By John M. Glionna
December 23, 2009
Reporting from Haean, South Korea
As
she rubs the stump where her left ankle used to be, Park Choon-young
recalls her life in this town that she calls a cursed place, a no man's
land where the very ground is fraught with peril.
Countless land mines planted here, she says, have wreaked an incredible
personal toll: The petite 84-year-old widow lost two sons and a
grandson to explosions after they accidentally detonated mines while
walking in the dense woods outside town.
About four decades ago, Park also stepped on a mine in a farm field.
Now she limps about on a recently fitted prosthesis that cuts into her
swollen flesh, raising raw and bloody welts.
"I'm old now, my withered leg is getting skinnier," she said, wiping
away tears as she huddled beneath a blanket on the floor of her
one-room hovel. "It's getting so cold. My leg hurts when it's cold."
Just half a mile south of the demilitarized zone that separates
North and South Korea, this isolated farming community of 1,400
residents has become a realm of the walking wounded.
Perhaps tens of thousands of land mines -- menacing reminders of the
Korean War half a century ago -- still litter the picturesque valley of
birch treesand terraced fields, which is known as "the punch bowl" for
its sloping, concave shape.
The area was the scene of some of the most savage hand-to-hand fighting
of the 1950-53 war, including the battles of Bloody Ridge and
Heartbreak Ridge, as both sides fought for the towering vantage point
of the surrounding Kumgang mountains.
For many residents, the violence has not ended.
Since 1953, dozens of Haean residents have been killed or maimed when
they stepped on mines. The victims include a farmer killed this year
and another who lost part of his leg in October while searching the
mountainside for medicinal plants.
Activists estimate that about 1,000 civilians nationwide -- mostly
poor, uneducated farmers who live in the rural towns along the
151-mile-long DMZ -- have been hurt or killed by some of the 1.2
million mines buried there.
The devices' versatility is lethal: Made of both metal and
plastic, some mines are designed to explode twice, once at ground level
and again after bouncing 6 feet into the air.
In Haean, these hidden legacies of war have left only bitterness.
South Korean military officials declined to comment for this article,
other than to say they provide mine victims with emergency care and
some follow-up treatment. They contend that the devices play a
defensive role in the continuing standoff with North Korea.
Unlike in other former war zones, the mines remaining here are in
secure areas labeled as hazardous zones, where intruders proceed at
their own peril, military officials note.
For their part, victims say their government has deserted them,
offering little or no compensation for their injuries. But what's
worse, they say, is that many were treated harshly, often verbally
reprimanded for their calamities.
"These mines were supposed to kill the enemy, but instead they're
killing innocent people," Park said. "How can they blame us? Why didn't
they clean up their own mess after their war?"
Riddled with mines
The Korean peninsula, experts say, remains one of the world's most
land-mine-choked regions.
Millions of the devices were laid by both sides during the Korean War.
For decades, as the stalemate dragged on, South Korea set even more
mines as a precaution against invasion, and it continues to keep a vast
stockpile of the devices. Along with the United States, South Korea has
refused to join 35 other nations in signing an international treaty to
ban land mines.
In 2000, the military began removing mines in heavily populated areas
but quickly found the process -- conducted by soldiers -- cumbersome
and expensive, says a report this year from the International Campaign
to Ban Landmines.
One major problem is that, because of incomplete records, the military
doesn't know where many devices are hidden. From 2006 through 2008, the
military removed only 11,570 land mines, the report says.
As part of postwar rebuilding efforts, the government offered cheap
land to attract settlers to battle-ravaged areas such as Haean,
activists say.
For years, a succession of military dictatorships forced settlers to
sign agreements assuming blame if they stepped on a device, relieving
the government of responsibility.
And in recent years, the military has not been forthright about the
civilian toll the land mines have exacted, activists say. In fact, as
recently as 1997, officials said there were no civilian victims and
that there were no mines south of the DMZ.
