The watchtower guarding the entrance to Guryong Village still bears the marks of past protests. Even when no one stands inside, the structure seems to echo the cries of its history.
After passing the watchtower and walking a few minutes along an unpaved road, we finally entered the village: a deserted public parking lot overgrown with weeds, as if no car had entered for years.
The air was damp and heavy, likely due to the rain the day before, creating a heat that would keep people indoors.
Thus, we set foot in what is known as Seoul's last shantytown.
On one side of the parking lot stood a small village office, where several residents were gathered. As we approached, their gazes sharpened. Even when we greeted them, they remained distant.
“Are you a reporter?” someone asked. When I confirmed, the conversation ended there. “I’ve seen many reporters. But what good does it do to talk? Nothing changes,” said both the residents who had lost their homes to fires and those sitting in front of the office.
Every time a fire broke out, news crews would swarm, labeling the area as “Seoul’s last slum” before leaving just hours later. Afterward, the village remained unchanged.
Everyone avoided making eye contact with us, and some stood at a distance, silently watching our movements. Here, we were not welcomed guests but rather subjects of scrutiny. This sentiment persisted during our visits the following day.
Guryong Village began in 1988, when people displaced by the redevelopment of shantytowns in the city gathered ahead of the Seoul Olympics. It grew large enough to be divided into nine districts, from District 1 to District 8.
We parked and walked past piles of discarded trash and a recycling station for paper, eventually coming across a few makeshift mailboxes. They appeared hand-crafted, clearly waiting for residents to collect their mail. Nearby, a wall was marked with mysterious blue spray-painted numbers, the meaning of which we would learn later.
The homes here were so cramped that “narrow” hardly sufficed to describe them. Though the structures were barely worthy of the name “home,” they were warm shelters for the families living within.
Several tightly shut doors bore wooden boards nailed by the Seoul Housing and Communities Corporation. These boards were not placed randomly; they marked vacant spaces left behind by residents who had fallen ill, improved their circumstances, or ultimately left the village.
One board read, “7-15-1 Vacant, legal action will be taken for unauthorized entry or damage, 2026.5.5.”
Above it, an official notice was taped: “This is a temporary structure closed due to the resident’s relocation. Unauthorized entry or damage will be subject to penalties under Article 319 (trespassing) and Article 366 (property damage) of the Criminal Code.”
The juxtaposition of the handwritten warning and the dry bureaucratic language reflected the reality of this village. With each departure, another board was nailed up.
From this point, the path narrowed to barely allow one person to pass, winding along as we encountered forgotten toys and items once cherished by children who no longer returned to retrieve them.
Abandoned bicycles, half-buried toy cars, and faded small objects seemed to wait for someone. This alley had once been a route to school for those children.
Now, those children likely attended different schools elsewhere. The true face of Guryong Village began to reveal itself at this juncture, where the stench of garbage mixed with humidity made it hard to breathe.
Early on, we discovered a bathroom tucked away in a narrow passage. Behind a firmly shut wooden door was a makeshift toilet, crafted from a chair to provide some comfort.
Without needing further explanation, this single item told us much about the basic facilities in a place not even marked on maps. Ahead, we spotted a gravel road wide enough for vehicles, and we pushed through knee-high grass, battling mosquitoes and insects to reach it.
Following the road, we came across a tent that appeared to serve as a shelter for fire victims, and beyond it lay an area of over 3,300 square feet covered with blue tarps. This was the site of a fire that occurred in January, where a single room had housed residents for their entire lives. In an instant, the flames consumed everything they had built over the years. The tarp stood as evidence of that moment and the last remnants of their hard-fought lives.
As we moved past the tarp, a charred house caught our attention. Through the collapsed walls, we saw books left behind, scorched appliances, and cassette tapes, all waiting for their owners who would never return.
Disasters momentarily returned this village to the evening news, but once the world’s attention faded, the burned homes remained. Residents spoke calmly about the fires, acknowledging that the houses were too close together, the paths too narrow, and the materials too flammable for anyone to believe the next fire could be completely prevented.
We continued through the underbrush and discovered a house surrounded by a fence, its roof covered with a mossy blanket. Traces of a life fiercely protected for so long remained intact. Among the piles of trash, we noticed coal briquettes saved for the winter, alongside ashes that had already turned green with moss. This was preparation for another winter.
As we navigated through tiny spiders, swarms of mosquitoes, and other insects, we arrived at a scene that starkly illustrated the current state of Guryong Village. On one side, a landscape that seemed uninhabitable, and on the other, a luxury apartment complex valued at over 40 billion won.
Leaving behind that jarring contrast, we headed toward District 1, where people first settled in 1988.
Through broken windows, we glimpsed belongings left behind during hasty relocations, and a once-bustling beauty salon stood with its door barely intact. Throughout this area, banners appeared, evidence that residents were still fiercely fighting for what they believed were their rights. Uncertain of when or how development would occur, they continued to endure.
Over the course of two or three days, the residents’ initial wariness began to ease as we repeatedly traversed the same paths and encountered familiar faces. Those who had once avoided eye contact began to greet us or engage in brief conversations.
Thanks to this gradual rapport, we encountered a truck delivering goods to the village. It carried everything from daily necessities to shoes, clothes, fans, and even rat poison. One resident purchased rat poison, commenting that the newer versions were ineffective and requesting the older kind.
Nearby, residents we had not seen before gathered to examine the truck’s contents. A small supermarket appeared, selling groceries, snacks, and beverages like any other store in the city. Inside, an elderly woman quietly welcomed us in the dimly lit shop.
As evening fell, a different kind of chill settled in. A few streetlights barely illuminated the path, and in the distance, a building caught our eye: a shining cross.
Almost entranced, we followed the light, forgetting the mosquitoes biting us. The contrast of wealth became even more pronounced at night: on one side, the dazzling lights of the Gangnam apartment complex, and on the other, Guryong Village, where only a few streetlights struggled against the darkness. The scene we witnessed on our way out differed from what we had seen during the day. Cars that had been invisible earlier were now parked in various spots, and sounds of televisions and radios emanated from houses that seemed on the verge of collapse.
Uncertainty loomed over when development would begin or when another fire might strike. Yet, amid this unpredictability, the residents continued to stockpile coal briquettes, repair roofs, and purchase rat poison, enduring each day. This quiet yet persistent struggle is the most significant battle being waged in Guryong Village.
* This article has been translated by AI.
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