Dr. Jocelyn Clark 배재대학교 아펜젤러국제학부 교수



When I first moved to North Han Mountain(북한산) in Seoul’s Pyeongchang-dong, in 1999, I lived between two worlds, each with its own timbre. From 9 to 5 each day, there was the military soundscape, a barrage of target practice and battle games uncontained by the valley below. But after dark, the percussion would give way to fragments of melody from above when from far up on the mountain voices and fragments of song would begin to ricochet through the air, drawing closer and closer until they reached my street. Sometimes I would step outside in the middle of the night to find the singers, but they always remained elusive, hidden among the boulders and trees that redirected their voices in irrational directions. For some, “Yaaaaaa-a-a-a-a-a-hoooooo-o-o-o-o-o,” was enough to restore the spirit, but others seemed to sing as if they didn’t care if they would ever be able to speak again, so bloodied must have been their vocal chords by sunrise. When I left Pyeongchang-dong and moved back to Alaska, I did so without ever having glimpsed a single one of those night singers. It wasn’t until much later that, seeking the same medicine, I would come to understand the source of those invisible voices.

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