Doubling DMZ

Boundaries are often depicted as walls, but in truth they are far more intricate. A boundary is not simply a line or barrier; it marks where I end and someone else begins. At once, it performs contradictory functions: protection and separation, connection and disconnection. Within this ambiguous duality, we experience both the sense of security that boundaries confer and the anxiety they inevitably generate. Such a dual state of mind formed the backdrop to my upbringing in Seoul—the capital of the world’s last divided nation—at the tail end of the Cold War in the 1990s. In everyday life, the calm and the unease brought about by boundaries would unexpectedly intersect time and again. Here, I want to delve into the truth behind these boundaries.

In Korean society, the existence of boundaries is sharply illustrated by the Military Demarcation Line that cuts the peninsula into two. After the Korean War ended in 1945, negotiations established a buffer zone two kilometers to the north and two kilometers to the south of this line, creating what is known as the Demilitarized Zone (United Nations Command et al., 1953, Article 1). A The mix of security and anxiety surrounding this boundary goes beyond the mere geographical space of the DMZ and reflects broader political and social circumstances in Korea (Park, 1997).BIn fact, the DMZ carries two faces: the notion of stability and peace, promoted as a “pristine ecological treasure,” and the specter of threat and conflict, manifested by ongoing military tension and rigorous surveillance (Song, 2022.). C As fears of nuclear armament and armed clashes intensify, the DMZ’s “peaceful and ecological” image paradoxically becomes more prominent. Yet behind this green curtain lies the undeniable legacy of war, with layers of remnants and scars accumulated over decades.

I encountered this green curtain—long dormant in my subconscious—quite unexpectedly during a morning stroll in park in The Hague, Netherlands. Amid the greenery path barely visible through the dense fog, a tall stiff stem rising from the ground with its tip slightly bowed heads out; trying to blend in among real plants mimicking their appearance. This drooping thing turned out to be an unused fiber-optic internet cable. Ironically, however, it was far more ubiquitous than any actual vegetation covering the entire globe internationally.

In the Netherlands, fiber-optic cables sprawl beneath the ground like roots of a vast living organism. These multi-colored cables reflect government policies that assign specific colors to certain internet service providers on each street. Following these roots to their underground hub, one eventually reaches massive data centers housing super-computing machines that emit intense heat. Because these centers handle sensitive tasks of classifying and analyzing data, they remain highly confidential, with even company employees often unaware of their precise locations or identities.

For some thirty years now, the Internet’s “warm blessing” has become so integral to our lives that it might as well join sunlight and water as a basic component of our being. On average, people spend over 70% of their day online, though they often do so without even realizing it. Shoshana Zuboff (2019) warns that this deep digital dependence has spawned a new power dynamic known as “surveillance capitalism,” which collects and commercializes human behavior and data without restraint, rapidly Infringing on the entire world through virtual, rather than physical, borders (Zuboff, 2019, p. 21).D The Internet may appear to unify the globe, yet in practice it is perpetually segmented by national laws, corporate algorithms, and data regulations (Nissenbaum, 2010). These “digital boundaries” not only determine who has control over personal data but can also restrict access itself for some users.

Ultimately, the DMZ as a physical boundary and the Internet as a digital boundary share an underlying pattern: on one hand, they offer safety or convenience; on the other, they obscure a subtle infiltration of power. Just as the Korean government and media promote the DMZ as a “pure, untouched ecosystem,” big tech corporations market their platforms as open, participatory spaces. Yet the more concealed a domain is, the more deftly power weaves its influence (Foucault, 1979). The process by which governments and big tech firms craft specific narratives that citizens or users then “voluntarily” embrace aligns with Michel Foucault’s concept of “governmentality.” In much the same way the DMZ never fully escaped the debris of war or its surveillance apparatus, our supposedly boundless Internet similarly harvests consumer data as a vast resource for control.

It is this notion of “boundaries” that anchors my investigation. Though the boundary between North and South and the boundary of Internet privacy appear to be two distinct realms, both harbor a certain ambiguity that simultaneously evoke both stability and unease. As a Korean, raised amid the tension of a national divide, and as a modern Internet user who confronts the precariousness of digital privacy each day, I want to explore these two settings in tandem. The foggy edges of these boundaries may threaten or unsettle us, yet they also open up the possibility of transformation. However, the moment we romanticize these boundaries as “pristine nature” or a “free network,” the underlying power and our shared responsibility become ever more difficult to perceive. Hence, this paper illuminates the unsettling and dual nature of boundaries, revealing the hidden workings of power behind them, while pondering how we might reconceptualize and rebuild such boundaries for ourselves.