"The government simply did not want to let the nation know there were
so many land mines," said Moon Eun-young, secretary-general of Global
Peace Sharing Korea, a coalition of groups opposed to land mines.
"That's when our group started to look for victims. When we found them,
we told them, 'This is not your fault.' "
"Victims were afraid to complain," said Kim Ki-ho, head of the Korea
Research Institute for Mine Clearance. "It only brought trouble."
Although more recentgovernment administrations claim to
have established a process for victim aid, the program has served few.
Only seven civilian land mine compensation claims have been successful
since 2002, according to the 2009 report on land mines.
For years, a national bill to offer aid to past victims such as Park
has failed to pass, forcing many to wait for government aid.
"One lawmaker's aide asked me, 'Why is your group fussing when victims
are quiet and doing nothing?' " Moon said. "You have to understand that
these victims are at the bottom. Mentally, financially, they have
nothing. Worse, they have lost legs."
Meanwhile, the government's mine removal program moves slowly forward.
"If they keep to this current pace," Kim said, "it will take 375 years
to be rid of all the mines."
Affordable land
Park Choon-young moved to Haean 50 years ago, when her husband died and
left her with five children. Land was cheap here.
Back then, villagers used metal detectors to carefully scour for mines
on their farms. They disabled the devices and sold the parts. They were
so successful that the military asked many to conduct mine searches
rather than use the more inexperienced soldiers.
Yet, one by one, the accidents happened. It was like Russian roulette:
Who would be hit next?
Park's turn came in 1967. She was picking vegetables on her small farm
when she spotted some greens growing near a drain. She reached down and
a mine exploded, taking her left foot.
After she recuperated, she continued to work the farm using crutches.
What choice did she have? But she never felt safe again.
The region is divided into three areas, Park and others say: the
hazardous zone, where mines are known to be present; a probable zone;
and a so-called safe zone.
But the lines often blur. Summer rains wash mines from the mountain's
northern slope. "They settle on farms, in stream beds, along the
roadside," Park said. "No place is safe."
Poverty forces villagers to wander into the mountains -- even to
cordoned-off areas -- in search of food and firewood, Park said.
They know the dangers, but after some time passes without an accident,
they start to trust the land again. Slowly, they get braver.
Then another explosion will occur. Or someone will find a deer carcass
with its legs blown off. Once, a town official picked up a mine in a
field. It exploded in his hand and gouged out an eye.
In October, Kim Eun-man lost his leg in an area that he said had been
proclaimed safe. Military officials offered no compensation and instead
marked off the field with warning signs, Kim said.
At the Haean senior center, Kim Ok-ja pulled herself across the floor
like an infant. A land mine had shattered her left hip. She would like
to leave the area but is too poor to move.
"If only I'd known what awaited me," said Kim, 74, "I would never have
moved here."
Paek Choon-ok, 72, nodded in agreement. She walks with a cane now,
having lost her right leg 12 years ago while picking vegetables on the
mountain.
Years earlier, her 8-year-old son was killed searching for scrap metal
in the forest. No one has offered her financial help.
"There is an unspoken message that you have to suffer this on your
own," she said.
"They say, 'No one forced you to go to that forest.' And so I tell
myself, 'Be quiet and suffer. No one wants to hear your story.' "
Haean administrator Jeong Chung-seob acknowledges that few people have
looked kindly on land mine victims here.
"Many feel they should be punished for entering restricted areas," he
said. "But that stand is softening."
Not quickly enough for Park Choon-young.
Three years before her oldest son and a grandson were killed in 2001
while hunting rabbits, another son was maimed by a mine. After 10
years, he succumbed to his injuries.
Park says she misses her boys, all three of them, as well as her foot.
She rues her decision to move to Haean.
Her face is wrinkled, puffy from crying.
"I'm all alone now," she said. "I have nothing."
john.glionna@latimes.com
Park Ju-min of The Times' Seoul Bureau contributed to this report.