In the stillness of a crisp autumn night, an eerie cacophony reverberates through this small village near the border with North Korea. The sounds are unsettling: a deep, crackly noise like a giant gong being repeatedly struck; other times, the cries of wolves, the grating clash of metal, or what some villagers liken to ghosts wailing from a horror movie. To many, it resembles the ominous warning of incoming artillery or even the chaotic pounding of a furious monkey on a broken piano.
This auditory onslaught is not a freak accident of nature or an isolated incident but an intentional act. Residents of this South Korean border village call themselves victims of “noise bombing,” a relentless barrage of sound emanating from loudspeakers stationed in North Korea. The broadcasts, which began in July, continue for 10 to 24 hours a day, leaving residents exhausted, disoriented, and increasingly desperate.
“It is driving us crazy,” said An Mi-hee, 37, a mother of two. “You can’t sleep at night. You can’t think straight during the day.”
This unusual form of psychological warfare underscores the frayed relationship between North and South Korea, whose ties have plummeted to their worst in years. As political tensions escalate under the leadership of North Korean leader Kim Jong-un and South Korean President Yoon Suk Yeol, the once-limited propaganda broadcasts from the North have morphed into a bizarre and grueling assault on South Korean border communities.
For decades, the Korean Peninsula has been a flashpoint of geopolitical instability. The Korean War (1950-53) ended in an armistice, not a peace treaty, leaving the two Koreas technically at war. The demilitarized zone (DMZ) separating them has become one of the world’s most heavily fortified borders, a symbol of lingering hostility.
Propaganda has long played a role in the rivalry. Both sides have historically used loudspeakers to broadcast messages across the DMZ, from patriotic anthems to news bulletins designed to sway soldiers and civilians on the opposing side. However, North Korea’s current noise barrage is unprecedented in both its duration and psychological intensity.
“It’s bombing without shells,” said An, gesturing toward the direction of the North. The constant droning, metallic howls, and otherworldly screeches pervade daily life, preventing sleep and creating a cloud of unease that hovers over the village. “The worst part is that we don’t know when it will end, whether it will ever end.”
The shift in strategy comes amid a broader collapse in inter-Korean relations. Since the breakdown of nuclear negotiations between Kim and former U.S. President Donald J. Trump in 2019, North Korea has hardened its stance. It has ceased all dialogue with Seoul and Washington, ramped up missile testing, and vowed to treat South Korea as an enemy.
Experts believe the current noise campaign is a retaliatory measure aimed at South Korea. In recent years, North Korean defectors living in the South have launched balloons carrying anti-regime leaflets into the North. These leaflets, often depicting Kim Jong-un as a tyrant or mocking him with derogatory imagery, have enraged the North Korean leadership.
“The noise bombardment is part of a broader psychological warfare tactic,” said Koh Yu-hwan, former head of the Korea Institute for National Unification. “By targeting South Korean border villagers, North Korea sends a message of defiance while deepening divisions.”
For villagers like Park Hae-sook, 75, the political implications feel distant compared to the daily hardship of enduring the noise. “The government has abandoned us because we are small in number and mostly old people,” she said, referring to the aging population of Dangsan.
Park described a quiet life upended by the disorienting sounds, which start faint in the afternoon but grow louder as the night deepens. “It’s like they want to take away our sanity,” she said.
Life in the border village has changed dramatically since July. Farmers, who once found solace in the peaceful rhythms of their fields, now speak of mounting stress and sleepless nights. Schoolchildren struggle to focus on their studies, while elderly residents report worsening health issues, exacerbated by the relentless noise.
“You try to ignore it, but it gets under your skin,” said Kim Jin-soo, 43, a farmer. “The sound drills into your head, and even when it stops for a while, you think you’re still hearing it.”
Many villagers have tried to soundproof their homes with limited success. Some have taken to sleeping with noise-canceling headphones or playing white noise machines, though these solutions provide only partial relief. Others have sought medical help for anxiety, insomnia, and other stress-related ailments.
“We feel trapped,” Kim said. “If we leave, we lose our homes and farms. If we stay, we lose our peace of mind.”
The plight of border villagers highlights the human cost of inter-Korean tensions. President Yoon Suk Yeol’s administration has condemned North Korea’s actions but has struggled to respond effectively. Deploying counter-loudspeakers or escalating military drills risks provoking further hostilities, while diplomatic outreach remains a nonstarter under Kim’s hardline approach.
The impasse leaves residents like An Mi-hee feeling abandoned. “We are the first line of defense, but no one defends us,” she said. “We are caught in a game between two governments that don’t care about us.”
Analysts suggest the noise campaign could be part of a broader strategy by Kim Jong-un to assert dominance as he prepares for potential negotiations with the incoming U.S. administration. With President-elect Donald Trump set to return to office, some believe Kim aims to create leverage by heightening tensions.
As the noise campaign drags on, calls for government action are growing louder. Residents have urged South Korean authorities to negotiate with the North to halt the broadcasts or provide greater support to affected communities. Some have even floated the idea of relocating entire villages further from the border.
“Our village is disappearing,” said Park Hae-sook, her voice heavy with resignation. “Young people leave, and those of us who stay grow old with no one to help us.”
For now, the noise persists, a grim reminder of the unresolved conflict that divides the Korean Peninsula. As the sun sets over Dangsan, the eerie gong-like sounds begin again, echoing through the night and into the hearts of those who live under its shadow.
