Jeju is a luscious island, full of natural beauties. The black rocks contrast with the green plants that dot the beaches. From palm trees to evergreens, Jeju is the epitome of floral diversity.

Although spring is the season of rapseed on Jeju Island, another simpler plant was the focus of my most recent excursion. My sixth visit to the mysterious island centered on Jeju’s mundane bamboo trees.

There are many villages and towns in South Korea that are famous for its bamboo forests. Damyang, South Jeolla Province is famous for its tall and never-ending green bamboo forests, while Geojae, South Gyeongsang Province is famous for its seaside bamboo. But Jeju—despite its natural wonders—rarely makes the top ten list of famous bamboo destinations.

Jeju’s bamboo forests—albeit less prominent—are the centerpiece of Jeju’s sorrowful past. On my recent trip to the lonely island, I had the privilege of meeting an artist, who spent his days producing artworks that told stories of Jeju’s 4.3 Massacre.

Leaning on his workbench with a cigarette in his hand, the artist told me a peculiar story. According to the artist, Jeju’s inhabitant had a culture of growing bamboos in their front yards. For centuries, the inhabitants would weave baskets from the bamboo, storing food in those baskets to survive on the infertile volcanic island.

In 1947, only two years after Korea’s liberation from Japan, a myriad of different policies enacted by the US military regime and Korea’s first republic created much dissent on the island. Eventually, the far-left Workers’ Party of South Korea staged a strike on the island. The US’ military regime sought the opportunity to eradicate communist influence and sent down the Northwest Youth Association—a far-right youth organization which ultimately acted as a private pseudo-militia for Korea’s first president.

Conflict arose between the two entities, which eventually led to official government intervention, by dispatching the military. Soldiers marched into villages, and over the course of the next seven years, massacred almost 30,000 people—most of whom were not affiliated with Korea’s communist party. A huge portion of Jeju’s population was wiped out. Families grieved, and victims were not even given a proper burial; meanwhile, the government, taking advantage of the island’s isolation, kept the massacre a secret for the next three decades.

Entire villages were erased and entire families were uprooted. The bamboo trees growing on the front yards of Jeju residents’ homes soon took over the entire empty village. As the empty houses crumbled, nature took its course, engulfing the village, forming the large bamboo forests that attract millions of tourists in one of the world’s most visited islands.

In 2011, Jeju was named one of the seven Natural Wonders of the World. It’s aesthetic rock formations, eco-diversity and blue waters attract millions of tourists each year from all over the world. However, we must always remember that in that same space, hundreds of thousands have fallen victim to state violence.

The people of Jeju today greet you with a smile. And perhaps Jeju’s 4.3 Massacre is now only a story told in history books—a memory lingering in the corner of one’s head—refusing to bid farewell. However, though memories fade, the bamboo trees remember. It remembers that people once lived among its forests. The caves remember. It recounts that victims once hid in its hospitality, away from the soldiers’ guns and knives. The sea remembers. It remembers the bodies that it once caressed down in its depths. Nature remembers.

So, the next time you visit Jeju and pass by a bamboo forest, listen to the song its leaves whisper. Under a cool breeze it will tell you a tale of a once bustling village, lying just beneath your feet.

The author is a former Editor-in-Chief and the current Chief Editorial Writer at The SNU Quill. –Ed.