This thesis is divided into 4 chapters. Chapter 1 examines how the DMZ came to be recognized as both a zone of peace and a zone of war, and sheds light on the ecological system of the DMZ, where elements of "violence" - such as land mines, invasive species, and herbicides - have co-evolved with the local flora and fauna. Chapter 2 focuses on the concept of the 'digital DMZ' and shows how the physical borders - not only Korean border but also international borders - have transformed into digital borders. Chapter 3 examines the early days of the Internet and the evolving discourse of data on the Internet in an era of hyper-connectivity. It explores how the original vision of the Internet - as an open and decentralized space - contrasts with today's networked reality, where artificial intelligence and big data can fuel a form of "data colonialism" that turns the Internet into a revealing mechanism of surveillance and control. Chapter 4 argues that the Internet is becoming another digital form of the DMZ in the Foucauldian concept of governmentality, which guides how people think and act, and closes with thoughts on the alternatives we might pursue.

^Fig.1-2 The Military Demarcation Line within the Korean DMZ.

Korean Demilitarized Zone (DMZ) is a heavily militarized strip of land running across the Korean Peninsula near the 38th parallel. It extends roughly 250 kilometers (160 miles) from east to west and spans about 4 kilometers (2.5 miles) in width, dividing the peninsula nearly in half. The DMZ was established on July 27, 1953, through the Korean Armistice Agreement following three years of Korean war(1950-1953) between Soviet-backed North Korea and U.S.-backed South Korea. This agreement is an armistice rather than a formal end to the war; therefore, in practical terms, the conflict has not ended, and both parties remain in an ongoing state of hostility. As a result, large numbers of troops remain stationed along both sides of the Military Demarcation Line (MDL), each side vigilantly guarding against potential aggression even after 71 years (National Archives, n.d.). Owing to the severity of the conflict and the precarious nature of the ceasefire, the MDL marks the position of the front line when the agreement was signed, making it one of the most contested sites during the Korean War. Considering such intense history of the region, it remains heavily fortified and largely off-limits to civilians even decades later. Apart from military outposts on both sides, only the Joint Security Area (JSA) and two authorized villages—Daeseong-dong, “Freedom Village” in South Korea and Kijong-dong, “Peace Village” in North Korea—are allowed within the DMZ (Indiana University Newsroom, 2015). Consequently, this buffer zone has remained largely inaccessible to the public for the past seven decades, reinforcing its mysterious aura.

Yet, in stark contrast to its heavily militarized atmosphere, the DMZ’s natural environment has flourished due to limited development and minimal human disturbance. The region functions as a transitional zone for flora from colder northern climates and those from warmer southern ecosystems. Indeed, the DMZ occupies only 1.5% of the Korean Peninsula’s total area, yet is home to 6,168 species of flora and fauna—including over 100 globally endangered species (National Instutitue of Ecology, 1974-2018). Among the 267 critically endangered species designated by South Korea’s Ministry of Environment, 102 have been confirmed in the DMZ, representing nearly 40% of the total. Seung-ho Lee, president of the DMZ Forum, refers to the region as an “accidental paradise,” marveling at how nature has reclaimed and regenerated the area over the last six decades (CNN, 2019). Such ecological recovery is even more striking when considering that, half a century ago, wartime devastation left many mountains bare, prompting children to depict hills in red rather than green. Today, global environmental organizations praise South Korea’s rapid reforestation efforts(Choi, 2022)^I.

Over time, the DMZ has been recognized domestically and internationally for its ecological and cultural value and has been portrayed as a symbol of peace. This recognition spurred biological field research and generated numerous forms of tourism and promotional products. For instance, the South Korean government developed the DMZ “Peace Trail,” comprising eleven themed walking routes that highlight the region’s natural resources Fig4. Moreover, water resources flowing from North Korea’s Hantan River through the DMZ to South Korea’s Han River are bottled and sold as pure, pristine drinking water ^Fig5.

^{Fig 5-1}Peace Road Walking Application Website
^{Fig 5-2}Fig 5-2 Ahn Gyeon’s Mongyudo-won-do (1447)

Park Jong-taek, Director of the Tourism Policy Bureau at the Ministry of Culture, Sports and Tourism, stated, “We expect that the opening of this themed route will stimulate security tourism in the DMZ border regions, leading to the recovery of local economies that have been depressed by population decline and development restrictions.” Although it is clear that this project was initiated as part of local economic development efforts, these economic considerations are omitted from the photograph. Instead, the soft and warm sunlight illuminates nature, emphasizing the serene and sacred atmosphere of paradise.

