Monuments, Memory, and Identity: Constructing the Colonial Past in South Korea (Welten Ostasiens / Worlds of East Asia / Mondes de l'Extrême-Orient) 9783034306607, 9783035102888

Table of contents :
Contents
Acknowledgements 7
Notes on Transliteration, Translation, and Photographs 9
Introduction 11
Historical Memory and Tangible History 13
Images of the Colonial Past 18
Chapter 1: Roots Constructed 23
Politics of Korea’s Foundation Myth 24
Tangible Origins 34
Constructing the Heroic Past 52
Conclusion: The Historical Crossroad of Change 66
Chapter 2: The Face of Colonialism 71
Life under Colonial Rule: Facing Colonial Modernity 72
The Brutal Occupier 84
Stain of Collaboration 102
Colonialism Made of Stone 117
Conclusion: Morality, Legitimacy, Continuity 124
Chapter 3: The Struggle 129
A Nation Rises 130
Active Physical Resistance 145
Moderate Struggle 160
Conclusion: Valor and Legitimacy 170
Chapter 4: The Structure of Patriotism 175
Patriotism: The Emotional Linchpin of Nationalism 176
South Korean Language of Patriotism 179
By Gun and Bombs 189
Korea’s Joan of Arc 207
Complicated Nationalism 213
Conclusion: Politics of Post-colonial Filial Piety 228
Conclusion: Tangible History in South Korea – Its Features and Politics 235
Bibliography 251
Index 267

Citation preview

18 Between 1910 and 1945 Korea was subjected to Japanese colonial rule. Monuments, Memory, and Identity investigates ways how postcolonial South Korea commemorated this difficult past in light of changing political and social conditions, and against the background of the divided nation. By analyzing museums, memorial halls, parks and monuments, the author deciphers and maps the South Korean commemorative landscape. He analyzes the layouts of the country's well-known “sites of memory” and explores the on-site plaques, exhibits, and photos as well as the booklets and publications. This book underpins the shifts and trends in recollecting this important historical period by addressing the following questions: How has postcolonial South Korea been constructing and reconstructing its colonial past? Why were certain narratives and images chosen at different times? What debates, controversies, and challenges were involved in this dynamic process? Furthermore, the author discusses the South Korean case within the broader context of the postcolonial discourse.

Guy Podoler is Lecturer at the Department of Asian Studies of the University of Haifa in Israel where he teaches modern and contemporary Korean history. He received his Ph.D. degree in East Asian Studies from the Hebrew University of Jerusalem in 2005. His publications and research areas include Korean memory politics, identity formation, and sports nationalism.

Monuments, Memory, and Identity Guy Podoler Monuments, Memory, and Identity

Schweizerische Asiengesellschaft Société Suisse-Asie

18 worlds of east asIA welten ostasiens mondes de l’extrême-orienT

Guy Podoler

ISBN 978-3-0343-0660-7

Peter Lang www.peterlang.com

Constructing the Colonial Past in South Korea

18 Between 1910 and 1945 Korea was subjected to Japanese colonial rule. Monuments, Memory, and Identity investigates ways how postcolonial South Korea commemorated this difficult past in light of changing political and social conditions, and against the background of the divided nation. By analyzing museums, memorial halls, parks and monuments, the author deciphers and maps the South Korean commemorative landscape. He analyzes the layouts of the country's well-known “sites of memory” and explores the on-site plaques, exhibits, and photos as well as the booklets and publications. This book underpins the shifts and trends in recollecting this important historical period by addressing the following questions: How has postcolonial South Korea been constructing and reconstructing its colonial past? Why were certain narratives and images chosen at different times? What debates, controversies, and challenges were involved in this dynamic process? Furthermore, the author discusses the South Korean case within the broader context of the postcolonial discourse.

Guy Podoler is Lecturer at the Department of Asian Studies of the University of Haifa in Israel where he teaches modern and contemporary Korean history. He received his Ph.D. degree in East Asian Studies from the Hebrew University of Jerusalem in 2005. His publications and research areas include Korean memory politics, identity formation, and sports nationalism.

Monuments, Memory, and Identity Guy Podoler Monuments, Memory, and Identity

Schweizerische Asiengesellschaft Société Suisse-Asie

18

Constructing the Colonial Past in South Korea

worlds of east asIA welten ostasiens mondes de l’extrême-orienT

Guy Podoler

ISBN 978­3­0343­0660­7 E­ISBN 978­3­0351­0288­8

Peter Lang

Monuments, Memory, and Identity

worlds of east asia welten ostasiens mondes de l’extrême-orient Band / Vol. 18 Edited by / Herausgegeben von / Edité par Wolfgang Behr DAVID CHIAVACCI Robert H. Gassmann eduard klopfenstein Andrea Riemenschnitter Pierre-François Souyri Christian Steineck Nicolas Zufferey

pe t e r l a n g

Bern • Berlin • Bruxelles • Frankfurt am Main • New York • Oxford • Wien

Monuments, Memory, and Identity Constructing the Colonial Past in South Korea

Guy Podoler

peter l ang

Bern • Berlin • Bruxelles • Frankfurt am Main • New York • Oxford • Wien

Bibliographic information published by die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data is available on the Internet at ‹http://dnb.d-nb.de›. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data: A catalogue record for this book is available from The British Library, Great Britain Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Podoler, Guy Monuments, memory, and identity : constructing the colonial past in South Korea / Guy Podoler. p. cm. – (Welten Ostasiens, ISSN 1660-9131 ; Bd. 18 = Worlds of East Asia ; v. 18) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-3-0343-0660-7 1. Korea–History–Japanese occupation, 1910-1945–Historiography. 2. Memorialization– Korea (South) 3. Collective memory–Korea (South) 4. Historic sites–Social aspects–Korea (South) 5. Korea (South)–Colonial influence. 6. Postcolonialism–Korea (South) I. Title. DS916.55.P64 2011 951.95'03072–dc23 2011033630

Published with the support of the Swiss Asia Society. Cover illustration: © Guy Podoler

ISSN 1660­9131 (Print edition) ISBN 978­3­0343­0660­7 E­ISBN 978­3­0351­0288­8

© Peter Lang AG, International Academic Publishers, Bern 2011 Hochfeldstrasse 32, CH-3012 Bern, Switzerland [email protected], www.peterlang.com All rights reserved. All parts of this publication are protected by copyright. Any utilisation outside the strict limits of the copyright law, without the permission of the publisher, is forbidden and liable to prosecution. This applies in particular to reproductions, translations, microfilming, and storage and processing in electronic retrieval systems. Printed in Germany

Contents

Acknowledgements................................................................................... 7 Notes on Transliteration, Translation, and Photographs ........................... 9 Introduction............................................................................................. 11 Historical Memory and Tangible History ........................................... 13 Images of the Colonial Past ................................................................ 18 Chapter 1: Roots Constructed ................................................................. 23 Politics of Korea’s Foundation Myth.................................................. 24 Tangible Origins ................................................................................. 34 Constructing the Heroic Past .............................................................. 52 Conclusion: The Historical Crossroad of Change .............................. 66 Chapter 2: The Face of Colonialism ....................................................... 71 Life under Colonial Rule: Facing Colonial Modernity ....................... 72 The Brutal Occupier ........................................................................... 84 Stain of Collaboration ....................................................................... 102 Colonialism Made of Stone .............................................................. 117 Conclusion: Morality, Legitimacy, Continuity ................................. 124 Chapter 3: The Struggle ........................................................................ 129 A Nation Rises .................................................................................. 130 Active Physical Resistance ............................................................... 145 Moderate Struggle ............................................................................ 160 Conclusion: Valor and Legitimacy ................................................... 170 Chapter 4: The Structure of Patriotism ................................................. 175 Patriotism: The Emotional Linchpin of Nationalism ........................ 176 South Korean Language of Patriotism .............................................. 179 By Gun and Bombs ........................................................................... 189 Korea’s Joan of Arc .......................................................................... 207 Complicated Nationalism ................................................................. 213 Conclusion: Politics of Post-colonial Filial Piety ............................. 228 5

Conclusion: Tangible History in South Korea – Its Features and Politics ........................................................................ 235 Bibliography ......................................................................................... 251 Index ..................................................................................................... 267

6

Acknowledgements

Research for this project began in 2000, when I arrived in Korea as a Ph.D. candidate for the purpose of improving my language skills and conducting an initial fieldtrip. In the visits that were soon to follow, I further collected the data that was essential for writing and completing my dissertation, which this book derives from. As every person engaged in research knows from firsthand experience, the road leading to the final version of a study is boggy and bumpy at some times, and smooth and paved at other times. This makes the challenging and rewarding travel frustrating and exhilarating, alternately. For me, arriving at the end of the current road could not have been possible without the support I received from the following people and institutions. Among the people whose help has been invaluable, I owe gratitude to Michael Robinson and Ben-Ami Shillony who guided and assisted me through significant stages of this research. I thank them for their professional critique, and, equally important, for always finding time to listen, read, and respond. In addition, I thank Don Baker for his hospitability and, together with the Centre for Korean Research at UBC, for providing me with access to the university’s resources as I started the process of revising my dissertation in Vancouver in the summer of 2005. Special thanks also go to my colleagues at the University of Haifa, Nimrod Baranovitch, for his support and advice, and Rotem Kowner and Shakhar Rahav who commented on my work on various occasions, and whose stimulating insights (of which many of the better ones provided over an occasional cup of coffee) have always proved to be helpful. Finally, I owe thanks to the anonymous reviewers for Peter Lang for useful comments. I alone, however, bear responsibility for any of this book’s shortcomings. I also wish to thank the people who have made my acquaintance with Korea ever more interesting and enjoyable. I thank Ch’oe Yngchol, whose classes on Korean history evoked my initial interest in Korea. Kim Yng-hwa did not spare any time and effort to teach me the basis of the Korean language, and for this, I extend my warm gratitude to her. In Korea I especially benefited from the friendship and assistance of 7

Ahn Sung-hun, and special thanks go to Edna and Jacob Gudes for opening their home in Seoul to me. For the generous financial support I received at different phases of the research and writing I am indebted to a number of institutions. The Republic of Korea government, through its affiliated National Institute for International Education, provided me with a fellowship for studying in Korea. Also, a grant from the Academy of Korean Studies enabled me to conduct extensive field research in Korea. Finally, The Research Authority at The University of Haifa and the Schweizerische Asiengesellschaft/Société Suisse–Asie have provided me with financial assistance toward the production of the book. In addition, I gratefully acknowledge permission received from the publishers and editors to reuse parts from my previously published articles “Revisiting the March First Movement: On the Commemorative Landscape and the Nexus Between History and Memory,” The Review of Korean Studies 8, no. 3 (2005): 137–154; “Space and Identity: Myth and Imagery in the South Korean Patriotic Landscape,” Acta Koreana 10, no. 1 (2007): 1–35; and, “The Effect of Japanese Colonial Brutality on Shaping Korean Identity: An Analysis of a Prison Turned Memorial Site in Seoul,” in War and Militarism in Modern Japan: Issues of History and Identity, edited by Guy Podoler (Folkestone, Kent: Global Oriental, 2009). At Peter Lang Publishers, special thanks are due to Ms. Martina Räber for her patient and professional assistance and advice. My list of acknowledgements cannot be complete without thanking my strongest and most solid source of unconditional support – my family. I thank my dear parents Ruth and Haggai, and deeply regret that my father, a loving person and an appreciated scholar, did not live to see the fruits of my academic career. Also, I could always count on the support of my parents-in-law, Dina and Haim, and I extend my warmest gratitude to them. Finally, this book is lovingly dedicated to my wife Michal, and I wish to express my deepest thanks to her and our three children Noya, Eyal, and Ido, for their love, patience, and understanding.

8

Notes on Transliteration, Translation, and Photographs

This study follows the McCune-Reischauer system for the romaniztion of Korean. Also, Korean names are presented according to the standard fashion of last name first, followed by the given name, which is usually made of two parts. I make exceptions to these conventions in cases where a different spelling is preferred by an individual, and in cases where a different spelling is the one that an individual or a place is better known by; for example, Park Chung Hee instead of Pak Chng-hi, Syngman Rhee instead of Yi Sng-man, and Seoul instead of Sul. For Japanese words I used Kenkyusha’s New Pocket Japanese-English Dictionary, rev. ed. (Tokyo: Kenkyusha, 1989). Japanese names and places are written as they commonly appear in Western literature, and the Pinyin romanization system is used for Chinese names and places. Unless stated otherwise, all translations of the Korean texts that appear at the sites and that are examined in this book, are mine. Finally, the photographs presented here were taken between 2002 and 2005, and they are all mine as well.

9

Introduction

This book is about the commemorative landscape of South Korea. It relies on the conception that commemorative landscapes can be construed as historical texts, the understanding of which sheds light on the way nations perceive, establish, and convey their identity. These landscapes – composed of museums, memorial halls, cemeteries, monuments, etc. – operate as historical texts from two aspects. First, they construct and narrate historical narratives, which, like all other types of historical narratives, are controversial by nature. Second, the history of a commemorative landscape is a part of the socio-political history of the society that has constructed it. In Korea, after the curtain was drawn on the nation’s colonial period, the peninsula was divided and a battle over legitimacy commenced over the question of who should be regarded as the true heir and legitimate representative of pre-1945 Korea and Koreans. Since then, one offshoot of the ongoing ideological, international, and political rivalry between South and North Korea has been the struggle over memory. “Memory,” Jeffrey Olick and Joyce Robbins remind us, “is a central, if not the central, medium through which identities are constituted” (1998, 133). Thus, the emerging state of South Korea was required to define which symbols, practices, heroes, historical events, etc., should be adopted in order to create ideological and sentimental identification among people and between people and government. Through this, national identity and cohesiveness were to be ensured in the face of an existing sister-adversary that shared the same pre-1945 history. The process of writing history in the Korean peninsula was to be done in light of the nation’s recent difficult past, namely, the Japanese colonial period (1910–1945). Over the years and under changing political circumstances, various South Korean regimes have chosen how they would prefer the country to commemorate, and thus to remember, the “dark age” of the colonial period. One powerful form of commemoration under this framework was the concrete, or tangible, form – the establishment of museums, memorial halls, monuments, parks, and statues. 11

The aim of this book is to explore the nexus between the concrete commemoration of the colonial period, and national identity and national history in South Korea. For this purpose, a set of questions will guide my analysis. How are central historical themes highlighted and presented in terms of both content and form? Why were those specific historical themes selected? In what junctions of time were the explored sites established? What are the common denominators of these sites, sites that vary in terms of type, of the themes they commemorate, and of the time of establishment? In what ways does concrete commemoration correspond with other forms of creating historical memory (e.g., national holidays, written history)? What was the impact of the established hegemonic narrative on private, un-systemized, and/or alternative narratives? By analyzing the tangible commemoration of a fundamental period in modern Korean history I intend to demonstrate how colonial history, through its tangible representation, has been an inseparable part of the development of post-colonial national identity. The vitality of colonial memory hinged on multiple socio-political considerations and personal interests throughout the years, and this implies that the commemorative landscape, in any given time in general and at the present in particular, is the reflection of the shifts South Korean society has undergone. Accordingly, I argue that both governmental and popular interests converged in the early 1980s, under the rule of President Chun Doo Hwan, resulting in a “colonial-memory boom,” which was both manifested through and thematically defined by new memorial sites. Among others, this development, I contend, reflects the inability of South Koreas state-sponsored “hegemonic memory” to completely subdue “popular memory” during the preceding authoritarian regime of President Park Chung Hee. Moreover, judging by the represented themes, a conspicuous concrete effort has been made in the sites to boost the image of valor and the spirit of patriotism, regardless of the later shift from authoritarian rule to democratic government and regardless of fluctuations in South-North relations. At the same time, however, I suggest that the democratic transformation has witnessed budding alternative expressions of criticism on the mainstream official historical narrative.

12

Historical Memory and Tangible History This study is not an historical research of colonial Korea. Surely, some historical events introduced here will be described in more detail than others. However, all colonial-period related events treated here should be viewed primarily within the framework of how they are narrated and why they are narrated in such a way. It is an historical research related to South Korea’s collective memory. The idea of “collective memory” has occupied the works of many scholars, and there exists a voluminous body of literature related to this subject.1 Here, I adopt the notion that collective memory is not “a collection of individual memories or some magically constructed reservoir of ideas and images,” but it is “a socially articulated and socially maintained ‘reality of the past’” (Irwin-Zarecka 1994, 54). To deal with collective memory is to explore what some scholars term as “widely shared images of a past,” a past that “need not be personally experienced” (Schuman and Scott 1989, 379). Collective memory, in this regard, is “a continuous negotiation between past and present […] rather than pure constraint by, or contemporary strategic manipulation of, the past” (Olick and Levy 1997, 934). Thus, “In most cases,” as Barry Schwartz puts it, “[…] we find the past to be neither totally precarious nor immutable, but a stable image upon which new elements are intermittently superimposed” (1991, 234).2 The present study will hence analyze the construction of South Korea’s colonial past by exploring changing and unchanging images, over a time span, of a past that could neither be completely fabricated nor totally altered. I believe that the contents of these images, the timeframes in which these images appeared (or disappeared), and the vitality of these images in comparison with images of other pasts, have constituted a significant share in the process of constructing national identity. Accordingly, the “imagined community” (Anderson 1991) of

1 2

A good starting point to get acquainted with the various approaches and trends is Olick and Robbins (1998). Schwartz does not ignore instances where historical accounts were revised beyond recognition or remained unchanged for a long period of time. “Although common,” he notes, “these instances are not paradigmatic of collective memory” (1991, 234).

13

South Korea is not a complete fabrication. Following Anthony D. Smiths approach of “historical ethno-symbolism,” which emphasizes the historical and cultural dimensions of the modern imagined nation, the imagined community draws its strength from shared myths, memories, traditions, symbols, and hopes “of the populations designated as parts of the nation” (Smith 1999, 9, 10). And in the search for the motives that had dictated how an event was signified, I will not necessarily assume cynical or hypocritical reasons. Therefore, (true) concerns from the uncertainties of the present (see Kammen 1997) will be considered as well. In any case, this study is concerned with both sides of the collective memory coin: that of active remembering and that of intentional forgetting. Furthermore, I follow Barry Schwartz’s assertion that collective memory “is not an alternative to history (or historical memory) but is rather shaped by it as well as by commemorative symbolism and ritual” (quoted in Olick and Robbins 1998, 112). In this regard, the spatial commemoration of the colonial period in South Korea is a facet that shapes the country’s collective memory, thus I will signify its role by commonly employing the term “historical memory” rather than collective memory. The historical memory treated here is the one conveyed by South Korea’s national history. “National history,” as understood in this study, implies that it is a history constructed both by and for South Koreans, and it refers to mainstream historiography created, advanced, and/or supported by the most powerful representative of the nation in terms of capital and organizational resources, i.e., the state, or more specifically, the government. Since historical narratives constitute a crucial part of national identity, and since governments produce such narratives, the relationship between government and history is important. Governments prefer patriotic history and they have more influence than historians on shaping collective memory (Wilson 1996, 2). What usually results is a dominating national memory that “maintains the primacy of national over other kinds of identity for primary allegiance” (Olick and Robbins 1998, 127). This is especially meaningful for South Korea, which first was governed by authoritarian regimes throughout its postcolonial formative years, and second, has perceived itself as existing under the constant threat or challenge from the sister to the north. Yet a word of caution is called for here with regard to how collective and national memories are shaped. As scholars pointed out, it is, 14

first, extremely difficult to evaluate the impact of history teaching on individual students and the larger society (Cole and Barsalou 2006, 13); second, impossible to know the precise affect that dominant ideologies have on the individual (Roy 2007, 8); and finally, impossible to quantify and hard to measure the politics of collective memory (Markovits and Reich 1997, 9). Accordingly, this book does not pretend to understand how South Korean national history has affected, to borrow Roy’s wording (2007, 8): “what is actually going on inside people’s heads.” Instead, my focus is on the active production of the nation-state’s discourses, through which I attempt to shed light on an essential aspect of the post-colonial nation-state project in South Korea. Under this context, it would be useless to analyze popular and public reactions to the official act of producing the nation-state, out of an attempt to answer the ambitious question of whether or not the state was successful in shaping people’s minds in accordance with its official discourse. In this book, the understanding of popular responses to the nation-state project, as well as of non-governmental initiatives to advance other discourses, is limited to viewing them as an indication, first, to the importance of the notion of collective and national memories in the lives of people, and second, to the dynamic and contentious nature of the process of creating collective memories and national identity. As this book focuses on a particular form of establishing historical memory and national identity, i.e., mnemonic sites, this historical memory is related to what I term as “tangible history.” Tangible history, as compared with written, oral or any other form of narrating history, will be employed here according to the following definition: a construct of an intentionally designated three-dimensional memory agent which, first, occupies a specific spatial location on a permanent base, and second, conveys its messages and images through multiple means such as its architectural design, artifacts, texts, statues, photographs, and videos. This history, then, is tangibly narrated or represented in and by museums, memorial halls, and monuments. It is my view that in a similar vein to other types of primary sources, the sites – through their layouts, exhibits, brochures, and specific histories – supply the researcher with materials that are open for survey, analysis, and interpretation. And these concrete memorials account for a particular powerful form by which a past is commemorated and remembered by society. The strength of the concrete memorial, in comparison 15

with other commemorative forms, lies in its immediate (strong) visual effect, in its permanency, and in its availability to people from all walks of life. The fact that erecting and maintaining a memorial requires substantial resources such as land, money, and political power, enhances the potential power of this commemorative form as a transmitter and establisher of desired images. The symbolism of a memorial, however, is not bound to remain static. A memorial may lose its appeal at some point in time, or it may regain significance at a different time. It may not even have any appeal or significance to begin with. In this regard, the demolishing of a monument or a memorial site is no less significant than the building of one. Also, images and messages conveyed by memorials may also be altered by the introduction of new meanings. It may be said, then, that the vitality of a memorial corresponds to three interrelated and dynamic factors: socio-political processes in society, developments regarding other forms of commemoration, and the vitality of other memorials. Resorting to historical data to acquire historical credibility for the desired message is a central act in these dynamics, and this is considered of utmost importance when interpreting a past that is both recent and difficult. Central to the concept of tangible history is an understanding of what exhibited objects do. Eilean Hooper-Greenhill – who proposes the term “visual discourses” in the treatment of museums – explains in this regard: “Objects are used to construct identities on both a personal and a national level” (2000, 109). Assemblages of objects “produce knowledge” and construct “conceptual narratives” which “are embedded in other social narratives” and which “are themselves partly formed by stories that are written elsewhere” (Hooper-Greenhill 2000, 77). Also, Objects are used to materialise, concretise, represent or symbolize ideas and memories, and through these processes objects enable abstract ideas to be grasped, facilitate the verbalisation of thought, and mobilise reflection on experience and knowledge (Hooper-Greenhill 2000, 111).

In this regard, I suggest that the images tangible history desires to transmit are produced by a twofold operational value of the objects that constitute it. On one level there are objects that are more commemorative, while on the other level there are those that are more informative. An abstract monument is an extreme example of the first; an 16

historical text on a plaque is an extreme example of the second. Photographs can be an example for a balance between the commemorative and the informative. What should be emphasized about photographs, however, is that their very presence “within a museum exhibit defines them as elements of historical record” (Irwin-Zarecka 1994, 178). Drawing from Roland Barthes’s concept of “myth” (1972, 109–145), it is thus my view that national tangible history, which always combines the commemorative with the informative, operates to override ambiguity and contradictions, and to convey a natural image of an historical past. The act of establishing national tangible history, involves working with symbols that are familiar to the native audience and repeating the images in various forms and at different spatial locations. Several memorial sites connected to the commemoration of South Korea’s recent and difficult past of the colonial period were chosen for the present study. The selection of the more publicized, known, and attended sites, mostly located in and nearby the capital Seoul, was made to sufficiently represent the dominant narrative. This narrative is presented here both by sites that are solely dedicated to commemorating the colonial rule, and sites in which the colonial period is commemorated as part of a larger complex. Since I believe that a country’s tangible history and its related dynamics are represented by a combination of such sites, I will discuss here two types of historical themes: First, the content and the form of the themes represented at and by the memorial sites, namely tangible history; and second, the particular histories of these sites, namely the historiography of tangible history. By exploring both the relationship between these two types of themes, and the ways this relationship corresponds with other relevant forms of commemoration, I will point to aspects related to the ways the sites were “received” or “read” over the years. In short, the historical data will be treated as projecting various themes that, combined, constitute a dynamic national narrative of, and for, the collective. Two points should be stressed regarding the attempt of this book to explain the national narrative in accordance with the above approach. First, understanding the characteristics of the grand national narrative entails knowledge about the factors that form it. Accordingly, detailed descriptions of exhibitions are used to substantiate the analyses of tangible history and the related arguments, thus they constitute an important part in every chapter. Second, although many of the descriptions are 17

presented in the present tense, given the dynamic nature of national narratives, this study is about developments that took place between the early 1950s and until around 2005. Later conditions, changes, and trends should be the topic of future research. Finally, the exploration of the dynamic image of South Korea’s colonial past as it has been created in the act of the naturalization of history by the country’s tangible history, raises an initial fundamental question: What are the commonly held images of the colonial past in South Korea, and under which circumstances have they been developed? The answer to this question provides this book with the logic of its structure.

Images of the Colonial Past Korea’s nationalist paradigm, as described by Gi-Wook Shin and Michael Robinson, reads Korea’s recent historical experience as a narrative of emerging national selfconsciousness, the resulting struggle for expression against outside forces, and, finally, the achievement of political and cultural independence as a sovereign nation (1999a, 13).

This paradigm was constituted by both Koreas after liberation as it served as a reaction of the state to a difficult past in light of an unsettled present (a situation that led, to be sure, to the production of two distinct hegemonic narratives). In this regard, the unsettled present included, first, the existence of a rival regime in the peninsula; second, the urge to write history vis-à-vis selected concepts of the past that occasionally surface in Japan, the former colonizer that is involved with its own debates pertaining to its difficult past; and, finally, the desire to establish a stable society. The difficult past included the inability to face foreign influence and intervention in the decades prior to Japan’s annexation, and, of course, the colonial period itself that had lasted for thirty-five years. This past required a satisfactory explanation from the new state especially in regard to such questions as: Why was Korea unable to adequately meet the 18

foreign challenge? What made it possible for Japan to colonize the country? Why did liberation arrive only with Japan’s surrender to the allied forces, and had Koreans at least done their best for the cause of liberation during the colonial period? The answers to these questions had to be met in accordance with the rival sister’s own historiography, thus historical memory became a platform for establishing legitimacy. The following critique on the research of the nationalist movement in South Korea exemplifies what has accordingly resulted throughout the years. In his critique, Pak Hwan stresses the problematic aspects in the research, which include a lack in objectivity, limitations imposed on the research due to the Cold War situation, and the “enthusiasm of the democratization movement.” Pak mentions the problem of overemphasizing the resistance to Japanese imperialism which resulted in too much expression of feelings at the expense of objectivity, and in the negligence of other aspects of social, culture, and daily life. Also, centering mainly on the movement in Korea, Pak asserts, brought about negligence in the research of currents of imperialism worldwide, and especially in East Asia (1998, 29–30).3 What, then, typifies the narrative of the colonial period in its relationship with South Korea’s national history? First and foremost, we should draw our attention to the notion regarding the existence of a Korean soul. The romantic nationalist idea about the soul was clearly presented by Ernest Renan in his famous 1882 lecture “What is a Nation”: A nation is a soul, a spiritual principle. Two things, which in truth are but one, constitute this soul or spiritual principle. One lies in the past, one in the present. One is the possession in common of a rich legacy of memories; the other is present day consent, the desire to live together, the will to perpetuate the value of the heritage that one has received in an undivided form (1990, 19).

And as the present study sets out to demonstrate, the Korean national spirit is a recurrent theme that plays the leading role in establishing continuity throughout South Korea’s national historiography. Already 3

In his critique Pak also points to problems related to the way the research itself was carried out. He thus calls for a more developed methodology, for an active interchange between various associations including those abroad, for cooperation with the social sciences, for a systemization of the collected data, and for more projects of translations from foreign languages (1998, 30–32).

19

during the colonial period, Korean historians such as Sin Ch’ae-ho, Pak n-sik, and others established a nationalist historiography in which modern Korea was depicted as a natural development of an existing premodern Korean nation. In this narrative, there exists a Korea that is unique in terms of race, culture, and spirit/soul (l, chngsin), and this “Korea” has gone through many hardships. In his Han’guk t’ongsa (The Agonizing History of Korea) (1915) Pak n-sik presented the dualism of the national soul as opposed to the national body. In light of Korea’s tough situation, Pak believed that recording the recent past would create a memory of the nation, thus preserve the soul through which the nation’s body might be resurrected. In fact, Pak’s work was a culmination of an earlier trend in Korean writing, a trend which had commenced in 1905 and emphasized the spiritual aspect of the nation in light of the gradual loss of sovereignty to Japan (see Schmid 2002, 140– 146). Former South Korean president Park Chung Hee (who governed the country between 1961–1979), who heavily influenced the establishment of national history in the South, echoed early twentieth century intellectuals by “his” historical interpretation of the difficult past in light of the unsettled present. Park begins by blaming the Yi (or Chosn) dynasty (1392–1910) ruling elite (1962, passim). Before the Yi dynasty, he explains, the Korean people were not a subservient nation (1962, 39), and the “evil vestiges” of this dynasty “persisted even after the Liberation of 1945” (1962, 52). Park then acknowledges that liberation was a gift presented to Korea by others (1962, 115), but he also asserts that national spirit “flared up from the people’s roots whenever the country was threatened with foreign invasion” (1962, 90). Both “the independence spirit” during colonial rule and the anti-colonial struggle itself were no exception to this (1962, 113–114). Thus, for Park, “the masters of Korean history” were the people, and the feudal class system imposed by the ruling elites of Silla, Kory, and Yi was responsible for the long hibernation of these “creators of history” (1962, 117–118).4

4

20

There exists an intrinsic logical problem with this historical interpretation. The people cannot be the “masters of history,” firstly, if they were unable to manifest this mastery due to stronger socio-political forces; secondly, if they were unable to put an end to the feudal system; and finally, if the ones to be blamed for the incompetent Korean reaction to the foreign challenge were the elite.

