We arrived at 4ish in dribs and drabs. Easy to spot the westerners by their energy, clothes and haircuts. Not always so easy the Koreans, more practiced at hiding in a country where homophobia is rife and discrimination beyond reproach.
Before I came to Korea I heard warnings. Carefully implored "Don't tell"s. Upon arrival these warnings are laced with threats of zero-toleration and stories of job dismissal. Appalling tales of being outed by tradesman coming into your apartment and seeing tell tale signs which leads to horrendous working conditions until you quit or are fired for smiling on the wrong side of
your face.
A funny feeling being a white middle class uni student previously with nothing to lose. Ra ra ra. Here we go again. What do we want? A new chant. When do we want it? Now!
This time it's different. No chants, a palpable tension in the air swirling and mixing with bravery and determination. I don't have a camera to hide behind and take a red armband, supposed insurance against same said media, pondering the dilemmas of filming a crowd where 80% of the participants have visibly requested not to be filmed. Do you focus on a
tiny handful of people, or blur the entire community. The arrogant idea occurs of claiming indemnity on the basis of filming for an international community, but what of the liability of someones brother, sister or neighbour catching a glimpse from o/s?
A Korean girl is vocal behind a long blonde wig and dark glasses. Masks of every variety abound and Christina has written on her pink balloon "Please don't fire me." A bandana adorns her face as she carries the Sappho banner advertising the foreign queer wimmins community in Seoul. Stu on the other end of the banner works for an NGO and is the only one of us armbandless. What do I really have to lose? I get fired, I find another job. But I need to get out of here soon. Sunshine is obscured by pollution, my nerves are fraying and the unfettered skies of the Mongolian steppes are calling.
The march starts after long speeches I don't understand. Almost back on Oxford Street as the three floats start up and cycle "Go West", Kylie's na na na and "It's Raining Men" only interrupted as we stop alongside YMCA and, you guessed it! Maybe 150-200 people are actually marching, many more lining the street in solidarity, following at a safe distance, not wishing direct exposure. Monika and I look at each other in trepidation, not having decided
whether or not to march yet, both activists at home but way out of our comfort zone here. We are spurred on by Carol, the third member of the aussie contingent, a tasmanian who marched in early Sydney Pride events. Inspired by her courage and battles already fought we step out into the rabbit stunning flash of cameras after hiding behind closed doors for months.
The marching boys are my favourites. Such a cliche back home my heart and admiration goes out to these skimpily dressed men apparently nonchalent under the astonished and outraged passengers on buses hurtling past.
We proceed a few short blocks through downtown Seoul, giving way to pedestrian crossings and all other traffic under the watchful eye of the police. Last year the march was in Itaewon, the foreign enclave, the first the year before was in one of the liberal university areas. As it gets bigger and braver I am truly proud to be here and thank God for the lack of external abuse and Fred Nile cousins. Arriving at the forecourt of a big building down a side street, 500 or 600 people congregate as punk bands set up equipment on the floats and we wander off to the nearest 7-11 to fetch beer, before settling down and congratulating ourselves.
Yesterday Monika and I checked newspapers and crossed fingers that we both were still employed, not daring to make alternative plans. I sit at work now and lie to my colleagues about the quiet weekend I had, confident no-one is any the wiser.