Despite this image of the DMZ as an emblem of peace and untouched nature, several factors complicate the narrative. Chief among them is the lingering presence of landmines. According to one account, in 1974, landmines were dropped by helicopter and scattered across various locations—an enduring threat that deters both wildlife and researchers (Park, 2022). These conditions constrain ecological surveys, which have remained fragmented and incomplete due to the political and military tensions that limit joint research between North and South Korea. Although both government agencies and global environmental organizations believe that understanding this “accidental restoration” could offer valuable insights for damaged ecosystems worldwide, real progress in studying the DMZ’s biodiversity has been sporadic. In South Korea, piecemeal surveys began along the Civilian Control Line in the mid-1980s, and full-scale ecological studies of the DMZ’s interior did not commence until after 2008 (Park, 2022). Consequently, reliable scientific data about the region’s ecosystems remain limited.

^{Fig 7} The purified drinkable DMZ water promotion images

Meanwhile, the DMZ’s commercial and promotional portrayals continue to emphasize peace and purity, often overlooking the realities of landmines, fragmented research, and unshared water-quality data between North and South. The water sold as pure and clean, for example, is not monitored jointly by both countries, leaving the possibility of unknown pollutants migrating downstream unacknowledged (DMZ TV, 2022). These discrepancies illustrate how the DMZ has been packaged as a place of peace and natural glory, even though its scientific and ecological truths have yet to be fully ascertained. In the end, while the DMZ’s resilient ecosystems testify to nature’s capacity for regeneration, they are also layered with unresolved military tensions and remnants of war. Examining specific species—such as endangered Asiatic black bears 반달가슴곰, plants growing in soil affected by defoliants, the oriental white stork 저어새, and invasive flora like Ambrosia trifida단풍잎돼지풀—will reveal an even more complex ecological patchwork (Choi, 2022).

The Hidden Boundary

⁸ In October 2015, in the Demilitarized Zone (DMZ) near Paju in Gyeonggi Province, a "wooden-box mine" planted by North Korea with lethal intent exploded, seriously injuring two South Korean soldiers (Seoul Newspaper, 2015)

Based on the military demarcation line in the DMZ area, 1.27 million landmines are estimated to be buried in the south and 800,000 landmines in the north, and it is evaluated as the world's best in terms of burial density (Lee, 2018) . Most of the DMZ mine areas in the south are unidentified mine areas without information related to burial. The Ministry of National Defense predicts that it will take 489 years to remove all mines in the DMZ with our current military technology, the process of identification and removal presenting a challenge the DMZ became a massive fear of the unpredictability of not knowing where landmines are buried (Lee, 2018) . The physical border of landmines is the most authoritative mechanism that marks the DMZ ecosystem as a danger. Landmines, along with organic and invertebrates, are ecological elements that make up the soil of the DMZ. The violence buried in the soil does not spare the species living in the DMZ. Modern DMZ biological species have settled down through the process of adaptation to violence that keeps the DMZ a threat (KBS, 2013) . Soldiers who worked in the DMZ say that most wild animals pass through the minefield safely because they identify landmines through their sense of smell and have their passage network(The JoongAng, 2019) . In other words, they are beings designed by violence (Song, 2022).

The Orange Green

^{Fig 11} The mulberry tree in the DMZ, once cut down for surveillance purposes, has never regrown since being exposed to Agent Orange.

After the Korean War, the DMZ became a barren ridge covered in the charred remains of red blood and blackened ash (Choi, 2022). This was because most of the ground fighting during the war took place in this area. From 1962 to 1970, the US military also sprayed Agent Orange across the DMZ three to four times a month (Tak, 2021). In areas where it was used, vegetation struggled to grow, making it easier to monitor enemy movements. An example of Agent Orange use is the "Mulberry Murder Incident" at the Joint Security Area after the armistice (DMZ, 1997). In 1976, the U.S. military monitored Outpost 3 and the DMZ from Observation Post 5, but dense mulberry branches obstructed their view. While Captain Bonifas, Lt. Barrett, and their team trimmed the trees, North Korean soldiers ambushed them with axes and clubs, killing both officers and injuring others. In response, the U.S. deployed a carrier near North Korea as a show of force (German Democratic Republic Embassy in North Korea, 1976). They also cut down the mulberry trees and sprayed them with Agent Orange. This ensured that the trees would never grow back. Although an invisible border now divides the two sides, soldiers from both North and South continue to monitor each other in plain view, making the DMZ effectively a fully armed zone.

