The
Gates
I.
Police pull back
activists’ fingers, breaking them,
sometimes along
the joint, just below the fingernail.
Since Park
Geun-hye was elected president,
police
repression of the nonviolent protest has ramped up.
With people
dispirited,
And their bodies
scratched, bruised, and broken,
there’s no
direct action this week.
Just picketing
now, a 19-year-old tells me.
All last night
he was in front of one of the gates.
II.
7
a.m.
Cement trucks
line up.
Police move into
place.
And security
guards move the chairs and other objects blocking the
entrance.
One guard throws
a yellow No Jeju Base flag to the ground.
I wonder if
he’ll leave it there to be run over,
but another
guard picks it up
and leans it
against the chairs placed on the side of the road.
After the
vehicles pass, we move the chairs, a barrel stove, and a few placards back in
front of the gate, along with a vase of lilies.
Just three of us
are there early this morning as the rain comes down.
We move from one
gate to the other and back again
as cement trucks
roll in and out,
each activity
logged in a thick activist notebook.
III.
Night
falls.
Workers continue
to arrive for their shifts.
We are sitting
around a barrel stove,
activists’ names
painted on top of each wooden stool.
Three candles
flicker in the middle of our circle.
We talk about
the next day’s plans,
about
informants
and Hawaiian
history.
Then someone
exclaims, Time to dance!
And in a new
circle in front of the gate,
we
dance
as workers in
twos and threes pass by.
I have just
stepped out of the shower and hear a rapping on the door.
Just a minute, I
call out.
Nae.
(Yes)
A pause. Then
the rapping resumes.
Just a minute, I
call out again.
I’m dressing as
quickly as I can.
The knocking
happens two more times.
I’m sorry, I
say, as I open the door. I’ve made the hotel owner wait.
She hands me a
bag full of chocolate treats, bows to me, and walks away.
So that was the
urgent task.
Each chocolate
wrapper says Love in Jeju.