Today I Was Woken By An Air Raid Siren.

I live in South Korea, a highly developed, modern, peaceful, safe, democratic country. Unfortunately, our neighbour to the north is none of those things. Except in one way – they do have some very modern missiles. Technically, the Korean War never ended. The fighting stopped on 27th July 1953 when an armistice agreement was signed, but no peace treaty ever was. Therefore, 70 years later, the two countries remain at war. However, you’d never know this unless you, well, know it. North Korea is often in the news, but nobody in South Korea is actually worried about this frozen war. Until today.

At around 06:30, when most citizens of Seoul are sound asleep in their beds, a siren sounds. My eyes snap open and I sit bolt upright, immediately aware something is wrong. A harsh, peculiar sound fills the morning air, an incessant whine that jangles the nerves and puts all senses on high alert. Is that some kind of air raid siren?! I think, and check my phone. It can’t be, or they would have sent out an emergency alert. They sent out alerts three days in a row for a bit of wind last month. I promptly lie back down and fall asleep again.

At 06:41, the emergency alert comes through: a harsh, repetitive, ear-splitting sound that blares from my phone. I look at the screen and feel my blood run cold:

“Wartime Alert”

Of course, the message is in Korean, so I run it through my translator app as quick as I can. “Please prepare to evacuate and let children and the elderly and the weak evacuate first.”

Holy fuck, I think. Are we about to be bombed or invaded? What the hell should I do now?

As my family and friends are far away on the other side of the world, I message the people I know best here in South Korea, my boss and colleagues. I wait and listen. A couple of doors slam in the building. Are they evacuating? I wonder. But some people do go to work at this time. Will they think I’m an idiot if this is just a test alert and I follow them out?

Suddenly, a disembodied voice starts to boom through the air. I’ve never noticed any kind of PA system or tannoy on the streets. Where the hell is it coming from? The unknown man’s voice, deep and serious, so different from the usual softly-spoken Korean cadence, echoes off the buildings, bouncing and reverberating around the city.

My boss messages back, “North Korea has done something. The closest emergency shelter is Soongsil University metro station.” She is terse, abrupt. I can sense she’s worried. If a Korean is worried, maybe I should be too. As my coworkers add to the group chat, I feel the panic in their words.

I’m nervous, but not panicked. My rational side is telling me that if North Korea had really shot missiles at us, we’d have been hit already. It would only take two minutes from launch. And if they’d been planning an invasion, we’d have seen the troops massing on the border. No need to panic. Stay calm.

At around 6:50, the deep, booming voice of the unknown man starts up again. My Korean is not good enough to have any idea what he’s saying. But this time, I hear people on the move. Doors slam, footsteps scurry down the stairs. Through the open window, I hear people on the streets, troubled voices. It’s not chaos, but it’s not calm either.

The woman in the building opposite mine comes to her window. She’s also trying to peer down the alley to the main street, to catch a glimpse of what’s going on outside. It’s strange, I often stare at that window when I’m sitting at my desk. The light is often on until late at night. I’ve wondered who lived there, but I’ve never seen her before.

It’s oddly intimate. She’s in her pyjamas, I’m in mine. We’re doing the same thing: both trying to glance at the main street, both trying to decide what to do. Are we going to be bombed right now? Are we going to die here, in these rooms across the alley from each other, both in our pyjamas, staring out the window?

I’m not going to die in my pyjamas, I think, and I come away from the window. It’s strange how the mind works in these moments. I open my closet and pick out my comfy Uniqlo jeans with the elasticated waist and a loose, long-sleeved, striped top. If I’m going to be sitting in an underground shelter for God knows how long and/or dying, I want to be comfortable.

My colleague who lives in the building two doors down messages me. “Let’s go,” she says. “I’m outside.” My eyes dart around the room, my brain racing. What should I take with me? My eyes land on the bookshelf, and I pick a book. Then a second. Something tells me that this might actually be very boring. I go to fill a bottle with water.

Another siren blares from my phone. Shit. Is this it? Are the bombs about to fall? I rush over. “Wartime alert” blinks on the screen. My fingers move faster than I ever knew they could to translate this new one.

“The warning issued by the Seoul Metropolitan Government is an incorrect order.”

I stare at the screen for a few seconds. What?! “False alarm?” I message to the group chat. “Are we safe?” someone asks. Everyone is confused. Did this really just happen? It’s 07:03, 30 minutes since the air raid sirens went off, 20 minutes since we got the first alert.

I lie on the bed, more confused than relieved. What I do know is that I am absolutely wide awake. I’ll never get back to sleep this morning. I go online, I read Twitter and Reddit. A few breaking news stories start to appear on Google. North Korea launched a satellite, which has already failed and crashed into the sea somewhere out to our west. After an hour or so, I guess the adrenaline wears off. I put my phone down. I fall asleep.