Contrary to Park, the South Korean historian Kang Man-gil does mention the inability of the people to bring down their government and to replace it for a sovereign one, as a factor that allowed Japan to move on and occupy Korea (1999, 28). Kang, however, does not correspond with historians who are dubbed “nationalist historians” and whose works promoted the nationalist paradigm during the post-colonial era. This observation underscores that the present study will be concerned with exploring the process of shaping national identity without ignoring, however, the possibility that facets of the nationalist paradigm may have been contested or altered over the years. What, then, were the main components – the central historical themes – that were extracted from the colonial period and highlighted in South Korea’s national history? Park’s historical interpretation contains central pillars of colonial-period historiography, pillars that correspond to Shin and Robinson’s definition of the nationalist paradigm as well: people, suffering, resistance, and sovereignty. 5 In what follows, I describe what I consider as the main themes in this connection, themes that will be the focal points of this study. To begin with, one way of dealing with a recent and difficult past is to link it with a more ancient and glorious one so that the historical narrative may function as an efficient supporter of current national identity. In the first chapter, I explore how the memorial sites represent the distant past of the “nation’s” history before they turn to commemorate the more recent colonial past. I argue that a changing domestic and international environment affected a shift in the way the more distant past was reconstructed and connected to colonial-period historiography. Next, portraying the colonial rule as “a uniquely coercive Japanese political repression” engaged in “economic exploitation” and conducting “debilitating cultural policies” (Shin and Robinson 1999a, 7), is a common narrative in South Korea. Thus, the second chapter focuses on the representation of life under Japan’s varying colonial policies. I argue that the representation of the suffering of the people, the brutality of the colonizer, and the (“forgotten”) issue of collaboration are instrumental, 5

These themes appear frequently in Park’s Our Nation’s Path (1962) and in The Country, the Revolution and I (1963). These works highlight the issue of sovereignty by blaming the post-war governments for being plagued by the same ills of the Yi dynasty, and by emphasizing Park’s own path as a revolution aimed at changing the course of the nation’s history.

21

first, in establishing identity through the Us-Other dichotomy, and, second, in grounding the narrative of anti-colonial heroism. Anti-colonial resistance and valor are the subjects of the remaining two chapters. In the third chapter, the historical theme of the people’s resistance is roughly divided between the active-confrontational activities and the more moderate forms. The chapter centers on the 1919 March First Independence Movement (Samil undong) and its offshoots because South Korean national history treats this movement as the most important manifestation of the people’s fight for freedom. In the words of “nationalist” historian Shin Yong-ha, it “was an event of far-reaching significance in both Korean history and world history” (2000, 257). I explain how the depiction of the violent struggle, including its inseparability from the cultural and political struggle, is a straightforward challenge to the core of North Korea’s own historical narrative. In the final chapter, I focus on the construction of patriotism. I view patriotism as the emotional linchpin of nationalism, thus I typify the characteristics of colonial-period-based patriotism as they are apparent at the memorial sites. Also, although the themes that construct the historiography of the colonial period add up to convey to us the narrative of the people, the masses, nowhere can a national history prevail without establishing specific anchors of identification in the form of national heroes. Accordingly, I analyze how such figures have been commemorated, and I argue that their selection as models for inspiring patriotism was subject to the personal preferences of former presidents and to developments connected to the democratization of South Korea. By focusing in the four chapters of this book on the major historical themes of, and images created by, South Korea’s historiography of the colonial period, I underpin the trends and the fluctuations connected to the memory of the colonial period as they are expressed by tangible history. The concluding chapter brings together the major findings and arguments of the book, while broadening the comparative perspective. On the premise that collective memory, in the words of Barry Schwartz, “is both a mirror and a lamp – a model of and a model for society” (quoted in Olick and Robbins 1998, 124), I believe that this thematic structure is instrumental for the purpose of typifying a central part of South Korea’s national identity formation.

22

Chapter 1: Roots Constructed

In one of the discussions on his theory of nationalism, Ernest Gellner observed the following in regard to the connection between roots, nationalism, and identity: The dominance of the idea of ‘roots’ was underwritten by Romanticism, and fully satisfied the requirements of nationalism. It reflected the prevalence of culturally homogeneous, internally undifferentiated, cultural polities, known as ‘nationstates.’ A political unit was to be defined as the voluntary, indeed the emotionally compulsive, association of men of the same ‘roots.’ This freed the polity from being a system of statuses and, by allowing a ‘return to the roots,’ did not insist that the identity of culture be there from the start: it was enough if there was a recollection of origins and a deep desire to return to the sources of one’s vitality and true identity. It mattered little that the recollection might be a little suspect, that what was remembered was not too scrupulously checked for historical accuracy (1997, 14) (emphasis mine).

The present chapter introduces the ways Korea’s roots are recollected and presented at several popular memorial sites. 1 Understanding the narrative of this past history is crucial since the narrative attempts to establish a comprehensible time frame in which South Koreans – by identifying with and relating to specific shared notions that link their (or perhaps sometimes “their”) past history to colonial history and therefrom to the present – are supposed to become unified in face of current and future predicaments. In South Korea’s current tangible history, antique origins and a historical continuity of valor play a key role in linking the historical memory of present-day South Koreans to the colonial period. In this regard, Korea’s most ancient origins, namely the establishment of the first “Korean nation,” have already been subject to different treatments under changing conditions throughout history.

1

Although the period in which a defined socio-political-cultural arrangement in the peninsula may first be termed as “Korea” remains questionable, I will use the name without quotation marks both for the sake of convenience, and in order to emphasize present-day South Korea’s commonly held notion of antiquity.

23

Politics of Korea’s Foundation Myth Korea’s foundation myth is the Tan’gun myth (Tan’gun sinhwa). The myth tells the story of the founding of the first Korean nation, which is termed Kochosn (Old Chosn), by a figure named Tan’gun in 2,333 BCE. Two late thirteenth century texts, the Samguk yusa (Tales/Memorabilia of the Three Kingdoms) and Chewang un’gi (Rhymed Record of Emperors and Kings) hold the oldest surviving accounts of the Tan’gun myth. It is believed that these accounts of the myth are based on a much older source that no longer exists.2 The search after the politics of the myth, leading toward the act of naturalizing the event in the collective and historical memory of South Korea, should begin in the century before the Samguk yusa and the Chewang un’gi were compiled. In 1145, an official text called Samguk sagi (History of the Three Kingdoms) was completed. This is the oldest extant Korean history, and together with the Samguk yusa and the Chewang un’gi the three are regarded as foundational texts from the Kory dynasty (936–1392). Nevertheless, as a result of different political circumstances and background of compilers, the Samguk sagi differs from the two later texts. It is possible to sum up the conditions that had affected the contents and orientation of the Samguk sagi in three points. First, although Kory was a Buddhist dynasty in essence, the mid-twelfth century compiler of the Samguk sagi – a scholar-commander-official by the name of Kim Pu-sik – was, in the words of historian Lee Ki-baik, a “best representative” of the “Confucianist, China-oriented faction” (1984, 138). Second, Kim Pusik was from Kyngju, the capital of the former Silla kingdom and dynasty (57 BCE–935 CE), which had preceded Kory. And third, in 1135, Kim, a loyalist of the king, led the forces that suppressed the rebellion of a Buddhist monk by the name of Myoch’ng who attempted to move the capital to P’yngyang. In this case, not only was the quelling 2

24

For the Samguk yusa version of the myth, including its analysis in comparison with the Japanese foundation myth, see Grayson (1997, 36–37). Grayson asserts that they “are different in structure and narrative content from other foundation myths in Northeast Asia,” therefore, “there must have been a very close relationship between the ruling house of Chosn […] to the ruling family of the state which claimed Jimmu as its progenitor” (1997, 48–50).

of the revolt significant, but it should also be noticed, as Han Youngwoo points, that P’yngyang was associated with the first state established by Tan’gun (1985, 354). Thus, the Samguk sagi was compiled by a Confucian adherent at a time, as Henry Em puts it, of “bolstering the authority of the Kory court by promoting Confucian principles, particularly, loyalty to the king” (1999, 340). In this context, Kim wrote a Silla-centered historiography in an attempt to present the image of Kory as the successor to Silla (Em 1999, 340; Han 1985, 354). An upshot was that the Samguk sagi does not mention Tang’un who is associated with P’yngyang, which is a former territory of a different old kingdom, Kogury (37 BCE–668 CE), that had once occupied the northern area of the Korean peninsula. Instead, the Samguk sagi focuses on another figure. It focuses on Kija, who appears in the final part of the Samguk yusa version. According to Chinese sources dating from the second century BCE, Kija was a Chinese aristocrat who fled to Chosn (“Korea”) when the Chinese Shang dynasty had fallen (ca. 1000 BCE) (Pai 2000, 423n13). The Samguk sagi represents Kija as the one who established the first state in Korea characterized by a developed civilization, thus Kija became a symbol “of the policy of promoting relationship with China” (Han 1985, 355). In contrast to the Samguk sagi, the Samguk yusa and the Chewang un’gi, which were compiled by the Buddhist monk Iryn and by Yi Sng-hyu respectively, begin Korean history with the story of Tan’gun. These two histories were compiled a century after the Samguk sagi at a time when Kory was under Mongol domination (1259–1356). These circumstances have led contemporary scholars to argue, firstly, that the Samguk yusa (the more famous of the two) reflected the Buddhist religious beliefs of the author (Lee [ed.] 1993, 463–464); secondly, that the inclusion of the Tan’gun myth in the Samguk yusa “is evidence that Buddhism tried to absorb the autochthonous beliefs during its spread in the peninsula” (Lee [ed.] 1993, 5); thirdly, that through Tan’gun these histories represented an act of strengthening the sense of identity (Lee 1984, 167); and, finally, that the narrative strategy related to Tan’gun in the Samguk yusa may be interpreted as a narrative of resistance (Em 1999, 340–341). In short, then, it is reasonable that different official attitudes toward Tan’gun, as reflected by the three texts mentioned here,

25

hinged upon changing historical circumstances during the Kory dynasty. Later, the figure of Tan’gun was a contested figure in the succeeding Chosn dynasty (1392–1910) as well. The precedence given to Kija rather than to Tan’gun in the Samguk sagi, “came to represent for a long line of [Korean] Confucian scholars the inception of civilized culture in their part of the world” (Schmid 2002, 176). Hence, during the Chosn dynasty it was Kija, the Chinese aristocrat who succeeded Tan’gun, who was the prominent figure in contemporaneous historiography and the one mostly commemorated. Kija belonged to the glorious Chinese antiquity, and as Schmid puts it, “Tan’gun may have been first, but it was Kija who offered a connection to the golden age of the sages” (2002, 176).3 Initially, through Kija, as being a part of their Sinocentric narratives, the Chosn dynasty Confucian scholars acknowledged the pivotal Confucian value of legitimacy: the Mandate of Heaven, which signified the Chinese court as the “Middle Kingdom” and the Chosn king its subordinate (Schmid 2002, 176). Later, however, the Sinocentric approach was challenged by several Confucian scholars especially after the fall of the Chinese Ming dynasty in 1644. Then, by adopting Kija as their ancestor, these Confucian scholars constructed a link to a past in which Korea had (presumably) played a prominent part. From this past, according to Hyung Il Pai, the Chosn dynasty and its king could affirm their moral and ideological superiority over their contemporary Manchuoriginated Qing dynasty of China (1644–1911), which Chosn viewed as a “barbarian” non-Han Chinese dynasty (2000, 113). The return of Tan’gun to the center stage of Korean thought paralleled the growing apprehension in the face of increasing Japanese involvement in the peninsula in the early twentieth century. The period commencing with the outbreak of the Russo-Japan War in 1904 and culminating in the formal annexation of Korea by Japan in 1910, was characterized by a series of agreements that Japan imposed on Korea – including the 1905 Protectorate Treaty, which made Korea a protectorate of Japan – and dramatic acts such as the disbanding of the Korean army and the forced abdication of the Korean king (who then assumed the title

3

26

For an analysis of the image of Kija during the Chosn dynasty until the late sixteenth century see Han (1985, 358–371).

of Emperor) in 1907. Under these conditions, several developments regarding the rise of the Tan’gun myth were apparent. To begin with, as Pai contends, “the imagined theocratic nation of Tan’gun Chosn, as Korea’s earliest state, originated with the efforts of the anti-Japanese independence movement to assert Korean identity and sovereignty.” Accordingly, in 1909, Nach’l established the new Tan’gun religion which in 1910 he named Taejonggyo. “The rise of Taejonggyo in the early twentieth century,” asserts Pai, “was the most important stage in the metamorphosis of Tan’gun from his mythical origins as the founder of the state of Kochosn to the resurrected god of the Korean people” (2000, 266). Taejonggyo was a religion with nationalistic affiliation and the Japanese colonial government persecuted it. Moreover, Nach’l was raised to martyrdom after reportedly committing suicide, and it was against this backdrop that Tan’gun studies became a focal point in nationalist history (Pai 2000, 266–269). Another important aspect related to the rising interest in Tan’gun in the early twentieth century, involves Mt. Paektu, the mythical birthplace of the progenitor. It was then, and especially after 1907, that Mt. Paektu “came to represent the territorial center of the minjok [nation]” after receiving no special consideration in pre-1905 textbooks (Schmid 2002, 221–222). The rising interest in Mt. Paektu was propelled by the SinoKorean border dispute over an area called Kando (Jiandao in Chinese) located to the East of Mt. Paektu, a dispute that had evolved and caught public attention starting from 1898. After 1905, Japan, which by then controlled Korea’s foreign affairs, intervened in the controversy until finally it signed a treaty with China in 1909 in which the latter’s claims over the territory were recognized. Thus, in the words of Andre Schmid, “in the end, the limits of Korean territory were in this instance determined by the politics of the Japanese empire” (2002, 215).4 It was, then, with the rising tensions in the Kando region and with the rising interest in Tan’gun, as Andre Schmid observes, that Mt. Paektu “began to appear more regularly in the press, often as a symbol of the pressure placed on Korean territory” (Schmid 2002, 221–222) (emphasis mine). Furthermore, especially after the Protectorate Treaty of 1905, “The growing status of Tan’gun paralleled the increased use of the term minjok [nation], as the two often were loosely tied together” (Schmid 4

For a discussion on the Kando question see Schmid (2002, 211–216).

27

2002, 181). This observation calls for several clarifications regarding the concept of “nation” in Korea. The two commonly used Korean terms for “nation” are minjok and kyre. Minjok (minzu in Chinese; minzoku in Japanese), which is the more widely used of the two in the memorial sites explored in this book, combines the Chinese character of “people” (min, 芮) with that of “race” or “tribe” (jok, 諦, which appears also in kajok – family). Si-sa Elite Korea-English Dictionary (2001) defines minjok as “a race; a people; a nation.” Kyre, on the other hand, is a pure Korean term that is defined by the same dictionary as “offspring of the same forefather; brother; brethren; fellow countrymen; a race; a people; a nation.” Therefore, both by definition and cognition, the Korean concept of “nation” interlaces race, ethnos, nationality, and culture. In a recent study, Shin Gi-Wook identified the history of the politics of ethnic nationalism in Korea, and he asserted that “after colonial rule, the (ethnic) nation became a primary source of collective identity among Koreans on both sides of the peninsula” (2006, 225). It should be noticed that “the term minjok was part of the new lexicon that accompanied the rise of nationalism in East Asia” (Schmid 2002, 172). The first who consistently used the term were the Japanese, and it became more widely used in Korea following the Protectorate Treaty of 1905 (see Schmid 2002, 172–175).5 However, despite the high likelihood of the colonizer’s influence on shaping nationalist terminology of the colonized, there is an important difference between the two in this regard. Since race/blood has been at the core of Korea’s nationalist historical education, as Hyung Il Pai claims, Koreans today believe that they have existed as one homogenous race since prehistoric times. They are also being taught that Tan’gun is the forefather of their race, and that he was born on Mt. Paektu, the highest mountain in the Korean peninsula (2000, 57–58). In contrast, what developed in modern Japan was, in the words of Fujitani Takashi, an “emperor-centered nationalism” (1996, 4). Here, the idea of the Japanese people’s unique (and sometimes superior) race was established through constructed images of the antiquity,

5

28

Tessa Morris-Suzuki concludes that in the discussions on both the meaning of the word minzoku and “the nature of the ties which bound the Japanese minzoku together,” “there was a wide range of views, which represented different ways of deploying notions of space and time in the creation of national identity” (1998, 106).

continuity, and sacredness of the imperial family.6 Thus, unlike Japan, where the key for the people’s unique race lay with the function of a sacred symbolic ruling family, the uniqueness of the Korean people was established through firsthand contact with a single progenitor. Turning at this stage to the colonial period, two of the most famous contemporaneous historians in the context of Tan’gun studies were Sin Ch’ae-ho and Ch’oe Nam-sn. During the 1920s–1930s they advanced a historiography in which Tan’gun was placed at the beginning of Korea’s history.7 Tan’gun was depicted as the first conqueror, the founder of both the Korean race and the first independent and unique Korean state. Tan’gun was even regarded here also as the originator of all the rest of East Asia’s civilizations (Pai 2000, 68–69). A contemporary of Sin and Ch’e, Paek Nam-un, criticized this concept and he regarded “Tan’gun Wanggm” not as a name of an actual person, and not as that of a god, but as an honorific title of a member of a privileged and hereditary ruling class.8 Interestingly, although belonging to a different school of history writing, Paek, the Marxist historian whose interpretation of Korea’s history was written in Japanese and published in Tokyo, “nonetheless continued,” according to Pai, “to employ the same kind of mythological shamanistic interpretation practiced by Sin Ch’ae-ho and Ch’oe Namsn” (2000, 70), the nationalist historians.9 In comparison, as Shin Gi6

7

8

9

On the construction of the emperor’s image in modern Japan, see Takashi Fujitani’s Splendid Monarchy (1996). For related aspects on the issue of race in Japan following the 1868 Meiji Restoration, see Morris-Suzuki (1998, 84–109). With regard to Sin Ch’ae-ho, the notion of Tan’gun as the forefather of Koreans already appeared in his important essay called “Toksa sillon” (a new way of reading history) published in 1908. Henry Em identifies shifts in Sin’s concept of the minjok, the nation, by relating to the texts he produced throughout the colonial period. For this see Em (1999). For a summary of and comparisons between the works of Sin, Ch’e, and Paek in this context see Pai (2000, 63–70). Lee Ki-baik, one of Korea’s leading post-war historians, in his A New History of Korea, has also accepted that tan’gun wanggm was probably the title borne by the early leaders of Old Chosn (1984, 14). Kwon Yonung observes that under colonial rule, basically three different paradigms of historiography had developed: the nationalist, the Rankean, and the Marxist (2000, 34–41). For the nationalists, Kwon asserts, “historiography was a major vehicle of political activism,” and they “eventually became activists for Korea’s independence in exile” (2000, 35). The Rankean historians were trained in Japan by disciples of German historian Leopold von Ranke. They became active in the 1920s and formed the mainstream of Korean historiography thanks to their close relations

29

Wook points out, Korean “internationalist Communists” of that period, who favored class-based universalism, were opposed to such promotion of Tan’gun nationalism, which relied on the idea of Korean ethnic uniqueness (2006, 64, 67). In 1948, three years following liberation and on the same year that the Republic of Korea (South Korea) was created, another important stage in Tan’gun studies arrived. At that time the art historian Kim Chaewn published an article in which he asserted that the Tan’gun legend is depicted on stone slab carvings of the Wu family shrine from Shantung, China, dated 147 CE. This was a “proof” that the Tan’gun story is not, as colonial period Japanese scholars had suggested, a thirteenth century creation of the author of the Samguk yusa, but it can be dated to at least the second century or earlier. The antiquity of the myth has been widely accepted not only in Korean historiography but in Western scholarship as well (e.g., Cumings 1997, 24; Lee [ed.] 1993, 5), although Hyung Il Pai has challenged this concept by undermining Kim’s analysis and providing a different interpretation of the illustrations on the slabs (see 2000, 71–77).10 In any case, the first 1948 government of South Korea adopted the Tan’gi calendar, i.e., the Tan’gun era calendar which begins at the date of Tan’gun’s accession. It also designated National Foundation Day, or Anniversary of Tan’gun’s Accession (Kaech’njl), as one of the four national holidays. Also, after heated debates (Pai 2000, 452n34), the government assigned October 3, 2333 BCE, as the date on which Tan’gun founded the nation, and Tan’gi year 4281 was designated as the first year of the Republic of Korea. Interestingly, the year 2333 BCE could not have been calculated without the time frames provided by the final part of the Samguk yusa narrative that describes the later arrival of Kija, the Chinese aristocrat. Put plainly: “Without Kija, a Korean calendar would have no basis” (Pai

10

30

with Japanese academics (2000, 35; 37). The Marxist historians appeared in the mid-1930s and went underground with the rise of contemporary Japan’s militarism (2000, 35). Henry Em comments in a footnote that the typology is problematic since several historians do not fit into any of these schools (1999, 450n76). Tackling the antiquity question from a different angle, James H. Grayson concludes from his structural analysis of the narrative that the original form of the Tan’gun myth dates to even earlier than the third century BCE (1997, 44).

2000, 118).11 Pinpointing Tan’gun’s appearance at just over a thousand years before the arrival of Kija had been a concept already held by several Chosn dynasty scholars (Pai 2000, 112), and “it is obvious that the dates were calculated so that the beginning of Tan’gun’s reign at 2333 BC would coincide with the legendary reign of China’s most illustrious emperor [Emperor Yao]” (Pai 2000, 90). In addition, it is probable that the first South Korean government was influenced, whether consciously or not, by the national foundation day of Japan, Korea’s former colonizer. Japan’s national foundation day was then termed Kigensetsu (Empire Day, or Anniversary of Emperor Jimmu’s Accession), and like Korea’s, it was based on the enthronement of a legendary progenitor: Jimmu, the first emperor who established the Japanese nation in 660 BCE. Kigensetsu was celebrated in Japan since it was assigned in 1873 and until its abolishment in 1948. 12 The characteristics of Korea’s National Foundation Day may thus be seen as a creation that was influenced both by inter-Korean historical and contemporary dynamics and by the country’s relations with its two significant neighbors. In this regard, it was especially symbolic that immediately following the colonial period, the newly emerged Korea beat Japan in the “National Foundation Day antiquity contest” (Tan’gun’s 2333 BCE accession as compared with Jimmu’s 660 BCE enthronement). According to the law promulgated by the government on October 1, 1949, the other three national holidays to be observed along with National Foundation Day were: March First Independence Movement Anniversary (Samiljl); Constitution Day (Chehnjl, observed July 17); and, Independence (or Liberation) Day (Kwangbokchl, to commemorate liberation from colonial rule on August 15, 1945, and the establishment of the South Korean government on the same date in 1948). It should be pointed out that all four national holidays have remained intact until today while so many political changes have occurred in South Korea, including, for example, many changes to the constitution. More 11 12

Grayson asserts that the creation of Kija Chosn was added later to the original narrative with the intent “to provide a verisimilitude of his-tory [sic]” (1997, 43). In 1948, while Japan was under American occupation, Kigensetsu was abolished because of its association with Japan’s wartime nationalism and the emperor system. In 1966 Japan again designated National Foundation Day under a different name, Kenkoku-kinenbi, which, like Kigensetsu, is celebrated on February 11.

31

importantly, National Foundation Day, which commemorates the founding of ancient Korea by Tan’gun, was included, as if in a natural manner, in the same group with days that commemorate historical events that unquestionably did actually happen. In short, in similar vein with some of Korea’s preceding scholars and intellectuals, South Korea was involved in the attempt to historicize Tan’gun. It can be seen, then, that the first South Korean government was not working in a void when it created National Foundation Day and it had a sound base from which it could draw Tan’gun and use him as a national symbol in commemorative events. Generally speaking, however, at this stage, and until the early 1960s, the rewriting of Korean history was at a “rudimentary stage.” The government was not much interested in conducting it and South Korean historians usually settled for cautious and tentative works while concentrating mainly on facts and less on interpretations (Kwon 2000, 45–46). Later, the politicization of Tan’gun studies permeated the writings of leading historians (Pai 2000, 266), and “in the early 1980s,” as Kwon observes, “there was a sudden upsurge of chauvinistic historiography by non-professional historians whose sole interest was the grandeur of ancient Korea” (2000, 48). Tan’gun studies also enjoyed fresh impetus following the North Korean celebrated announcement in 1993 that it had discovered Tan’gun’s tomb including bones and remains of Tan’gun and his wife. The antiquity of the tomb was “proved” by modern methods, and this propelled decisive responses in Southern publications as well. Pai claims that the rising scholarly interest in Tan’gun in the South was a reaction meant to demonstrate to the North “that South Korea’s prolific scholarship on the various facets of Tan’gun studies […] is equally important if not more thoroughly steeped in patriotism” (2000, 270). In a 1994 book on the Tan’gun excavations, for example, the editor announced that “Tan’gun is our nation’s progenitor” and that this is a fact that cannot be denied (Yi 1994, 18). Another author in the same volume contends that the discovery is no less than a “massive shock” to those historians who have tried to deny Tan’gun, and it may become a stepstone in explaining, or solving, the history of the Korean nation (minjok) (Kim Kyo-kyng 1994, 57). The tangible aspect of marking the discovery manifested itself in a monumental pyramid-shaped mausoleum that the North had constructed in 1994, and inside the bones were put on exhibition in a glass case. Pai 32

speculates that by “proving the ancestral lineage of national heroes,” the excavations, the discovery, and the reconstruction of the tomb were timed in order to legitimize the succession of power from Kim Il Sung, the North’s leader, to his son (2000, 270). The North, though, did not stop there and this “tangible origins drive” was followed a few years later by the reconstruction of Samsng (“three sages/holy ones”) Temple that had been destroyed by the Japanese at the beginning of the colonial rule. This temple commemorates “the holy three,” i.e., Hwanin (Tan’gun’s grandfather), Hwanung (Tan’gun’s father), and Tan’gun, and was rebuilt in 2001. In the South, besides the estimates that put the number of religious believers in Tan’gun sects at somewhere between half a million to a million (Pai 2000, 468n50), a fervent debate took place in 1985 over the question of whether to establish a big Tan’gun shrine in Seoul. The advocates stressed the nationalist aspect of commemorating the founding father, while their opponents, mostly Christian groups, objected to wasting so much money on this “idol worship.” In the end, the opposition had won and the Seoul city officials cancelled the project (Pai 2000, 120–121). Interestingly, though, in one survey conducted in mid-1985, 54.4 percent answered yes to the question “Is Tan’gun a historical figure?” (26.1 answered no), and 75.4 percent replied yes to the question “Should we worship Tan’gun as our ancestor?” (13.7 percent replied no) (quoted in Pai 2000, 451n26–452). And in much the same vein, Don Baker, a historian of Korean religion and philosophy, once shared with me his following impression: “Whenever I mention in a talk that there is no archaeological or documentary evidence for the existence of either Tan’gun or Tan’gun Chosun [Chosn], students who have been educated in Korea are shocked” (2004a). In conclusion, although “proponents of Korean nationalist historiography have insisted that Tan’gun has always been the symbol and hero of racial mythology” (Pai 2000, 265), the Tan’gun myth was actually the subject of changing attitudes throughout history. Since scholars like Imanishi Ry, a leading Japanese expert on Korea active during the time of colonial rule, emphasized that alternations in the importance given to Tan’gun over time had resulted from political interests of leaders (Pai 2000, 262–263, 466n38), Don Baker’s related statement is not surprising. Baker mentions that a common reaction he gets from Korean students’ parents is accusing him of “teaching the Japanese version of Korean 33

history, since the Japanese also denied the existence of Tan’gun Chosun [Chosn]” (2004a). Anyhow, “what in the Samguk yusa was little more than a few paragraphs, has burgeoned today into a field of study producing works that fill entire shelves in bookstores” (Schmid 2002, 176). And although in an apparently more modest fashion as compared with both the North’s 1994 mausoleum and the 1985 planned project of Seoul city, Tan’gun-myth-based Korean origins definitely are tangibly displayed today in South Korea. This tangible form significantly contributes to anchoring the image of antique origins in the historical memory.

Tangible Origins Tangibly displayed origins in South Korea interweave the following facets: antiquity, race, progress throughout history, culture, and valor. This is an inseparable composition in terms of the conveyed image, thus it would be both artificial and unwieldy to break it down. The common composition is revealed by observing how origins are displayed at three of the biggest and most familiar memorial sites in the country: the Independence Hall, Seoul National Cemetery, and Taejn National Cemetery.

The Independence Hall The Independence Hall (Tongnip kinymgwan) is one of the largest of its kind in the world. It is located about ninety-five kilometers South of Seoul, in South Ch’ungch’ng province. The decision to build this memorial came in the summer of 1982 following, in the words of the brochure distributed at the site, “the distortion of Korean history in Japanese textbooks” (The Independence Hall of Korea). The 1982 “textbook controversy” with Japan was an incident that caused a significant furor in South Korea and occupied contemporaneous public discourse and media. The outcry erupted after it had become known that the Japanese Ministry of Education planned to allow revisions in school textbooks, which may result in a much softer approach, as compared 34

with previous historiography, to Japan’s former aggression in East Asia. Particularly, it was assumed that both the coercive aspect of the colonial period and Koreans’ resistance to colonial rule would be marginalized, if not completely obscured by new interpretations and terminology. Capitalizing on the surge of anti-Japanese feelings, manifested by demonstrations and patriotic mass media, the government pursued a hard line policy regarding the issue (Hur 1998, 6), and one internal outcome of the South’s reaction was the decision to build the Independence Hall. As the fundraising campaign was progressing, the Independence Hall Law was promulgated in 1986, and the Hall finally opened on August 15, 1987, after four years construction. At the time, The Chosn Ilbo, one of South Korea’s leading newspapers, proudly reported on its front page about the opening of the “kyre i sngjn” – the nation’s sacred shrine – a phrase that appeared under a large photograph of a scene from the event. In a symbolic fashion, the year 4320 of the Tan’gi calendar, marking the time that had passed from Tan’gun’s accession, accompanied the date of August 16, 1987. The monumental site was built at the cost of ninety-five billion wn (about 118 million US dollars) (Korea Journal 1987, 69), on a total of nearly four million square meters of grounds. According to the Hall’s monthly magazine, visitor number thirty million attended it in April 2001 (Tongnip kinymgwan, June 2001, 32), and by 2007 – two decades after the sites opening – the number of visitors reached more than 36 million (Yonhap, August 31, 2007). Origins at the Hall are represented in several locations. As the visitors pass the admission ticket booths they first encounter the fifty-one meters high Kyre i t’ap, Monument to the Nation, a monument that was already visible hundreds of meters away from the entrance (Figure 1.1). It should be first noted that, instead of the word minjok, the word that was chosen for “nation” in the name of this monument was kyre, the Korean noun that carries the connotation of a blood connection existing among the offspring of the same forefather. The Kyre i t’ap is constructed of two obelisks facing each other and connected only at one point by a square-shaped relief located a few meters above the base. Shaped like “bird wings flying to the sky” and like “two hands in a prayer,” explains one of the Hall’s publications, the structure “represents the soaring spirit of the nation.” It “symbolizes the immortal national spirit that extends across the past and the present, and toward the future,

35

and it indicates the nation’s will for liberty and independence” (Tongnip kinymgwan 1997, 455).

