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Nestled in the heart of Gyeongsangbuk-do, Seongju County is a place where time seems to move at its own pace. Rolling hills, ancient temples, and fields of sundubu-making soybeans paint a serene picture. But beneath this pastoral calm lies a region caught in the crossfire of global geopolitics, local resistance, and cultural preservation.
Seongju’s identity is deeply rooted in agriculture. The county is famed for its sundubu (soft tofu), made from locally grown soybeans soaked in mineral-rich water from Mount Gayasan. Every autumn, the Seongju Tofu Festival draws crowds eager to taste artisanal tofu dishes and participate in traditional tteok (rice cake)-making workshops. The festival isn’t just about food—it’s a celebration of nongak (farmers’ music), where performers in vibrant sangmo (hats with spinning tassels) dance to the rhythm of drums and gongs.
Yet, this bucolic lifestyle contrasts sharply with Seongju’s other reality: its unintended role in international military strategy.
In 2016, Seongju became a flashpoint when the South Korean government announced plans to station the U.S. Terminal High Altitude Area Defense (THAAD) system here. Overnight, sleepy villages turned into protest hubs. Elderly farmers, some clutching rosaries, staged sit-ins alongside young activists holding signs like "No THAAD, No War."
The protests weren’t just political—they were cultural. Locals argued THAAD’s electromagnetic emissions could disrupt centuries-old farming practices. Others feared the militarization would erode Seongju’s identity. "We’re farmers, not soldiers," one protester told me, her hands calloused from decades of tending soybean fields.
Seongju’s spiritual landscape is a blend of Buddhism and musok (Korean shamanism). At Gayasan National Park, the 1,200-year-old Haeinsa Temple safeguards the Tripitaka Koreana, a UNESCO-listed collection of Buddhist scriptures carved on 81,258 wooden blocks. Monks here still practice seon (Zen) meditation, their chants echoing through cedar forests.
Meanwhile, in rural hamlets, mudang (shamans) perform gut rituals to appease spirits. One memorable ceremony I witnessed involved a shaman dancing atop razor-sharp blades to pray for a bountiful harvest—a stark contrast to the high-tech radar systems looming nearby.
Seongju’s dure system—a communal labor tradition where villagers plant and harvest together—epitomizes Korea’s collectivist ethos. During planting season, you’ll see entire neighborhoods working in sync, singing nongyo (farm songs) to synchronize movements. "This is how we’ve survived droughts and wars," an 80-year-old farmer remarked, wiping sweat with his gat (traditional hat).
Today, the dure has taken on new meaning. Young activists from Seoul now join these work parties, framing organic farming as resistance against industrialization—and by extension, THAAD’s encroachment.
The anti-THAAD movement has inadvertently birthed a new cultural expression. Protest art—like murals of haenyeo (female divers) spearing missiles—adorns abandoned buildings. At night, villagers host nongak performances outside the base gates, using culture as a shield. "They want to turn our home into a battlefield," said a janggu (hourglass drum) player. "But we’ll answer with music."
Paradoxically, THAAD has put Seongju on the map. Curious travelers visit to taste "peace tofu" or tour protest sites. Guesthouses run by activist collectives offer "THAAD Reality Tours," blending cultural immersion with political education. One café near the base sells lattes with foam art shaped like doves—a subtle act of dissent.
Yet, the county’s official tourism campaigns avoid mentioning THAAD entirely, promoting instead its "unspoiled nature." This duality reflects Korea’s struggle to balance global pressures with local authenticity.
As Seongju grapples with its newfound notoriety, questions linger. Will THAAD’s presence fossilize the county’s culture as a "protest destination"? Or will traditions like nongak and dure adapt, absorbing these tensions into their narrative?
On my last visit, I joined a dure harvest near the THAAD site. As we bent over soybean plants, a military helicopter thundered overhead. No one looked up. The rhythm of scythes against stalks continued, steady as a heartbeat. In that moment, Seongju’s culture felt less like a relic—and more like a quiet, stubborn act of defiance.