There was a city here

Driving through Cheorwon on a research trip in July, the reporter observed peculiar landscape features that seemed out of place: a bridge that ended abruptly across a river, a building without a roof, and a railway swallowed by trees. The area appeared to have significant damage, leaving little to be seen. Their guide informed them that their next destination was Gimhwa.

Upon arrival, the reporter was struck by the beauty of the place, describing it as a "corner of paradise." The serene lake, still and tranquil, was surrounded by birds chirping and a gentle breeze. However, as they stared longer, they noticed something else: the deep-rooted history of Gimhwa. The reporter realized that the stillness they witnessed was not earned but left behind, a consequence of past conflicts.

Gimhwa's quietude was not a sign of peace but an absence, a result of the Korean War. This stillness was not peaceful; it was an absence of life. The reporter pondered, "If the trees could speak, what would Gimhwa say about what it saw, who it held, and what it lost?" Gimhwa was once a bustling hub with roads extending in all directions and mines ranking among the best in the country. It was also home to markets and schools, making it a center of activity and growth.

The reporter urged readers to consider the stories these silent landscapes could tell. Before the Korean War, Gimhwa was a thriving center, but the war had left its mark, erasing the vibrant life that once thrived there.