Sounds the Mountains Make
By Teddy Ajluni, a first year ETA in Gwangyang, Jeollanam-do
At first, you won’t be able to hear it. It’s funny that way. Ambient noise is usually more noticeable to those whose ears it is new to. But not this. You will never notice it unless you were born there or until you’ve been there for a very, very long time. And even then, the first time you notice it, it will be coming from you—a soft, sweet tune that has been leaving your lips unconsciously as you hum it. But how do you know that tune? When did you first hear it? It’s no use asking those questions. You will never get clear answers. Instead, you should just enjoy the melody.
Having said this, if you do ask any halmeoni or halabeoji 1 about it, they will only laugh at your foolishness. Didn’t you know that the mountains make sounds? But it’s not just they who know. They are just the only ones who will talk about it. To everyone younger it is boring, merely a fact of life; but to those who have lived to the ripeness of an old age just before death’s doorstep, they understand that it’s more than just a “fact” of life. It is life.
The sounds glide gently through the air, combing the sky in strokes reminiscent of the Jeulmun pottery 2 of which those mountains have borne witness. They sweep through the valleys, mingling with the pansori 3 of Joseon street performers long gone—and carrying their stories too. They cry out in pain for a land that has been colonized, and then indefinitely divided without their consent. Now, they even spread their wings and fly, beyond the shores of the country they call home, each flap of those wings making waves across the sea as the people they guide spread their culture worldwide. Sometimes hopeful, sometimes melancholic, the sounds tell us a story that changes its tune. But in the end, as varied as the tones might be, they all flow seamlessly together like the Han which they once blessed with a miracle—a symphony as beautiful as the land it blankets.
Yes, the mountains make sounds. They are the heartbeat of a country, making a rhythm that will roll smoothly through your being like the beat of a barrel drum. You may see, you may feel, you may smell, and you may taste. But if you do not hear, then you will miss the most beautiful part of the whole. So please, if you wish to know the soul of this country then pause, breathe, and open your ears to all those sonorous notes, good and bad, loud and soft. The mountains are speaking. Just listen.
Can you hear the mountains? Can you hear them? If you listen carefully—no, if you listen consciously—maybe you will start to hear their cry. Here is Korea, the land where the mountains weave a nation and a song. In every village, every city, every town, there is always a 동네 뒷산 4. Sometimes, their nobility is hidden by the mist of morning’s humidity. Sometimes, their majesty is concealed by clouds that have fallen from the heavens above. But they were always there, and they always will be. And they will sing.
[Featured photo by Lulu Johnson]Footnotes
- halmeoni (할머니) and halabeoji (할아버지) refer to grandmother and grandfather respectively, but may be used in some cases (such as this) to refer to very elderly people in general
- Jeulmun (즐문) pottery refers to pottery from an eponymous archaeological period in the Korean peninsula, much of which is characterized by its comb-pattern style
- pansori is a Korean form of storytelling in which a story is performed by a singer and drummer
- dongne duisan, mountain behind the neighborhood, mountain in the backyard