. Please read it carefully, and then sign and date it at the bottom.” At this point, Sergeant Carter moved forward as well.

“A waiver? A waiver for what?” I mused.

A few hands tentatively rose in the air around the room. The major pointed to Rudy, an outgoing senior, seated in the front row. “Yes? You have a question?” Major Willis asked.

Rudy boomed out, “Excuse me, Major, but could you please explain why we need to sign a waiver?”

The Major cleared his throat, swiped a gaze around the room, sighed, and explained. “Because this is technically a military installation, and there are active military personnel on duty, and since the region has been the site of violence in the past, we need you to sign this waiver, saying that the U.S. government, the Korean government, and the United Nations may not be held accountable for any injuries that might befall you on your trip to the DMZ. It’s merely a formality.”

“A formality?” Rudy interrupted. “Then why must we sign? Is there a real danger to any of us?”

“We haven’t had any active conflict here for years, only a skirmish or two. You will be fine,” Major Willis assured us, nodding his head encouragingly. The Sergeant next to him matched his bob with his own.

The mood in the room had turned somber: no more giggling or carrying on. Now the Major had everyone’s full attention.

“And what if we don’t sign,” Rudy persisted.

“Then you will have to wait here while the rest of the group tours the DMZ.” Major Willis explained. “It’s that simple. Sign or stay here.”

We all looked to our chaperones for guidance, searching their faces for some inkling of what we should do. The six of them exchanged looks, then picked up their pens and signed their own forms with a flourish, signaling that we should all do the same.

I took a deep breath, re-read the form in front of me, and picked up my pen. I read:

During the period from October 1966 to 28 August 1967, 160 hostile acts were committed south of the Military Demarcation Line by the North Koreans. In addition to direct attacks against UNC military positions, these acts of violence included mining of roads, destruction of sleeping quarters, and blowing up of civilian passenger trains. One of the most vicious attacks was the machine gunning of the Military Armistice Commission Advance Camp on 28 August 1967. During this attack, three were killed and twenty-six were wounded including three Korean civilians. Your requested visit to the conference site at Panmunjom, located in the Joint Security Area (JSA) entails travel over the same route where this attack occurred. As recently as 18 August 1976, an overwhelming force of club and ax wielding North Korean guards assaulted UNC Security personnel in the JSA while they monitored a civilian tree trimming work party. In this attack, two UNC officers were beaten to death, the first to have occurred in this ‘neutral’ area. As a result of the incident, the Military Demarcation Line (MDL) has been drawn through the JSA diving it into two distinct areas.

I exhaled loudly. “Wow. This doesn’t sound good…” I continued reading.

Under mutual agreement with the Korean People’s Army/Chinese People’s Volunteers (KPA/CPV Communist Side), no military personnel are permitted entry to the side of the JSA controlled by the other side. Therefore, UNC guards cannot provide security to visitors in the JSA that are not on the UNC side of the MDL. In addition, though travel restrictions for United States citizens were lifted in April 1977, the JSA is not an authorized crossing point to enter North Korea.

At no time have any mines been detected or used in the road you must travel from Freedom Bridge to Panmunjom. It must be pointed out, however, that you will be travelling into and through a hostile area; and, although no hostile acts or incidents are anticipated, the possibility of their occurrence must be recognized.

With this in mind, the following certificate must be read and signed….

Now I felt sweat dripping down the small of my back, and my palms felt clammy. “Possibility of hostile attacks? Mines on the road? What the HECK were we doing here?”

Taking a deep breath, I continued reading the waiver itself.

I recognize that my impending visit to the Joint Security Area at Panmunjom entails entry into a hostile area and that I am subjecting myself (and my family) to the possibility of injury or death as a direct result of enemy action. I understand that the Joins Security Area is a neutral but DIVIDED area guarded by UNC military personnel on the one side (South), and Korean People’s Army personnel on the other (NORTH). I understand, therefore, that I am NOT permitted to cross the Military Demarcation Line into the area of the Joint Security Area under control of the (NORTH) Korean People’s Army. Although incidents are not anticipated, the United Nations’ Command, the United States of America, and the Republic of Korea cannot guarantee my (our) personal safety and may not be held accountable in the event of a hostile enemy act.

I gasped audibly, looking around the room. “Wait a minute – possibility of injury or DEATH?” I started trembling; telling myself it was from the air conditioning on my sweaty skin.

Silently, one of our chaperones, Miss Hartzell, slid into the chair beside me. “Are you ok, Chris?” she asked gently.

“Are you sure this is safe? Do you really think we should be doing this?” I whispered.

“This is just a formality, really. If there is any chance of danger, our military guides will not let us go any further. We will be perfectly safe. You can sign.” She responded, nodding her head.