Nature as a paradisiacal ideal - the distinction between nature and civilization which implies the preconception that peaceful nature disengages from any human intervention - is a recurrent idea in the binary frameworks of human history. Again, the long-standing portrayal of the DMZ as a sanctuary free from human intervention - a symbol of untainted peace and liberation - has shaped public perception and remains how society imagines the DMZ. In the following chapters, I will allegorically manifest the parallels between the concept of Internet structure and nature from the ground to the mantle of both. By dismantling the popular preconception, I argue that the Internet has become another DMZ in the digital world.

^{Fig. 11} The IT DMZ architecture design after the DMZ of Korea.

An American computer expert, inspired by the Demilitarized Zone of Korea, designed a network system called 'DMZ'. In this system, the internal network (intranet) is completely isolated from the external network (Internet) except for one connection segment. Through this single link, services such as shopping, securities, financial transactions, and reservations are provided to users. In cyberspace, the DMZ is a hub of extensive communication and exchange; however, once breached, internal servers and PCs are immediately compromised. With no warning or alarm, this risk can suddenly materialize. (Wikipedia, n.d.)

However, the latent dangers associated with perimeters are no longer limited to just a few of the enterprise services that use the DMZ network system. Today's DMZ is expanding beyond its original boundaries, transcending the network system and reaching into the transnational Internet, due to the constant mediation and universality of the Internet—a space unbound by time or place. In the novel DMZ (Kim, 1997), which captures the infinite expansion of boundaries from the offline to the online world, the residents of Daeseong-dong in South Korea and Gijeong-dong in North Korea are connected by the Internet and eventually meet again in the DMZ more than 60 years later. In this narrative, the Internet functions not as a medium for free communication driven by shared national sentiment, but as a battleground for attacking and defending. Cyber-hacking in the virtual realm thus becomes a means to enable bombing terrorism in the physical DMZ, further exacerbating the inter-Korean conflict fig13. Though they meet half a century after the separation, mistrust and persecution cloud their path to reconciliation. I believe that this novel is not merely fictional. Rather, it uses literary techniques to reveal little-known truths about how borders operate today, shifting between online and offline.

In 2023, more than 1.62 million hacking attempts against Korean companies and public institutions were traced back to North Korea in more than 80% of cases, according to the Korean National Intelligence Service (SBS, 2022). However, North Korea's cyber-attacks and terrorism are not confined to South Korea; its targeting of cryptocurrencies and financial exchanges is causing problems on a global scale (DailyNK, 2021). According to Svitlana Natviyenko, cyber war - which includes various incidents, tensions and conflicts arising from the development of the Internet infrastructure (often referred to as "information war" or "netwar") - is essentially a struggle for hegemony between state actors, non-state actors, companies and ad hoc groups. This war is being waged in a completely opaque manner, intertwined with massive digital mobilisations, and at the same time is emerging as a war of unprecedented ahumanity, run by the malware implantation, botnets and chatbots (Svitlana Natviyenko, 2021). The legacy of the Cold War is evident not only in the firearms carried by soldiers on the DMZ, but also in the silent codified gunfire of cyber warfare. Although armed clashes at the DMZ were frequent until the 1980s, superficial conflicts have subsided since the 1990s(*ChatGPT answered), and with them the sense of border vigilance and division in Korean society. North Korea’s attacks have extended beyond its physical borders, infiltrating the digital realm. As territorial boundaries blur and once-visible signs of conflict fade, armistice has come to be seen as the end of war, and silence as synonymous with peace. Nature, often framed as a symbol of peace, instead serves as a facade for control in a world that has grown blind to the violence embedded in borders.

The Internet as a dark forest

^Fig.16The cable lines entangled with the roots of trees

“The roots grow upwards, and the crown reaches downwards: wrapped around the planet, the internet circulates between satellites and underwater cables. The internet is a tangible space, yes, but also a mental expanse—made for sleepwalking, for a mundane delirium. For sacrificial rituals, people get lost in it by shining light in all the wrong places, exposing too much about themselves, and communicating impulsively, recklessly. We can enter through an interface, but also through our pocket. We can enter through a screen, but we must screen something of ourselves in return. A traveler who enters the forest is never alone, with eyes wrapped around them like insulation tape (Bogna, 2020).”

