May 5, 2024
In contrast, it was like this.
Outside was filled with the sounds of protests and rain. Inside the box, it was quiet. My head echoed, like a water-damaged speaker left on. Only when someone embraced me could I faintly hear voices. Aside from those moments, it felt as if I were alone in a completely different space.
When I think of Children’s Day, the first place that comes to mind is Cheonggyecheon. When I was young, I often came to Seoul because of my parents’ work, and I grew up hearing stories of how my aunt used to take me there every day. Although I don’t have vivid memories or a clear image of that time, somehow, this place took symbolic root in my mind. I remember someone telling me, “You won’t be a child next year, so there won’t be a Children’s Day for you anymore.” I don’t recall how old I was when I heard that, but despite those words, my parents still contacted me every Children’s Day after that.
There was a long gap before anyone first participated—about 30 minutes. I think the first person to embrace me was a middle-aged woman. The weather was a bit cold, and I physically felt how warm human body temperature could be. From that point on, participation flowed more smoothly. Many people joined in—of various ages, genders, and nationalities. Because my vision was blocked, I had to rely heavily on my sense of hearing and touch. As a result, when I later watched the footage, I was surprised to see how different the participants looked from how I had imagined them.
The noise of protesting crowds filled the air, the rain fell hard, strangers approached, police stood nearby, car horns blared, and my two friends were filming me with a camera. I felt mentally and physically uneasy. I could feel my heart racing.
At night, I moved to a place where I thought there would be more adults. Honestly, the rain wasn’t part of the plan. Just a day before, I had been hoping it wouldn’t rain. But when I moved at night, it poured like a storm. The wind was so strong that my friend’s umbrella broke and flew away. My box, too, began to wear down little by little. It wasn’t made of waterproof material, nor was it well-sealed, so it gradually started to collapse.
It was hard to encourage participation in such harsh conditions. Some intoxicated passersby occasionally asked, “Aren’t you cold?” or said, “You’ll catch a cold.” When I reviewed the footage later, I noticed that some people had taken photos and left. After the umbrella broke, my clothes started to get wet.
I felt as though my idealistic sense of love was dulling and blending with reality. As I became more aware of the situation, my heart didn’t race like it had in the beginning. Unlike the resounding noise of crowds in Gwanghwamun, what echoed now was more like upbeat music from a speaker, soaked as if it too had taken on water.
