[Reporter's Notebook] Two Voices, One Gwangju 'Geumnam-ro'

Gwangju, Once Again at the Center of History
A Fierce Confrontation Over President Yoon's Impeachment Unfolds on Geumnam-ro
Citizens and Conservative Groups Face Off, Divided by Only 100 Meters
A Wall of Police Vehicles Symbolizes the Deepening Divide in Korean Society

Song Bohyun Honam Reporting Headquarters Reporter

Gwangju once again stood at the center of history. On the 15th, Geumnam-ro in Gwangju became a battleground for extreme polarization over the impeachment of President Yoon Suk-yeol. The shouts of citizens demanding "Immediate removal of Yoon Suk-yeol" and the voices of conservative Christian groups calling for "a return to a normal nation" pushed against each other, separated by only 100 meters.

On the stage calling for impeachment, history lecturer Hwang Hyunpil took the microphone. He said, "During May 18, activists protected democracy here on Geumnam-ro," and added, "For those who defend martial law and support the ringleaders of rebellion to rally on Geumnam-ro, where blood was shed, is like Nazi sympathizers gathering at the site of the Holocaust."

On the opposing stage, lecturer Jeon Hangil appeared in a red shirt. He shouted, "We must unite through integration and harmony, not conflict and division," but the chants of "Release President Yoon" from the crowd below made the meaning of 'unity' confusing.

The police erected a wall of vehicles to prevent clashes between the two sides. While that wall ensured physical safety, it also seemed to symbolize the division within Korean society. Crowds confronted each other, denying each other's existence, separated by a gap. Although there were no major disturbances or incidents that day, the reporter at the scene had to face the reality hidden behind the wall of vehicles.

A citizen in his 60s whom I met that day said, "The spirit of May 18 can never be damaged. The reason we are standing here is not simply political confrontation, but to protect democracy." A 40-something office worker next to him said, "My father was on Geumnam-ro in 1980. I have learned history and I know why I must stand here now. If we forget the past, the same tragedy will be repeated." A citizen in his 70s, clutching a small Taegeukgi, said, "Gwangju is land that was defended through struggle. I never thought I would see the specter of dictatorship here again."

As I busily moved between both sides, I was reminded of a question once posed by author Han Kang: "Can the past help the present? Can the dead save the living?" Every citizen I met in Gwangju that day answered "Yes" with their expressions and loud voices. At the same time, they faced those trying to impose new political interpretations on painful memories of the past with unwavering determination in their eyes.