Recalling visit to thin line of Korea’s DMZ

The recent artillery exchange between North and South Korea, and the virtual certainty of United States military action in the event of a serious escalation, had me reflecting on my experiences visiting Korea’s Demilitarized Zone (DMZ). Strung across the entire width of the Korean peninsula at the 38th parallel, the DMZ is a constant reminder of ongoing tensions between the two Koreas, some 60 years after the North sparked the Korean War via a surprise attack on the South in the early morning hours of June 25, 1950.

At the DMZ, I was struck by the power - both real and symbolic - of a simple line. In this case, a thin painted line on the ground. In a strange sort of way, the line snakes through the village of Panmunjum, the focal point of the DMZ. (Known as the “peace village,” Panmunjum serves as the official point of contact between South and North and is often referenced in news reports.) On one side of the line is a nation, the South, democratic, capitalist, and a traditional ally of the US; on the other, the North, a nation that is totalitarian, communist, and named on the “axis of evil.”

The facts on the ground within Panmunjum turned out to be far from what I had expected. Before entering, I had envisioned a town somehow completely divided by a high concrete hall and barbed wire galore. Something akin to the Berlin Wall I suppose.

Inside Panmunjum itself, however, what really separates South and North is the aforementioned line painted across the ground. Not only is there no wall but also movement and just the whole environment in general is actually fairly open. Via carefully choreographed protocol, I was even permitted to point my camera across the line in to North Korea and take pictures, much to my surprise. It is a most eerie feeling, though, finding oneself no more than a few hundred feet from North Korean soldiers at spots and wondering about their thoughts as their hardened stares lock on any visitors and monitor every step taken on the southern side of the line.

Dynamics on either side of the line are rather remarkable to observe. South Korean soldiers and certain government officials mill about on the south side of the line, while comparable North Koreans do likewise on their side. Despite the close proximity to each other, it generally does not feel like a battle about to break out. The respective soldiers are not in formation ready to charge each other nor is the status quo one in which each side has weapons drawn and pointed at each other all day. Most time in Panmunjum is spent, it turns out, with each side simply staring across the line at the other.

At the same time, that same thin painted line symbolizes the delicate and dangerous nature of relations between South and North and the fragility of the Korean armistice, which, with a peace treaty still unsigned, has maintained a tense “peace” since active fighting halted in July 1953.

The continued power of the line over subsequent decades is precisely because of the seriousness accorded the line’s status. As the line cuts through Panmunjum, it even continues (literally) in to the building where official South-North contact occurs. Walking in to that building, one notices on the floor the line’s continuation from outside; the line even runs across a table set in the middle of the room, a table whose space the line divides evenly between South and North.

Everywhere in Panmunjum, South and North alike regard the line as something inviolable. Breaching it in any manner by the other side is a border violation and, at times, has sparked altercations in and around the village. Indeed, before entering Panmunjum, our South Korea military guides sternly warned us to respect the line and to be mindful of it at all times.

In the end, of course, the inherent tension is not merely about a line per se. As both a practical and symbolic matter, the line sharply reflects actual and potential conflict between two systems, two ways of life that are, in the end, mutually exclusive. Nonetheless, despite the gravity of the complex situation, it is a simple painted line that helps the two Koreas focus on upholding their armistice, and has kept them (and the United States) out of a renewed hot war. At least for now.

The writer holds a Ph.D. in political science and serves as a representative in the Pennsylvania House of Representatives.

He has lived and worked in South Korea.