11th century. The Myohyang Mountains. Buddhist monks build a temple among the trees. A thousand years later it stands in the same place — with the same statues, the same frescoes, the same scent of incense.
The Bohyeon Temple — Pohyonsa in Korean — is one of the most important Buddhist shrines on the entire Korean Peninsula. Founded in 1024 (some sources say 1042), it was named after the bodhisattva Samantabhadra (Bohyon in Korean). Half a century before the First Crusade. A hundred years before the founding of Moscow. Two centuries before Marco Polo.
Stone, wood, roof tiles — the same materials used here a thousand years ago. The same trees — cedar, pine — grow around the temple. The same stone — granite from the Myohyang Mountains — lies in the foundation. The same wind sways the bell in the pavilion.
Bohyeon suffered greatly during the Korean War — American bombing destroyed a significant part of the structures. But the temple was restored — with exceptional precision, following original blueprints and photographs, using traditional techniques. This is not a shoddy modern renovation. This is a restoration that does justice to the original.
The temple houses a collection of 80,000 wooden blocks carved with Buddhist texts — each block bearing 22 lines of 14 characters. The Sokka Pagoda — 14th century, 10 meters tall, 13 tiers — is adorned with 104 bronze bells that chime in the wind. The Buddha statues are wooden, gilded with gold leaf darkened by centuries of incense smoke. The frescoes have faded with time, but remain legible: scenes from the life of the Buddha, celestial beings, lotus flowers.
Buddhism in North Korea is a complicated subject. Officially — freedom of religion. In practice — religion is controlled by the state. Bohyeon Temple is more of a museum than a functioning monastery. Yet its very existence is a fact. In a country where the Juche ideology replaces religion, a Buddhist temple from the 11th century still stands. Not destroyed. Not rebuilt. Preserved.
Carved wooden sculptures — bodhisattvas with half-closed eyes, lokapala guardians with swords and spears, demons with bared teeth — stand along the walls, protecting the entrances. The paint has grown dim with time, but the colors can still be read: red, green, gold, blue. The ceilings are painted with geometric patterns and floral motifs that repeat, yet no element is an exact copy of its neighbor. Korean temple painting — dancheong — is an art form studied for years.
An octagonal pagoda with a tiered roof stands in a separate pavilion near the entrance. Inside — a bell. Bronze, from the 12th century, darkened by eight hundred years of rain and snow. One strike of a wooden mallet — and the sound: low, deep, resonant, filling all the space around it. It spreads in waves — across the courtyard, across the mountains, through the forest, along the river. It fades slowly — one minute, two, three. For a thousand years this sound has carried over the Myohyang Mountains. And now — the same sound. The same bell. The same mountains. Only the people are different. Or — are they the same?
The scent of incense. Silence. The rustle of wind through the treetops beyond the temple walls. And a thought that comes not right away, but after an hour, when you are sitting on a stone step at the entrance and looking at the mountains: the monks of Bohyeon made a choice. Like Bucher — only in reverse. Bucher chose to remain in captivity to save lives. The monks chose to remain in the temple. Under the Goryeo dynasty. Under Joseon. Under Japanese occupation. Through the bombing. Through socialism. Through Juche. Regimes changed — the monks stayed. The temple burned — they rebuilt it. Ideology forbade — they continued. A thousand years. The same choice, over and over: to stay. The bell — bronze, 12th century, darkened by time — hangs in its separate pavilion. One strike of a wooden mallet — and the sound: low, deep, resonant. It spreads in waves — across the courtyard, across the mountains, through the forest. It fades slowly — one minute, two, three. For a thousand years this sound has carried over the Myohyang Mountains. And now — the same sound. The same bell. The same mountains.
Around the temple lie the very mountains beneath which 117,000 gifts are stored in a bomb-proof bunker. The contrast is staggering. A bunker containing Stalin’s armored automobiles — and a Buddhist temple with wooden statues a thousand years old. Ideology fortified in concrete — and faith built from wood and stone. Two worlds. A short walk apart. In the same mountains. In the same country.
This is North Korea. A country where nothing fits together — and everything coexists side by side. A subway-shelter with crystal chandeliers. An American ship held captive in a museum. A beer bar in an ideological state. A Buddhist temple in an atheist country.
Buddhism in North Korea raises more questions than it answers. Officially — freedom of religion is enshrined in the constitution. In practice — religion is controlled by the state. The Korean Buddhist Federation exists — but its role is more diplomatic than spiritual. There are monks at Bohyeon — but only a few, and their status is unclear: whether they are monks, museum staff, or both.
Yet the very existence of this temple is a fact. In a country where Juche ideology replaces religion, where portraits of the leaders hang in every home, where “the great leader” is the highest authority — a Buddhist temple stands. A thousand years old. With a 12th-century bell. With 80,000 wooden blocks, each one bearing a sacred text carved by hand.
No one destroyed it. No one converted it into a museum of ideology. It stands. As it stood a thousand years ago. As though no ideology exists. As though the Buddha stands above politics.
Every day of this journey brings cognitive dissonance. A subway-shelter with crystal chandeliers. An American ship held captive. 117,000 gifts beneath a mountain. Empty boulevards with traffic controllers. A beer bar. A Buddhist temple in an atheist state. Nothing fits together — and everything coexists side by side.
Every day — cognitive dissonance. A subway with chandeliers and armored doors. A spy ship in captivity. 117,000 gifts under a mountain. Empty boulevards with traffic controllers. A beer bar. A Buddhist temple. Nothing fits together — and everything coexists side by side.
And in that dissonance lies the value. Because no book, no film, no blog can convey the feeling of being in North Korea. This is not something interesting to read about. This is being there. Physically. Seeing with your own eyes — how a 330-meter pyramid stands in the center of a city and yet does not exist on maps. Hearing with your own ears — how a thousand-year-old bell resonates over the mountains inside which lies a bunker with Mao’s armored train. Feeling it — through your skin, your gut, that place inside you that responds to “something is wrong here” and simultaneously to “something here is extraordinary.”
Both reactions are right. Both are honest. And both are yours.
