[Unstagram] Today, 10 Years Ago, Parents' Day

Ten years ago today, on Parents' Day, I was in Jindo.

The wind had been blowing since morning, and on the breakwater, the sighs of Children's Day and Parents' Day, unable to reach each other, collided. Carnations, like cries searching for lost parents, and red-wrapped chocolate pies soaked in parents' tears calling for children who never returned from school trips floated on the waves. The chanting of the monk was drowned out by the flapping of the tent roof over the altar. On the carnation pot placed on the altar, a yellow ribbon with the words "Mom, I'm sorry, where are you?" fluttered toward the sea.

On May 8, 10 years ago, carnations, Choco Pie, and chrysanthemums were floating in the waves next to the breakwater at Jindo Paengmok Port. Photo by Heo Young-han

There is no "today" in the time that has passed. People name unforgettable days, and when that name meets "today," it feels especially close, like a present still within reach. At that time, I was a photojournalist, and there are many cases where others' misfortunes become our work. I opened the photos I took that day for the first time in ten years.

The sound of the monk's chanting was drowned out by the sound of the wind.

About three weeks after the accident, the noise had subsided, and people were reserved in their speech. Many had already left the site, and the photographers moved quietly like shadows. Junior photojournalists picked up snacks that had been blown off the altar by the wind and placed them back. A reporter who arrived earlier told stories of photojournalists being cursed at and assaulted amid the initial chaos. In social turmoil, the media is often collectively blamed, and photojournalists holding cameras at the front line tend to become the first targets.

Carnation pot placed on the altar

Members of the "Parents' Association" visited the harbor holding a board with notes expressing their wish to share in the grief. Other groups of visitors floated yellow paper boats on the shore, sat down, prayed for a long time, and left. The yellow ribbons on the breakwater railing fluttered in the wind, and the words written on them seemed to become audible: "Come back soon so we can put on carnations." On another ribbon, the words "If only it could be undone" were visible. No missing persons were found that day.

Lanterns hanging on the breakwater and ribbons inscribed with the feelings of searching for family members were fluttering in the wind.

Now, ten years later, the way the bereaved families deal with the past has matured. They now speak more about a safe future than about sorrow. I sometimes see stories revealed only in the photos I took in a flurry back then. Both emotions and photographs mature with time. Many things remain unchanged. The words of those who seek to exploit the tragedy politically have been repeated in the present tense for over ten years. A safe country remains elusive, and even nowadays, journalists holding cameras are often cursed simply for "being there." If you are curious about the nature of these curses, I recommend visiting the Seoul Central District Court, where a politician facing multiple charges is currently on trial.

People visiting the harbor on Parents' Day

People sitting by the seaside praying

Carnation and Yellow Ribbon

Photojournalists are picking up snacks that were blown off the altar by the wind.

A police officer is guarding an altar by the seaside.

Around noon on May 8, 2014, Jindo Paengmok Port Breakwater