By Robert Neff
In May 1899, superstition and modernization clashed in the streets of Seoul. The country was suffering from a severe drought and some Korean leaders, who objected to modernization, used the superstitions of the common people to blame the American-owned Seoul Electric Railway for the lack of rain.
They insisted the electrical wires interfered with the spirits governing the rain while others argued the electrical plant's power house had desecrated the hallowed ground upon which it was built and no rain would fall until it was removed.
Others, probably after the streetcars began their test runs, claimed "the streetcars sucked away all the clouds, so the weather was dry."
A visiting Englishwoman wrote: "the people of Seoul believe that underneath the city sleeps a great dragon, its patron and guardian. While I was in the country there was a great drought, and the people decided among themselves that the dragon was annoyed because the tram-lines recently laid down were pressing upon his tail, and so disturbing his sleep."
Further exacerbating the tense atmosphere, the streetcars' motormen were all Japanese who were viewed with a great deal of superstitious suspicion. A drought in 1882 had been blamed on the Japanese legation in Seoul: the flag's sun symbol and the Japanese music "had effectually dispersed the wind and driven away the rain." That drought had ended after the Japanese were driven out of the city during the Imo Incident of July 1882.
The streetcars began operating on May 17 _ Buddha's birthday _ and were fairly successful and without accidents, despite the large crowds of curious spectators. However, tragedy struck on the morning of May 26 when a streetcar, carrying the company's president and some of his guests, was involved in a fatal accident.
"A car was running along at the usual slow rate of speed. A child, between probably eight and 10 years of age, ran across the track some distance ahead of the car. He got safely over and the car continued to move on. The father on the other side of the track called the child to come back to him. The child became frightened, ran into the car, was caught under the wheels and killed almost instantly."
The grief-stricken father showed "the horridly mangled body" to the people and aroused in them a "wild, unrestrained fury and the howling mass of white clad humanity fell upon the cars, destroyed and burned some of them and drove off the Japanese employees with broken heads."
The company insisted it was its "first serious accident" _ one that could not "be attributed to lack of carefulness, for had the father not called the child, he would not have ventured to cross and the accident would not have happened."
The Japanese motormen were too afraid to work and returned to Japan.
Streetcar operations were suspended for a few months until a group of American engineers and guards could be brought from the United States. Westerners _ especially women _ were encouraged to stay off the streets until the mob's fury abated.
They didn't have long to wait; on May 31, it began to rain.
Robert Neff is a historian and columnist for The Korea Times. He can be reached at robertneff103@gmail.com.
In May 1899, superstition and modernization clashed in the streets of Seoul. The country was suffering from a severe drought and some Korean leaders, who objected to modernization, used the superstitions of the common people to blame the American-owned Seoul Electric Railway for the lack of rain.
They insisted the electrical wires interfered with the spirits governing the rain while others argued the electrical plant's power house had desecrated the hallowed ground upon which it was built and no rain would fall until it was removed.
Others, probably after the streetcars began their test runs, claimed "the streetcars sucked away all the clouds, so the weather was dry."
A visiting Englishwoman wrote: "the people of Seoul believe that underneath the city sleeps a great dragon, its patron and guardian. While I was in the country there was a great drought, and the people decided among themselves that the dragon was annoyed because the tram-lines recently laid down were pressing upon his tail, and so disturbing his sleep."
Further exacerbating the tense atmosphere, the streetcars' motormen were all Japanese who were viewed with a great deal of superstitious suspicion. A drought in 1882 had been blamed on the Japanese legation in Seoul: the flag's sun symbol and the Japanese music "had effectually dispersed the wind and driven away the rain." That drought had ended after the Japanese were driven out of the city during the Imo Incident of July 1882.
The streetcars began operating on May 17 _ Buddha's birthday _ and were fairly successful and without accidents, despite the large crowds of curious spectators. However, tragedy struck on the morning of May 26 when a streetcar, carrying the company's president and some of his guests, was involved in a fatal accident.
"A car was running along at the usual slow rate of speed. A child, between probably eight and 10 years of age, ran across the track some distance ahead of the car. He got safely over and the car continued to move on. The father on the other side of the track called the child to come back to him. The child became frightened, ran into the car, was caught under the wheels and killed almost instantly."
The grief-stricken father showed "the horridly mangled body" to the people and aroused in them a "wild, unrestrained fury and the howling mass of white clad humanity fell upon the cars, destroyed and burned some of them and drove off the Japanese employees with broken heads."
The company insisted it was its "first serious accident" _ one that could not "be attributed to lack of carefulness, for had the father not called the child, he would not have ventured to cross and the accident would not have happened."
The Japanese motormen were too afraid to work and returned to Japan.
Streetcar operations were suspended for a few months until a group of American engineers and guards could be brought from the United States. Westerners _ especially women _ were encouraged to stay off the streets until the mob's fury abated.
They didn't have long to wait; on May 31, it began to rain.
Robert Neff is a historian and columnist for The Korea Times. He can be reached at robertneff103@gmail.com.
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