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| The day after nine people died when a building collapsed during demolition, a press conference is held at the site in Gwangju while emergency workers stand atop the wreckage, June 10. / Courtesy of Isaiah Winters |
By Ron Bandun
I'm by no means a demolition expert, but I know what I don't like. And I am constantly alarmed and troubled by what I see around me in Korea's urban settings.
Demolition techniques briefly entered mainstream conversation following the collapse of a five-story building on the edge of an urban renewal site in Gwangju, onto an active street, landing on a bus and killing nine. Public anger and confusion was palpable.
"That's insane! They were demolishing a building that close to the street with traffic allowed to pass by?" one person commented on Facebook.
"Why didn't they just block off the road?" asked another, among many others.
The backlash caught me by surprise, because as I have been visiting and documenting demolition sites for over 16 years, the techniques used in Gwangju appeared commonplace to me. I especially found it naive that people thought streets are closed for routine demolitions, when in fact the sites being torn down are typically fenced off so that life can go on, unaware and unperturbed, around them.
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| Emergency workers investigate the wreckage of a building in Gwangju that collapsed during demolition onto a road where a bus was stopped, killing nine and injuring eight more, June 9. / Yonhap |
People are generally willing to tolerate any demolition or construction techniques or errors, as long as they're done on the other side of a fence. And it's no secret that workers often die at these sites, something that has been increasingly politicized in recent years, because worker safety is our safety. But still, it's only when these accidents occur on our side of the fence, affecting nearby residents or pedestrians instead of workers, that we really sit up and take notice. But nothing ever seems to change.
On June 10, the morning after the Gwangju collapse, I awoke to the distinctive sounds of demolition. A house across the alley was being torn apart by an excavator perched atop a slanted pile of rubble, accompanied by workers with water hoses to keep the dust down.
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| Pedestrians walk past a demolition site during lunchtime in Yongsan District, Seoul, June 10. / Courtesy of Ron Bandun |
As I watched, people kept on going about their day as if nothing was happening. Four-wheel vehicles however were forced to find another way around, because the debris from the wreckage spilled out halfway across the alleyway. But pedestrians skirted by, including one mom leading her young child, and scooters slipped past.
They may have been nervous, glancing up at the excavator tearing chunks out of the building just a couple meters up from them, but all pedestrians I observed continued on past the site. Not one that I saw or recorded on a half hour of GoPro footage ever turned back or looked for an alternate way around. The building may have been smaller than the one in Gwangju, but the demolition was that much closer and in the public's face.
This is such a common scene, the chances of accidents must be low. Despite all the commotion, these sites are basically invisible; maybe you've already walked past a demolition site today and not noticed. Then a high-profile accident strikes, and we all question how much we can really trust the built environment. For a couple weeks.
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| A school collapse uphill from an urban renewal site, photographed Sept. 7, 2018. / Courtesy of Ron Bandun |
Sampoong Department Store in southern Seoul famously collapsed in 1995, taking over 500 lives. But people might not know there was a second department store in the area that collapsed in October 2008. The store, named Nasan Homeplace according to signs found inside, had been abandoned for years, and like the Gwangju building it collapsed during demolition, killing two workers.
"Collapsed during demolition" sounds like an oxymoron, but demolishing a building is a precise operation, especially in a dense metropolis like Seoul. It is rarely done using explosives, but almost always carried out by excavators that wield a more precise destructive force, taking out buildings small bites one at a time rather than all at once as in implosive demolition.
To demolish the approximately eight-story Nasan Homeplace, two excavators were placed on the roof to chew their way down to the ground level. But during this process, most of the structure gave way. One excavator fell all the way down, killing the operator, while the other stayed perched on what remained of the roof. The collapse was contained within the construction fences, and I don't believe the roads around it, let alone the sidewalks, were ever closed off.
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| Life goes on along the sidewalk below the site of Nasan Homeplace, which collapsed two days prior to this photograph taken on Nov. 1, 2008. / Courtesy of Ron Bandun |
The building in Gwangju was being taken down by an excavator out back, but it apparently aimed too low, resulting in the top-heavy building toppling over into the street like a tree being felled.
Gwangju News editor Isaiah Winters, a fellow urban explorer who visited the area before and after the collapse, referred to this technique as "rubble-ramp demolition." He will give a talk under the Gwangju International Center's GIC Talk series this Saturday, titled "Lost in Honam." Visit eng.gic.or.kr for more information and register to receive the Zoom link.
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| An entire neighborhood stands immediately uphill of an urban renewal site where the land has been excavated for apartment construction, Aug. 1, 2012. / Courtesy of Ron Bandun |
As this tragedy fades into the background, especially after being upstaged by the much worse apartment collapse in Surfside, Florida, I hope that everyone here can raise their awareness of urban renewal processes taking place all around them. And the developers and related government bodies must be held accountable for shoddy redevelopment practices, if there's ever to be any hope of putting an end to these tragedies.
Ron Bandun is an urban explorer. He has been visiting forgotten, abandoned and forbidden spaces in Korea for over 16 years, documenting the changes and conflicts of the urban environment.
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