Figure 1.1 Kyre i t’ap, Independence Hall

The eternal national spirit is symbolically conveyed on the relief. On the side facing the ticket booths there is a carving of the t’aegk – the cosmic symbol of harmony and infinity – and on the side facing the Hall’s grounds there is a carving of a mugunghwa, the rose of Sharon, which is South Korea’s national flower. Also, for the sake of clarity, there is an image of the peninsula sketched on the floor at the foot of the monument. The symbolic depiction of the eternal national spirit in the Kyre i t’ap is shortly enhanced by a much more explicit display. As the visitors continue past Independence Bridge and the Grand Bridge of Liberation, they face a stone slab entitled: “On the Building of Independence Hall.” Engraved in Korean is a short statement explaining that the Hall was constructed for the purpose of commemorating the spirit of independence of the forefathers who fought foreign invasions throughout history. The opening lines of the engraving are as follows:

36

Ever since Tan’gun founded the country at this beautiful and blessed site in the East where the sun rises, our people [or, the Korean nation (uri hanminjok)] have maintained a five-thousand-year history through a single lineage, while flourishing in an outstanding culture.

Tan’gun is thus straightforwardly presented as the founder of the nation, and with it, the common notion of a “five thousand year history” – a time line that actually predates the foundation year of 2333 BCE – is conveyed as well. Interestingly, an English translation of this text in the souvenir booklet Independence Hall (n.d., 8), does not include a translation of an important word that appears in the Korean engraving: “han p’itchul,” i.e., one lineage/blood line shared by the Korean people. It is this seemingly minor difference between the two versions that demonstrates the importance of the facet of ethnic uniqueness in the message conveyed by and for South Koreans. This facet, just as it appears to be a natural part of the Korean-language message, was probably naturally or inadvertently omitted from the foreigners’ translation, a translation that, in addition, is absent from the site itself. A final point to be made here is that the engraving ends with marking the opening date of the Hall, as the Sgi (Christian Era) date of August 15, 1987, is preceded by Tan’gi August 15, 4320. After passing this slab, the visitor walks the 258 meters of the Grand Plaza of the Nation until standing in front of the imposing 126 meters long and forty-five meters high Kyre i chip – the Grand Hall of the Nation. With a traditionally styled roof covered by more than 43,000 tiles, it is claimed to be the largest tiled roof building in Asia. The Independence Hall regards it as a symbol of independence that was “constructed for the purpose of holding nationalist events [and] that inherits the indomitable spirit of independence of previous patriots” (Tongnip kinymgwan, February 2002, 13). In the center of the Grand Hall stands the fifteen meter high Statue of Indomitable Koreans (Figure 1.2), which, together with Monument to the Nation and the Grand Hall of the Nation, comprises the three most distinctive symbols of Independence Hall. Sculpted in white granite, the statue shows eight adult figures and a child arranged in an ascending form with their faces looking up and the arm of the top figure stretched upwards with his finger pointing. The plaque at the foot of the statue, written in both Korean and English, explains the essence of this sculpture and its conveyance of upwards movement: 37

A symbolic sculpture of the Independence Hall, the statue of the Indomitable Koreans represents the unyielding spirit for independence and the formidable will of the Koreans […] The 8 adults represent the 8 provinces of Korea, namely the entire nation. The child on the shoulder of one is posed to signify the advance toward freedom, justice, humanism and peace of the human race, driven by the gushing power [originating] from of [sic] the relief work of the volcanic lake, Ch’onji, of Mt. Paekdu [Paektu] […] As a backdrop of the figures are relief carvings of people with exposed hands, having united themselves from the shackles of repression, calling for independence and freedom on one side and armed independence fighters in the other.

The first important thing in this text is that while this translation, which is the version for foreigners, states that the child signifies the advance of the “human race,” the Korean language version, on the other hand, reads that the child conveys “minjok i mirae,” i.e., the “nation’s future.” The second significant item here is that the text clarifies the links between the different parts of the statue for the sake of viewers who did not grasp the image through its visual codes. The statue is connected by granite waves to the relief behind it, a relief which portrays the famous scenic view of Mt. Paektu with the crater lake Ch’nji on its summit. Mt. Paektu, as noted, is the highest mountain in Korea located in North Korea on its border with China. This extinct volcano is considered to be T’aebaeksan that appears in the Tan’gun myth, the place where Hwanung descended upon from heaven and the birthplace of Tan’gun himself. Carved on each side of the Mt. Paektu relief, as stated on the plaque, is a group of people symbolizing the independence struggle. Accordingly, on the Independence Hall’s website, the curators explicitly refer to the image in these words: “Tourists can almost feel the erupting energy of Baekdu [Paektu] Mountain from the statue” (Independence Hall). The mountain is perceived as possessing an exceptionally powerful energy/spirit (chnggi), and both Koreas consider it as the most sacred mountain.

38

Figure 1.2 Statue of Indomitable Koreans, Independence Hall

In the North, the mountain is regarded as the sacred protector of the communist struggle, the symbol of the state’s chuch’e (self reliance) ideology, and the birthplace of Kim Il Sung’s son and heir, Kim Jong Il (who was actually born in Russia) (Pai 2000, 59). Accordingly, seen from the perspective of the continuing legitimacy struggle between the two Koreas – a theme that will be further explored throughout this study – the Statue of Indomitable Koreans, under the context of Independence Hall, is a way for the South to appropriate the nation’s ancient origins. It is thus by means of a giant sculpture, where both symbolic images and a written text are combined, that the message of the bright future that awaits Korea thanks to its strong national spirit originating from ancient mythical times is conveyed. In one of my visits to the Hall, in August 2002, a big poster was hung on a wall of the Grand Hall overlooking the Statue of Indomitable Koreans. It depicted a group of enthusiastic “Red Devils” – the nickname for the fans of South Korea’s national soccer team – cheering for their team in one of the Korea-Japan World Cup matches that had taken place a couple of months earlier, and in which South Korea surprisingly finished in fourth place (Figure 1.3). Placing this poster at the Grand Hall was a symbolic gesture of nationalist pride

39

where a contemporary success in sports is visually linked to the notion of the nation’s origins and long history of struggle. Passing through the Grand Hall, the first exhibition hall of the Independence Hall is called Minjok Chnt’onggwan, The National Heritage Hall. It displays “artifacts and materials illustrating the Korean traditional cultural heritage and the history of the resistance against the foreign invasions from the pre-historic age to 1876” (Independence Hall n.d., 13). As the visitors enter this hall, they encounter two striking objects which dominate the entrance space. One object is a large rectangular photograph that covers the whole upper part of the wall facing the entrance door, depicting in vivid colors the same familiar image that is carved to form the background of the Statue of Indomitable Koreans: Mt. Paektu and lake Ch’nji.

Figure 1.3 South Korean soccer fans. Poster in the Grand Hall of the Nation, Independence Hall, August 2002

The second dominant object, which stands at the center of the entrance space, is a reproduction of a familiar monument: the 6.39m tall stone stele erected by King Changsu of the ancient kingdom of Kogury in

40

414.13 With its 1,800 inscribed characters, the stele commemorates the achievements of Changsu’s father, the great conqueror King Kwanggaet’o. As this stele will be dealt with later in this chapter, suffice it to stress at this stage that it is a symbol of the heroic achievements of an ancient “Korean” king. The entrance to the first hall thus epitomizes the image of ancient heroism by coupling the Mt. Paektu photograph with the Kwanggaet’o stele, and, by this, the South Korean visitors are immediately and straightforwardly directed to acknowledge the ancient spatial origins of their heroic nation. The visitor is also informed at the outset about the physical characteristics (ch’ejil) of the Koreans. A plaque states that Koreans are a little taller than the world average and that their brain is classified as large. An interesting comparison is then introduced, followed by a conclusion: Compared to neighboring nations […] they [Koreans] are more similar to Japanese than Chinese or Manchurian. Japan is characterized as a multiracial nation and the people vary in stature according to the regions. Particularly, the physical constitutions of the Kyoto and Nara regions are very similar to that of Koreans, by which we speculated that there was a massive emigration from Korea to Japan in ancient times (emphasis mine).

The message conveyed here, hinting to racial affinities between Koreans and Japanese, is of special interest. In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries it were actually Japanese intellectuals who held this same view. When Terauchi Masatake, for example, who served as the Japanese Governor-General in Korea in the years 1910–1916, said that Korea’s annexation was like “the re-union of two long-separated brothers” (Peattie 1984, 109), he was echoing contemporary thinkers. The works of scholars such as Kita Sadakichi, Torii Ryz, Imanishi Ry, and Shiratori Kurakichi, established the racial theory of Nissen dsoron – the identical ancestry of the Japanese and the Koreans. This Nikkan (Japanese-Korean) race, 13

The kingdoms of Kogury, Paekche, and Silla constitute what is termed as The Three Kingdoms Period marking the kingdoms that had occupied the Korean peninsula (and parts of Manchuria occupied by Kogury) until 668. In 668, Silla, one of these three kingdoms, managed to finally subdue its two neighbors with the help of China’s Tang, thus establishing a rule of a single dynasty over the peninsula for the first time.

41

according to the theory, had split at some time in history, and the Korean civilization stagnated. Politicians and administrators, then, employed this theory to justify colonization as a task of the superior Japanese race to assimilate the inferior Koreans and guide them to progress (see Pai 2000, 35–41). “The ‘melting-pot’ image of Japanese origins,” writes Tessa MorrisSuzuki, “[…] meshed beautifully with colonial assimilation policies” (1998, 92).14 The practical implication of the concept culminated in the 1930s and 1940s when Japan conducted its colonial policies under the slogan of naisen ittai. This slogan conveyed a seemingly egalitarian approach in which Japan, the “inside” (nai), and its “outside,” i.e., Korea (sen, from Chsen, the name Japan had given to its Korean colony), are combined to form a single body (ittai). Under the policy of forced assimilation, Koreans were required to attend Shint ceremonies, to adopt Japanese surnames, to abandon the use of Korean in schools, and to serve in the Japanese army.15 The abovementioned plaque thus reverses this colonial legacy: the racial affinities between Koreans and Japanese result now in the superiority of the former and the inferiority of the latter, instead of the opposite. The concept of racial affinities, though, poses one danger for South Korea’s national history. It does not fit squarely into post-colonial historiography, which refutes Nissen dsoron and lays a strong claim for a unique and ancient Korean race. This problem is solved in the plaque by explaining that the Korean-Japanese racial affinities resulted from an historical process of Korean emigration to Japan, and not by some 14 15

42

For a detailed discussion on the Japanese concept of race, see Morris-Suzuki (1998, 79–109). Koreans were required to join the Japanese army in 1944. However, prior to that year, too, many Koreans had already joined it, thus they are often described as volunteers. In my view, though, this categorization can be misleading. Although the number of Koreans who volunteered is probably higher than contemporary South Korea would like to admit, the term “volunteers” may imply that these Koreans were all enthusiastic admirers of Japan and what it symbolized. One should also bear in mind that many were acting under the psychological stresses created by the reality of colonial rule, and so they were attempting to define their position in this reality, with the Japanese army being a channel to do so (I adopt here the approach that seeks to go beyond the simplistic view of the colonial era which, for example, advances such dichotomies as nationalists/collaborators and [Japanese] brutality/[Korean] suffering. On this see Chapter 2).

historical-mythological common ancestry. The section that follows this plaque, and that is dedicated to the introduction to the Korean language, further strengthens this point. Here, there is a statement that “the ancestors of the Korean people probably spoke one language which developed regional difference [sic] as the people spread out over a vast area in separate tribes” (emphasis mine). Racial and cultural characteristics are thus appropriated to transmit a message of territorial expansion and influence. With this in mind, the visitor is now prepared to embark on the journey into Korea’s history. Naturally, or so it is meant to appear, the journey begins in a section entitled: “Kochosn” with an English translation that prefers “Ancient” to “Old” Chosn. “Ancient Joseon [Chosn],” the related plaque informs, “was the first state founded based on agronomic and bronze culture in the burgeoning era of the national history.” The narrative continues and when it mentions Wiman Chosn (194 BCE [ca.]–108 BCE), the state ruled by a refugee from China, it is important for the curators to follow the conventional history books by emphasizing that the kingdom still retained “the structure of Ancient Joseon [Chosn].” The text also claims in this regard that the king “was taken to signify a sun god” and that “the Dangun [Tan’gun] mythology reflected the world concept of the Ancient Joseon [Chosn] populace then.” This message corresponds with Hyung Il Pai’s observation that out of the need to prove that Korea’s ancient political and cultural achievements were comparable to those of other ancient civilizations, historians and archaeologists propagated the idea of a sun-centered prehistoric Korean theocracy (2000, 89). The above analyses demonstrates how an uninterrupted lineage is constructed by echoing nationalist historians who argued for a developmental state formation process that starts from Tan’gun’s Old Chosn, and is then continued by Kija Chosn, which is followed by Wiman Chosn.16 Interestingly, one of the Hall’s recent publications, a Korean language booklet that gives a general review of the seven exhibition halls, describes this state formation process in businesslike fashion

16

For a discussion on and criticism of Korean state formation theories, see Pai (2000, Chapter 4). Pai’s criticism leads her to contend that it is The Three Kingdoms and not Kochosn that were actually the first full-fledged states in the peninsula (2000, 122).

43

without a single mention of either Tan’gun, Kija, or Wiman. In this narrative, a Paleolithic culture had existed in the peninsula five thousand years ago. After several developments through the Neolithic era, Kochosn emerged to unite tribes and to form a state that had developed, fought with its neighbors, and finally fell to the “mighty [Chinese] Han” in 108 BCE (Tongnip kinymgwan n.d., 8).17 This narrative is indeed constructed by an apparently more historical than mythical approach, however, it bolsters, instead of negates, the other related images of antiquity found on the grounds of the site. The claim for ancient territorial origins is also supported by the help of a conspicuous visual aid. This is a three dimensional map, eight meters in diameter, of the kodae yngt’o, the “ancient territories.” The map is divided by light bulbs that illustrate “Korea’s” territories from the Bronze Age until the time of the Parhae Kingdom (698–926), a kingdom that is regarded in Korean historiography as the successor of Kogury in ruling territories in present day Manchuria. Colonial-period scholars such as Sin Ch’ae-ho, Ch’oe Nam-sn, and Yi Nng-hwa, followed by leading post-war historians, advanced the theory of ancient Korea’s rule over Manchuria (see Schmid 1997). And in the words of one post-war historian, With the fall of Parhae […] Manchuria ceased to serve as a stage for the unfolding drama of Korean history. Parhae was to be the last state through which the Korean people dominated Manchuria either politically or culturally (Lee 1984, 91).

Accordingly, in addition to a plaque that states that “even under strong influence of Tang culture, Barhae [Parhae] retained its originality and succeeded to Goguryeo [Kogury] culture,” the three dimensional map thus helps the South Korean visitors to visualize not only the natural development of their nation-state’s past, but also the place of “the lost territory” of Manchuria in this same past. As the curators work to establish the uniqueness of the Korean race and its primal states, they also exhibit a photocopy from the Samguk yusa, the source that narrates the Tan’gun myth, and photographs of Samsng Temple (in North Korea) and of a Tan’gun altar located in

17

44

It is the Neolithic, not Paleolithic, that is commonly presented as the earliest period of Korean civilization (Pai 2000, 79).

Kanghwa Island. These exhibits are directed to the South Korean visitor alone since no English translation accompanies the Korean subtitles. With regard to Samsng Temple, the curators find it necessary to emphasize that “in the beginning, it was a shrine for worshipping Tan’gun, and later Hwanin and Hwanung were also worshipped, therefore it is called Samsng Temple.” By stating that it was initially a shrine dedicated solely for Tan’gun, the text conveys the message that Tan’gun is, after all, distinguished from the other two figures. This exemplifies an identified tendency in Korean historiography. As Pai asserts, “in the majority of recorded instances [from the Chosn dynasty], Tan’gun’s name is coupled with those of his heavenly progenitors” and “the three were worshipped jointly,” a fact seldom mentioned by Korean historians (2000, 120). Hence, what is derived from the claim that the temple, despite its name, was originally a shrine for Tan’gun, is the notion of Tan’gun’s special historical role, a role also connected to the previous depiction of Ancient Chosn. The subtitles for the photograph of the Tan’gun altar at Kanghwa Island inform that “it is said that this is a place where Tan’gun performed ancestral sacrifices to heaven.” Then we are told that it is not certain when the altar was built, but it is recorded that repairs were made during the reigns of the Chosn dynasty kings Injo and Sukchong in 1639 and 1700 respectively. Although Chosn dynasty kings indeed contributed to Tan’gun worship, the curators of the Hall ignore one more important fact. In addition to Tan’gun being usually worshipped jointly with Hwanin and Hwanung, it was not he but Kija, the Chinese aristocrat who succeeded Tan’gun, who was the prominent figure that was commemorated during the Chosn dynasty. As demonstrated earlier, this was a historical trend in the politics of the myth of Korea’s origins, thus contemporary tangible history, as it appears in the Independence Hall, should be seen as one more link in this historical political chain.

Seoul National Cemetery Another memorial site that displays the nation’s origins is the National Cemetery in Seoul. The site was established in 1955 as a military cemetery, and was raised to the status of National Cemetery in 1965. Since 2006 the official name of the place is Seoul National Memorial 45

Board (Gungnip sul hynch’ungwn). It covers a total area of 1,430,000 square meters, and buried here are soldiers, policemen, student soldiers, and others termed as patriots. Two former presidents and a few members of the Korean Provisional Government, which was established in China during the colonial period, are buried here as well. Located in the cemetery’s grounds is a special memorial site, established in 1990/1991, which includes three buildings: two exhibition houses (the Photographic Exhibition House and the Relics Exhibition Building) and a movie theater. The object of this special site is to serve as an education center mainly for youngsters and school children, and also “to enhance the patriotism of worshippers” (National Memorial Board n.d., 28). In 1979, the second national cemetery was founded in Taejn, 170 kilometers south of Seoul, and it, too, holds several relevant monuments. The Seoul National Cemetery alone is attended by some one million visitors yearly, according to the site’s website (The Seoul National Cemetery). The two exhibition houses and the movie theatre, which constitute the special area in the Seoul Cemetery designated as a memorial hall, are set on three sides of a wide square plaza. The plaza itself holds an outdoor exhibition of warplanes and armored vehicles, thus the visitor absorbs from the outset the atmosphere of struggle. The two-story Photographic Exhibition House has the following sign at the entrance in both Korean and English: This is a place where the pictures and films offering the introduction of the National Cemetery, our country’s tradition and history, and the heroic actions of patriot martyrs and war dead who devoted themselves to the defense of their fatherland, etc., are shown according to subjects. Principle Contents Introduction of the National Cemetery, Korea’s holy ground Surmounting of national crises and Independence Movement against Japanese imperialism About Korean War Real State of North Korea Changing World Our Future mission

The photograph hall thus functions as a sort of an exhibitor of Korea’s history in a nutshell. In this history, as the list of contents suggests, the

46

motif of overcoming national sufferings (sunan) is the key for linking the past, through the present state of division, to the future. Inside this hall, the visitors first encounter texts and photographs that display the history of the cemetery and the activities that take place on its premises. After understanding that this is an “Educational Site for Patriots,” as one of the signs informs, they are now prepared to learn, or to enhance their knowledge, about the nation’s history. The exhibition is aimed mainly for the Korean visitor since only the main titles, but not the more detailed information, are accompanied by an English translation. Again, history naturally begins here with the title “The Origin of the Nation,” under which four photographs that belong to this category are exhibited. Higher up is the largest photograph of the four, the familiar photograph of Mt. Paektu. This impressive colorful, scenic view bears the caption “The land of Paektusan which enshrines the energy/spirit [chnggi] of the nation.” Beneath it are the other three photographs. These consist of the Tan’gun altar in Kanghwa Island, Samsng Temple, and pages from the Samguk yusa. A brief outline of the Tan’gun myth is presented as well. Next to this depiction of origins, the visitor is faced with another title, “Establishment and Development of Ko-Cho-sun [Kochosn].” Here, a large map and an accompanying text are displayed. The map shows ancient Korea’s territorial development with the inclusion of Liaotung and Manchuria. A familiar portrait of Tan’gun is at the bottom left corner of the map, along with the foundation year, 2333 BCE. Tan’gun’s ordinary appearance together with the fact that the title “Wanggm,” which signifies a ruler, is added, help to convey the image of Tan’gun as an actual historical figure. The attached text is very explicit in its contents. It tells about Tan’gun establishing the earliest state of Kochosn on a land covering territories in China and the Korean peninsula in the twenty-fourth century BCE. “It was the humanitarian Kochosn ideology/ideal [inym],” the narrative continues, “that became the driving force [wndongnyk] behind the awakening of self-pride and the brave struggle to protect the nation’s independence every time our nation had encountered hardship.” The text concludes:

47

Along with this, it was through the unity [that is based] on having a single ancestor that our nation was endowed with an enterprising spirit [chinch’wijk kisang] and courageously repelled foreign aggression. At the same time it flourished in a unique national culture, thus arriving to the present time as playing a leading role in world history (emphasis mine).

Next on display are ancient texts including the Samguk yusa, the historical text that begins Korean history with Tan’gun. The image of a link to the past is enhanced by one more means: a group of photographs gathered under the title “Creative Cultural People” (“Tokch’angjk in munhwa minjok”). A short text frames both the temporal dimension and the significance of Korean culture: “Our national cultural heritage, which stands out for a long time in world history, elevates our spirit of pride [chagngsim] and has become a foundation for consolidating Korea in the world” (emphasis mine). In similar vein with the text quoted above, national pride is bolstered through the emphasis of Korea’s place in the world. To be sure, it is not a message aimed for the international community because it is written in Korean. Also, as will be shown later, this point is especially significant under the context of the peninsular rivalry in which South Korea attempts to establish itself as the sole legitimate heir to pre-divided Korea. The objects that constitute the photographic display of the “Creative Cultural People” include familiar accomplishments from all periods and all areas of thought: ancient pit dwellings; a dolmen from the Bronze Age and murals (including scenes of Parhae); the Kyngju tombs and the Buddhist architecture of the Tabot’ap and the Skkuram grotto, all from the Silla kingdom and dynasty (57 BCE–935 CE); the Chosn dynasty’s (1392–1910) Suwn Fortress, the Ch’angdkkung palace, and the Chongmyo Royal Ancestral Shrine; and finally, “the world’s first rain gauge,” the Korean alphabet which is “the most scientific in the world,” and Kim Chng-ho’s 1861 “Detail[ed] Map of Korea.” Linking the Korean visitors to their past begins by conveying the easiest message to comprehend: pinpointing a “proven” chronological antiquity. This is done by the caption on the photograph showing ancient dwellings: “Neolithic pit dwellings [umjip] resembling nowadays ondol” (emphasis mine).18 It is thus through a careful selection of specific “representative” 18

48

Ondol is a heating system based on flues laid under the floor.

items which are categorized under “Creative Cultural People” and which have an identified historical beginning, that the curators project a natural continuity between the modern South Korean visitors and their ancient past.

Taejn National Cemetery Taejn National Cemetery, which was built between the years 1979– 1985 as an addition to the cemetery in Seoul, and which covers an area of nearly 3,306,000 square meters, also holds an exhibition hall. With both titles and explanations in Korean only, this hall is aimed solely for local visitors. The only English translation is on an outdoor sign that directs visitors to the Exhibition of Photos and Relics. The actual Korean name, however, of this two-story building is Hogukkwan, “The hall of patriots,” or “The hall of defending the country.” The first floor, as the Korean language booklet states, exhibits “the history of national sufferings and the activities of the patriotic forefathers, as well as the backgrounds of the periods” (Kungnip Taejn Hynch’ungwn n.d., 17). In comparison, the English language booklet settles for: “photos and memorials are exhibited to reveal our triumph over national crises” (National Daejeon Memorial Board n.d., 17). This difference in terminology is already apparent when comparing the Korean title of the booklet, Minjok i l, “the spirit of the nation,” with the much more plain title of the English translation: Daejeon National Cemetery. Like the exhibition hall in the Seoul National Cemetery, the visitor first views photographs of the history of, and events that take place in, both national cemeteries. Then, there is a text entitled “A national historical view.” In this narrative, the South Korean visitors encounter familiar motifs such as the greatness of the ancestors, the unique language and culture, and the message of a “flourishing of the brilliant/radiant [ch’allanhan] national culture while protecting a long history of five thousand years.” It is also “because of the unyielding national spirit that we had defeated countless foreign invasions and were able to firmly protect national legitimacy.” The text ends with the conclusion that “the ancestors’ valuable heritage that was handed down, is a light that brightens up the future of the nation.” This text thus 49

functions as an introduction for the next six sets of photographs that together constitute the nation’s ancient origins. Under the title “Origins of the nation” the exhibition displays photographs of Mt. Paektu, the Tan’gun altar at Kanghwa Island, Samsng Temple, and the Samguk yusa pages of the Tan’gun myth. This group of photographs is accompanied by a text. The text explains that the two altars are “the dwellings” of the Tan’gun myth, and that they “contain the direction of the nation,” as well as “wordlessly bolstering up a faraway history of five thousand years.” This is followed by a second set containing six photographs under the title “Vestiges and remains [our] ancestors left.” The subtitle states, with much emotion, that today too these traces “fill our hearts” (or, “bring a lump to our throat”) (kasm l mungk’l hage hechunda). The items that are supposed to evoke such intense emotions include various remains from the Paleolithic, Neolithic, and Bronze Ages, such as stone axes, bronze mirrors, dolmens, pit dwellings, and pottery. The third set bears the title “The cultural heritage that stands out [or shines, pitna] in world history.” The six photographs here include some of the most famous Korean cultural assets, all in the South and all selected by UNESCO as World Heritage Sites: the eighth century Buddhist Skkuram grotto, the big complex of the Silla dynasty Buddhist Pulguksa Temple, Haeinsa Temple’s Tripitaka Koreana, 19 Suwn’s Chosn dynasty Hwasng Fortress, Ch’angdkkung – the Chosn dynasty palace, and Chongmyo – the Chosn dynasty Royal Ancestral Shrine. They thus represent major landmarks of Buddhism, royalty, and Confucianism from the Kory and Chosn dynasties. By presenting an almost identical text to the one in the “Creative Cultural People” section at the Seoul Cemetery, these assets, too, are actually used for affirming the nation’s place in the world. The only difference between the two scripts is that “national self-esteem” (minjok i chajon) is used here instead of “our spirit of pride” (uri i chagngsim). Another set is entitled “Customs and ways of life of the ancestors.” The photographs displayed here are of murals depicting various daily life

19

50

The Kory Tripitaka is a set of over eighty thousand pages of carved woodblocks. It was created on Kanghwa Island, the place to where the government had transferred during the Mongol invasions of the peninsula. The Tripitaka is considered as a true treasure of Buddhist scholarship.

scenes from pre-historic times, from the Three Kingdoms period (which lasted until 668), from Kory and from Parhae; drawings that reconstruct daily life scenes from Chosn dynasty; and photographs from precolonial years. The selection and the setting of the photographs convey the notion that much resemblance exists between the ways of life in different times. What the viewer is supposed to conclude from this set is explicitly stated by the caption. It states that there is a connection between the ancestors and today’s Koreans, thereupon “awakens the consciousness of a strong community, which is a single nation [minjok] born from a single lineage.” The fifth set is entitled “Enterprising spirit,” and the accompanied text presents the essence of this spirit in a very passionate nationalist language: Inside our veins stirs the spirit of roaming the vast territory. Inside our heart dwells the strong patriotic will of being able to overcome any ordeal. And, our head is filled with the wisdom which makes an eminent culture flourish.

The six exhibits which are meant to illustrate this sort of notion are: (1) a drawing of Wang In, the scholar who “transmitted the outstanding Paekche culture to Japan” (early fifth century); (2) a photograph of the original Kwanggaet’o stele of Kogury; (3) a mural of “the Silla people going to the countries west of China”; (4) a drawing of a naval scene depicting a ninth century scene of “Chang Po Ko [Chang Po-go] who was widely known, as far as China and Japan, for his naval power (unified Silla [668–936])”; (5) a drawing of S Hi whose successful negotiations with the Khitans prevented their invasion and led to the establishment of Kory’s Six Garrison Settlements (Kory) (end of tenth century); and, finally, (6) a drawing of a battle of “Kim Chong-s who established 6 forts and expanded the territory as far as the Tumen River (Chosn)” (middle of the fifteenth century). The function of the “Enterprising spirit” set is crucial for the route that the curators have chosen for the South Korean visitor to follow. It basically functions as a transitional stage in this route. The set includes scenes from all the important historical eras, but even more significant is the fact that four out of the six scenes convey wartime heroism. This is conveyed in several forms, whether in a subtle way (scene 5), a symbolic way (scene 2), or an explicit way (scenes 4 and 6). The combination of this wartime heroism with three elements – the virtues of a highly 51

influential culture (vis-à-vis Japan, it should be noted) (scene 1), the connections with faraway countries (scene 3), and diplomacy (scene 5) – grounds the role of this set as a transitional stage. In the previous four sets, the visitors absorbed messages regarding the connection to their origins and to the cultural achievements of their ancestors throughout history. Hence, after viewing the “Enterprising spirit,” i.e., the combination of culture and heroism, the local visitor is now ready to advance to the sixth set called “The struggle for defending the country.” This set depicts the great valor of the ancestors, and forms the last stage before the visitor is ready to encounter the modern anti-Japanese struggle. Accordingly, as shown below, tangible history recreates the image of pre-modern pure valor and the oft-concomitant image of the inseparability between culture and heroism.

Constructing the Heroic Past Ernest Renan contended that “a heroic past, great men, glory […] this is the social capital upon which one bases national idea” (1990, 19). Tangible history in South Korea draws the heroic past from the basis of the nation’s origins, and constructs this “social capital” in the form of a continuum that does not leave room for a difficult weak past. Most importantly in this regard is the rectification of the image of the Chosn dynasty (1392–1910) – the dynasty that had failed to resist foreign intervention in Korea since the mid-nineteenth century and gradually crumbled until annexed by Japan in 1910. I focus here on two related aspects regarding the construction of a heroic past in which the image of the Chosn dynasty is crucial. First, I analyze how the contemporary use of two specific objects from two different historical periods is instrumental in the glorification of a heroic Chosn dynasty. Second, I demonstrate how tangible history narrates an historical continuum of valor embedded, among other things, within the narrative of this dynasty.

