The Two Koreas_ A Contemporary History - Don Oberdorfer [28]
Not to be outdone, Kim put through a new constitution in the North, also without objection or dissent. Under the new charter, the nation was to be guided by the juche idea "as a creative application of Marxism-Leninism." Kim, who had held the title of prime minister as well as general secretary of the ruling Workers Party, promoted himself to president. Although this did not increase his already allencompassing power, the new title put him on a semantic par with the leader of the South.
Neither Kim Il Sung nor Park Chung Hee harbored the belief that his indirect dialogue would lead to unification of the divided peninsula, although this hopeful prospect was, at least briefly, widespread among the respective publics of both men. Neither leader was willing to seriously compromise the policies and interest groups on which their respective regimes were based to pursue the long-term goal of national unity. To a great degree, the military-backed governments of both the North and the South had been shaped by the rivalry between them. While both Kim and Park were in favor of unification, each was fiercely opposed to a merger on the other leader's terms. Without a strong push from the outside powers, who had conflicting interests and who were paying little attention to the Korean peninsula, the two rival states were incapable of sustaining their dialogue.
Nonetheless, the exchanges of the early 1970s were a turning point in the cold war on the Korean peninsula, holding out the possibility, for the first time, of mutual cooperation and eventual peaceful reunification. An aspiration of immense appeal on both sides had flickered into life in tangible and tantalizing fashion. It would never be entirely extinguished, despite the many trials to come.
THE TROUBLE DEEPENS
president Park Chung Hee was droning on, reading his prepared speech in Korean without flourishes or gestures, rarely pausing to look up from his papers at the audience of distinguished citizens and foreign diplomats. I was nodding off from boredom. The scene was the National Theater in Seoul, on a national holiday, August 15, 1974-the twenty-ninth anniversary of the country's liberation from Japan. Suddenly a loud pop from the back of the hall broke the monotony, and I turned to see a figure in a dark suit running down the center aisle of the theater, firing a weapon as he ran. More shots rang out, and presidential security guards raced onto the stage from the wings, guns drawn, some blazing. Amid the pandemonium in the hall, Korea's first lady slumped to the floor from her seat on the stage and was carried out by attendants, her bright orange hanbok, the traditional flowing Korean gown, stained with blood. She would die within hours from a bullet wound to her head.
As the final shots were heard, the assassin was lost from view in a pile-up of security men, then hustled from the hall. A high school girl, who was part of the chorus singing for this state occasion, was also carried out. She later died of her wounds, apparently from a presidential bodyguard's wild shot.
Startled by the eruption of violence, I had lost sight of Park during the melee. But now, as it subsided, he reappeared from behind the bulky-and bulletproof-lectern, where he had taken refuge when the shooting began. As he rose, he waved his hand to the stunned crowd, which broke into loud applause. Park told an aide later that he never saw the assassin's face.
Order was restored in surprisingly