With one last deep breath, I grasped the pen tightly in my right hand and managed to scrawl my signature at the bottom. I thrust the signed page at Miss Hartzell, anxious to put evidence of our potential threat out of my sight.

Major Willis and Sergeant Carter moved through the auditorium, collecting the completed waiver forms. The room was unusually quiet. Everyone seemed a bit shell-shocked by the experience. The lights came on, and I could finally see my companions clearly once again. I met my friend Rich’s eyes from across the room, silently telegraphing a question through the air. “Are we ok?” He nodded slowly, but also shrugged his shoulders slightly, raising his hands questioningly.
“We will now have to break the group in half, so that you will fit on our busses. Please form two equal groups in the lobby. The chaperones, too, should divide themselves, with half of you accompanying each group.” The Major directed.

As we filed into the lobby, I skipped ahead to stand next to Rich. I definitely wanted to be with him for this experience. “Let’s try to get on Miss Hartzell’s bus,” I prompted. Miss Hartzell was my home choir director, so I felt quite close to her.
Twenty minutes later, my half of the choir group was following the Major across the parking lot to an old school bus painted in camouflage green, which was to be our transportation to the DMZ. Apparently, our two busses would be staggering their departure times, so we would not all be at the same place at the same time.

“Watch your step, everyone, as we board the bus. Sorry about the lack of luxury, but it’s the best we have for you!” The Major warned as we approached.

When I was about two feet from the bus, I stopped abruptly. I stared at the door of the bus, which still stood closed, waiting for the driver to open it and welcome us aboard. There were three bullet holes in the glass panes of the door.
“Bullet holes… in the door….” I whispered under my breath, unable to move forward. “I thought this was safe….”
Rich noticed me stop, and turned back to see what was wrong. “Chris? Why did you stop? Come on, so we can get good seats on the bus.” He grabbed my hand and tried to pull me forward, but I was frozen in place with fear.
“Rich, look at the door of the bus.”

“What are you talking about, Chris? Come on…” Rich trailed off as he turned back to the bus and finally noticed the bullet holes. “Oh, wow. Are those what I think they are?”

“Um, Major? Excuse me, Major?” I managed to blurt out, hoping to catch our leader’s attention.
The Major turned around with a quizzical glance. “Yes, what is it? We’re on a tight schedule here. Come on…”

“Major, I’m sorry, but are those BULLET HOLES on the bus?”

The Major gave a short laugh. “Oh, those. Yeah, don’t mind those. We often have used vehicles up here that have seen action. Don’t let it bother you….” He turned, gave a wave to the driver, and waited for the door to pop open. Then he hopped aboard the bus with a flourish, waving his hand for us to follow.

I looked Rich in the eye and grabbed his hand for security. “I’m glad you’re with me, Rich. I hope nothing happens.” I swallowed hard and followed Rich onto the bus, plopping down two seats behind the Major. I swung around to scan the bus behind me. I saw Miss Hartzell seated several rows back, chatting casually with Miss Knudsen, one of our other chaperones. She seemed unconcerned. I sighed and tried to relax.

Tales of the Tall Ships

(The Bounty)

This weekend the Tall Ships tackled the Erie docks for a spectacular festival showcasing these marvelous sailing vessels.

There were six ships here all weekend: The Bounty, the Niagara, the Lynx, the Roald Admundson, the Unicorn, and the Pride of Baltimore II.

We spent a delightful day on Dobbins Landing, soaking in the history and romance of these impressive ships.

My personal favorite was the Bounty, a ship built as a replica of the original Bounty in 1960 for the Marlon Brando film "Mutiny on the Bounty." This ship has also made appearances in other films, including the recent "Pirates of the Carribean" films.

This ship simply oozed romance, power, and history. Belowdecks, the woodwork gleamed. The red leather in the captain's office glowed. And we got a real glimpse of the life the sailors led as they took these ships into unknown and often dangerous territory.


(the rigging of the Bounty)

The rigging and flags on the Bounty took my breath away.

We also were able to board the Niagara, whose home base is Erie. This is a replica of the ship from the War of 1812, the flagship of Oliver Hazard Perry. It is also an awesome vessel.


(the Flagship Niagara)

Belowdecks, one has to duck in order to move through the cramped quarters. (and if I have to duck, as I stand at only 5'1" tall, you know that the ceilings are indeed low!). Aboard the Niagara, the cook was in the process of preparing lunch for the crew, in the tiny galley, and let me tell you, lunch sure smelled good!


(flag on the rigging of the Niagara)

The third vessel that we had time to tour was the Lynx, a much smaller ship that the Bounty and Niagara. Based out of Newport Beach, CA, the Lynx is an interpretation of a naval schooner, approximating the original Lynx built in 1812, which was among the first ships to defend recently won American freedom by evading the British aval fleet that blockaded U.S. ports.


