The order had come down the chain of command, a single, declarative sentence that marked the end of an era. “Commence removal of all propaganda loudspeakers.” For Sergeant Kim and his team of military engineers, this was not just a directive; it was the final, tangible step in a long, tense, and often absurd Cold War.
Wiping a bead of sweat from his brow, Sergeant Kim carefully unplugged the thick, weather-worn cables from the back of the massive speaker horn. His partner, Corporal Lee, grunted as he used a pair of clippers to sever a thick vine that had coiled itself around the speaker’s metal base, years of uninterrupted growth embedding it into the soil.
“We knew this would happen eventually,” Corporal Lee said, his voice low. “I remember the broadcasts changing after the Japanese prime minister’s visit in 2002. The content from the North got… strange.”
Sergeant Kim nodded, pulling a loose wire free. “Yeah, I remember that. And then it got even weirder after the US president visited Panmunjom. It felt like they just ran out of things to talk about on their side. The messages became more about the weather than about ideology.”
The South Korean military had, in a conciliatory gesture, already halted its own anti-Pyongyang broadcasts in June, a move that Defense Ministry spokesperson Lee Kyung-ho had described as a “practical measure” to ease tensions. This physical removal was the next, final phase of that same effort. It was a tangible symbol of a new liberal government’s push to rebuild trust with the North, which had largely been dormant in recent years.
As they worked, a new directive arrived on their field tablet: “Attention: Remove speakers with care. All equipment to be stored for possible future use.”
Corporal Lee scoffed. “Future use? This speaker will never be used again. At least not on this peninsula.”
“You never know,” Sergeant Kim replied, though his tone was laced with the same skepticism. “Maybe they’ll turn it into a PA system for a military base. Or a museum piece.” He paused, crouching down to unbolt the speaker from its concrete plinth. “The order is the order.”
As the last bolt came loose, Corporal Lee leaned over, pointing to the speaker’s metal support base. Embedded in a layer of chipped paint and rust, a rough, hastily-scrawled message was visible. “Look at this,” he said, a smile breaking across his face.
Sergeant Kim peered closer, then let out a sharp, surprised laugh. In Korean, barely legible but unmistakably clear, was the graffiti: “Long live Kim Il-sung.” They stood for a moment, two young men on a quiet border, staring at a defiant, decades-old message from the other side, an enduring piece of a past they were now tasked with carefully, and literally, taking apart.
All names of people and organizations appearing in this story are pseudonyms
South Korea begins removing border propaganda speakers in conciliatory gesture toward North
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