52

The Turtle Ship and the Stele At the Independence Hall, a heroic Chosn dynasty is depicted by the exhibitions of the first hall, the National Heritage Hall. The strategy employed here is to lead the visitor on a route that culminates in a final presentation of this dynasty’s valor. The hall, constructed to display artifacts illustrating Korea’s cultural heritage and the history of resistance up to 1876, is divided into three distinctive spaces: the first dedicated to pre-historic times and the Three Kingdoms Period; the second to Silla, Unified Silla, Parhae, and Kory; and, the third to the Chosn dynasty and to “overcoming national crisis.” The curators explain that “each space symbolically displays each period by centering on representative remains,” and that “the Overcoming National Crisis space exhibits our nation’s resistance, that of intelligently overcoming the invasions of the Sui, Tang, Khitan, Mongols, Japan and Ch’ing [Qing, the Manchu]” (Tongnip kinymgwan 1997, 223). The “road of valor” at this hall is constructed of images that link the “Overcoming National Crisis” space, which is the final part of the exhibition, with the hall’s entrance. At the entrance to the National Heritage Hall stands a replica of the Kwanggaet’o stele, a fifth century monument that was erected to commemorate the great conqueror King Kwanggaet’o of Kogury. The replica casts an aura of heroism over the nation’s origins preparing the visitor for an encounter with a heroic past that follows. A brief overview of the dispute related to this stele is required to comprehend the significance of its selection and placement. The original stele has been a source of contention among scholars, and the controversy over how the inscription on the stone should be interpreted was heavily laden with political and emotional overtones from Japanese and Koreans. The stele was unearthed in 1882 in Manchuria and two years later it caught the attention of the Japanese. In Korea, only after hearing of this discovery in 1905, did local newspapers start to present it as a symbol of the nation’s heroic past (Schmid 2002, 1–2).20 At the same time, however, and over the colonial period as well,

20

As Schmid also emphasizes, since reevaluating China’s traditional role as the “Middle Kingdom” had been a central part of rethinking Korea since the end of the

53

the Japanese had interpreted parts of the inscription as proof of early Japanese conquests in the Korean peninsula. Thus the stele was used to promote the colonizer’s myth of ancient rule over the territories of the colonized (Schmid 2002, 261–262). The controversy regarding the stele has still not been resolved. Post-colonial Korean historians have challenged the accuracy of the Japanese translations and interpretations, as well as accusing the Japanese of committing forgeries on the stele itself (Pai 2000, 431n11). Accordingly, in post-colonial South Korea, the stele has become a central tangible symbol to refute the former colonizer’s historical concept, as well as to glorify the nation’s own past. Moreover, it should be noticed that South Korea’s sister to the north reveres the ancient northern kingdom of Kogury and regards itself as Kogury’s territorial heir. Thus, by appropriating Kogury history through the Kwanggaet’o stele, the South also symbolically subsumes the North in its search after a glorious past (Jager 2002, 407–408), while neutralizing the contemporary Northern narrative at the same time. As for the final part of the exhibition at the National Heritage Hall, the “Overcoming National Crisis” space, it appears that this space physically combines Korea’s last dynasty, Chosn, illustrated by its “representative remains,” with the theme of resistance throughout history. The visitors thus come out of the first exhibition hall while the last notion they absorbed was that of a brave struggle, which is entwined in the characteristics of his nation’s last dynasty. There are several conspicuous objects that are placed in the National Heritage Hall to construct this notion. First, there are artifacts exhibited to convey a heroic past of the Chosn dynasty. These include: Chosn dynasty cannons, rifles, an arrow launcher, ammunition, uniforms, and banners, and a special glass case displaying the private possessions (mainly swords) of three Confucian literati – Kwak Chae-u, Chng Munbu, and Yi Kwang-ak – who led anti-Japanese local guerrilla forces in 1592 during the disastrous Japanese invasions to Korea. 21 More

21

54

nineteenth century, the stele provided historical evidence of the nation’s original strength (2002, 10). At the end of the sixteenth century, Toyotomi Hideyoshi, who had nearly completed uniting Japan after a long period of internal turmoil and was the most powerful man in the country, ordered an invasion to Korea en route to conquer China. The Japanese army made two attempts, in 1592 and 1597, which failed, albeit devastating Korea.

importantly, the space dedicated to overcoming national crisis is dominated by one conspicuous object that is placed at the center: a fourteen meter long model of the kbuksn, or the “turtle ship.” This warship was invented and used with much success by Admiral Yi Sunsin of the Chosn dynasty, one of Korea’s most revered national heroes. Yi was the hero of the wars against the sixteenth century Japanese invasions, and the Hall’s curators see the ship as more than a specific accomplishment limited to its particular history. The kbuksn is viewed as “the symbol of our nation overcoming national crisis” (Tongnip kinymgwan 1997, 224), therefore it was chosen and placed in such a way that this notion would project upon the visitor as well. Thus, the arrangement that begins with the dominating replica of the Kwanggaet’o stele at the entrance and ends with the similarly dominating kbuksn, recreates a brave Chosn dynasty which is tacked on to an ancient heroic past. This sort of representation is a deviation from the notion of a weak and shameful Chosn dynasty. Furthermore, also the layout of the seven exhibition halls in the Independence Hall bolsters this image. The halls are built around a wide plaza called March First Square. At the center of this plaza, which is dedicated to the most revered anti-colonial movement (see Chapter 3), stands a model of a Chosn dynasty clock. Also, as the visitors make their way in a circular motion from the first to the last exhibition hall, it is this object that functions as a source for a different sort of pride – a cultural-scientific one. By this, the military achievements of the Chosn dynasty that are exhibited indoors, become both inseparable and equal to the cultural-scientific ones. This is the curators’ way of claiming nationalist spirit on behalf of a dynasty, which was previously much criticized in the nationalist context. In a similar vein, a different site where the familiar images of the stele and the ship reconstruct a heroic past, is Seoul’s War Memorial (Chnjaeng kinymgwan). According to a booklet sold at the War Memorial’s souvenir shop, this memorial was built to recognize “a lack of due respect for the systematic collection and preservation of precious records of the wars our ancestors fought and the historic lessons learned of those wars” (The War Memorial of Korea n.d., 4). The decision to build the memorial came in 1988. The War Memorial Service Law was enacted that December and the place opened in 1994. The total area of 115,000 square meters includes an outdoor exhibition and 15,500 square 55

meters of indoor exhibitions. Approximately 850,000 visitors come to this site yearly.22 Here, too, a replica of the Kwanggaet’o stele is displayed, only that in contrast with the Independence Hall, it is placed outdoors (Figure 1.4). Besides standing for Korea’s heroic past, the stele “also announces the nation’s glorious ‘rebirth’,” as Sheila Miyoshi Jager contends (2002, 407). Jager explains that this image is enhanced by a triangular outdoors placement of three objects, which are the stele, the War Memorial itself, and the Statue of Brothers (a statue symbolizing the tragic South-North division). This placement symbolizes both the nation’s tragic division and its hopeful reunification in the future (2002, 406–407). Equally important to this formula is taking into consideration the outdoor exhibition that spatially connects the stele with the War Memorial building. The exhibition includes some 150 items of large-scale weaponry including airplanes, armored vehicles, missiles, and artillery pieces. And this arrangement corresponds with the overall theme of the memorial, namely wars throughout Korean history. In addition, a model of Yi Sun-sin’s kbuksn is exhibited inside the War Memorial in the central hall “in such a way that the visitor cannot help but come across it several times during the course of a visit,” thus, “encountered again and again [it] testifies to a past that is both heroic and victorious” (Jager 2002, 401) (Figure 1.5). Accordingly, “inventing a newer, stronger, and militarily powerful image of Chosn Korea, the War Memorial sought to rewrite the history of the Chosn dynasty from the vantage point of military strength, not bureaucratic weakness.” A sign of this effort at this site is that the Chosn dynasty “received significantly more exhibition space than any other period of Korea’s premodern history” (Jager 2002, 399). Furthermore, judging from the brochure distributed at the War Memorial, the historical heroism of the Chosn dynasty is strongly linked to the other pasts. As the brochure informs, the exhibitions in the site […] revive the histories from the spirit of the forefathers, who swept over/conquered [skgwn] ancient East Asia, united the entire nation, and succeeded in punishing [ngjing] aggressors; as well as [reviving] the history of the

22

56

The number is based on the data that the War Memorial’s management office provided me.

bloody struggle for regaining the country after national strength had been weakened and [then] lost (The War Memorial of Korea brochure).23

In both the Independence Hall and the War Memorial, then, the valor of the Chosn dynasty centers on the image of the “turtle ship.” In this context, the object is engaged in a dialogue with the fifth-century Kwanggaet’o stele and it is here where there exists a slight difference between the two sites. In the Independence Hall, the two artifacts are coupled under the same roof representing a departure point (the stele) and a final point (the ship) in both a spatial and temporal sense. The setting conveys an image of a natural historical line that extends over nearly 1,200 years. In the War Memorial, by comparison, although the “turtle ship” dominates the heart of the memorial, the outdoor stele is engaged in a dialogue with the imposing memorial itself and the outdoor exhibition of modern weaponry. The direct temporal linkage between the stele and the ship is thus looser than the one in the Independence Hall, though it still definitely exists. This difference is a result of the different themes around which the two sites center. While the colonial period is the main theme of the Independence Hall, heroic wars are the theme of the War Memorial in which the colonial period is hardly mentioned. Accordingly, the ancient past is constructed at the first site so it would fit the later representation of the spirit of resistance of the colonial period, while in the latter site the image of the heroic wars of the ancient past is part of a narrative that focuses on the image of the militarily strong South Korea, with the tragic Korean War (1950–1953) as a central theme.

23

The parallel English language brochure uses the phrase “the spirit of our forefathers who commanded the ancient East Asia,” and the Japanese visitor is informed by his related version that the Korean forefathers had “kodai asia o sekkenshita.”

57

Figure 1.4 Kwanggaet’o Stele replica, War Memorial, Seoul

Figure 1.5 Kbuksn model, War Memorial, Seoul

58

A Continuum of Heroism At the Independence Hall’s “Overcoming National Crisis space” – the last exhibition inside the National Heritage Hall and the one dominated by the “turtle ship” placed at its center – a variety of paintings that recreate ancient battles in vivid colors convey the image of continuous historical heroism. The battles chosen for display are: the 612 battle of the Kogury general lchi Mundk against the Chinese Sui; the 670s struggle against the Tang; and, Kang Kam-ch’an’s 1018 victory over the Khitan. In addition, there are texts that tell the stories of the thirteenth century anti-Mongol struggle and of Yi Sun-sin’s victory against the Japanese in Myngyang in 1597. Even the exhibition of Yi’s calligraphies is done under the context of displaying his heroism, as the accompanying text reads: “the writings reflect his undaunted valor and patriotism” (“yongmaengsrn kigae wa nara e taehan ch’ungsngsim”). Special emphasis is given in this section to the role of the people. In the text that narrates the developments that led to defeating the Tang in 676, for example, we are told that after the fall of Paekche (660) and Kogury (668), “the people of both kingdoms continued to resist the conquerors [the Silla-Tang alliance] and attempted to restore their lost nationhood.” “Eventually,” the text continues, “their resistance developed into a unified confrontation,” and then Silla “joined in alliance with the rebel forces of former Goguryeo [Kogury] and Baekje [Paekche] peoples.” The process culminated in the final showdown in which “a 200,000 strong [Tang] Chinese army was surrounded and annihilated by the Korean army” (emphasis mine). The central message thus conveyed by the narrative is that, a united front of the Korean people had first evolved and then came to repel the Chinese. The significance of this message is clearer when compared to an account found in a standard Korean history book. In this account, resisting the Tang certainly “laid the groundwork for the independent historical development of the Korean people” (Lee 1984, 71), but it is Silla and not the “Korean people” which plays the leading role in the narrative (see Lee 1984, 66–71). This is not to suggest, of course, that Silla is not regarded as “Korean” in the book’s account, but it is to suggest that subtle differences kept in this account, in terms of both

59

concept and terminology, are absent from the narrative exhibited at the “Overcoming National Crisis space.” In the narrative of the anti-Mongol struggle (presented in Korean only) the people, too, are given the leading role. Here, against the backdrop of the military government’s move to relocate the capital to Kanghwa Island, it was the people (paeksng) who had suffered enormously. The people then conducted a long term resistance and what is central here is the “Kory people’s pure patriotic will of protecting our country, our territory.” After this was over, the narrative continues, and the Mongols established relations with “disgraceful Kanghwa,” the disobedient sambylch’o continued to struggle bravely while acting in concert with the people. Although they were finally defeated, “the sambylch’o resistance displays perfectly the vigorous resisting-theMongols spirit [hangmong chngsin] of the Kory people” (the sambylch’o were the military men who fought the Mongols and their own submissive government for several years). The tangible heroic past thus advances two types of heroes. First, there are specific brave figures. These include military men such as Yi Sun-sin, Kang Kam-ch’an, lchi Mundk, Chang Po-go, and Kwak Chae-u, men who have appeared, as one research has shown, in many government school textbooks between the years 1960–1990 (see Kim Hyn-sn 2002, 185, 185n25, 186, 186n26), therefore they are regarded as familiar to most local visitors. The second type of heroic figure is “the people,” a seemingly faceless and nameless entity. However, by constructing a heroic past where “the people” are linked throughout history by a common forefather, by famous brave ancestors, and by a continuing national spirit of resistance, the modern South Korean visitor can see “the people” in him/herself and in the visitor standing next to him/her in the exhibition hall. And with the model of the Chosn dynasty “turtle ship” dominating the arrangement, there exists no difficult pasts to undermine this image. Similar images are apparent in other sites as well. In the Taejn National Cemetery’s Hogukkwan (“The hall of defending the country”) one conspicuous object of valor is a glass case which contains battle gear from the Chosn dynasty. Exhibited are items such as a helmet, armor, bows and arrows, a large banner, and a cannon ball. This special care taken to create an image of a militarily strong and heroic Chosn dynasty is supplemented by an accompanying two-part text. The first part 60

explains that “our nation” (uri kyre) has a five thousand years history, and it has suffered many ordeals from powers that came from both the continent and the sea. What “firmly protected” the nation at those times was “the ancestors’ strong will of defending the country.” Then the text continues with a poem that presents a list of historic examples of the spirit (chngsin) of patriotism and struggle. The examples include: Kogury’s defeat of the Tang (seventh century); Kory’s struggle against the Mongols (thirteenth century); both the 1592 and the precolonial anti-Japanese struggle of the ibyng (“righteous armies”); 24 and finally, the March First Movement and the armed struggle during the colonial period. The closing line of the poem explains the lesson that this history teaches us: “Our many patriotic forefathers defended the homeland [choguk] and shed their patriotic blood on this territory.” This poem is also engraved on a big stone slab that is set outside the entrance to the Hogukkwan. This would be the second time that the visitor encounters it, and the powerful image of walking on the land which is soaked with the blood of courageous ancestors, accompanies the visitors while arriving closer to meeting their recent colonial past. One more step, though, seems to be required, and this includes the visual aspect of his ancestors’ valor as manifested in a set of paintings called “The struggle for defending the country.” The fourteen paintings that comprise this set include various scenes connected to the periods mentioned in the poem. Three periods are represented by two paintings each, and the Chosn dynasty period is represented by eight paintings. The former three periods are depicted as follows: “Kogury” – the famous general lchi Mundk defeating a Chinese Sui force of three hundred thousand soldiers (612), and the stubborn resistance to Tang at Ansi Fortress (645); “Unified Silla” – defeating the Tang in Maeso Fortress (670s), and the undersea tomb of King Munmu; and, “Kory” – Kang Kam-ch’an’s victory against the Khitans at Kuju (1018), and the Tripitaka Koreana which, according to the attached explanation, is part of Kory’s strong will to fight the Mongols (thirteenth century).

24

ibyng refers to the local guerrilla forces that fought the sixteenth century Japanese invasions, as well as to those who struggled against imperial Japan on the eve of the 1910 annexation.

61

This selection conveys more than mere resistance. Here, the local viewers face major turning points from their past. Except for King Munmu and the Tripitaka, the remaining four exhibits signify a kind of last minute heroic act of survival in which the various invaders were compelled to retreat, thus the country was saved. A fifth exhibit is of King Munmu, who was appointed by the Chinese Tang to serve as a governor-general over a commandery the Chinese had established after assisting Silla in its seventh-century battles for unifying the peninsula. Shortly after his appointment though, as Lee Ki-baik notes, Munmu proved to be a defiant ruler to the ones who had appointed him (1984, 69). The Tripitaka is therefore an exception in this narrative since it has nothing to do with actual battle. The thirteenth century anti-Mongol struggle did not save Kory from becoming heavily influenced, or dominated, by the Mongols for the next hundred years. Despite this, the curators apparently believe that the period needed to be represented since ignoring it would have seemed odd, if not suspicious. Interestingly, the sambylch’o, the military men who fought the Mongols, are not included in the set. The Tripitaka, which Korean historiography regards as a manifestation of the government’s trust in and prayers to Buddha during those hard times, was chosen instead. Hence, the Tripitaka which was previously exhibited in the Hogukkwan under the “Cultural heritage that stands out in world history” set, functions here not as a cultural asset per se, but as a prominent achievement emphasizing the will to resist when resistance itself had failed. In the context of the other paintings in this specific heroic set, the Tripitaka is a much more powerful and famous symbol than the sambylch’o for conveying achievement. As “The struggle for defending the country” set represents all the major historical periods of heroic resistance, the Chosn dynasty is not only represented as well, but it is also the one that forms the largest part of the presentation. Here, six paintings are dedicated to the struggle against the Japanese invasion of 1592, and two to the struggle against the Manchu invasions in the seventeenth century. A twofold image is thus conveyed by means of content and quantity: first, that of an especially heroic Chosn dynasty, and second, with nearly half of the objects dedicated solely to it – the historic anti-Japanese struggle. One painting related to the sixteenth-century anti-Japanese battles depicts the “do-or-die spirit” (kylsa) of the fighters who “sacrificed 62

themselves for their own loyalty” (sunjl) at Tongnae in the early days of the Japanese invasion. Here, the fight to the death is emphasized while the fact that the Japanese had finally defeated the local defenders is not mentioned. A second related scene is dedicated to General Kwak Chaeu’s ibyng forces “annihilating Japanese troops.” Then, special care is given to one of Korea’s greatest national heroes, Admiral Yi Sun-sin. With a background portraying a naval battle, a short text is presented: “Yi Sun-sin surpasses the English Admiral Nelson as the greatest man in naval battles from the past until the present.” Also mentioned is that this quotation is taken from a Japanese account (which is not specified). In addition, a scene from Yi’s victory at Hansan Island is depicted, and together with two other battle scenes – Kwn Yul’s victory at Haengju and Kim Si-min’s victory at Chinju – the three comprise what is regarded in Korean historiography as “the three great victories of the war against the Japanese” (Lee 1984, 212–213). The last painting dedicated to the fight against the Japanese invasions is that of “Cho Hn and the 700 martyrs’ death for the country at Kmsan.” Finally, two scenes, as mentioned, belong to the resistance against the Manchu invasion of 1636 (termed pyngja horan). The two are related to “the resistance at Namhan-san fortress.” This fortress is where the Chosn king took refuge as the route to Kanghwa Island, the traditional shelter of the elite, was blocked before him. This attempt to flee is not mentioned in the accompanied text, as well as what one Korean scholar has described as an “ignominious defeat” that the king suffered in the end. 25 Hence, valor is what remains commemorated. And absorbing all this heroism and sacrifice of the ancestors, the visitors to the Hogukkwan are now prepared to continue, as the sign and arrow directs them, to the section of “The robbing of sovereign rights and the anti-Japanese struggle” of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries (which will be dealt in this book later). Compared to their colleagues in Taejn, the curators of the National Cemetery in Seoul generally display in the Photographic Exhibition House the same paintings, photographs, and texts, in two sets that represent the “Progressive Rising of Nation” followed by the “Intelligent People Overcoming National Crises.” These sets generally parallel 25

As Ch’oe Yongho writes in Lee ed. (1993, 478).

63

Taejn cemetery’s “Enterprising spirit” and “The struggle for defending the country”; however, slight differences are noticeable. The “Progressive Rising of Nation” set displays ten photographs. Six are the same as the ones in Taejn’s “Enterprising spirit” set mentioned earlier, and four are additional. These are: a hunting scene from Kogury; a painting of a battle involving King Kwanggaet’o; a map depicting “Kogury territory at its biggest expansion northwards”; and a painting related to the Kory General Yun Kwan who had occupied Jurchen territory in 1107. It is apparent that this set is even more dedicated than its Taejn parallel to project the culture-heroism combination, and, more importantly, the set is heavily oriented toward illustrating the nation’s heroic past manifested by vast (and lost) territories. By this, and in similar vein with the case of the Kwanggaet’o stele, South Korea appropriates Kogury history and neutralizes the narrative of its rival sister from the north. Furthermore, two more objects emphasize here the message of the heroic past: a glass case in which Chosn dynasty armor and swords are placed, and a large colorful scene of the Korean peninsula taken by satellite. By this arrangement of objects, an additional familiar image of a heroic Chosn dynasty is conveyed. Then, the “Intelligent People Overcoming National Crises” set, which follows, further buttresses this image. The set is comprised of ten battle paintings depicting familiar victories from the seventh through the sixteenth centuries. Again, like Taejn’s “The struggle for defending the country” set, half of the exhibition is dedicated to Chosn’s 1592 anti-Japanese struggle, which is supported by the same text that compares Yi Sun-sin to Admiral Nelson. The curators at Seoul Cemetery, however, chose to place the “Progressive Rising of Nation” and the “Intelligent People Overcoming National Crises” sets immediately following the glass case that displays copies from the Samguk yusa. Since it is commonly held that the Samguk yusa was produced following the thirteenth century Mongol invasions when “the suffering of the people […] strengthened their sense of identity as a distinct race and gave force to the concept of their descent from a common ancestor” (Lee 1984, 167), the text functions in this exhibition not merely as a narrator of the nation’s origins. By placing the sets of heroic images immediately after the Samguk yusa, the image of this text as having a special historical role in the narrative of resistance is conveyed. At the same time, the concept of the nation’s eternal spirit, a 64

spirit that functions as the key for overcoming any present and future hardships, is naturalized. The link between the present, the medieval, and the ancient pasts is thus enhanced. In addition, the transmitted image of culture and valor interlocked, is further advanced in the Photographic Exhibition House at Seoul Cemetery by two other conspicuous objects. The two large objects are a copy of the rubbing from the Kwanggaet’o stele, and a scene depicting Silla people constructing what one historian describes as “the majestic stone-brick pagoda of the Punhwang-sa temple” (Lee 1984, 63). The objects are displayed under the “Creative Cultural People” set, which is dedicated to some of the nation’s most famous cultural achievements. And with the images of culture-valor and a heroic Chosn dynasty well grounded within the grand tangible narrative at the sites demonstrated here, another important aspect regarding the manipulation of ancient heroism deserves attention at this stage. This aspect is apparent in Seoul National Cemetery at the second exhibition house on the grounds, the Relics Exhibition Building. It contains a room entitled “Ch’unghunsil” – “Room of devoted meritorious service” – and it is targeted solely at the Korean visitor since no English translations are available. The room displays photographs and personal belongings of a variety of figures including, for example, former presidents Syngman Rhee and Park Chung Hee and their wives; activists such as Yi Pm-sk, Cho Man-sik, and Chu Si-gyng who represent various forms of nationalist activities; Yi n-sang, a composer active in the colonial period; Chang T’aek-sang, who among other governmental posts acted as Director of Seoul Metropolitan Police in 1948; and, heroes such as Chn Myng-se, a Korean Airline pilot who threw himself on a hand grenade to save his passengers during an attempt to hijack the plane to North Korea on January 1971. It is conspicuous in this exhibition that the curators have found it necessary to enhance the heroic image of the room by placing between the exhibits paintings that depict scenes of ancient battles. The scenes include: General Kim Chong-s who was involved in the territorial expansion of the Chosn dynasty in the middle of the fifteenth century; a 1906 anti-Japanese battle led by Min Chong-sik; a 660 battle of Paekche led by General Kyebaek; and, lastly, a painting of the famous Silla

65

hwarang. 26 The accompanied texts provide additional power to the message of heroism. The text of the hwarang scene, for example, explains: Silla’s hwarangdo, in addition to fostering passionate patriotic sentiment of loving the country, acted for the cultivation of moral sense and for training body and mind. And as an organized youth corps [they] became the driving force behind the unification of the Three Kingdoms.

In addition to this, what is especially interesting is the text that accompanies Kyebaek’s battle scene. The narrative explains that the general led a five thousand-strong suicide squad (kylsadae) that fought bravely against the enemy at the Hwangsan Fortress. The visitor is not being told, though, that this, as Lee claims, can also be seen a tactical mistake that probably could have been avoided from the outset (1984, 66), and that the battle ended in defeat. Moreover, by not specifying “the enemy,” which was actually Silla, the fact that it was a battle between two “Korean peoples” is obscured. Therefore, by the selection of four scenes from four different periods, and by the way of representing these scenes, an aura of past nationalist valor is cast in the room that commemorates a more recent and diversified meritorious service. This has an important twofold affect regarding the image of the commemorated figures. First, it attempts to erase the stain of colonial collaboration from the states post-colonial leadership. Both Presidents Rhee and Park were tarnished by it, as well as the post-colonial police that was headed by Chang T’aek-sang (Chapter 2 deals more thoroughly with this issue). At the same time it again links the local visitors to their heroic past.

Conclusion: The Historical Crossroad of Change Ernest Renan observed that “of all cults, that of the ancestors is the most legitimate, for the ancestors have made us what we are” (1990, 19). 26

66

The hwarang were youth bands engaged in both spiritual and military cultivation. They are regarded in Korean culture and history as inspirational symbols of heroism.

However, usually it is what we want to be that shapes what we make of the ancestors. The curators of the memorial sites explored in this chapter have constructed an image of a Korean past of antiquity, uniqueness, and continuing valor as an initial step in the tangible narrative that attempts to clarify for modern South Koreans their historical past, present situation, and future prospects. They have done this by focusing on the ideas of a single bloodline, national spirit, the people’s role, territorial expansion, and defense of the country. As seen in these sites, this image of Korea’s past is constructed by the repetition of concepts in different forms and by avoiding complexities and ambiguities.27 It is apparent that the curators have taken much care to both choose and further enhance familiar codes and symbols in a way that naturalizes them in the accompanied historical texts. In this regard, two central images that have been reconstructed were the image of culture and valor interlocked and the image of the Chosn dynasty, a dynasty that had usually carried with it a troubled image. Without reconstructing the image of this dynasty, the chain that links the present to the past, namely, modern South Koreans to their ancestors, would be broken. Apparently, the idea of an ancient past and a unique culture do not suffice in this regard. The notion of “national spirit” also depends on the spirit of resistance and struggle, and this heroism is represented as appearing uninterruptedly throughout all periods, including the Chosn dynasty. The relationship between form and content are central in this regard. The visual image of the Chosn dynasty is constructed by a heavy reliance on concrete colorful, three-dimensional, carefully chosen, and well placed exhibits that represent the dynasty’s heroism. To be sure, various cultural elements and characteristics of this dynasty and of preceding dynasties and kingdoms in areas such as scholarly and religious works, technological inventions, arts, and pottery, are conspicuously represented as well. One advantage, though, that the concrete form of presentation has is its spatial dimension through which a variety of artifacts are simultaneously visual to the visitor, i.e., the reader. Representing cultural-oriented objects with objects of valor, not only naturalizes an image where uniqueness and heroism interlock. It also allows for objects of valor to visually dominate the scene and in the 27

See Barthes’s notion of “myth,” in Barthes (1972, 109–145).

67

case of the Chosn dynasty, to enhance the heroic image as compared with its cultural image. In the tangible representation, these dominant objects of valor thus give an aura of heroism to the dynasty as a whole, and not only to the specific figures that they commemorate. What, then, was the reason for the need to strengthen the “weak link” of Chosn in the tangible narrative of Korea’s national history? To answer this, a comparative perspective would be helpful. In modern Israel, an idea of “defeated heroism” has been employed in the myth of Masada, at one of the states crucial historical crossroads. Every child in Israel is familiar with the story of Masada. The narrative appears in a first century chronicle composed by Josephus who had witnessed the anti-Roman revolt of the Jews. Although the historical validity of the account itself, or some of its parts, is questionable, modern Israel has nevertheless embraced it in its collective and historical memory. The myth tells the story of the Jews who held the mountain fortress of Masada under a lengthy siege by the Romans. When the Romans were finally on the verge of invading the fortress, all the approximately one thousand Jewish men, women, and children committed collective suicide. Throughout the years there have been several alternatives in the way that this narrative was perceived in Israeli memory.28 In the formative years of the pre-Israeli state period, the Zionist settlers narrated the story in a way that it captured the active heroism embedded in the “authentic national spirit,” a spirit that had later disappeared during the two thousand year period of Jewish life in exile. This linkage emphasized the theme of national rebirth in the Land of Israel. Later, and until the early 1960s, the story was perceived as a counter-model to the Holocaust victims. A sharp change in perceiving Masada (and the Holocaust for that matter) came in the 1970s and 1980s when Israel was experiencing a major process in which the trauma of the 1973 Yom Kippur War played a leading role.29 These processes allowed for the creation of the “tragic narrative” in which modern Israel was able to identify with both the Holocaust victims and the “defeated heroism” of Masada. Masada’s “defeated heroism” was the act of mass suicide under “an extreme 28 29

68

This discussion on the Masada myth is drawn from Zerubavel (1994). The Yom Kippur War provided the Israeli public with an unprecedented experience of truly feeling a threat to the state’s existence.

situation of persecution and helplessness,” thus continuity has been constructed between Masada, the Holocaust, and modern Israel that is surrounded by hostile enemies. In similar vein, the key for understanding the process of creating the Chosn past in South Korea is a rising sense of vulnerability. The decision to construct all the memorial halls discussed in this chapter came in the 1980s during the Chun Doo Hwan (1980–1988) and Roh Tae Woo (1988–1993) governments, and the construction was completed by no later than the early 1990s (this includes the memorial halls that were later additions to the already existing National Cemetery). In the 1980s, Korea was entering a new period after the shocking assassination of President Park Chung Hee in 1979, “the builder of the nation,” who had ruled the country with an iron fist for eighteen years. This new period witnessed several major events and developments. First, the Chun Doo Hwan regime was suffering from a serious legitimacy problem after taking over the government by illegal and brutal ways (see also Chapter 3). Second, in 1982 the textbook dispute with Japan raised much public outrage. Third, in 1983 the Chun government was attacked in Rangoon by a bomb planted by North Korean agents killing seventeen senior officials. Fourth, fierce public anti-government protests culminated in the transition to a new system of government, to democracy, in 1987. The transition was backed by a politically awakened middle class, a class that had grown during the Park regime, and that by the 1980s had become a powerful factor. Fifth, the government of Roh Tae Woo (1988–1993), the first post-authoritarian regime, promoted the Nordpolitik, targeted toward improving relations with North Korea by way of rapprochement with Eastern Europe. Sixth, South Korea had successfully hosted the Asian Games (1986) and the Olympic Games (1988). And finally, both Koreas were admitted as members to the UN in 1991. It was thus a period of significant changes in all spheres, a period that was characterized by intense events and developments that alternately strengthened and weakened South Korea’s sense of security. From the stance of both the authoritarian and the democratic governments of the decade, the conditions had brought about a sense of vulnerability followed by the urge to affirm their place both internally and in the outside world. This led to the promotion of nationalist sentiment through familiar themes related to the nation’s colonial period, 69

a period which in a broad sense displayed “defeated heroism” since it was not the Korean struggle that finally brought colonial rule to an end. An initial step in this trend was to solidify desired concepts of ancient roots. Accordingly, it was also the time to move beyond Park Chung Hee’s concept of national rebirth, of changing the course of the nation’s history. In this context, black historical holes of weakness and shame would be filled with the glory of valor. Now emphasis would be given to government-led, much publicized, tangible projects where no gaps existed in the representation of a temporal line that tightly links the present (and the future) Korean people with all their pasts. The result was a tangible ancient, unique, heroic, and continuous past, made cohesive by the now strong image of the Chosn dynasty, an image through which, as compared with Masada’s “defeated heroism,” heroism has been made to completely overshadow defeat. Therefore, the reconstruction of roots through contemporary South Korean tangible history is one more (dynamic) stage in the socio-political process of narrating historical origins in the Korean peninsula.