(the rigging of the Lynx and the Niagara, Lynx in foreground)

The Lynx, though small, was also impressive, as we were informed that she can travel up to 12 knots under sail. A beautiful ship, indeed.


(view through the gunwhale of the Lynx)

We also took the opportunity to go to the top of the Tower on Dobbins Landing, to take advantage of the spectacular panoramic view of the ships from above.


(the view from the tower, Niagara on the left, Unicorn top right and Roald Admundsen lower right).

The weather was a perfect Fall day, with plenty of sunshine, a gentle breeze, and temperatures hovering right around 70 degrees. I could not have asked for a better overall experience, as I let go of everything but the sensation of the sailing ships around me.

And it reminded me, again, of the significance of hands on education, and the importance of seeing "how it really was."

All in all, the Tall Ships Festival in Erie rates a huge FIVE STARS out of FIVE. I hope they repeat the experience many times.


(powder barrel aboard the Bounty)

More Holocaust poetry

(This image is of the entry gates at the camp at Dachau, outside of Munich, Germany)

The end of May always evokes memories for me, memories of my trips to the various concentration and death camps used by the Nazis in their plan to eradicate all non-Aryans in their domain.

I have written about some of my experiences at these camps, here, here, and here, and I suggested that these were very powerful, almost overwhelming, encounters with not just the physical reminders of the horrors, but the spiritual remains of the victims as well.

These intense interactions at the various camps left indelible marks on my soul, and impelled me to share them with others, through poetry and images.

In particular, one visit, to Dachau in May 2008, was full of psychic engagement. I spent my time walking the camp. Almost immediately, I was channeling things.

The first thing I heard was loud shouting, crying "Schnell! Schnell!" over and over again.

I also heard moaning and crying and the sounds of soup bowls.

A little later on my walk, I felt someone ill, with dysentery or pneumonia perhaps, shivering beneath a thin blanket, too weak to do more than just moan softly.

I also kept hearing the rhythmic crunching of the shoes on gravel - the repetitive, uniform sound of marching.

And I picked up two stones from the ground, which oddly enough refused to warm up in my hands. They were cold, like the death they represented.

These stones, which I keep in a bowl next to my desk, remain cold, even today, even on the warmest of summer days. They are tainted with the powers of death and destruction. They carry that stamp with them.

After this most powerful trip, I wrote the following two poems, both of which capture at least part of what I experienced that day.

They are dedicated to those who perished at the hands of the Nazis, under the guise of creating a "better world."



(Memorial at the camp at Dachau, an image of twisted bodies, trapped in barbed wire)

A Faustian Bargain

The muselman emerges
as artistic muse,
the product of Nazis,
the collection of dues.

From skeletal frames
their life's blood will ooze
as for diabolical aims
their demons abuse.





(These are my Dachau stones, picked up there in May 2008)

Dachau, May 2008

A pair of weathered stones,
cold as death,
freeze their imprint
upon my palm.

The crunch of gravelled steps,
rhythmic, sharp,
cut their way deep
into my calm.

Voices from the tortured past,
echo loud,
resonating deeply
within my head.

Visions of suffering and pain
flicker on,
projecting facelessly
the fates of the dead.

Another Holocaust Poem

This morning, I got up and was feeling pretty good, despite everything. I had some physical aches and pains, but I was facing them pretty optimistically. My mood was not bad, all things considered.

I came into school, determined to be productive and positive.

And then, while I sat at my desk, a tremendous BLACK wave descended upon me, almost smothering me in its intensity. I felt isolated, hopeless, devastated.

And I took a deep breath and asked who I was feeling.

Because it wasn't me.

Not today.

I felt a tremendous need to overcome this wave of darkness. So I pulled out the only available music in my office, which happened to be a cd of Piano Klezmer Music by Leslaw Lic.

And I popped in the cd, and began to listen. I focused on the notes, trying to push aside the black blanket that smothered me.

And I opened Word, and began to write.

Here is what emerged. It's pretty obvious that the sensations I was feeling were from a Holocaust victim.

So, here's my tribute to her.


Our last refrain
5-19-10

Where has the past gone?
Who has stolen it away?
When our lives were free and gay?
What have we done wrong?

Once we were carefree
Living our lives in peace
In an instant, that would cease
And we would have to flee.

The bark of dogs and guns
Chasing us into the woods
Blindly tearing at our goods
Not knowing who it was who runs.

Far from the home I love,
Our belongings cast aside
With nowhere here to hide
Behind, below, or above.

Even as I flee in fear
Fragments of that song remain
The haunting last refrain
Lingering in my ear.