Namsan Tower

More than 600 years ago, every evening as darkness fell, someone climbed to the top of this mountain to light a fire.

The mountain stood at the southern edge of the royal capital of Hanyang, the city now called Seoul. In those days people called it Mount Mongmyeok. On its summit a few stone platforms were built in a row, and each evening the guard lit a fire on one of them.

Just one fire.

One fire meant: nothing has happened today.

The whole country was at peace. The border was quiet. The coast was quiet. Anyone in the capital who looked up and saw a small point of light on the mountaintop knew they could go to sleep without worry.

The beacon station was set up in 1394, the third year of the reign of King Taejo of Joseon, almost at the same moment the new capital was built. Joseon was the royal dynasty that ruled Korea for about five centuries from 1392. And the station did not stand alone. It was the last link in a very long chain.

The chain ran the length of the country. It began at the outermost stations on the northern border, and on the coastal headlands in the south. From there the fire was passed from peak to peak, station to station, until it reached the summit at the capital. By day the guards made smoke instead of flame, because in bright sun a column of smoke shows more clearly than firelight. At night it was the other way around.

And on days when the fog was too thick, when the smoke could not rise and the fire could not shine through, the soldier used flags. If even the flags could not be seen, he went down the mountain and ran. On foot, carrying the news on his own two legs.

Reading those fires was simple, so simple that a child standing in the street below could count them.

One fire: all is normal.

Two fires: the enemy has been sighted.

Three fires: the enemy is close to the border.

Four fires: danger is very close.

Five fires: war has broken out.

So for generation after generation, a whole country shared a single signal lamp. No need to know how to read. No need to wait for a messenger. Just look up and count.

And the most remarkable part is this. Almost every night there was only one fire. Day after day, year after year, the soldier climbed the mountain just to tell the whole capital one short thing: there was nothing to worry about today. It was work so repetitive it could put a man to sleep. But that sleepy regularity was the most precious thing of all, because on the day a second fire was lit, everything had already changed.

The chain of fires ran for more than 500 years. It stopped only in 1895, the 32nd year of the reign of King Gojong, when new ways of sending news had taken its place. Later, during the colonial period, the beacon platforms on the mountain were torn down. Not until 1993 did Seoul rebuild them, following the old records. Today the lighting ceremony is still reenacted on the mountain, so that people passing by can see the same gesture the guards of old made every evening.

Now turn to a second photograph, taken of the same summit.

In December 1969, work began on a tower right up there. The shaft and the antenna mast were finished in 1971. The whole structure, including the observation floors for visitors, was completed in 1975. But ordinary people could not go up until October 1980.

The tower is more than 230 meters tall, standing on a mountaintop, with a long antenna mast pointing straight into the sky. It was built to house broadcasting and communications equipment, along with several observation floors, a museum and a cafe. Koreans call it by several names, and the most familiar are Namsan Tower and Seoul Tower.

Step back a little and look, and the two photographs tell the same story.

Six hundred years ago, on this summit, something gathered news from all over the country and passed it to the whole capital, with fire.

Today, on the very same summit, something gathers news and sends it out to the whole city, on the airwaves.

People of the past counted fires. People today switch on a screen. But the need has not changed one bit. Everyone wants to know whether things are all right out there, and everyone wants the people they love to know that they are all right.

In the afternoon, visitors stand at the foot of the tower taking photos, among a crowd speaking every language under the sun. Overhead rises a very tall steel mast. Below lies a green mountain, tucked deep among the buildings.

And close by, on the same summit, a few stone platforms, rebuilt in the shape they had 600 years ago, sit quietly, waiting for the hour when someone comes to light a fire for them. Exactly one fire. It means nothing has happened today.