70

Chapter 2: The Face of Colonialism

As we have seen in the previous chapter, heroism functions as the linchpin of a tangibly created pre-colonial continuous Korean past. Since heroism functions as a crucial theme in colonial-period historiography as well, it is essential for South Korea’s national narrative to illustrate the colonial situation itself. The following description represents the commonly held historical framework regarding the perception of the colonial period: […] The Korean people were actually put under a militaristic rule which drove them into slavery in the suffocating atmosphere of fear. They lost not only their national independence, but also their land, their rights, and every aspect of their lives came under the control of Japanese rules and regulations […] The Japanese called Korea “a thriving land,” but to the Koreans Japanese rule symbolized oppression and exploitation. The Korean people, their land, and natural resources were ruthlessly exploited by the Japanese capitalists. If Korea was thriving, it was doing so for the imperialistic ambitions of Japan and not for the Koreans (Nahm 1988, 223–224).

Accordingly, although “colonialism” in Korean is singminjui, Koreans commonly refer to this period as ilche kangjm – imperial Japan’s occupation. The general description above leads us to the three issues that are treated in the present chapter: life under colonial rule, the brutality of the colonizer, and the issue of collaboration. Through these themes the explored memorial sites form the framework of the memory of the South Korean anti-colonial struggle, which will be the subject of the later chapters. This categorization, though, calls for one clarification: it is impossible to separate between the suffering of a victim and the brutality of a victimizer. The two are logically interdependent. Nevertheless, since this research deals with visual representations of themes, it is possible to identify exhibits that put more weight on one than the other. Finally, this chapter will analyze one exhibit – the remains of the GovernmentGeneral Building at the Independence Hall – which is, by its history and

71

design, a recent dramatic manifestation of the ongoing discussion on the contour of colonial memory.

Life under Colonial Rule: Facing Colonial Modernity Various interpretations and ways of perceiving Korea’s colonial period have developed. With regard to the economic relations between the colonizer and the colonized, a related body of research has attempted to define what the significance was of Japan’s intervention in Chosn dynasty Korea and in what ways, if any, did colonial rule affect postliberation development. This body of research responded to several key approaches. To start with, already Japanese scholars from the colonial period claimed that Japan had introduced modernization to a stagnant Chosn dynasty, and, accordingly, post-liberation scholars have been debating over the developmental stage of pre-colonial Korea. 1 One trend of Korean historians, in both the North and the South, argued that the late feudal Chosn dynasty was implementing progressive measures until the advent of Japanese imperialism interrupted the process. What resulted during the colonial period, according to this view, was that the disruptive Japanese interference was exploitive and it prevented Korean society from developing. Other scholars tried to theoretically reinforce this concept by employing the “dependency theory,” which asserted that advanced countries significantly benefited from trade with weaker countries, which, conversely, became even poorer. Another trend of scholarship focused on historical continuity. In light of South Korea’s economic development, South Korean and Western scholars alike sought to connect post-liberation development with various economic patterns of colonial society and, at times, with pre-colonial society as well. The issue was thus crucial for South Korea while it has been establishing self-identity through national history. Accordingly, as 1

72

I draw this overview from Suh Yong-Sug (1996, 161–176). In any case, this overview is general and does not include the rich variety of research existing within the trends presented here.

tangible history has taken part in this process by attempting to create certain images while refuting others, the following section interweaves references to the patterns of tangible history, with specific examples from related scholarship. In addition, the most recent trend connected to the perception of the colonial period is presented under this framework.

Land Survey or Land Grab? Between 1910–1918, the Japanese Government-General of Korea carried out a comprehensive land survey for the purpose of creating a modern and effective land taxation system. This huge project cost twenty million yen and was conducted by the Land Survey Bureau established in 1910 especially for that purpose. All plots were mapped and classified according to type, productivity and ownership. Therefore, Korean landowners were required to report and prove legal title to their land. As a result, there were Korean farmers who lost their land because they were unfamiliar with the new bureaucratic procedure of reporting, and/or because after years of tilling the land under traditional customs and “near-hereditary rights” without being subject to an effective tax collection system, they could not prove their legal title (Lee 1965 [1963], 94). The lands of these farmers came under government ownership and landless farmers became tenants, migrated to Manchuria and/or became slash-and-burn farmers (hwajnmin). The view commonly presented by South Korea’s national history, as exemplified in the official Handbook of Korea, is that “it [the land survey] laid the foundation for wholesale expropriation of land” (Korean Overseas Information Service 1993, 100). Also, the third exhibition hall at the Independence Hall is called simply Ilche ch’imnyakkwan, Japanese Aggression Hall. Here, a text entitled “Economic Invasion and Extortion” states that, Through the ‘Land Survey (1910)’, the Government-General of Korea came to possess 62% of the total land in Korea and sold it off at bargain prices to Japanese emigrants and [to] the semi-governmental Oriental Development Company. This reduced many Korean farmers to tenants, slash-and-burn farmers, or wanderers.

Related photographs that supply the necessary visual effect are attached to the text. In similar vein, at the Seoul National Cemetery’s 73

Photographic Exhibition House, a passage of text entitled “The Military Rule of Imperial Japan” reads: Through the act of imperialist Japan’s land survey, farmers who were deprived [ppaeatkin] of their farmland crossed the Tuman River, and set off to wander the roads of Kando, Manchuria.

Photographs of miserable looking peasants in various situations also accompany this text. It should be noted that the land survey (t’oji josa sap) in colonial Korea had its precedent in Japan itself. There, in 1871, a new system was purposed in which land value, rather than annual harvest, would constitute the basis for agricultural taxation. The Meiji state adopted the plan and a national land survey was conducted between 1873–1881. After its completion, the state not only enjoyed stable annual tax revenue, but it also had more land subject to taxation (Myers and Yamada 1984, 427–428), and in its early years, land tax constituted about eighty percent of the state’s income (Shillony 1997, 80). The new law stated that whoever paid the tax on their land would also be the one registered as its owner. Thus, farmers who were not able to pay the tax now became tenants. Ben-Ami Shillony observes that as a consequence, two rural classes were created, one of independent farmers who owned their land, and a second of poor tenants who did not own the land they tilled. Also, the new tax law transformed Japanese agriculture from feudal agriculture to a capitalist one. In addition, the reform contributed in various ways to Japan’s industrial development while at the same time, creating a heavy burden on and inflicting suffering to the poor farmers and the tenants (1997, 80–81). Moreover, between 1898–1904 Japan also conducted a similar reform in its colony of Taiwan. Therefore, the land survey in colonial Korea was not a unique act. After completing the survey in Korea, the state had accurate records of all the land which also assured itself of a dependable stable land tax with which to plan future expenditures (Myers and Yamada 1984, 428–429), and these two outcomes were similar to the reforms in Japan and Taiwan. When dealing with the representation of the land survey in Korea, then, it appears that contrary to what may be understood from the exhibition halls, the colonial land survey was not without precedent in terms of goals, method, and in some aspects (though not all) even consequences. 74

Regarding the consequences, to begin with, the above text of “Economic Invasion and Extortion” states that when the land survey ended “the Government-General of Korea came to posses 62% of the total land in Korea.” In comparison, Andrew Nahm writes that in 1918 the government came to own forty percent of farm and forest land (1988, 227), and Michael Robinson mentions that in 1930 it owned almost forty percent of all land in Korea. 2 Furthermore, the text explains that the confiscated land was sold at bargain prices to Japanese emigrants and to the Oriental Development Company. Peter Duus explains that there was no homogeneous Japanese landlord class in Korea and the Japanese landowner “included everyone from a village postmaster with a small truck garden farmed by a Korean tenant, to the colonial government itself” (1995, 377). He also identifies the “typical Japanese landlord” as “an absentee smallholder, often living in a nearby town, where he made his living as a shopkeeper, policeman, moneylender, innkeeper, schoolteacher or even priest” (1995, 389). And as for the big Japanese companies that acquired land, one was The Oriental Development Company (Ty Takushoku Kaisha), a semi-governmental company established in 1908, originally for the purpose of sending agricultural colonists to Korea (Duus 1995, 304). The company is commonly depicted as a mammoth landlord which came to possess a large share of Korean land,3 although Duus observes that “it is clear that the company never came even close to monopolizing the land market” in Korea. In 1918, with the company’s holdings near the peak, it owned no more than thirty percent of all privately held Japanese land (1995, 383). What is interesting in regard to the connection between the land survey and the “Japanese land grab” is that already in the early 1980s scholars have shown that not so many Korean households lost their land as a result of the survey (Myers and Yamada 1984, 429–430). Scholars have also held that the survey “strengthened all owner’s rights, Japanese and Korean” (emphasis mine) (Eckert et al. 1990, 267), and stress that it reflected and codified an already existing land system (Eckert et al. 1990, 267–268; Buzo 2002, 19). Finally, while not ignoring the harsh aspect of Japanese colonial rule, Edwin H. Gragert, too, concluded in his extensive research that, “no major transfer of landownership from 2 3

In Eckert et al. (1990, 266). See, e.g., Eckert et al. (1990, 266); Lee (1984, 318–319); and Cumings (1997, 148).

75

Korean to Japanese owners occurred at the outset of the colonial period (1910–1918)” (1994, 159), and that, significant changes in landownership patterns had taken place only in the early 1930s (1994, 160). On the other hand, according to one study the Japanese came to own land that was of better quality and more productive than Korean-owned land (Ho 1984, 373–374). Moreover, the situation of Korean farmers who lost the land they had tilled worsened after the land survey. Kang Man-gil observes that among the farmers who both lost their land and were driven away from their villages, some were incorporated into the Japanese labor market, others moved to Manchuria to become tenants or became slash-and-burn farmers, and the rest moved to urban areas and became the city poor, the t’omangmin. T’omangmin is an interesting term as it is written with the Chinese characters of earth ( 赞 ), screen/curtain (臚), and people (芮). As Kang Man-gil describes, it was given to people who lived at the city’s outskirts in dwellings formed by digging in the ground and using a piece of straw mat as a roof and an entrance. Not only were the conditions of the t’omangmin very poor, but Kang also emphasizes that even though poor people had existed previously, the t’omangmin were a specific type of poor created by colonial policy (1999, 77). The brief overview above demonstrates the potential existence of a rich and complex terrain of colonial reality that is obscured by tangible history. Constructed of relatively short texts and attached photographs of poor and miserable Koreans, the tangible historical account of the land survey is by no means a fabrication. It is, however, a carefully constructed narrative projecting an effective visual image of naturalness. This is further illustrated when the visitor to the memorial sites absorbs the wider image of life under colonial rule.

Overcoming Contesting Histories At the Independence Hall’s Japanese Aggression Hall, a detailed plaque entitled “Living Conditions in [the] 1910s” explains the essence of life in colonial Korea: Imperial Japan stole the national sovereignty of Korea on August 29, 1910 and governed Korea with the rifles and swords of military and police forces under the

76

jurisdiction of Joseon [Chosn] Chongdokbu (the Office of the Resident-General of Joseon). Many Korean patriots were executed and many were arrested. Koreans were oppressed under barbarous laws: the Fishery Act and Company Law downsized native enterprises, and the differential wage rate system exploited Korean laborers. A colonial education substituted for national education in order to erase Korean national identity. When a food crisis struck Japan, the Japanese secretly exported Korean rice to Japan, and the price of rice in Korea skyrocketed because of the lack of food, devastating the colonial people and finally touching off the March First Movement (emphasis mine).

The frequent use of the words yakt’al and sut’al (plunder and exploit) are also conspicuous in other displayed texts in this hall, and various photographs complement the conveyed image of Japan extorting Korea’s natural resources and rice production, and monopolizing its industry. A text entitled “Colonial Rule” informs that “Japan deprived Korea of all rights, freedoms and even the right to live.” Another similar example is “The Military Rule of Imperial Japan” text at the National Cemetery that opens with the following passage: The colonial rule of Imperial Japan was cruel. Led by militarists, the military government deprived the Koreans of all freedoms, such as speech, gathering and association, and committed inhumane oppression [piin tojgin t’anap] of nationalists.

And at this point, it will be useful to turn to several perceptions regarding colonial life. The task of tangible history here is revealed by reviewing the “Korean nationalist notion” in this regard and the approaches that challenge it, and by analyzing the nature of this contested terrain. In a 1968 article, historian Hong I-sop revealed several central observations that comprise part of the commonly held nationalist view on colonial life. Hong writes: “Korea never changed for the better from its colonial status under the oppression of Japan during the days of the succeeding governor-generals” (1968, 12), and regarding “the native population in Korea” Hong asserts that, Before losing their improved land due to the heavy burden they had already forfeited their unimproved land immediately following the land survey conducted at the early period of the Government-General of Chosen. 4 Moreover, the land

4

“Chsen” was the name that Japan gave to its Korean colony.

77

improvement project for the increased production of rice was not carried out for the sole purpose of giving profit to the Koreans, who received nothing of the increased income accrued from the land improvement. Thus the original population in colonial Korea under the Japanese rule suffered poverty more and more as the days went by (1968, 14).

Another noted historian, Lee Ki-baik, writes that “Korea’s industrial economy was built in pursuit of Japanese goals, on a foundation of Korean suffering and sacrifice” (1984, 355). 5 Lee also describes the miserable situation of many poverty-stricken farmers – among them those who “were forced to eat roots or the bark of trees” (1984, 357) – and of Korean laborers who worked long hours while earning low wages that made it difficult “for a family to maintain even a minimal standard of living, and there was nothing left to spend for cultural or leisure activities or for the education of one’s children” (1984, 359).6 Finally, two recent South Korean scholars acknowledge that Korea had received “secondary benefits” from the “one-way influence of Japan,” an influence that was designed only for the well being of Japan itself, but they also argue that “the external factors which existed in Korea became very weak or disappeared when the colonial period was over,” therefore, “the country had to start again to a great extent” (Kwak and Lee 1997, 98). Their conclusion that “the conditions for economic development are usually exaggerated” hence “an important factor for growth is that it comes from the mind than from material” (1997, 98), complements their earlier statement that “it has been proved in South Korea in recent years that the Korean people are well qualified for high economic growth” (1997, 91). Based on the above, then, a general summary of the commonly held notion of colonial life would be that under Japanese rule, the Korean people suffered immensely while any improvement and advancement in the colony solely served the colonizing empire. Colonialism is conceived as a phase that disrupted the course Korea took, or could have taken, toward modernity, and in any case, South Korea had to start its postcolonial development from zero. Moreover, under the harsh 5

6

78

On the same page, though, Lee does give examples for proving also that “even under these circumstances there was a persistent growth of native Korean capital investment.” Lee provides detailed statistical data to demonstrate his point regarding the miserable situation of Korean farmers and laborers (see 1984, 356–359).

circumstances of colonial rule, Koreans struggled for survival and could hardly afford any form of normal or regular everyday life. Various scholars and commentators do not see eye to eye with this “Korean nationalist notion,” and this results in a contest over history. Two Japanese scholars, Mizoguchi Toshiyuki and Yamamoto Yz, for example, conclude their article published in 1984 with this observation: […] in both colonies [Korea and Taiwan], the colonial governments played the leading role in making investment spending and relating that to economic development. Colonial officials planned for and spent from their budgets for infrastructure development: railroads, harbors, warehouses and communications. These structures and buildings, along with their necessary equipment and machinery, proved to be indispensable for producing the economic growth which both colonies experienced (1984, 412).

Another Japanese scholar, an economics professor at Kobe University, Mitsuhiko Kimura, explored in the 1980s and 1990s various aspects of the economic conditions in colonial Korea. Three of his articles, all supported by economic data and formulas, deserve attention here. In one article he presented the following central observations: (1) Korea was not an important market for Japan’s manufacturing industry; (2) before the late 1930s “few Japanese investors including zaibatsu had any serious interest in Korea” and the colony “did not significantly affect the overall profitability of Japanese investors”; (3) “Korean migration made no substantial impact on the Japanese labour market”; (4) “remittances of Japanese labour income from Korea to Japan were insignificant”; and, (5) “the Japanese government did not benefit financially from the colonization of Korea; rather, it bore a continuous [though not a heavy] burden.” Kimura’s main conclusion is that “Japanese imperialism in Korea presents a case where non-economic motives dominated economic ones” (1995).7 In a second article, Kimura explored the living conditions of the masses in colonial Korea. The factors he chose for study were nutrition, literacy, and mortality. He asserted that literacy and survival rates rose, and although per capita calorie intake declined, average stature did not decrease, therefore “Koreans’ nutritional status does not appear to have suffered.” Kimura acknowledges that “it seems unlikely that every 7

Kimura does emphasize that his analysis focuses on the period that preceded the period of wartime Japan.

79

element of Korean living conditions improved under colonial rule,” e.g., a deterioration of Korean mental health may have occurred as result of “the strict Japanese-fist colonial policy” that deprived Korean national sovereignty and self-esteem, and, also, “it seems that there was little if any improvement in housing.” The conclusion, then, is that “as there is yet no final way of weighting the relative value of different factors, either a positive or a negative overall assessment is possible” (1993).8 Finally, in a third article, Kimura begins with an analysis of the financial problems in late Chosn, and then asserts that “the establishment of the modern monetary system ultimately accrued from the [Japanese] Mekata reform” in 1905 (1986, 795–796). Also, after analyzing several financial variables in colonial Korea, he concludes both that indeed “Korea’s financial development was clearly marked with a colonial character” but, that also “all in all, the financial development in Korea under the Japanese rule proceeded rapidly” (1986, 819). A final important observation is that financial development under colonial rule contributed to the economic growth of post-war South Korea since it both produced a (limited) layer of native bankers, as well as forming the habit among the people of depositing money with financial cooperatives (1986, 820). A last example in this context is related to the second “textbook controversy” between Japan and South Korea that erupted in 2001. Then, Japan’s Ministry of Education and Science approved a new middleschool history textbook, which was viewed in South Korea as a distortion of history. The event created uproar in South Korea, and the strong protests from the government were accompanied by several official measures, mainly the suspension of a few cultural projects. The event also captured headlines in the South Korean press, and one paper, The Korea Herald, presented a systematic chart which paralleled “What Japanese textbooks say” with “Korean analysis.”9 Under the rubric of “Development of the colonized Korea” the Japanese textbooks say, according to the newspaper’s understanding, that “for the colonized Korea, Japan pushed ahead with development projects, building railroads 8 9

80

Here too, Kimura emphasizes that the research is valid only until 1940, after which “Korean living conditions in general worsened markedly” (1993, 630n6). The chart was originally published on May 9, 2001, on the online version of the paper. Currently it is displayed on the VANK (Voluntary Agency of Korea) website.

and improving irrigation facilities.” On the other hand, “Korean analysis” presented the familiar explanation: The description reflects the opinion of the Japanese colonialists who insisted that Japan’s development projects contributed to the modernization of Korea and benefited its people. But they were in fact designed to facilitate Japan’s colonial rule and exploitation of Korea.

What was interesting about the second “textbook controversy” was that although the textbook was approved in Japan after an organized campaign led by certain nationalist academic circles and journalists, it did not reflect the view of the majority of Japanese educators and government officials. They supported a more transparent and accountable teaching of Japan’s wartime history (Nelson 2002, 130). Evidence of this came later when Japanese schools, except for a handful of rare cases, did not adopt the controversial textbook. This suggests that contemporary Japanese research of and approach to the colonial period is diverse, hence I have intentionally presented here a particular angle, the one that commonly agitates Koreans. This challenging “Japanese view” may thus be summed up as follows. Japan brought modernization to Korea. It modernized its Korean colony by constructing infrastructure and financial institutions, and these effected the development of post-war South Korea. Also, according to this view, although the characteristics of colonial rule are generally acknowledged, it is questionable whether the colonizing empire had actually gained economic benefits, or whether the colonized people experienced suffering only. The controversy between the “Korean nationalist view” and the “Japanese view” is thus mostly located within the realm of contested histories where both data and its interpretation are continuously being debated, and it is within this realm that tangible history operates to override the contesting views.

Enter Colonial Modernity In the mid 1980s and beginning of the 1990s, several Western scholars such as Bruce Cumings (1984), Dennis McNamara (1990), and Carter J. Eckert (1991), have contributed greatly to the concept that views the Korean colonial experience as a key factor in the formation of post81

liberation South Korea. Connected to various aspects of this notion, there recently has been a growing trend in colonial scholarship which attempts to expose the complexity of colonial life. The implications of such a trend are, first, undermining the “suffering and resistance of the Korean people” paradigm, and second, further supporting, in some cases, the view related to the colonial legacy of post-liberation South Korea. A few examples among the growing related body of English language literature, written both by Westerners and Koreans, include the collection of articles published in Colonial Modernity in Korea, edited by Gi-Wook Shin and Michael Robinson (1999); Han Do-Hyun’s research on the colonial government’s policy toward shamanism and Koreans’ reactions to it (2000); and, the colonial legacies of the laws regarding the preservation of Korean remains and relics, demonstrated by Hyung Il Pai (2001). Works in Korean have dealt, among others, with: colonial modernization, as exemplified by the urban experience in the Seoul area, and its effect on colonial and post-liberation Koreans (Kim Young-Geun [2000]); colonial intervention into Korean culture and its legacy, as exemplified by the Korean Family Law (Yang Hyunah [2000]); the effects of the colonial government’s policy regarding hygiene and vaccination (Shin Dong-won [2002]); and, even the expressions of love and sexuality and the emergence of the New Women under colonial conditions (Kim Keong-il [2000]). To be sure, sometimes these works display views that are compatible with the broader framework of the nationalist view. A case in point is the assertion that quantity should not be the only variable. According to this view, under colonial circumstances, it must be remembered that modernity was not only achieved by harsh oppression, but also, Koreans were led to it in a similar way that “a newborn gosling follows its mother” (Shin 2002, 362). Accordingly, in another article, an alternative viewpoint which claims to overcome the colonialismmodernity dichotomy, is presented. This view employs the term “repudiation as an outsider” (chupyn injk pujng isik) to explain that Koreans had no alternative but to adapt to the changes of their transformed society. However, most of them were excluded from the center of the modern social order and could not ascertain their “true self,” therefore they strongly despised the official system that the Japanese enforced on them (Kim Young-Geun 2000, 39–40). It would be a mistake, then, to treat the works presented above as constituting a 82

united front that is in opposition to the official South Korean nationalist view of the colonial period. They do, however, open a window for a fresh and relatively unexplored terrain that may demand conventional colonial memory to make room for its findings. In the preface of a recent unique work that brings to light a collection of “small” personal stories from the colonial period, author Hildi Kang admits that: My own knowledge of the Imperial Japanese colony originally came from two genres – the systematic detail in history books and the passionate stories of martyrs – and neither of these had prepared me for the gentle humor as my father-in-law recounted his early life […] I let his stories slip by one after the other, until suddenly it struck me that every story took place under Japan’s onerous rule of the peninsula. Where were the atrocities I had come to expect? His memories shook loose my narrow view of colonial life and made me aware that often, under that shade cast by the Japanese presence, some people, some of the time, led close to normal lives. Of course, I now realized, during those years there must have been the entire gamut of life experiences, but where were their voices? (2001, xi).

Kang’s interviewees present a rich world of colonial experience where not everyone suffered all the time and not everyone opposed the Japanese, fought them, or even categorically hated them. Since myth provides “a clarity which is not that of an explanation but that of a statement of fact” (Barthes 1972, 143), this sort of complex memory, by definition, has the potential of undermining the desired image of the colonial period. The point where explanations are needed is also the point where the vitality of this image is in danger. Hence, the works on the complexity of colonial life constitute a very specific challenge to the orthodox nationalist view, a challenge in the shape of a permeating alternative memory. Therefore, there is on one level a contest that takes place within the realm of contested histories, while on a second level a contest over memory itself. The first level, as mentioned, is where mostly data and its interpretation are debated, while the second level is where usually what should be remembered is argued. These two levels are strongly connected, as demonstrated in the following. Writing in 1997 on the occasion of the Independence Hall’s tenth anniversary, Shin Yong-ha, who is commonly regarded as a “nationalist” historian, criticized the Japanese historical interpretation according to 83

which the plunder of Korea’s land is labeled as a “modern reform,” and the aggressive use of the country as a supply base is called “industrialization” (1997, 511). More importantly, Shin explains that this way of understanding the colonial period has also been accepted by certain academic circles within South Korea (1997, 512). By defining this problem he underscores a dangerous process from the point of view of South Korea’s official nationalist history: side effects of the outside struggle over history between South Korea and its former colonizer take the form of a permeating alternative memory inside South Korea itself. Shin also explains the function of the Independence Hall. The Hall, while appealing not only to Korean students, but also to all foreign visitors including Japanese, liquidates the Japanese historical view of the colonial period, i.e., liquidates the distortion of Korean history. Moreover, the Hall continuously creates a type of patriotism, which is “a mental driving force for achieving the national unification desired by our nation” (1997, 513). Through the unique means available to it, then, tangible history struggles to keep the colonial image both alive and pure for the sake of the present and the future. The narrative of suffering, of poor living conditions, and of discontinuity between the colonial period and post-liberation South Korea regarding development and modernization, ignores and overcomes an existing contesting history. At the same time, it guards its created memory from complexities and from Hildi Kang’s “other voices.” Two ways of doing so, as the next two sections of this chapter will demonstrate, is by describing the cruelty of the colonizer and by dealing with the issue of collaboration.

The Brutal Occupier The issues of the suffering of the Korean people and the brutality of the Japanese colonizer are interdependent. Nevertheless, the designers and curators of South Korea’s memorial sites take special care to emphasize the cruelty of, and the specific atrocities committed by, the Japanese.10 10

84

At the outset, it is important for me to emphasize that in dealing here with this issue, nowhere do I imply that Japanese atrocities in colonial Korea are historically

The present section analyzes the depiction of this brutality according to sites.

The Independence Hall: History of Japanese Brutality In the Independence Hall’s second exhibition hall, called Kndae minjok undonggwan – the Modern National Movement Hall – there is a display under the title of “The Oppression of the Righteous Army by Imperial Japan.” The text (in Korean only) tells about the anti-Japanese struggle of the “righteous army” (ibyng) and ends with the following:11 Not only did imperialist Japan ruthlessly murder captured ibyng, but it also massacred many residents of the regions where ibyng activity took place, and set fire to whole villages everywhere. Particularly, in the two months beginning from September 1909, occurred what is called ‘the operation of suppression in the south,’ where imperial Japan committed murders and set fires in many rural communities in the Chlla region and in places like Andong and Chech’n.

The text focuses on the September 1909 campaign which, in the words of Shin Yong-ha, “made Chlla province a stage of barbarity, slaughter and arson” (2000, 185) and which finally “proved to be a shattering blow to the righteous army movement” (2000, 186). 12 The text uses three different words to emphasize the killings that the Japanese committed: sarhae (killing, murder), haksal (slaughter, massacre), and sarin (homicide, murder). Also, among the accompanied photographs, the

11

12

marginal, questionable, or fabricated. In addition, in no way do I pass any judgmental critique on the “depiction of a brutal occupier” as being, for example, “exaggerated” or “inappropriate.” My only concern is with the depiction itself and with what I view as its function in the overall narrative of tangible history. The “righteous armies” is the name given to the armed forces that actively struggled against Japan’s aggression. The forces were comprised of Confucian literati, peasants, and also professional soldiers who joined in after Japan had forced the Korean Army to disband in 1907. The activity of the “righteous armies” reached its peak in 1908, and was almost non-existent in 1911 following harsh Japanese suppression. The British reporter, Frederick McKenzie, was an eyewitness to the guerilla activity and to Japan’s brutal reaction as it manifested even before “the suppression in the South” campaign. He reported his impressions in his book The Tragedy of Korea published in 1908.

85

most conspicuous is an enlarged photograph depicting a row of hanged people on gallows. This sort of representation prepares the visitor for the third exhibition hall, the Ilche ch’imnyakkwan – the Japanese Aggression Hall. The Hall presents an unequivocal description of a brutal imperial Japan. Various texts here that illustrate imperial Japan’s road to colonizing Korea describe it as a predator: since forcibly opening Korea in 1876, Japan used military aggression, it “long schemed to annex Korea” and was “always watching for a chance to increase its presence in Korea.”13 On its way to colonization, Japan committed “atrocities unheard of [before],” and “thoroughly persecuted” and “indiscriminately slaughtered” rebels. There is also a special display dedicated to the murder of Queen Min in 1895: a large plaque with a red background explains how Japanese assassins sneaked into the royal quarters, stabbed the queen to death, and burned the corpse. The narrative here refers to the queen as “Empress Myngsng,” the title that was given to her posthumously when the Korean king renamed his country “The Great Han Empire” in 1897. The plaque is accompanied by a miniature reconstruction of the brutal murder. Although this depiction is compatible with mainstream South Korean historiography, Bruce Cumings (1997, 121) and Peter Duus (1995, 111) emphasize that the act was plotted by Miura Gor, the new Japanese minister in Korea, and was not a result of policy coming from Tokyo.14 Cumings also mentions that Korean soldiers took part in the incident as well (1997, 121), 15 a notion strongly objected to by Shin Yong-ha who claims that several innocent Korean soldiers “incidentally slept in the palace on the night of the crime” (2000, 149).

13

14 15

86

The question of whether Japanese imperialism in general, and the annexation of Korea in particular, were a result of well-advanced planning, is beyond the scope of the present study. Exemplary works on the issue include Hilary Conroy’s The Japanese Seizure of Korea: 1868–1910 – A Study of Realism and Idealism in International Relations (1960); Chapter 5 in Harry Wray and Hilary Conroy’s edited volume Japan Examined (1983); and, Donald Calman’s The Nature and Origins of Japanese Imperialism (1992). Tokyo, however, was later lenient toward the perpetrators. See also Nahm (1988, 182).

Among colonial-period representations, a section of this Hall entitled “Torture Scene” is one of the most graphic displays.16 Next to authentic artifacts such as handcuffs, shackles, yongsu masks (that were put on prisoners when transferred under guard), and photographs of armed Japanese leading Korean prisoners at gunpoint, the curators have constructed several vivid exhibits. One is the “wall torture chamber” (Figure 2.1), a duplication of a niche originally built in the wall of a Japanese police station, which invites the visitor to squeeze himself in, close the door, and experience a taste of the suffering that Korean detainees had endured (three such “chambers” are available for the visitors). Another exhibit allows the visitor to look through bars into duplicated prison cells that display figures of Korean prisoners and Japanese torturers in horrific scenes of various torture and beating techniques dominated by bleeding bodies of dead, barely alive prisoners, and decapitated victims.

Figure 2.1 Wall Torture Chamber (This duplication is placed in the Ryu Kwan-sun Museum, Ch’nan-si) 16

The English translation of the title, “Torture done by Japan,” differs from both the Korean and the Japanese title of this section (komun changmyn and gmon bamen, respectively, i.e., “torture scene”).