In the blind forest, digitalization creeps under the skin. Can privacy exists in this forest? – In other words, Is the boundary of privacy feels under the skin as well as digitalization? As virtual reality often means cyberspace, it is virtual that almost every single action and information we transmit as data is recorded. However, what kind of data is collected and recorded, and how the collected data is analysed, is known only to a few other large organisations, not to the individuals concerned as much . Hardware such as submarine cables, satellites and data centers, which form the key infrastructure that connects intercontinental internet traffic, are owned and operated by specific companies and governments. Because of their market power and influence over technical standards, Big Tech companies have inherent political and economic interests in the design and standardization of software and protocols such as TCP/IP, DNS and HTML. Furthermore, the influence of Big Tech's phantomization is also manifested in institutional arrangements and practices (Article 19, Knodel and Uhlig, 2020) . The privatized components and mechanisms of the internet are touted as convenient, and their flaws are obscured by dark patterns (Dickinson, 2023) . In the age of hyper-connectivity, where social activities, work, commerce and government have moved from offline to online, access to services has become inevitable, but users are excluded if they do not consent in the moment of doubt (Park, 2021) . Subscription has become a survival strategy, not a choice. Every computer operating system or smartphone application comes with a jargon-laden set of terms and conditions that are difficult for non-specialists to understand. When it comes to our digital presence, we don't compromise. We click the accept button to use the service, but we have no idea what the consequences of our actions will be. In contemplating the implications of such an eventuality, it is relevant to consider the concept of the Internet as an upwardly mobile web that is predicated on the existence of a deeply rooted crown below that is integral to its functioning. The eradication of data infrastructure therefore entail the eradication of human existence in the age of the WWW (World Wide Web).

Green energy extraction

^{Fig.17 (Left)} The conventional use of green to highlight detected objects and data.
^{Fig.18 (Right)} The reticle focused on the target in DMZ from the view of a sniper.

The Internet's genesis in exploitation, surveillance and economic opacity has resulted in the development of a substantial infrastructure, thereby giving rise to a novel extractivist paradigm in the hyper-connected era. The term "extractivism" signifies more than merely the physical extraction of raw materials; it encompasses the structural foundations of global capitalism, its colonial history, and its contemporary manifestations, including ongoing ecological devastation (ecocide). Gudynas (2010) contends that extractivism signifies a worldview that perceives the entire global ecosystem, including all its elements, as susceptible to commodification and violent conversion into objects or resources. In this broader context, the concept of new extractivism has emerged to describe contemporary practices where the exploitation of tangible resources has shifted to the realm of intangible forms, particularly the commodification of personal data, human emotions, behaviours, and social interactions (Couldry & Mejias, 2019) . This contemporary form of extractivism bears resemblance to green energy, which, despite being presented as sustainable, ultimately fosters continued consumption and extraction. Similarly, modern data exploitation is masked by promises of innovation, efficiency, and connectivity. Within this metaphor, personal data can be imagined as green leaves dangling from the branches of a vast, digital extractive system. These leaves (i.e. data) are continuously harvested, endlessly renewed, but remain entirely dependent upon deeper, hidden roots of exploitation, surveillance, and opaque economic interests. Since 2016, the economic value of data has exceeded the economic value of oil, which is a material that has been extensively extracted for a considerable period. Corporations such as Google, Meta, Amazon and Tesla are now among the world's most valuable companies in terms of market capitalisation. The success of these corporations is primarily reliant upon the extraction and monetisation of individual data, which can be regarded as a contemporary illustration of new extractivism. As illustrated in The Great Hack (2019) , the extraction of data in exchange for digital services reveals how contemporary information giants have crafted new forms of hegemony, manifesting in liberating and productive forms of power that replace traditional, overt methods of surveillance and control.

However, the majority of critics on the new digital extractivism focus on the greedy exploitative power of corporate regimes, as in the documentary The Great Hack, not too dissimilar to the orthodoxy of the last century's corruption of power. But while acknowledging the existence of explosive malevolent power to this day, thinking about the new extractivism with modern technology needs to more accurately pinpoint human biases and technological limitations in order to avoid mystifying the technology embedded in its massive internal infrastructure.

^{Fig. 19}Google’s motto

As anticipated, Google has undertaken self-reflection regarding the risk of exploitation arising from its utilisation of global information, as evidenced by its inaugural motto, "Don't be evil". Nevertheless, the success of this vision in achieving the good of the world is ironically still in doubt. Despite Google's explicit mission to "organize the world's information and make it universally accessible" (How Google Search Works, n.d.) , the methods employed in its categorization and indexing processes are indicative of a sophisticated form of bias. Search engines, such as Google and its mapping services, which are driven by corporate interests, inherently perpetuate a singular perspective that is rooted in colonial frameworks. This perspective fails to account for the lived experiences of diverse individuals who have been systematically excluded from power for centuries, thereby reinforcing the existing power structures. Algorithms thus employ arbitrary yet authoritative standards to quantify and categorize data, marginalizing intuition and experiential knowledge, restricting alternative understandings, and reinforcing dominant structures (Park, 2021).