Pain Blooming on Ashes, and the Mirror Called Cultural Heritage

Last week, on a day when the sky seemed unusually high and even the air was exceptionally clear, I accompanied a friend to a meaningful gathering celebrating the publication of their novel. Drawn by the distant charm of the southern provinces and the scenery of leaves turning color unusually early, we stopped at Naejangsa Temple in Jeongeup. My hopes of savoring autumn at the tranquil mountain temple turned to a chill of shock as soon as we reached Daeungjeon Hall. The scaffolding and screens had been removed after the building overcame the pain of a fire several years ago, but Daeungjeon still stood without its traditional dancheong paint, its bare wooden flesh exposed in full.

It was not simply the sight of a bare building without dancheong that saddened me. More devastating was the fact that this tragedy was not a natural disaster, but deliberate arson committed by human hands. Thinking of how a space meant to be sacred had twice been reduced to ashes by the flames of selfishness and conflict, I felt an indescribable sense of futility at the destructive way people treat cultural heritage.

Then it suddenly occurred to me that Naejangsa’s devastating wound was hardly an isolated event. When we talk about the hardships cultural heritage has suffered, we often readily think of large-scale external forces, such as plunder during the Japanese occupation or the ravages of war. Yet, as Naejangsa’s wounds show, the history of precious heritage being eroded from within by our indifference, carelessness or misguided malice is no less significant. I want to take this opportunity to look closely at the layers of shameful wounds that have accumulated over time.

Looking back, the hardships cultural heritage has endured throughout our history have been truly harsh. One of the first tragedies that comes to mind is the arson attack on Sungnyemun in 2008. A man in his 60s, dissatisfied over a land-compensation issue, doused the structure with paint thinner and set it alight. In a single night, the wooden pavilion of National Treasure No. 1, which had stood for more than 600 years since the founding of the Joseon Dynasty, was reduced to ashes. The incident was a shocking wake-up call that laid bare the shortcomings of South Korea’s cultural heritage management, and it led to a sweeping overhaul of round-the-clock security and fire-prevention systems for major national heritage sites.

The pain marked by foreign invasions and plunder cannot be overlooked. During the French campaign against Korea in 1866, French troops invaded Ganghwa Island and brutally seized hundreds of cultural artifacts, including the Oegyujanggak Uigwe, records of important Joseon royal ceremonies, and maps. After being left overseas for many years, these records finally returned in 2011 under a compromise arrangement described as “permanent loans after an initial lease,” but their return bore the scars of the arduous movement to repatriate looted heritage. In the extreme devastation of the seven-year Imjin War, Japanese forces burned Bulguksa’s wooden buildings to the ground, while the destruction of repositories holding the Annals of the Joseon Dynasty put precious historical records at risk of disappearing forever.

The Japanese occupation was a dark period in which cultural heritage was stripped even of its soul. As part of its policy to eradicate the Korean nation, the Japanese Government-General of Korea demolished more than 90% of the buildings inside Gyeongbokgung Palace and built its headquarters directly in front of it, while removing countless royal artworks and cultural artifacts to Japan without authorization. In a similar vein, the Annals of the Joseon Dynasty, Uigwe and other records kept at the Odaesan repository were illegally taken to the University of Tokyo. To make matters worse, many were lost in fires caused by the 1923 Great Kanto Earthquake. This was a meticulous, organized plunder that sought not only physical destruction but also to tear out a nation’s identity.

The Korean War erupted before people had time to enjoy the liberation, inflicting mortal wounds not only on the country but also on its cultural heritage. Historic temples, including Woljeongsa Temple on Odaesan Mountain, were destroyed during counterinsurgency operations and combat. In the Jirisan area, Hwaeomsa and Ssanggyesa temples also faced destruction under the pretext of military operations, but were narrowly spared thanks to the tearful resistance of monks and local people of conscience. Amid the violence of war, cultural heritage all too often became expendable, among the first things sacrificed.

The pain of helplessly crumbling in the face of natural disasters is also profound. In the spring of 2005, a massive wildfire in Yangyang, Gangwon Province, engulfed Naksansa Temple, a thousand-year-old temple, melting its bronze bell—a treasure cast during the reign of King Sejo of Joseon—so badly that it was impossible to make out its shape. It was a painful warning of just how devastating climate change and natural disasters can be for wooden heritage.

The damage wrought by our own indifference is also profound. Bukhansan Monument to King Jinheung, National Treasure No. 3, which attests to the expansion of Silla’s territory during the Three Kingdoms period, was neglected for many years and suffered indignities: it was used as a foundation stone for a roadside monument and as a place to do laundry. Later, it was further damaged when poor handling during its recovery caused extensive erosion of its surface. It is a painful self-portrait of how we ourselves mistreated our cultural heritage because it went unnoticed or we did not know what it was for.

I turn back and think of the tragedy at Naejangsa that brought us here today. Before the pain of the 2012 fire at Daeungjeon—started by a drunken temple official—had even healed, the hall was once again reduced to ashes in 2021, this time by a monk who deliberately set the fire amid conflict within the temple. The fact that misguided human emotions and conflict twice became flames that destroyed precious heritage—not at the hands of an external enemy, but inside a sanctuary where people should have been safest—fills us with indescribable shame.

The history of hardships endured by our cultural heritage is not simply a matter of physical losses, of “old things burning and breaking.” It is the pain of having our roots, memories and identity erased all at once. Even if plunder by foreign powers was beyond our control, we must put an end to the history of precious heritage being eroded from within by arson, carelessness and indifference.

Amid the literary fragrance of celebrating my friend’s new beginning, the ashes at Naejangsa that I suddenly came face to face with pose a grave question: Are we truly worthy of preserving our history intact? We must not forget that unless our attitude toward cultural heritage changes, the tragedies of history can happen again at any time.