87

More horrific scenes are also presented under the title “Real images of the comfort women of the Japanese Army” (“Military Sexual Slavery by Japan” in the given English translation). Here, a television screen projects authentic films of Japanese soldiers shooting tied Koreans in the back of their necks, and miserable captured Korean girls and women. Photographs of suffering Korean “comfort women” (wianbu) are placed next to the television screen. Represented in such way under the context of the Japanese Aggression Hall, the issue of the “comfort women,” who were mobilized to provide sexual services to Japanese soldiers, is relieved of thorny complexities such as the involvement of Koreans in the recruitment of those miserable women, and of arguments such as Chunghee Sarah Soh’s, who writes about the phenomenon under the context of gendered structural violence (2007). In addition, other scenes of forced mobilization and coercion are also represented in the exhibition hall in forms of texts and photographs, and in some cases, also miniature models. The scenes include, for example, mobilizing Koreans to labor and into the Japanese army, “the erasure of national culture” by forced Shint worship, the obligatory adoption of Japanese names, and the banning of Korean language in schools. Thus, the seventy-year history of Japanese aggression in Korea (1876–1945) is conveyed here on two interrelated levels. First, with regard to historical contents, the curators have taken care to relate to every aspect of life (see previous section), and also to explain how ruthless the colonizer was. Second, with regard to form, or to the techniques of representation, this history is tangibly displayed by employing strong visual effects. A display that is situated at the center of the hall and dominates it, encapsulates these two interrelated levels. The display is the 6.25 meter-high “Triumph over Tribulations” statue and the bas-reliefs on the elevated wall surrounding it. The statue shows five figures – two of whom are naked, barely alive, and supported by their friends – that are placed in a circular-upwards position around a central pillar. Three lift their heads up, and the figure located at the top carries a torch. The reliefs on the wall show scenes of both Japanese atrocities and Korean struggle. Finally, one more related reconstruction is exhibited in this hall: a replica of the front gate of Sdaemun Prison. This is a large iron gate built in a wall of red bricks. The accompanied text explains that this is the place where “numerous patriotic independence fighters either died as 88

martyrs for their country or were imprisoned after being arrested by Japanese policemen.” The curators’ view, as expressed by the text, is that this iron gate symbolizes “the suffering of the Korean people under Japanese oppression,” thus the suffering of the colonized and the brutality of the colonizer are interlocked within the walls of Sdaemun Prison.

Sdaemun Prison History Hall: Symbol of Colonial Brutality The Japanese opened Sdaemun Prison in 1908 and it was used to hold thousands of Korean prisoners until 1945. It continued to function as a prison under the South Korean state until it was closed in November 1987 (Seoul Prison, as it was called then, was moved to iwang). In December 1988, at an investment of approximately $11.5 million (Chng, Ym, and Chang 1996, 217),17 a renovation project was started and on August 15, 1992 (Independence Day), the new Sdaemun Independence Park was opened with the prison as a memorial site on its grounds. In 1998, after three years of construction and reconstruction, Sdaemun Prison History Hall (Sdaemun hyngmuso yksagwan) was opened in its current layout. According to the sites booklet, the prison “is now serving as a national independence site and a living educational field for history” (Sdaemun Prison History Hall n.d., 2), with over half a million visitors attending it yearly.18 Sdaemun Prison History Hall, then, functions as the central theme of Sdaemun Independence Park, a park that includes a variety of relics and monuments scattered on its approximately 109,000 square meters of grounds.19 In addition to Sdaemun Prison, there are two other historic sites in the park. One is Independence Gate (or Arch) (Tongnimmun), which is Korea’s first tangible modern nationalist symbol constructed between 1896–1897. The second is Independence Hall (Tongnipkwan, 17

18 19

In this source, the figure is given in wn: eighty-five k (k=one hundred million). I have converted this to dollars on the basis of a rough average of the wn to dollar exchange rates of the time. Based on numbers provided to me by the managing office. For an analysis of the park using theories of semiology, see Jung (1999). Accordingly, Jung emphasizes in this research the existence, or the “being,” of the Independence Park as a continuous process of the formation, transformation, and extinction of the signs that are found on its grounds.

89

not to be confused with the monumental Independence Hall in South Ch’ungch’ng province), a building which originally was China Adoration Hall where Chinese envoys where entertained, and which was renamed Independence Hall at the same time of the construction of Independence Gate. Independence Gate (measuring 14.28 meters in height, 11.48 meters in width) was styled in the shape of the Arch of Triumph in Paris. It was built at the spot where Korean kings used to greet envoys from China through a gate called Yng-n Gate (erected in 1430). Yng-n Gate, the symbol of Korean subservience toward China, was demolished in 1895 to clear the symbolic spot for the construction of Independence Gate. Two cornerstones preserved from Yng-n Gate are placed in front of the Independence Gate, and they carry an ambiguous meaning. On the one hand, they are totally dominated by the much larger Gate, thus what is projected is the notion of overcoming a past weakness. On the other hand, they are cherished as an historical relic, designated in 1963 as National Historical Site No. 33. One way of analyzing the layout of the park has been presented by Koen De Ceuster. De Ceuster asserts that the result of incorporating the Independence Gate into Independence Park was that “both the layout and the intention of the park marginalize the Independence Arch” (2000, 85), and that since the main theme of the park is the “heroic independence struggle” conveyed by Sdaemun Prison History Hall, the Arch, located at the opposite end of the park, is left “ever more isolated” (2000, 86). A different way, however, to understand this layout is to consider the gate’s positioning with the theme of “constructing continuity” borne in mind. I explain this point below. First of all, regardless of the intention to elevate the status of the Gate,20 the coupling of the Gate with the Prison History Hall creates a defined space that bonds colonial history, represented by the prison, to the emergence of modern Korean nationalism, represented by the Gate. This notion is further supported by several means and activities. To begin with, the following lines from the text in front of Independence Hall connect the two older relics to the colonial struggle through the 20

90

To be sure, since its heyday at the time of its initiation, the Gate never again regained its symbolic significance. On the construction of the Gate and on its history as a national icon, see De Ceuster (2000, 81–87).

association of a spirit of independence: “Together with the nearby Independence Gate (Dongnimmun), the Independence Hall was a symbol of Korea’s spirit of national independence toward the end of the Joseon [Chosn] period.” Secondly, after the Japanese had demolished it, special care was taken to reconstruct the Independence Hall in 1996 as part of the park’s overall theme. Thirdly, in the basement and first floor of the Independence Hall, memorial tablets for anti-colonial fighters, as well as other related historical relics are on exhibition. Fourthly, it should be noticed that the decision to name the park Sdaemun Independence Park came not only to indicate the place of the site (Sdaemun-gu, Seoul). The title itself creates links between Sdaemun Prison History Hall and both the Independence Arch and Independence Hall, and signifies an actual (historic) scene for historical education regarding national suffering and the independence movement.21 Finally, when standing in front of the Gate, the March First Declaration of Independence Monument that commemorates the most revered anti-colonial national struggle in South Korea (see Chapter 3), and which is located at the opposite end of the grounds (see details on pp. 139–141), is clearly visible through the Gate’s arch. This setting creates an uninterrupted line of vision that connects these two different objects (see Figure 2.2). The addition of two more monuments in Sdaemun Independence Park conveys the message of historical continuity between the rise of modern Korean nationalism and the anti-colonial national spirit. The first is a statue of S Chae-p’il (Philip Jaisohn) (1864–1951) a nationalist intellectual who, among others, initiated the construction of the Independence Arch. 22 The second monument is the Patriotic Martyr Monument, a 22.3 meter-high, 40 meter-wide monument “built [in 1992] to pay a tribute to the patriotic martyrs who fought against the Japanese invasion for national independence” (Sdaemun Prison History Hall n.d., 40). In the context of the layout of Sdaemun Independence Park and the 21 22

Jung (1999, 46) quoting Sultae han’guk munhwa yn’guso, “Ku sul kuch’iso pojontaesang sisl hynhwang mit kwallnnyn charyo chosa yn’gu” (1988). S Chae-p’il returned to Korea in 1896 after earning a medical degree in the United States. That same year, along with other reform-minded young activists, he helped to form the Independence Club (Tongnip hyphoe), an association that, in the words of Michael Robinson, “signaled the advent of modern nationalism in Korea” (1988, 27). The voluminous material dedicated to them reflects the historical significance attributed to S and to the Independence Club.

91

dialogues that the various structures on its grounds conduct with each other, the Sdaemun Prison History Hall thus contributes a conspicuous image of a severely brutal oppressor as part of the narrative centered on the force of the anti-colonial spirit. Already at the site’s entrance, an image of entering a dark and threatening prison, and not simply a memorial site, is projected to the visitors: they buy the ticket and enter the site through a red brick wall preserved from the original prison, with a restored and imposing watch tower situated high above (Figure 2.3). Next, it is possible to divide the various structures on the site’s approximately 29,000 square meters grounds into two types: original buildings that were preserved or restored, and structures constructed for remembering and commemorating. The Sdaemun Prison History Exhibition, the first building the visitor enters after passing the entrance gate, is an example of the latter type.

Figure 2.2 Independence Gate, Sdaemun Independence Park – The March First Declaration of Independence Monument is visible through the arch

92

Figure 2.3 Entrance to Sdaemun Prison History Hall

The exhibitions in The Sdaemun Prison History Exhibition are well invested and very informative, and include ample photographs, maps, three-dimensional models, and historical artifacts. The first floor is called “A Place of Reverence” (Ch’umo i chang). With the help of a video room, a touch-screen computer, and a small library, it is dedicated mostly to provide information regarding the prison and its history, personal details of the prisoners, and the independence movement in general. In addition, it holds a small Special Exhibition Room. Even though in my several visits to this room, the photographs along the walls have been replaced, the exhibit that dominates the room remained. It included glass cases showing shackles, the humiliating yongsu masks, and short sticks used for beating and whipping prisoners, and also a wooden cross on which prisoners were tied and beaten, along with the heavy clubs used for this form of torture. Thus, as the visitors make their way along the walls to view the photographs of, and texts (in Korean only) about, Korean patriots and national struggle, they are constantly being reminded of brutality and suffering by the objects that are placed in the center of the room. The second floor is called “A Place of History” (Yksa i chang) and it is separated into three sections. One section is dedicated to “Prison History,” and a line from the text that sketches this history should be stressed here. The curators explain that in post-liberation times, the prison was no longer a facility of colonial oppression but a correctional 93

facility for Korean society. This description not only serves as a justification for using this tangible colonial legacy, but more importantly, it conveys a more positive South Korean use of the facility as compared with the negative Japanese use of it, thus it illuminates a more humanitarian (former) colonized people. Another section on the second floor is entitled “National Resistance” (see Chapter 3), hence after learning about the brave struggle of their ancestors in this section, the visitors are prepared to enter the third section, “In-Prison Life.” In the third section, a text specifies the horrors that the Japanese were responsible for in the prison – diseases, violence, torture, and a severe shortage of food that even led prisoners to eat mice – and explains that “these barbarous and vicious acts were designed to root out the national independence movement.” Interestingly, the following lines precede this description: […] under the ideology of “Control by Virtue”, and “Benevolent Government”; the manifestation of this philosophy was to build prisons, but keep them empty. However, the invasion of Japan totally shook the root of this tradition (emphasis mine).

This, again, projects the message of a colonized nation that is morally superior to the colonizers, as the visitor then moves to observe the horrors of colonialism. Glass cases here exhibit various instruments used for torture, swords of warders, clubs, yongsu masks, shackles, and rice bowls. Photographs on the walls depict prison scenes including prisoners suffering from malnutrition, and prisoners with amputated body parts. As in the Japanese Aggression Hall of the Independence Hall, there are three replicas of a “standing wall-coffin” (pykkwan). From the inside of one, the face of a bleeding prisoner “observes” the visitors, while the other two, in addition to a solitary cell, are open for the visitor “to personally experience the pain of patriotic ancestors” (Sdaemun Prison History Hall n.d., 22). Also in this section is a miniature model of an execution yard, with an attached television that screens a dramatic staged re-enactment of an execution. The short drama shows arrest, torture, and execution, and the final shot is that of the Korean flag waving proudly. The visitors then exit the room through a replica of heavy iron prison doors, and they are

94

now directed toward the “Place of Experience” (Ch’ehm i chang) in the basement. The “Place of Experience” “was designed for visitors to personally experience” the courage of the patriotic ancestors (Sdaemun Prison History Hall n.d., 25). The basement is dark and intimidating and it exhibits reconstructed detention and torture rooms. Through the bars of the cells the visitor views hideous scenes of torture demonstrated by a tableau of dummies (Figure 2.4). The scenes include various forms of beating with clubs, water torture, whipping, electrification, and sexual torture. Two dominating effects are the “blood” that covers both bodies and walls, and staged audio recordings of prisoners’ screams and torturers’ interrogations. Audio effects and dummies’ motion are activated when the visitor crosses hidden sensors.

Figure 2.4 A Scene from the “Place of Experience,” Sdaemun Prison History Hall, Seoul

Brutality is not created only through the acts themselves. The facial expressions of the Japanese officials, showing toughness, enjoyment, or indifference, are a central contribution to this image. Depicting brutality in such a way shows us how the curators see the Japanese imperialists. In

95

an official booklet they describe them as employing “methods of brutal torture intolerable to human beings” (Sdaemun Prison History Hall n.d., 28). The Japanese imperialists ruthlessly tortured patriotic fighters on a regular basis, while “it was a standard practice for the Japanese imperialists to drag both male and female Korean patriots and to beat them with a bat” (Sdaemun-gu ch’ng, Sdaemun hyngmuso yksagwan n.d., 28). They also committed an “inexpressible brutal method of sexual torture” (Sdaemun-gu ch’ng, Sdaemun hyngmuso yksagwan n.d., 28). Now equipped with the visual historical experience of brutality and suffering as transmitted by the first building at the site, the visitors are prepared to fully absorb the significance of the other buildings they enter here. These include seven red brick prison buildings (including a prison building for lepers) and the wooden structure of the execution building.23 The structures were preserved to serve as an authentic historical testimony, thus, their power as agents of both an historic and emotional experience is completely conditioned by the visitor’s previous knowledge of the events that had taken place within their bare walls. These preserved buildings, therefore, constitute a tangible manifestation of the “banality of evil”:24 atrocities are committed by humans, not monsters, and they take place in earthly places – in ordinary looking unimpressive buildings that now stand empty. This is an important message for people who did not experience such acts themselves, but only learned about them as an inseparable part of their history about which they are continuously reminded. By way of comparison, the preserved Auschwitz concentration camp in Poland, and its function in the Jewish memory of the Holocaust, is similar in this regard to the Sdaemun Prison site and its place in 23 24

96

Entrance into the execution building itself is prohibited, but the structure is located on the clearly demarcated area of the execution grounds. I adopt Hannah Arendt’s term that appears in her controversial book Eichmann in Jerusalem: A Report on the Banality of Evil originally published in 1963. Arendt did not claim that the crimes of the Nazis were banal. Her view was that these crimes were banal in a sense that so many people were “neither perverted nor sadistic,” but “terribly and terrifyingly normal.” They committed their crimes in a thoughtless manner without realizing what they were doing, and without knowing or feeling that what they were doing was wrong. It is such a remoteness from reality that “can wreak more havoc than all the evil instincts taken together” (see Arendt 1964, 276, 287–288).

remembering the colonial period in South Korea.25 Yet a strong word of caution is called for here. In no way do I suggest that what happened in Auschwitz is comparable to what happened in Sdaemun Prison, and I definitely do not compare the Holocaust to colonial Korea. As historic events, the two are prominently different. Instead, my comparison is solely limited to the undeniable fact that each of these different historical traumas has played a dominating role in shaping modern Jewish and Korean identities and historical memories respectively. Accordingly, the ordinariness, or the normality, of the preserved buildings convey the disturbing message of the banality of evil – an un-mystified evil that originates from and is accepted by humans, an evil that is not an act of a certain “demonic out-of-this-world” perpetrator. Indeed, there is nothing ordinary in buildings that house gas chambers, a crematorium, or a gallows, and to the average person there is nothing ordinary in prison buildings. This is, however, exactly my point: it is, first, the fact that they all are man-made objects, and second, the fact that man-made unimpressive buildings housed atrocities, that supply the structures with the force of the banality of evil. Thus, in Sdaemun Prison it is the tension created by the conjunction of the diabolic colonizer presented in the exhibition hall, with the ordinary surroundings in which evil was inflicted, which creates the image of an extreme form of brutality and suffering that were perpetrated on and endured by man. Recently, though, the curators at Sdaemun Prison have made changes to the site, which, in my view, represent a phenomenon that Irwin-Zarecka termed “an increasing commercial value of the past” (1994, 106). In the summer of 2003, two new permanent exhibitions opened in two of the prison buildings on the grounds. These exhibitions depict more graphic images of Japanese brutality including a chair simulating torture by electrification: the visitors are invited to sit in a chair and while they observe a scene of a Korean prisoner being electrified, vibrations are sent through the chair to the visitor every time the “Japanese torturer” sends an “electric shock” to the “tortured Korean prisoner.” To be sure, these depictions are in line with the attempt to transmit the image of the cruel Japanese oppressor, and there is no doubt regarding the usage of such tortures during colonial times. However, in 25

For a reference to the nature of the museum in Auschwitz, see Irwin-Zarecka (1994, 179–180).

97

no small measure, under the influence of the tourism industry, these new exhibitions are representative of a tendency to market the past as an attractive commodity. Accordingly, in tangible history this represents a gradual encroachment on the concept of the banality of evil, and as Irwin-Zarecka postulates, “the attractive packaging may end depriving the past of its prime power, that of legitimation” (1994, 109). More texts are placed inside the preserved buildings, which further emphasize the brutality of the Japanese. For example, the solitary cells “were built to conduct physical torture and impose psychological and mental sufferings,” “the Japanese aggressors suppressed them [patriotic fighters] with ruthless torture,” living conditions were close to that of “a pen for animals,” and the plaque attached to the “corpse removal exit” – discovered when the Independence Park renovation project took place – explains that “the Japanese imperialists covered this exit in order to hide their barbarity/brutality [manhaeng].”26 Finally, the last structure on the visitor’s course is the underground cells that were “designed to house and torture females” and were so small that they “didn’t allow inmates to stretch their backs, vividly demonstrating cruel acts by the Japanese aggressors.” These underground cells interlock memory and commemoration: it is a structure that shows preserved and renovated cells, while at the same time it is dedicated to commemorate, through plaques, photographs and title, Ryu Kwan-sun (see Chapter 4) – a young girl who is perhaps the most famous martyr of the March First Independence Movement. This underscores the general concept of the Sdaemun Prison History Hall that is manifest in the site’s layout, brochures, texts, and exhibitions. They all function as a living historical testimony to the horrors of the time and the ability to overcome them, as well as a place for commemoration and education for generations to come.

26

98

A tour guide at the site pointed out to me one more form of psychological torture: “the road of death.” The warders led prisoners from the buildings to “death intersection” (samjngmok) where only here, at the last moment, they told them whether to continue straight forward to meet relatives who had come to visit them, or to turn right toward the execution grounds.

Peaceful Resistance – Brutal Oppression Another famous site that functions in a similar way as Sdaemun Prison History Hall, is T’apkol Park, or “Pagoda Park,” in central Seoul. Like Sdaemun Prison, this too is an actual site where a memorable event took place. At this point it is suffice to note that T’apkol Park is commonly regarded by South Korea as the birthplace of the national March First Independence Movement (a broader survey of the park, its history, and the elements on its grounds will be presented in the next chapter). As such, a brutal oppressor is an inseparable theme of the colonial tangible narrative, and the theme is depicted by bronze bas-reliefs that are placed along the east wall of the park. The reliefs are all accompanied by Korean language texts that explain the scene. Of the ten reliefs, only the first, which shows the declaration of independence that took place in the park in 1919, does not involve the representation of Japanese security forces in some act of oppression or brutality. The other nine scenes are dedicated to the nationwide protests that followed the declaration (March–April 1919), and they depict Japanese policemen shooting into crowds of protestors or beating them with clubs and with the butts of their rifles. The fourth and sixth reliefs are especially brutal (see Figures 2.5 and 2.6). The fourth relief depicts a policeman riding his horse dragging a woman whose hair is tied to the horse’s tail. The sixth relief is dedicated to a hideous event that occurred in Suwn where the Japanese police locked protestors inside a church and then set it on fire. The relief shows a burning church with policemen aiming their rifles and shooting every protestor attempting to escape. At the center of the scene is a woman who desperately tries to save her young child by placing him over the window of the blazing church. The central motif that runs through all the depictions is the juxtaposition of peaceful protest with brutal oppression. The Korean protestors are all with their bare arms either raised or waving flags, while the Japanese police are armed with rifles, swords, or clubs. In addition, the fact that many scenes are dominated by the representation of protesting women, add to convey the nature of the independence movement, while, at the same time, it intensifies the severity of the brutality.

99

Figure 2.5 Relief four, T’apkol Park, Seoul

Figure 2.6 Relief six, T’apkol Park, Seoul

Two more sites that deserve mention in this regard are the National Cemeteries in Seoul and in Taejn. In the Hogukkwan of Taejn Cemetery, under the title of “Imperial Japan’s inhumane torture and massacre” (“Ilche i piindojkin komun haksal”), the display focuses on several especially horrific scenes. These include photographs of a decapitated head hanging on a rope, Koreans with an amputated ear and arm, a tortured foot, Japanese security officers whipping Koreans and applying the “straw cutter punishment,” and, finally, the infamous “Unit 731” that conducted experiments on live humans. The related text (in Korean only, like all the texts here) explains that Koreans only wanted to peacefully earn their equal right of independence, and that imperial 100

Japan, through its merciless oppression “tortured and massacred the Korean people [uri minjok] in [such] a barbarous method [yamanjgin pangbp] unfound in the origins of the history of mankind.” In similar vein with the other sites, the second floor of the Photographic Exhibition House in the National Cemetery in Seoul focuses on colonial life through the lens of suffering and brutality. The texts (in Korean only) and photographs depict a life of human and economic exploitation, cultural obliteration, and Japanese brutality. As in Taejn, the latter is especially presented in the “Imperial Japan’s inhumane torture and massacre” section. The photographs here focus on the March First Movement and on the movement’s prominent heroine Ryu Kwan-sun, and brutality is depicted by photos of the burnt church in Suwn, of a bereaved family who survived, and of Japanese security forces executing demonstrators, including kneeling protestors who are tied to pegs. Attached to these scenes of brutality is a dramatic text dominated by a very emotional rhetoric to further emphasize the desired message. It opens with a statement that imperial Japan’s oppression of the nation’s “bare-fisted cry” of independence was ruthless (mujabi). Then it continues: Villages became sea of flames, churches reduced to ashes. Students were dragged and tortured, and hailing demonstrators met with merciless massacre. From a mother holding her nursing-baby, to the collapsing grandfather – they met death. Where else in this world was there more massacre and such misery?

Finally, another text entitled “The trampling down and obliteration of national spirit and national culture” (“Minjokhon kwa minjokmunhwa i yurin malsal”) describes how imperial Japan stripped Koreans of all elements of personal and national identity including language, religion, and personal names, and distorted Korean history. The text closes with the sentence: “in no way did our national spirit yield to this,” thus, again, the function of the colonizer’s brutality in reinforcing the glory of resistance is conveyed.

101

Stain of Collaboration On February 28, 2002, the Korea Parliamentary League on National Spirit (KPLNS) (Minjokchnggi rl Paroseu nn Kukhoeiwn Moim) – a group of twenty-nine lawmakers from both the ruling Millennium Democratic Party (MDP) and the opposition Grand National Party (GNP) – published a list of 708 names of people whom they defined as pro-Japanese collaborators during the colonial period. This was the first time in South Korea that legislators had taken such a step, and it immediately sparked off public debate. The reactions evolved around several familiar questions regarding the issue of collaboration, for example: how exactly should “collaboration” be defined? Who has both the authority and the right to establish such a definition? And, what is best for “the nation” – to discuss the issue of collaboration and research it, or conversely, to conceal it? Moreover, 2002 was an election year and the release of the list created opportunities for related political battering. MDP members, for example, attacked opposition leader Lee Hoi-chang under the allegation that his father had worked for the Japanese prosecution (Lee’s father was not on the February 28 list), and the GNP accused President Kim Dae Jung for referring to himself by a Japanese name when he had met his former Japanese teacher in 2000 (Korea Herald, March 2, 2002, online).27 Two related and central points regarding the term “collaboration” in the context of colonial Korea should be clarified here. First, there is no consensus of opinion regarding a definition of the term. Second, Koreans commonly use the term ch’inilp’a, which literally means “pro-Japanese faction” (贂襲赾). Hence, materialistic opportunists, pragmatists who sought to adapt to the harsh reality, as well as nationalists and ideologists who believed that for the time being cooperating with the authorities would be best for the nation, are commonly lumped together with true pro-Japanese under the ch’inilp’a label. The shades of gray that color

27

102

The Japanese name imposed on Kim Dae Jung under colonial rule and his later alleged usage of it is a thorny issue. According to one reference, the name was “Toyoda” and Kim introduced himself by this name when he met his former teacher in 1991 (see Asian Political News. FindArticles.com 1998).

“collaboration” in its looser sense are thus darkened by this derogatory term. As suggested above, then, the issue of collaboration is a contested terrain where political and personal interests heavily influence questions of definition, of historical implications, and of whether to even bring up the issue for discussion. This already characterized the collaboration issue from the incipient stages of the Republic of Korea (ROK) under President Syngman Rhee.

Collaboration and the Early South Korean State Following the general elections held in May 1948, Rhee, who was backed by the United States, became the first president of the ROK when the republic was inaugurated on August 15, 1948. One of his tasks was to tackle the unresolved issue of Koreans who had collaborated with the Japanese colonial authorities. This issue was unresolved because of the controversial way in which the United States Army Military Government (USAMGIK), which governed the south of Korea between 1945–1948, had dealt with it. The USAMGIK did not punish collaborators, and, instead, utilized them for its own government. This was due to a situation where immediately following the Japanese surrender, the American occupation forces lacked both trained personnel and familiarity with the political situation in Korea (Chung 2002, 33; De Ceuster 2001, 211; Eckert et al. 1990, 337–338). The USAMGIK also expressed its view that Korean collaboration with the former colonial government resulted mainly from the need to survive and not from ideological convictions (Chung 2002, 33; De Ceuster 2001, 211). Thus, the reemployment of collaborators by the USAMGIK ran contrary to the “general feeling” regarding the necessity to exclude collaborators from politics “in order to secure a future for an independent Korean state” (De Ceuster 2001, 210) and to the people’s zeal to punish them in order “to build a national spirit and enforce social justice” (Chung 2002, 29–30, 34).28 28

On September 15, 1945, H. Merrell Benninghoff, a political adviser to General John R. Hodge, commander of the USAMGIK, sent a message to Washington in which he wrote: “[Those Koreans who] achieved high rank under the Japanese are

103

The USAMGIK policy toward collaborators suited Syngman Rhee. Rhee, who returned to Korea after living in America during the colonial period, developed extreme anti-communist views, and under the circumstances where Korean politics after liberation were roughly divided between left and right, he cooperated with the rightist Korean Democratic Party (KDP). This party was comprised of the Korean elite “widely perceived to have fattened under colonial rule while everybody else suffered” (Cumings 1997, 193). The relationship between Rhee and the KDP, then, in the words of Bruce Cumings, was “a tempestuous marriage of convenience” in which Rhee needed the KDP leaders’ money and ability, while the KDP, because of its leaders’ collaborationist background, needed Rhee’s political prestige (Cumings 1997, 216) (abroad, Rhee was active for the cause of Korean independence). The KDP was also the political group that the USAMGIK had supported, and so punishing collaborators meant damaging both the USAMGIK’s interests and Rhee’s base of support. What resulted was that during the American occupation in Korea, first there were only a few court cases against collaborators, and second, they were limited to charges such as smuggling, racketeering, sale of arms, etc. (De Ceuster 2001, 211). In addition, the USAMGIK and members of the KDP curtailed the work of a special committee that the Legislative Assembly appointed in January 1947 for drafting laws regarding collaborators (De Ceuster 2001, 212– 213). During the first year of independent South Korea (1948/49), attempts by the Constitutional Assembly to pass laws regarding collaborators, to conduct related investigations, and to put collaborators on trial and punish them, had met a reluctant president. Rhee warned against the “destabilizing effect on the nation at a time when the need for national unity was high,” and assembly members who were involved in activities to investigate the collaboration issue were being threatened, considered pro-Japanese and are hated almost as much as their masters […]” (quoted in Cumings 1997, 193). In all, during the week immediately following liberation, the number of investigated incidents of mob violence directed against collaborators was 914 (Chung 2002, 29), and they resulted in twenty-one Koreans killed and sixty-seven injured (De Ceuster 2001, 232n6). While Chung describes this as “an explosion of anger” (2002, 29), De Ceuster asserts that “considering the resentment against Japanese rule and its Korean supporters” the numbers would be expected to have been higher (2001, 232n6).

104

arrested and attacked. The issue of collaboration faded into the background following the trauma and devastating effects of the tragic Korean War (1950–1953) (De Ceuster 2001, 213–214). Anticommunism became a more important mobilizing idea for creating and maintaining national cohesion at any expense. Not surprisingly, one body that was especially active against attempts to resolve the issue of collaborators in 1948/49 was the police. About eighty-five percent of Koreans who had served in the Japanese police force, including officers at different ranks, were employed in the Korean National Police immediately following liberation (Cumings 1997, 201). The police later became one of Rhee’s central pillars of power structure, and, as Carter J. Eckert observes, together with the government bureaucracy, they “suffered from the taint of colonial collaboration in their higher ranks and were dependent on Rhee for their continued existence” (1990, 350).29 Moreover, the police force under the presidencies of both Rhee (1948–1960) and Park Chung Hee (1963– 1979) had earned a notorious reputation as executers of authoritarian rule. Most importantly, one should also keep in mind that since 1946 and through 1948/49 and the early 1950s, the police was involved with the army and the Americans in suppressing leftist-guerrilla insurgencies in the southern areas of the country. As recent study suggests, in these suppressions, massacres and war crimes were being committed as tens of thousands of civilians were jailed and/or killed.30

Tangibly Overcoming Collaboration Against the above backdrop, the images conveyed by a monument called the Kyngch’al ch’unghon t’ap – monument for the loyal dead of the police – (Figure 2.7) may be better understood. The monument was originally constructed on the campus of the Pup’yng Police Academy and was transferred to its current location at the Seoul National 29

30

In 1960, 70 percent of senior superintendents, 40 percent of police captains, and 15 percent of police lieutenants had all served in the Japanese colonial government” (Chung 2002, 38). For general accounts of the guerrilla warfare in Cheju Island and Ysu-Sunchn, see Cumings (1997, 217–224) and Nahm (1988, 423–427). For recent studies see Kim (2007) and Baik (2007).

