Everything Belongs to Us / Yoojin Grace Wuertz

1

Seoul, 1978

They had come to the roof for three days to watch the strike at the Mun-A textile factory. It was April, the early mornings still damp and gray, the sky a ragged blanket thrown over the city. In the pre-dawn, the women gathered like ghosts around the factory yard and formed rows as if on lines etched into the concrete. They sat shoulder to shoulder, close enough to link arms and share warmth. The drumming began with the sun. At first the rhythm was simple, almost laconic. Pum-pum-pum-pum. The pulse rolled over the street like slow thunder, beckoning. By seven thirty, the strike had mustered full force. Three hundred women in khaki uniforms overflowed the narrow yard onto the sidewalk, fists in the air, chanting, shouting, singing. Neighborhood workers watched from behind windows, as if still under curfew. Pedestrians hurried to cross the street.

Dull tan slacks, matching blouse, and navy kerchief: They were an industrial army trained to sew buttonholes and block seams with military precision and discipline. Throughout the city each morning, the public loudspeakers broadcast the president’s slogans: Work cheerfully, courageously, for a more prosperous nation! Let’s be industrial soldiers for a brighter future! If the thrust of the rallying cry was somewhat diminished by the staticky sound quality, more warbling than exalting, no one was surprised. As with most aspects of President Park Chung Hee ’s administration, the objective—and the means—called for force, not finesse. The industrial army did not need a special sound system. It needed earlier mornings, later nights, unity, focus. Sacrifice. Sacrifice. Sacrifice.

So these were the soldiers. Skinny, pale-faced girls and women built like furniture, all limbs and angles. Even in protest, they maintained orderly ranks, churning out dissent with the same single-minded efficiency with which they had created cheap exports for Western markets. They marched in unison, danced in unison. They shouted in antiphonal ecstasy, two megaphones leading the call-and-response that never flagged. When individual voices grew ragged and hoarse, fresh voices took up the amplifiers, rejuvenating the whole. And the drums beat on like a sonic spine.

From a distance, their rigid organization made them appear simultaneously mighty and destructible. They were a focused defiance, conspicuous and easy to stomp.

Guarantee basic labor rights! We are not machines!

Throw out the illegal union election! Union revote!

On the roof across the street, Sunam and his new sunbae, Juno, stood watch. Juno Yoon was a year above Sunam at Seoul National University, the most prestigious college in the country, and Sunam vigilantly took cues from the older boy. Just getting to SNU was an accomplishment, requiring a grueling entrance exam that demanded years of around-the-clock preparation. Succeeding there put you in a different category altogether—it was a chance to become part of the professional elite. The best students transformed from pimply, stressed-out nineteen-year-olds to national assemblymen, judges, doc- tors, chaebol business leaders, and famous scientists. And the fastest ticket to success was gaining entry to a special group known only as the Circle—a kind of social club, founded by the heir to an enormous shipping fortune. Juno was already a member. As...