105

Cemetery in May 1967 during Park’s presidency. This is how the site’s official booklet explains the essence of the monument: The Monument for the Loyal Dead of the Police was erected to pay tribute to the soul/spirit of over 800 police officers laid to rest here; police officers who following the restoration of independence maintained public peace and order, and protected the lives and property of the people, and gave their lives to defend the motherland from the communist aggression of the Korean War (National Memorial Board n.d., 23).31

The stains of collaboration and authoritarianism are thus cleansed by responsibility and heroism, while reflecting the crucial role of the Korean War in the process. The monument covers an area of 112 square meters with a thirteenmeter high memorial tower placed at its center. The monument is designed in a way that resembles hands that spread from both sides of the central axis, which is the tower. This represents, according to a book published by the National Cemetery, “the warm protection of the democratic police [minju kyngch’al].” Carved on the “spread hands” – i.e., on the relief that embraces the structure – are scenes of the “mighty achievements of the policemen who protected the people and the motherland.” At the feet of the tower are three 3.5 meter-high figures in a posture of preparedness that indicate ”the spirit and devotion of the policemen.” These figures, as well as two more figures that are positioned at both sides of the monument, are half naked and muscular, and do not wear anything which might resemble an official uniform. Finally, two tigers, which are traditional guardian deities, are placed up front “to protect the spirits of the departed” (National Memorial Board 1999, 46). It should be noticed that the monument actually memorializes the police itself and not the eight hundred policemen alone. This is conveyed by the monument’s name as well as by the way it is presented inside the cemetery’s Photographic Exhibition Hall. Here, under the title of “Activity of the police,” a photograph of the monument is placed among photographs of post-liberation policemen, and the attached text explains that “we do not forget the policemen who had founded the country and spread [their] invaluable/noble blood of the springtime of youth 31

106

My translation somewhat differs from the English translation presented on the same page. Also, in the English translation, the monument is called Monument to Patriot Police Officers.

[kogwihan ch’ngch’un i p’i] in this land.” Moreover, the monument is far from being the central object on the cemetery’s grounds, and it is precisely this factor – the seemingly natural position of the monument in a place where heroes and loved ones are revered – that underpins its belonging to a history of bravery and reconstruction.

Figure 2.7 Kyngch’al ch’unghon t’ap (Monument for the Loyal Dead of the Police), Seoul National Cemetery

Finally, the monument bears the signatures of former presidents Rhee and Park, who are both buried in this cemetery (with their wives). The former wrote old poetry that is presented at the lower column of the memorial tower, and the latter drew the title of the monument, Kyngch’al ch’unghon t’ap, placed at its center. Such a design defines the message embedded in both this monument in particular, and in the National Cemetery in general: the (controversial) police and the (controversial) presidents are entwined in each other as well as in the image of patriotism and heroism. This is especially important with regard to President Park who had a problematic “Japanese past.” Park was admitted to the Japanese military academy in Manchuria in 1940, and after graduation he “became part of an even more elite group of Koreans” when he was sent to two more years of training at the Tokyo 107

Military Academy (Clifford 1998, 35). Later, he joined the Japanese Kwantung Army in Manchuria, and, as Cumings suggests, he may even have been involved in tracking down anti-Japanese Korean guerrillas (1997, 350). Thus, although the Kyngch’al ch’unghon t’ap in Seoul’s National Cemetery may be perceived as an active effort to cleanse a past tainted by collaboration, it is more the passive aggressive conduct, to borrow the term from psychology, which characterizes the way collaboration is dealt with in South Korea’s formal national history. Koen De Ceuster explains that in South Korea’s master narrative, collaboration is minimized to a few national traitors, “useful scapegoats,” involved in the annexation of the country. “Collaboration as dealt with in the master narrative does not touch the core of the Korean nation. Collaboration is understood as an aberration that is hardly more than a footnote in the history of the nation” (De Ceuster 2001, 217). By this it overshadows such concepts as: “[…] since the outbreak of the second Sino-Japanese War in 1937, no public figure in the Korean peninsula could escape some form of collaboration” (De Ceuster 2001, 230), and: colonialism “created a variety of collaborators: Koreans who had openly and enthusiastically supported Japanese rule, those who had unwillingly acquiesced, and a whole range of people in between” (emphasis mine) (Eckert et al. 1990, 328). Who, then, are these scapegoats? Mostly they are Koreans who cooperated with the Japanese between 1904–1910. Song Pyng-jun, for example, the leader of the Ilchinhoe (United Advancement Society) was one of them. The Ilchinhoe supported Japan in its 1904/5 war with Russia, and continued to cooperate with Japan until it was disbanded in early 1910 when, as Duus opines, “even the best of collaborators was no longer necessary” (1995, 240). Song appears seven times on the February 2002 list of 708 collaborators under various categories: “Ilchinhoe,” “those rewarded in the 1910 annexation,” “those rewarded after the 1910 annexation,” and “members of the Japanese Culture Council” in different periods.32 Despite Song’s notorious role in Korea’s historical memory, the most despised figure in the context of treachery is Yi Wan-yong. Yi, “the darkest name in Korean history” (Cumings 1997, 145), signed all three 32

108

On February 28, 2002, the Hankyoreh daily published online the complete list of the 708 pro-Japanese. See Hankyoreh (2002).

crucial treaties which both formalized and gave substance to Korea’s colonization. First, as the Minister of Education he was one of the “gang of five,” or “the five traitors,” that signed the Protectorate Treaty on November 17, 1905 (known in Korea as the “lsa treaty”). Second, as the Prime Minister he was one of seven who signed the July 24, 1907, treaty that gave the Japanese Resident-General authority over all administrative matters. And third, again as the Prime Minister, Yi signed the Treaty of Annexation on August 22, 1910. Yi appears no less than ten times on the list of 708 collaborators for his roles in signing the treaties and acting in various colonial bodies. Accordingly, in tangible history, too, Yi and other demonized figures appear as no more than a footnote. Under this framework a special technique is used to present them. In Sdaemun Prison History Hall the photographs of the five ministers who signed the 1905 treaty are exhibited under the title “The lsa Treaty of 5” (“lsa 5 choyak”).33 At the same time, however, there is a juxtaposition of the traitors with identified heroes. Exhibited next to “the five traitors” is the photograph of a related hero: Min Yng-hwan, a respected official and military aidede-camp to the Korean Emperor.34 In an act of protest that was followed by other officials, Min committed suicide and left an impassioned plea for the nation’s independence following the signing of the lsa Treaty.35 Thus, this sort of arrangement further marginalizes the historical significance of the collaborators. An even more extreme version of this technique is to represent collaboration through heroes only. A case in point is the Photographic Exhibition Hall in Seoul National Cemetery. Here, the photographs of Min Yng-hwan and his testament completely dominate the section entitled “The lsa Treaty (1905),” and there are no photographs of the 33 34

35

The five are Pak Che-sun, Yi Chi-yong, Yi Kn-t’aek, Yi Wan-yong, and Kwn Chu-hyn. In October 1897, in an act of asserting sovereignty against the backdrop of the Russo-Japanese rivalry in his country, the Korean King Kojong renamed his country the Great Han Empire and elevated his title to Emperor. Interestingly, Duus writes that Kat Masuo, the Japanese Minister in Korea, “managed to cultivate key Korean officials like Min Yng-sok, Min Yng-hwan and Yu Kil-chun” when he handled negotiations regarding the concession over the Seoul-Pusan railway line in 1898 (see Duus 1995, 146). This observation can be interpreted by anyone interested in doing so as a “Japanese stain” on the hero Min.

109

five (traitor) ministers. Moreover, next to this section, Yi Wan-yong is mentioned in the title that accompanies the photograph of Yi Chaemyng – the man who attempted to assassinate him in December 1909. The title states: “Martyr Yi Chae-myng who stabbed the traitor [maegungo] Yi Wan-yong (1909).” The other two photographs exhibited next to Yi’s photo are also the assassins of a collaborator, but of quite a different type. These are the photographs of Chn Myng-un and Chang In-hwan, the martyrs who “killed the pro-Japanese [ch’inil] diplomat Stevens (1908),” as the attached titles explain. Durham W. Stevens was an American employed by the Japanese Foreign Ministry. He was later appointed by Japan to act as a foreign adviser to the Korean government following an agreement signed between the two countries in August 1904. Contemporaneous Koreans regarded Stevens as a traitor who “spied for the Japanese and worked against the Koreans during the critical year of 1905” (Nahm 1988, 217), and this is his place in Korean national history as well. Chn and Chang shot him to death in San Francisco in March 1908. Hence, by coupling these three martyrs (Yi Chae-myng, Chn Myng-un, and Chang In-hwan) the exhibition creates a parallel between Yi Wan-yong and a foreign traitor. No distinction is made, thus the Korean traitor is eliminated from the Korean nation. This clearly signifies that Yi is not a symbol of collaboration, but instead, he is collaboration. In this regard, Kim Minchul observes that to record and remember the wrongdoings of pro-Japanese does not only mean the materialization of historical justice, but also, from the standpoint of the present, to think deeply over the matter of responsibility (2002, 26). Therefore, “by blaming a small number, the majority of the population can cast off any sense of responsibility or guilt” (De Ceuster 2001, 217), the exhibition of the three martyrs, which, to borrow De Ceuster’s term, “exorcises” Yi Wan-yong, is aimed precisely toward this goal of cleansing the nation of responsibility. And, if “[…] by banning collaboration from the mainstream of the nation’s history, there is no more need to elaborate on the post-liberation failure to exclude collaborators from public life,” then the regimes of Syngman Rhee and Park Chung Hee are relieved of the burden of their collaborationist past. At the time, this was crucial from the standpoint of the regime’s legitimacy (De Ceuster 2001, 217).

110

The Ongoing Politics of Collaboration It should be noted at the outset that the above sites – the halls in Sdaemun Prison and in the National Cemetery – as well as Independence Hall where collaboration is barely even a footnote in the site’s monumental tangible history of heroism and resistance, are all products of the post-Park era. And one feature of the post-Park era (Park was assassinated in October 1979), is that starting from Chun Doo Hwan (president, 1980–1988), South Korea’s presidents were no longer associated with the Japanese colonial period.36 However, at the sites of commemoration and education that have been constructed since Chun’s time, whether during Chun’s authoritarianism or under the democratic system that followed, tangible history continues to marginalize collaboration (as orthodox nationalist historiography continues to do as well). The question that arises is why? I believe that the answer lies in the state’s attempt to guard its legitimacy at a time when dissident movements developed an alternative historical narrative that challenged this legitimacy. A general overview of this narrative is presented to allow an understanding of this point. Chun Doo Hwan started his presidency after illegally and brutally taking over the country, especially following the Kwangju massacre of May 1980 in which some two hundred civilians were killed (for more on this event see Chapter 3). As Jager notes, “The magnitude of state violence, and the complete devastation of the democratic forces in South Korea after Kwangju, drove young intellectuals to search for the origins of their predicament” (2003, 59). Generally termed “minjung nationalism” the trend sought “to found a new historical methodology and theories for the democratization and the reunification of the Korean peninsula,” while placing in its center the minjung (the people) generally defined as the masses that were alienated from the ruling structure (Park 1997, 149). The new nationalist historiography that evolved accused the postliberation South Korean ruling elites, first, for not being the true representatives of the Korean people, and, second, for cooperating with 36

Writing in 1984, Bruce Cumings noticed that “it is only in 1980 that a leader (Chon [sic] Doo Hwan) has emerged who is not associated with the Japanese era” (1984, 479).

111

and enjoying the backing of the United States. The United States, and not North Korea, is the one perceived here as the real villain responsible for the nation’s division, and the one posing a cultural threat to Korean national identity (Jager 2003, 60–61). The anti-Americanism that intensified during the 1980s, it should be stressed, resulted from the notion that the United States did not prevent the massacre in Kwangju despite the fact that it had (and still has) military forces stationed in the South, and there has been a joint American-South Korean force under American command. Also, shortly after the massacre, the United States expressed its support in the Chun regime (Eckert et al. 1990, 379–380; Ogle 1990, 101). The minjung, the “people,” placed at the center of this narrative, are far from being passive. Instead, they are portrayed as continuously struggling either against “American imperialism” or against their own government for the cause of the nation’s (true) liberation and the achievement of reunification (Jager 2003, 61, 101). In this context, events such as the uprising that brought down the Rhee government in April 1960 and the Kwangju uprising of 1980 are considered as the “people’s” struggles to achieve this liberation (Jager 2003, 101; Wells 1995, 3). And regarding the issue of collaboration, “Eager young historians who saw it [dealing with the collaboration issue] as an extension of their political activism” and like-minded journalists represented alternative voices to the official narrative (De Ceuster 2001, 220–221). They included, e.g., the publications of academic research institutes that were established in the early 1990s, and those of two journalists named Kim Sam-ung and Chng Un-hyn (see De Ceuster 2001, 220–226). The contesting voices searched to enlarge the scope of collaboration beyond that of several selected scapegoats, and by this to undermine the legitimacy of the post-liberation elites. They claimed that these elites, firstly, were tainted by a collaborationist past, and secondly, had purposely failed to cleanse this past in order to secure themselves.37 Accordingly, by marginalizing colonial-period collaboration, official national and tangible histories protect the legitimacy of the South Korean state, whatever its form of government has been, along with securing the foundations of the desired historical narrative, which is 37

112

This, in a nutshell, is one of De Ceuster’s (2001) main arguments.

based on the struggle over legitimacy with the North. And this happens even when shifts from the political impetus characterizing the adherents of the alternative narrative are noticeable. Arguably, one shift from this political impetus occurred after Kim Dae Jung (president, 1998–2003) had assumed office, an event which in many ways signified a break from previous governments. To start with, Kim was widely appreciated as a persistent dissident to the authoritarian governments of Park Chung Hee and Chun Doo Hwan. Also, he was the first candidate from the opposition to be elected president. Finally, it is possible that his “second nation building campaign” indirectly supported the claim regarding the illegitimacy of former regimes (De Ceuster 2001, 231). Thus, as De Ceuster claims, during his term, the political motive of challenging the state’s legitimacy waned in favor of a quest after a “more balanced, historiographically acceptable comprehension of this problem [of collaboration]” (2002, 227). To be sure, the waning of this specific political motive did not mean that consensus has been reached in this regard. Chung Youn-tae, for example, believes categorically that “collaborators have occupied major positions in the economy, media, education, culture, art, and religion in postcolonial Korean society […] So, it is no exaggeration to say that the collaborators dominated the South Korean society” (2002, 38). In addition, despite the recent trends in academic circles regarding the way collaboration is perceived in South Korea, the issue is still a far cry from being relieved of power politics and interests. As Sheila Miyoshi Jager points out, during the presidency of Roh Moo Hyun (2003–2008) and under the context of the controversy regarding which policy should be applied toward the sister to the north, there were critics who claimed that the campaign to look into the issue of collaboration was politically motivated and intended to damage (conservative) politicians who may have been offspring of collaborators (2005). Similarly, as mentioned, the release of the 708 ch’inilp’a list and its ensuing controversy was steeped in political interests. This list, in a way, represents an offshoot of the earlier trend in collaboration studies since it includes prominent “moderate,” or “cultural” nationalists active since the 1920s.38 The list includes names such as writer Yi Kwang-su (who was 38

On the activity, thought, and historical role of the cultural nationalists, see Robinson (1988).

113

arrested and convicted as a traitor already in 1949), historian Ch’oe Nam-sn, Yi In-jik (a pioneer in modern Korean literature), Yi Nnghwa (a researcher of Korean shamanism), Ch’oe Rin (a religious leader and one of the signers of the March 1 Declaration), and Yun Ch’i-ho (an active leader of the Independence Club). Indeed, to some degree, “the [narrow] standard against which they are judged is simple and clear: overt, political resistance to the Japanese colonial regime” (Wells 1988, 125), yet some are specifically accused of active pro-Japanese collaboration.39 Even An Ik-t’ae, the man behind one of South Korea’s most important national symbols, has been blamed for collaborating with the colonizer. An, who in the mid-1930s composed the music to Aegukka, which in 1948 was chosen as the country’s national anthem, was accused of composing an ode to the Japanese emperor and for also composing a piece marking the tenth anniversary of the Japanese puppet state of Manchukuo. In an article titled “Wartime Film Captures Stain on National Composer’s Record,” the Chosun Ilbo online reported that it had obtained a film showing An, in Nazi Germany, conducting the Berlin Radio Symphony Orchestra playing the latter work under a large flag of imperial Japan (March 7, 2006). In May 2008 An appeared on a list of pro-Japanese collaborators released by the Institute for Research in Collaborationist Activities (Minjok Munje Ynguso), and voices calling to change the national anthem due to its composers problematic past are still being heard at the time of this writing. Regarding tangible history, a dramatic manifestation of the “collaborationist controversy” was the debate over the rotary printing press of the Chosun Ilbo exhibited at the Independence Hall. Established in March 1920, along with two more newspapers, after receiving permits from the colonial government, the Chosun Ilbo is one of South Korea’s leading dailies. During the presidency of Kim Dae Jung, the paper presented a conservative stance in the face of what it and others viewed as Kim’s soft and compromising policy toward the North. Also, tensions between leading newspapers, the Chosun Ilbo among

39

114

To be sure, blaming the cultural nationalists for collaboration was already the act of their contemporaries. To a large part, this was a result of “dissention over means” (Wells 1988, 129), and a growing ideological schism that developed within the nationalist movement (Robinson 1988, passim.).

them, and President Kim Dae Jung’s administration, climaxed in March 2001 following a decision to launch a thorough tax investigation of the media. These tensions further escalated after Kim’s successor, Roh Moo Hyun, assumed office in February 2003. Actually, the conflict between Roh, or more accurately Roh’s supporters, and the Chosun Ilbo had its roots already in 2000. Then, following the defeat of Roh in the April parliamentary elections, a peculiar association called Nosamo was created. Nosamo, which is an acronym for “the club of those who love Roh Moo Hyun,” is a political support group, a fan club that was created online. One of the group’s acts, together with other like-minded societies, was to lead an “anti-Chosun Ilbo” campaign. Furthermore, in July 2001 the internal newspaper of the ruling Millennium Democratic Party (MDP) attacked the Chosun Ilbo and another daily, the Donga Ilbo, accusing them for collaborating with the Japanese colonial government (Chosun Ilbo, July 30, 2001, online). The Chosun Ilbo was thus blamed both for non-professional and unfounded reporting, and for being tainted by a collaborationist past. On his part, President Roh spoke of the need for media reform, and his government announced the launching of a new press policy centering on “managing the press rooms” (kijasil unyng). Roh was also reported to have said that while he would not elaborate on what publishers did during the colonial period and later under post-war authoritarian regimes, he “will comment about the biased reports the media produces during every presidential election” (Chosun Ilbo, April 2, 2003, online). Naturally, the papers warned against the government’s anti-democratic conduct. 40 In this struggle between the administration and the media, where each party accused the other of abusing power, tangible colonial history was also given a role through the Chosun Ilbo’s old rotary printing press incident. The printing press was exhibited in the Social and Cultural Movement Exhibition Hall, the sixth exhibition hall at the Independence Hall. On the morning of the significant date of March 1, 2003, approximately two hundred members of various civic groups, including leading Nosamo figures, appeared at the site with a twelve-meter crane. It was an 40

See, e.g., Chosun Ilbo online version reports from February 28, 2003, and April 18, 2003.

115

act that symbolized the dismantling of the printing press. The act was accompanied by shouting slogans and putting up placards accusing the Chosun Ilbo for cooperating with the colonial government and betraying the country. What had been the grounds for such accusations? First of all, in its early months the paper held a pro-Japanese position (abandoned after its president and publisher resigned in August 1920) (Nahm 1988, 298). More importantly, it was a hotbed of cultural nationalism (see also Chapter 3), a type of nationalism perceived by some as being stained by collaboration with the colonial authorities. The Chosun Ilbo (and the Donga Ilbo), explains Michael Robinson, “served as the major foci of political and social life in the colony.” This is also where a catch appears: “Here indeed was an honorable career for politically conscious and patriotic Korean youth” (emphasis mine) (Eckert et al. 1990, 288). In 1933, one Pang ng-mo, took over the newspaper and revitalized it by introducing cutting edge technology including, in 1936, the rotary printing press exhibited at the Independence Hall. Hence, what was perceived as pro-Japanese origins and an accommodation with colonial reality became the pretext for including Cho Chin-t’ae (the first president of the newspaper) and Pang ng-mo in the list of 708 collaborators.41 Also, it became the pretext for applying the tactic of the “collaborationist stain” to undermine the legitimacy of a powerful newspaper. Interestingly, the attack on the paper by pro-Roh activists, through the printing press exhibited at the country’s most prominent memorial site, perhaps revealed that limitations exist in regard to the president’s official and/or practical authority and influence over government-related agencies. In the end, approximately two weeks of continuous pressure followed the “March First crane demonstration,” and although it was reported that the Independence Hall had decided to remove the printing press from the exhibition (Chosun Ilbo, March 17, 2003, online), it did not do so. A final point to be made in this regard is that the Social and Cultural Movement Exhibition Hall that housed the machine did not constitute one of the original seven exhibition halls. It was created only in the summer of 2001 and it replaced a hall called the Republic of Korea Hall. 41

116

Kim Sng-su, founder and president of the Donga Ilbo, a cultural nationalist, and an entrepreneur, also appears on the list of 708 collaborators.

Apparently, the curators found it crucial to dedicate an entire hall to what might be dubbed as “moderate nationalism” at the expense of reducing, though not eliminating, the volume of the tangible narrative dedicated to the post-1945 developments and achievements of South Korea (I will elaborate on the significance of this in the next chapter).

Colonialism Made of Stone One peculiar exhibit at the Independence Hall is the remains of the former colonial Government-General Building. This exhibit portrays one of the most recent dramatic events related to the issue of colonial memory and its tangible representation, witnessed in South Korea. The story behind this exhibit, together with the way the exhibit is designed, exemplifies a passionate discussion within the country on how the colonial period should be remembered. The big and modern Government-General Building, designed by two Japanese architects in collaboration with the German architect Georg de Lalande, was constructed between 1916–1926 by mobilizing for the task thousands of Korean laborers. It was deliberately situated in front of the former Chosn dynasty king’s Kyngbok Palace so it would obscure its view. It is common to refer to the shape of the building as forming the character “螔” which stands for “Japan.” It is even said that viewed from above, together with the shape “繗” formed by Pukhan Mountain, and the shape “ 膩 ” formed by another Japanese administrative building (Seoul City Hall of today), the objects add up to “繗螔膩,” meaning Great Japan (Chng 1995, 31–32). 42 The imposing Western style structure measured 130.5 meters in length and 69 meters in width, and occupied an area of 6,992 square meters. Thus, “It was not only the site but also the size of the new Government-General building that was designed to overwhelm” (De Ceuster 2000, 91). In the early 1990s, a heated public debate erupted over the question of whether to destroy the building after Kim Young Sam (president, 42

For a description and photographs of the building and its interior features see Chng (1995, 28–37).

117

1993–1998) promised to do so in his presidential campaign. Kim, a familiar dissident to former authoritarian regimes, worked to create the impression that he was leading the country to a new era. As after liberation the building was used by the South Korean state (the first congress was inaugurated there in 1948 and President Park made it his regime’s headquarters in the early 1960s), “the destruction of the building signified that his ‘new era’ would be devoid of the past colonial/military aura of illegitimacy” (Pai 2000, 239). Those who objected to the destruction, pointed to the unnecessarily high expenses involved in the demolition project, and said it was a waste to destroy such a functional building. They also emphasized that as the building was still standing constantly reminds the people of their ability to overcome the troubled past. In contrast, the supporters claimed that the time had come to finally cleanse colonial memory by bringing down the building that symbolized humiliation and submission. Some even claimed that the Japanese were motivated by geomancy-related considerations, thus they erected the building so it would obstruct the free flow of energy in the country (see De Ceuster 2000, 90n25). The building hence became a symbolic focal point attracting all memories of colonial humiliation and suffering. It became an arena for a contest over memory and identity. Pai contends in this regard that because the building had served as the National Museum since 1986, it “came to symbolize the tortured soul of the Korean people because their ancestral objects were housed in a building full of colonial memories” (2000, 241). Finally, the decision was made and the building was demolished piece by piece in a well-publicized project at the time. The process culminated on August 15 (Independence Day), 1995, with the dismantling of the building’s dome that was then moved to the Independence Hall for display with several more stone pieces from the building. With the erasure of this dominating structure, the landscape in the heart of Seoul was significantly altered. For most South Koreans, it was now the first time they could see the grounds of Kyngbok Palace from a distance, after the view had been blocked for approximately seventy years. The design of the exhibition of the remains in the Hall (Figure 2.8) conveys a particular message. The exhibition is situated at a clear distance from the central axis of the site thus detached from the heart of 118

memory. The exhibition does not even appear in the brochure handed to visitors at the ticket booths at the entrance.43 In addition, the exhibition of the remains is fashioned in a very symbolic way. They are placed around a designed circular trench reminiscent of a classic outdoor theatre. At the center of the trench stands the cupola of the main dome, submissive and isolated from the glorious building whose apex it once constituted. The visitors, standing on top of the trench, view the dome from above, thus the colonial enemy/memory at their feet is now the humiliated party. Such a design promotes the healing process of overcoming the burden laid by colonial memory, hence affirming a strong position in the present and toward the future vis-à-vis the former colonizer. As this message is aimed primarily at the South Korean visitor, a plaque inside the Japanese Aggression Hall at the “Torture Done by Japan” section, brings this message a step further while addressing both South Koreans and Japanese. It bears the title “The meaning of the Japanese Aggression Hall exhibition”: We can forgive the assaulter [who caused] a history of past misery, but we should not forget. In exhibiting the history of occupation by force of imperial Japan, it is not our intention to remind of past agonies, but rather to express a will for a future of growing together.44

Hence, the unequivocal message that independent and self-confident Korea sends to Japan is that of a conditional future. The text’s soft tone of reconciliation is actually founded upon the demand that Japan acknowledges its past crimes and takes full responsibility for them. The problem is that in the eyes of most Koreans, Japan has as yet failed to do so. For example, in an opinion poll taken in March 2005, the most popular answer, by far, to the question “What do you think is the most important element to solve the disputes over history,” was “Japan’s apology acceptable to Koreans” (see The Maureen and Mike Mansfield

43 44

Based on my visit to the site in August 2002. The English translation somewhat differs from the Korean text. It reads: “We can forgive those terrible misdeeds, but we should not forget them. Displaying the history of occupation by force of Japanese imperialists is not our intention [sic] to remind us of past agonies or nurture animosities, but rather to learn lessons for future peaceful togetherness.”

119

Foundation 2005).45 As Alexis Dudden sees it, this apology issue is a belief incorporated in Korean national identity, a belief based on the idea that Japan’s control was both traumatic and illegal (2008, 63).

Figure 2.8 Exhibition of remains of the Colonial Government-General Building, Independence Hall

Constructing colonial memory in South Korea through a single symbolic artifact as shown is also done in other former Japanese occupied territories. Singapore, for example, for years presented a different approach to the occupation period from South Korea. A clarification, though, should be made at the outset. Singapore was not a Japanese colony, but a British one until February 1942. Then, Japan occupied it and ruled for a relatively short time. However, the comparison is based on the notion that “the Japanese had antagonized the local population to the extent that deep hatreds existed that would last several generations” (Blackburn and Lim 1999, 334), thus it is based on the bitter memories that the Japanese left behind them in both South Korea and Singapore. In Singapore, the occupation period was nearly neglected by the country’s historical memory until the 1990s. Even the most notorious of 45

120

The issue of Japans apology was selected by 42.6 percent of the respondents, while 23.9 percent selected the element of “Japan’s reconsideration of its compensation,” which came in second place.

all acts, the Sook Ching massacre, was almost completely “forgotten” by official national memory. 46 In his research on this massacre entitled “Meaningless Massacre,” Ran Shauli surveyed various fields where the creation of memory takes place (history books, literature, school curriculum, etc.) and concluded that the massacre was driven to the fringes of Singapore’s collective memory (2001). As for the massacre and tangible history, the one monument that was erected to memorialize it in 1968, actually conveys amnesia and has been treated in a banal and secular way. To begin with, it was constructed on a burial site, discovered in 1962, before the body remains had been counted and identified, thus preventing any attempt to shed some more light on the massacre. Also, the inscription that was meant to be carved on the monument, which is constructed of four tall columns, was never carved. And, finally, the popular name of the monument is “Chopsticks” (Shauli 2001, 23–24). There are various factors related to the history of Singapore and to its socio-ethnic composition, which have determined the negligence of the short Japanese occupation period. Shauli asserts that among the reasons for “forgetting” the Sook Ching massacre, as well as most events related to the Japanese occupation period, is that this multi-racial country has had no interest in emphasizing the historic injustice inflicted on the Chinese community. “Singapore is waving its multi-cultural and multiracial flag and conceals the demographic, political, and economic dominancy of the Chinese.” By this, Singapore avoided the risk of being suspected of Chinese nationalism, thus, of being considered as a guarantor of the Chinese living in the region by its much larger Muslim neighbors Indonesia and Malaysia where tensions exist between the Muslim majority and ethnic Chinese. Other reasons for pushing the memory of the Japanese occupation period to the fringes included Singapore’s economic relations with Japan, and the fact that it is a young emigrants’ country, lacking its own history, and was busier in constructing infrastructure than in building a nation (2001, 42).

46

In the first days of the Japanese occupation of Singapore, the Kempeitai (Japanese military police) arbitrarily arrested, tortured, and brutally murdered thousands of “anti-Japanese” from among the Chinese community in Singapore. This was their punishment for financially supporting China’s war effort. The number of victims is estimated to be between 25,000 and 50,000.

121

Interestingly, though, despite this negligence, the Singaporean public did not forget Japanese atrocities. This was apparent when in the late 1980s the government began to assess two long-forgotten monuments as potentials for tourist attractions: the Syonan (Shnan) Jinja – the impressive Shint shrine, and the Chureito – the twelvemeters high obelisk in memory of the dead of Japan’s enemies. The Japanese built them, used them as instruments of propaganda, and forced the local population to show obedience by attending them. It was due to strong public objection to revive these sites of humiliation and turn them into sites of tourism that the government finally backed down.47 Thus, in similar vein with the negligence of the Sook Ching massacre, both the Syonan Jinja and the Chureito were intended to be sites for attracting Japanese tourists and not sites of remembering the Japanese occupation period. In addition, the public outcry demonstrates that despite the “forgetfulness” on the official level, popular memory of the period was well rooted, especially, perhaps among the Chinese community, which is the community that had suffered the most. Another former Japanese occupied territory that deserves mentioning here is Taiwan. Taiwan became a Japanese colony in 1895, as the Treaty of Shimonoseki following Japan’s victory in the war with China determined it, and was under colonial rule for a longer period than Korea. Later, as a Taipei Review article titled “Colonial Constructs” mentions, “an excessively zealous desire to eradicate the bitter memories of Japanese rule led some quite memorable buildings to be razed or neglected after the Nationalists came to Taiwan in 1949.” In 1982, however, the Cultural Heritage Preservation Law, which provided that such buildings would be preserved, was promulgated there (Taipei Review, January 1, 2001, online). Thus, in Taiwan, in contrast with South Korea, the former colonial Government-General Building became the Presidential Office Building and was listed as a protected national monument. Two interrelated points should be noted in this regard. The first is Taiwan’s international position vis-à-vis China, and the second is that its population is comprised of both Chinese, who came from the mainland, and diverse groups of Taiwanese aborigines. Regarding the first point, in the past two decades, as “claims to represent the whole of China are 47

122

The story of these monuments is presented in Blackburn and Lim (1999).

slowly giving way to a regard for Taiwan’s past,” local academic, social, and cultural activities have led to a situation where “the Taiwanization of society is present everywhere” (Heylen 1999). Against this backdrop, when an anti-Japanese war memorial was inaugurated in Taipei in October 1999, historian Ann Heylen contended that “it [the memorial] assumes that the shared memory of the Taiwanese is identical to the shared memory of Chinese. Assuming that the anti-Japanese war in the mainland was also Taiwan’s war cuts right across Taiwan’s colonial past. It completely ignores Taiwan’s colonial experience.” She thus opines that perhaps “another monument is needed to honor the local Taiwanese who lived through the colonial period in Taiwan,” while stressing that “Taiwan’s elite engaged in social, political and economic campaigns to enhance Taiwan’s own culture in the struggle against the forces of Japanese cultural domination and assimilation” (1999). As for the second point, while there exists a tendency to belittle colonial Taiwan’s struggle for independency,48 the most impressive local show of active anti-colonial resistance came from Taiwanese aborigines. Known as the 1930 Musha Incident (musha jiken in Japanese) it “constituted a historical event that signaled an unprecedented resistance by the colonized that deeply shook Japanese” (Ching 2001, 136).49 Not only did this uprising later generate “a tremendous amount of interest in both Japan and Taiwan” (Ching 2001, 139), but also, as Leo T.S. Ching explains, The incorporation of the aborigines into the official discourse of nationalist resistance goes hand in hand with the persisting social and economic discrimination and exploitation of the aborigines at the hands of the same government that erected monuments, assembled commemorations, and sang praises for those who lost their lives during the uprising (2001, 140).

Therefore, in Taiwan, treating the former colonial Government-General Building as a cultural heritage of the nation is compatible with the country’s way of forming its “Taiwanese” identity. The monument is a symbol for all Taiwanese and its appropriation is one act in the trend of 48 49

See, e.g., Cumings (1997, 155). In the Musha Incident, which occurred on October 27, 1930, 134 Japanese men, women and children were slain by the aborigines. The Japanese harsh reaction led to the killings of hundreds of aborigines. See Ching (2001, passim) for an account and the significance of the Musha uprising.

123

setting a boundary between Taiwan’s colonial memory and that of China’s. In South Korea, in comparison, the Government-General Building dominated one of Seoul’s busiest intersections until the early 1990s, mostly as a result of utilitarian considerations. When the question of its place in the nation’s historical memory was raised and debated as never before, the state, which initiated the debate, ruled for its dismantling. In sum, I have compared cases where bitter memories of the Japanese occupation are linked to tangible history, as exemplified by the Government-General Building in South Korea, the tangible monuments in Singapore, and the Government-General Building in Taiwan. These comparisons demonstrate a unique way of perceiving the colonial period in South Korea and it brings to light the complex South Korean view of its former colonizer. This view is shaped by the fact that the South has normal relations with Japan, but, in addition, first, it is still engaged in a battle over colonial historical memory with its northern sister, and second, together with North Korea, the former colonizer remains a convenient Other through which to define the South Korean Us.

Conclusion: Morality, Legitimacy, Continuity This chapter presented the conditions of colonial rule as seen and represented through the interlocked conventional themes of poor living conditions, the cruelty of the occupier, and collaboration. Since this narrative is vulnerable to attack from contested histories and alternative memories, it is reinforced by the familiar image of heroism, which, as described in Chapter 1, already prevails throughout earlier Korean history. With regard to the idea of “the face of colonialism,” the more people suffered – the more brutal the colonizer was, and the more there have been people who suffered – the more heroic was the resistance. Colonialperiod heroism will thus constitute the subject of the following two chapters of this study since this heroism is crucial for the construction of nationalist self-identity. At this stage, however, it is possible to shed some light on what may be seen as deeper and more fundamental 124

features of self-identity that are secured by the tangible history of “the face of colonialism.” “Living conditions under the harsh rule of Terauchi probably were not much worse than they would have been if the Yi dynasty had lasted on,” contends Lee, “But this, if they reflected on it, could be no consolation to the Korean people, who were completely aware that the new regime was a foreign imposition” (1965 [1963], 96–97).50 Coming from a leading post-liberation historian of Korean nationalism, this observation highlights two central elements pertaining to the significance of “the face of colonialism.” First, it is doubtful, at least for the earlier stages of the colonial period, whether the majority of the population had suffered more than they would have done had they remained under the rule of their own government. Second, and more importantly, the rule by an Other was what made the situation so humiliating. This latter point leads us to Namlin Hur’s research of the 1982 textbook controversy (the one which motivated the construction of the Independence Hall) and its effect on affirming South Korean national identity. Hur observes that, Through the tussles of the textbook problem the Korean people have had an opportunity to confirm once again their upright national identity. The core contents of the national identity included independence, good and peaceful ethnic traits, and cultural creativity, all pitted against the ethnic characters of the historically most confrontational Other, the Japanese – aggressive, domineering, evil, cunning, and culturally lagging (1998, 20).

Following Hur’s observation, it is possible to demonstrate how the depiction of the Other by the tangible history of colonial conditions reinforces the basic characteristics of a South Korean Us. A plaque in the Independence Hall’s National Heritage Hall conveys Korean superiority in comparison to Japan by stressing, first, that the latter is a multi-racial nation, and second, that racial affinities between Korea and Japan are a result of ancient emigrations from the former to the latter. In addition, at the hall dedicated to the brutal occupier, the Japanese Aggression Hall, the first plaque the visitors encounter upon

50

General Terauchi Masatake, the Japanese War Minister, became the first GovernorGeneral of Korea in 1910. He governed the colony with an iron fist until 1916.

125

their entry, entitled “The Aggression of Imperial Japan and the Suffering of Korean People,” begins with the following lines: From ancient times to the modern era, Korea has helped expose Japan to advanced civilization and culture. However, beginning in the 1860’s, under the “Conquer Korea Policy,” Japan began its invasion in stages (emphasis mine).

On one level this means, of course, that the colonized people were historically more advanced than the colonizer, and that the latter brutalized the former after centuries of benefiting from him. On a second level, and under the context of the brutal colonizer exhibited in this hall, the image created by juxtaposing an advanced Korea with a brutal Japan has an even more crucial significance for the constructed Korean identity: although the “brutal Other” is actually the “brutal colonial Other” (and not present-day Japan), the image functions as a strong assurance for a morally much better Us, as “we” never (could have) acted, and never in the future could “we” act, in such a way. As seen earlier, such a message is especially conspicuous and graphic in Sdaemun Prison History Hall. The prison continued to serve the post-liberation (authoritarian) South Korean regimes until 1987, and it housed numerous political prisoners. Thus, when the issue at stake is the potential stain of oppression – it is crucial to erect a clear barrier between the Us and the Other, and by this to cleanse the Us. 51 The acknowledgement that “we,” like our demonic Other, may have oppressed is dangerous: it strikes at the core of the sense of moral superiority, and it is commonly perceived as both an act of self-hatred, and an act that might undermine national strength and stability in the face of present and future threats. This cleansing of the Us, however, would be impossible without the elimination of those who cooperated with the devil. The act of eliminating the collaborators is actually an act of defining who they were, and through this, South Korea’s national history, heavily supported by its tangible national history, has chosen the strategy of putting all the blame 51

126

I do not take a stand here in the controversy about whether some of the Japanese acts in colonial Korea are comparable with some of the actions taken by South Korea’s authoritarian regimes. My emphasis is very different: I argue that, commonly, people are incredibly sensitive to the possibility of being compared, in some way or another, to their former or present persecutor or archenemy.

of collaboration on a handful of scapegoats. Doing otherwise was, and commonly still is, considered an act that may destabilize society or/and question the legitimacy of the state. The thought that many who had probably assisted the colonial authorities later served in the South Korean government, meant a weak position, first, internally, second, visà-vis contemporary Japan, and, lastly, vis-à-vis North Korea that employed a much tougher policy toward former collaborators. This is the point where the three facets of “the face of colonialism” presented in this chapter meet. South Korea sees it imperative to reject notions that economic, political, social, or any other colonial legacies have influenced and helped to shape the post-colonial state, as also it is crucial for it to exorcise collaboration. Through this amnesia, it is possible for the South to lay claim to a history of a spirit of independence and of development that existed before the colonial period and outlasted it without being impinged by it. South Korea thus affirms its stance in the international arena as the legitimate pure representative of all Koreans, while its second significant Other, North Korea, constantly challenges it. In this process the South sets clear boundaries between itself and the Other and roots characteristics of identity, which are far beyond the scope of a mere contest over history. Accordingly, the act of overcoming colonial humiliation as represented by the exhibition of the remains of the Government-General Building, is founded on the much deeper and thicker basis of a truly pure Us. Moreover, it is also founded on the image of a heroic anti-colonial struggle as demonstrated in the remaining chapters.

127

Chapter 3: The Struggle

In the early 1980s, Bruce Cumings wrote that “when asked, [South] Koreans will say the Japanese were terrible, made Koreans speak their language, took away their names. But one does not hear much about a resistance movement.” He also emphasized the symbolic existence of the Government-General Building in Seoul as one manifestation of a remaining colonial legacy (1984, 478). However, in the decades that passed since this observation was made, South Korea’s tangible history has markedly changed. For example, the Government-General Building, as we saw in the previous chapter, was erased from the landscape. Moreover, much emphasis has been given to the theme of struggle. This chapter revolves around the March First Independence Movement and its outcomes. The effects of this movement, as they are commonly mentioned in related historiography, include the following. First, it was the first time the Korean people rose as a nation to demand independence. It thus inspired Koreans worldwide. Second, the movement had influenced the creation of active movements inside the colony and the activities of armed resistance abroad. Third, it drew international attention to Korea, and Japan was compelled to change its colonial policy. This shift opened opportunities for the rise of “moderate” nationalism in the colony. Fourth, the movement led to the establishment of the Korean Provisional Government in China. South Korea’s national history highlights these offshoots and presents them as admirable reactions to the dark period, a period the conditions of which were the subject of the previous chapter. In this regard, the anti-colonial struggle became a crucial anchor of legitimacy vis-à-vis North Korea. As S Koeng-il explains, the research of the history of the independence movement is blocked by the “political fence” that separates the two Koreas. It is limited to support the legitimacy of the administration, as it is expressed in the South by focusing on the Korean Provisional Government and the March First Movement (1998, 124–125). Naturally, national history in general and tangible history in particular avoid adopting such a critique and prefer to work with clearcut 129

images and messages that we can assume serve certain goals. Thus, by focusing on the above themes, it is possible to show that given the characteristics of tangible colonial history, it is anti-colonial resistance which looms large over the historical memory of South Korea’s national struggle.

A Nation Rises In South Korea, the March First Movement is undoubtedly the most revered manifestation of anti-colonial resistance. The voluminous literature dedicated to it, the central role it is given in all general history books and especially in those focused on the colonial period, the fact that March 1 is one of the nation’s most important national holidays, and, finally, the many monuments commemorating it that are peppered all over the country, all testify to this assertion. My starting point will be the following brief description based on the South Korean version.52 In early 1919, a group of intellectuals – religious figures and students – were making plans for a peaceful demonstration demanding independence from Japan. They were inspired, first, by President Woodrow Wilson’s doctrine of self-determination proclaimed in January 1918; second, by the activities of Korean nationalists in America, China, and Japan during 1918 and early 1919; and lastly, of course, by the conditions in the colony.53 The organizers decided to take the opportunity provided to them by the March 3 funeral of former Emperor Kojong who died on January 22, 1919. Because rumors concerning Japanese 1 2

130

For a relatively detailed description and analysis of the movement in English, see Lee (1965 [1963], 89–126). Shin Yong-ha is an exception in this regard even among South Korean scholars in his harsh criticism on the connection between Wilson’s Fourteen Points and the movement. Shin writes: “The March First Movement does not owe its origin to Wilson’s doctrine of self-determination. It was an outcome of modern nationalism in Korea which sprouted in the nineteenth century and continued to mature with the passage of time. Wilson’s doctrine was applicable to the colonies of the defeated nations of World War I and was not a concept of nationalism, but a weak foreign policy postulation advanced by a big power” (2000, 271).

involvement in Kojong’s death quickly spread, anti-Japanese feelings heightened and the prospected funeral became a possible setting to express these feelings. Tens of thousands of people then streamed into the capital and the organizers of the demonstration decided to capitalize on this situation. Finally, however, they moved the date to March 1 because they were worried about an especially alert Japanese police on the day of the funeral. On that day, thirty-three selected “national representatives” signed a Declaration of Independence that was written by Ch’oe Nam-sn, and twenty-nine of them convened in a restaurant near T’apkol Park in Seoul. The Japanese police arrested them before reading the declaration, but a young man read a copy of it in T’apkol Park in front of an expectant crowd at 14:00. Soon, the streets were filled with people shouting “Taehan tongnip manse” – long live Korean independence, and similar preplanned demonstrations broke out in more cities, adding to form a nationwide movement that lasted until May. “The Japanese reaction bordered on hysteria. Colonial police met peaceful demonstrators with violence that in turn sparked reprisals and rioting,” notes Robinson (1988, 44). By exploring the ways this movement is represented, what follows demonstrates its significance to and function in South Korea’s historical memory.

Spatial Origins South Korea considers T’apkol Park (T’apkol kongwn) in central Seoul, the place where the March First Declaration of Independence was read, as the original site of the movement. Yi Kyng-jae termed the place a (most important) “spiritual property” (chngsinjk chaesan), it being the cradle of the March First Movement (1993, 280). The 10,000 square meters park was Korea’s first modern park. In 1897, John McLeavy Brown, the British commissioner of the Korean Maritime Customs Service, initiated the construction of a Western style park at a site where remains from Wn’gaksa, a fifteenth century Buddhist temple, stood.54 These remains included a monument for Wn’gaksa (a 3

In 1465, King Sejo (reigned 1456–1468) built Wn’gaksa on a site where a Buddhist temple from the Kory dynasty used to stand. Sejo ascended the throne

131

stone slab on a turtle’s back) and a twelve-meter high ten-story pagoda that was erected in 1467. After its establishment, the park became known as “Pagoda Park,” the English reading signifying the ten-story pagoda around which the park was built. In the early 1990s, however, the park was renamed “T’apkol Park” (t’ap means tower or pagoda). Although some sources do not always use this name,55 at the site itself guides distribute brochures in four languages – Korean, English, Japanese, and Chinese – which all do use it (the Japanese version spells the name in Katakana, and the Chinese version reads 赁緾). In 1897, an octagonal pavilion called P’algakchng was constructed at the park’s center and it is at this spot where the March First Declaration of Independence was read in 1919. T’apkol Park is a memorial site and has been recognized as such throughout South Korea’s history. The first president, Syngman Rhee, tried to capitalize on the meaning that the park had in the fresh colonial memory of his country, and he had his statue erected in it. This was a rare incident during Rhee’s presidency for tangibly memorializing colonial history for political advantage, and attempting to bind Rhee personally with that recent past. Although Rhee was a former nationalist who also served as premier of the Korean Provisional Government, his post-liberation administration was filled with those who had previously served colonial authorities. The colonial era was thus a difficult past for the president. Rhee’s statue was brought down by students during the 1960 April Revolution (Clark and Clark 1969, 182), the uprising which resulted in Rhee’s resignation. A few years later, in May 1966 and during Park Chung Hee’s presidency (1963–1979), a statue of Son Pyng-hi was erected on the empty pedestal of Rhee’s statue. Passing the park’s

4

132

after a bloody usurpation, an act that resulted in discontent among Confucian officials of the then relatively young Chosn dynasty. Although Buddhism was oppressed during most of the Chosn dynasty period, Sejo’s reign is characterized by a relatively lenient policy toward this religion. Sejo is described as a true Buddhist believer, but, in addition, in light of the legitimacy problem at the early stage of his reign, it is probable that this policy was also a way of projecting his strength and independence to the high officialdom. One later result of the policy was the construction of Wn’gaksa. For example, Chng et al. (1996, 191–192), and Yi (1993, 273–280) both write p’agoda.

traditionally styled March First Gate (Samil mun, inscribed on the upper beam), which was erected in 1967, one confronts a small plaza dominated by Son’s statue facing the entrance (Figure 3.1).

Figure 3.1 T’apkol Park, Seoul – view from the entrance

In a site’s brochure, Son is regarded as “the head of the group of 33 men that signed the declaration of Korea’s independence” (T’apkol kongwn). The selection of Son, the spatial design, and the wreaths that are placed before the bronze statue on a regular basis, all signify Son as the main protagonist among the initiators of the movement. Both Son’s activities in the eve of the March First Movement, and his tangible representation in T’apkol Park overshadow what some might see as a problematic past. In the early twentieth century, between about 1901–1904, Son was involved in attempts to encourage Korean cooperation with Japanese functionaries. This was done out of the belief that Japanese assistance would help to impose reforms on what was viewed as Korea’s corrupt ruling dynasty, thus amend the unequal and unjust society. A stronger Korea, in turn, would be better able to face foreign aggression. In 1904, together with figures such as Yi Yong-gu and Song Pyng-jun who later became notorious names in Korean history, Son was involved in the establishment of the Ilchinhoe (United advancement society). This has become a defamed organization which is usually branded “pro-Japanese” and/or a tool created by the Japanese themselves. Although Son’s affair

133

with this society was short, there exists a potential for a problematic past. Usually, however, if Son’s “Japanese past” does come up, the acceptable explanation is that “Son realized after a time that the Japanese were not friends but the enemies of his people,” and he only “maintained seemingly good relations with them” out of pragmatic considerations (McKenzie 1969 [1920], 241). Hence Son’s image in national history remains positive and uncontested.56 In T’apkol Park, to the right side of the plaza which is dominated by Son’s statue, stands the 3.1 Tongnip snn kinymt’ap – the March 1 Declaration of Independence Monument. It consists of the 1,762-word declaration and two figures of demonstrators at both ends. The declaration, explains the park’s brochure, “is comparable with declarations of independence from other countries and it is not at all inferior” (T’apkol kongwn). This monument was erected on April 15, 1980, but, actually, a monument of similar style previously stood in the Park. This was a monument for the March First Movement patriots erected on August 15, 1963. It was a sculpture of a group of demonstrators with the Declaration of Independence inscribed on a stone screen behind them. In 1967 it was moved to the opposite east side of the park, the same side where ten twometer high bronze bas-reliefs were placed. In 1979, during major renovation works on the occasion of the sixtieth anniversary of the movement, this monument was dismantled, and was later rebuilt at a different location, Sdaemun Independence Park, in 1992. At the center of the park stands the P’algakchng, which is the octagonal pavilion where the declaration was read, and the ten-story pagoda from the fifteenth century behind it. The ten bas-reliefs depicting peaceful heroic demonstrators and brutal oppressors are aligned on the right, close to the park’s eastern wall. On both sides of this series are two plaques, one praises the movement, the other tells the park’s history. The first relief in the series shows the reading of the declaration from P’algakchng, with the pagoda in the background. It is interesting to note the lack of historical accuracy regarding the depiction of the pagoda in this relief. In 1919, at the time of the declaration, the ten-story pagoda was actually a seven-story pagoda because its three upper levels were scattered on the ground. There are four different stories related to 5

134

For exemplary references to Son’s “Japan-related” activities, see Schmid (2002, 88); Kim Sam-ung (1997, 140–141); and Lone (1988, 117–119).

the circumstances that led to the dismantling of these three levels sometime during the sixteenth century. Yet it was not until February 1946 that an American military engineering unit lifted the three fallen levels with a crane back to their original place (Yi 1993, 278). Though the pagoda is not depicted on the relief with its full ten stories, the upper part is shown in its entirety. This could have resulted either out of carelessness, artistic considerations, intention, or any combination thereof. In any case, a depiction of an intact ten-story pagoda makes it much easier for the viewers, who also encounter the real pagoda, to link between the scene and the actual historic spot they are visiting. In short, the depiction avoids complexities and adds credibility to the scenes on the reliefs. Each of the other nine reliefs is dedicated to a March First Movement scene from a different province including Cheju Island. Also, the scenes include intellectuals, officials, students of both sexes, kisaeng (the Korean female entertainer), commoners, etc. The reliefs are thus constructed to convey the message that all classes, religions, and ages in society took part in the movement (Chng et al. 1996, 192). The image is of a true people’s movement, and the meaning of T’apkol Park as the spatial location from which this people’s movement originated is reinforced on March First Independence Movement Anniversary (Samiljl). This is one of South Korea’s most important national holidays, and on this day, among other festivities, people gather in the park to participate in a reenactment of the March 1, 1919, Declaration of Independence. The reading of the declaration is followed by “Tongnip manse” cries from the crowd. In October 1991, T’apkol Park was designated Historic Site No. 354, and on March 1, 2002, the place reopened after nearly a year of renovations which cost approximately 1.5 million dollars. In this latest project, a five-meter deep well, which was probably dug sometime after Wn’gaksa was closed in 1504, was discovered. The park’s role as a memorial site notwithstanding, this is what one reporter wrote in the Korea Herald (online) on March 3, 2002, after the park was renovated: Prior to being closed for the restorations, Tapgol Park had been a favorite hangout for elderly citizens as well as an assortment of homeless people, beggars and drunks. After criticisms that the area’s significance as a symbol of Korea’s desire for independence was being marred by disorderly conduct by habitual loiterers, the

135

city undertook a 1.9 billion won project to overhaul the park’s layout and restore its historical spirit.

The report also adds that people will be expected to leave the place after an hour of viewing, and as one city official said, it will no longer be “a collective resting area for elderly citizens or a site of frequent crimes.” From my personal experience, which includes several visits to the park both before and after the renovation project of 2001/2002, there certainly has been a change in this regard. Many alert inspectors constantly roam the place, and quite a few tour guides, including several unofficial ones, occupy the park as well. Accordingly, it is clear that the day-to-day functioning of the park troubled its intended historical significance. Yet, from a temporal perspective, it remains a living memorial that occupies historical memory both linearly, i.e., throughout South Korea’s contemporary history, and cyclically, i.e., as a tangible object connected to the country’s annual practices of commemoration. The question that arises here is what influenced this characteristic. Of course, as with all tangible agents of memory, various political and economic considerations have dictated the investments in T’apkol Park at different specific junctures of time. However, judging from an historical perspective, I place the park’s role within the lingering rivalry over legitimacy with North Korea. In the North’s narrative, the spatial origins of the uprising was P’yngyang, the country’s post-liberation capital (Hart 2001, 51, 55–56). According to this narrative, on March 1, 1919, thousands of students and common people gathered in P’yngyang’s Sungsil School, the school that Kim Hyng-jik, the father of North Korea’s “Great Leader” Kim Il Sung, had attended. A young student read the declaration of independence at 13:00, states a Chosun Ilbo online article named “The March First Movement as Seen by North Korea,” an hour earlier than the time of the declaration in T’apkol Park in the Southern version (March 27, 2001), and from here demonstrations spread to all parts of the country. “To claim the start of this movement is seen important since each must define itself as the sole and legitimate state on the Korean peninsula,” argues Dennis Hart (2001, 56). Under this context, then, T’apkol Park, which was used by governments to promote national cohesiveness through messages of suffering and heroism, has been functioning as a space that buttresses legitimacy.

136

Seen in this light, two central issues related to the exhibits on the park’s premises are better understood. First, the coupling of remains from the Chosn dynasty with monuments for the March First Movement links the present South Korean state with the Korean-nation’s pre-division history.57 And, second, the dominating statue of Son Pynghi personifies the movement’s origins and challenges the North’s implication of Kim Il Sung’s personal connection with the movement. The two interrelated functions of T’apkol Park, establishing nationalist consciousness and reaffirming legitimacy, are further promoted in other sites where the March First Movement is commemorated. A pivotal theme in this regard is the narrative’s focus on the “people.”

The Korean People’s Movement One central message conveyed by the bas-reliefs in T’apkol Park is that the March First Movement was a nationwide mass-movement. Focusing on the “people” is an important aspect of the movement and a recurrent image. It is the South’s way of both de-legitimizing the North’s narrative and constructing the framework for understanding the historical significance of the movement. A good starting point in this regard is Seoul National Cemetery’s Photographic Exhibition House. Here, the March First Movement is depicted under a section entitled “35 Years of Independence Struggle (1910–1945),” a title suggesting that anti-colonial resistance was carried out throughout the entire period. The exhibition, however, does not commence with heroic struggle but with the brutality of the colonizer and the suffering of the colonized as presented by the photos and texts under “The Military Rule of Imperial Japan” title. Immediately following the inflicted cruelty and “inhumane oppression” (piin tojgin t’anap), the exhibition then turns to the March First Movement. By this positioning it glorifies the movement as the first manifestation of resistance under the harsh circumstances.

6

In addition to the ten-story pagoda, the monument to Wn’gaksa and the well, there is also a Chosn dynasty stone pedestal of a sundial. The pedestal was discovered during the construction of a railway in 1899, and was moved to the park.

137

The images projected by the photographs related to the “March First Independence Movement” title, are coupled in the following Korean language text (there are no English language texts in the Photographic Exhibition House): Even the brutal militaristic cudgel of imperialist Japan did not stand in the way of our nation’s thirst for independence. Our people [minjok], gathered en masse, heard the unfortunate news about Emperor Kojong and shouted independence, launching the spirit and the capacity of independence. 58 The March First Independence Movement was not only local, but Koreans also rose in other places such as Manchuria, the Maritime Province of Siberia, the Americas, and Japan. Also, it was a nationwide independence movement transcending age, sex, class, religion, thought, and ideology.

The photographs show people gathering to mourn Emperor Kojong, people in “manse marches” in Korea and abroad, and a scene of the Declaration of Independence. In a reference to the rumors that spread at the time, one caption explains that the doubt regarding the poisoning of Kojong by the Japanese was never removed.59 Also, facing the “March First Independence Movement” section is “Imperial Japan’s inhumane torture and massacre” which focuses on Japanese atrocities committed during the demonstrations. Thus, again the exhibition strengthens the glorious image of the movement by the juxtaposition of its heroism with brutality and suffering. A similar image is conveyed in the Independence Hall. Here, the 3.1 undonggwan – the March First Movement Hall – is the fourth exhibition hall, and it follows the third exhibition hall, Japanese Aggression Hall. In addition, at the exit of the Japanese Aggression Hall is a replica of the front gate of Sdaemun Prison and the text of “Living Conditions in the 1910s,” which ends by explaining that the horrible colonial conditions “touched off the March First Independence Movement.” Then, at the entrance to the March First Movement Hall there is, again, a replica of the Sdaemun Prison gate, and also a replica entitled “Living Conditions in the 1910s.” Thus, a direct link is created between the March First Movement at the fourth hall and the brutality and suffering of the third hall by the spatial positioning of the halls, by textual references, and by 7 8

138

The original text reads “tongnip chngsin kwa chaju yngnyang” thus employing two different words for “independence,” namely tongnip and chaju. For these rumors, see Lee (1965 [1963], 107–108).

selected objects. This also highlights the movement’s importance as the first nationwide movement of the colonial period. The characterization of the movement as being a peaceful mass movement is depicted in the fourth hall not only by texts but also by the statue that dominates the hall’s entrance. This is the 6.25 meter-high bronze statue of The Spirit of the March First Independence Movement. It comprises of many figures of men, women, children, farmers, workers, Buddhists, and scholars, waving arms and flags. Two important images are embedded in this statue. First, with slight changes, the flag that people waved during the demonstrations became the official flag of postliberation South Korea, and it is a conspicuous object at every depiction of the March First Movement in the country’s tangible history (see below pp. 157–158 for the hidden complexities behind this national emblem). Secondly, the figure that is placed at the statue’s apex is that of a woman. This image, the centrality of women in the movement, is a recurrent image in tangible history. It is a way of establishing the most prominent symbol of the movement: the teenage girl Ryu Kwan-sun who led a demonstration, got arrested, and perished at Sdaemun prison. One more monument is worth mentioning in the present context. This is the 3.1 Tongnip snn kinymt’ap – the March First Declaration of Independence Monument, which stands in Sdaemun Independence Park on the opposite side from Independence Gate (Figures 3.2 and 3.3). With the bronze figures of people from all walks of life and the large flag at its center, this monument conveys the same meaning as the abovementioned Spirit of the March First Independence Movement statue at the Independence Hall.

139

Figure 3.2 3.1 Tongnip snn kinymt’ap – March First Declaration of Independence Monument, Sdaemun Independence Park, Seoul

Figure 3.3 A close-up of bronze figures on the 3.1 Tongnip snn kinymt’ap

140

Also, not surprisingly, it is similar in style with, and bears the same name as, the March First Declaration of Independence Monument in T’apkol Park. The Sdaemun Park monument is actually the one erected in T’apkol Park in 1963 and later dismantled in 1979. As one booklet explains: For 12 years [the monument] was neglected but, in 1992, it was reconstructed in Sdaemun Independence Park – the site of [an] anti-Japanese independence movement – after voices from every sphere of life [kakkye] were raised (Sdaemun-gu ch’ng, Sdaemun hyngmuso yksagwan n.d., 41).

It is important to note at this point that tangible history places much emphasis on the movement’s image as a peaceful all-national movement. This is similarly accomplished with written history, which stresses the number of people who participated in the demonstrations. The following represents the basic arguments in this regard. The total number of people who participated in the movement is central to South Korean writers, and in the words of Lee Ki-baik, it was “the greatest mass movement of the Korean people in all their history” (1984, 341). Based on a Japanese gendarmerie report from April 1919, the lowest estimate of participants is over half a million, while a later Japanese Government-General source from 1924 provides the number of one million (Lee 1965 [1963], 114, 304n44, 304n46). However, some South Korean writers prefer the much higher number of two million, which the colonial-period historian Pak n-sik presented in his Hanguk tongnip undong chi hylsa (Bloody history of the Korean independence movement) (1920).60 Furthermore, Shin Yong-ha suggests that the number is even higher than Pak’s 2,023,098 participants. He asserts that Pak did not include, first, “small-scale uprisings carried out by less than 50 people,” and second, “sporadic outbursts [that] spilled beyond May” (2000, 255). The fact that the Japanese gendarmerie themselves had already specified these limitations (Lee 1965 [1963], 304n46), signifies the usage of preferable selected sources produced by the colonizer in cases that suit South Korean nationalist history. Also, in a current narrative of the movement, one historian writes that based on imperialist Japan’s calculations, two million people, or ten percent of the total Korean population, took part in the demonstrations (Kang Man-gil et al. 2000, 9

See, e.g., Kim Sam-ung (1997, 15) and Shin (2000, 255).

141

69). The writer, however, does not specify his source. In comparison with these high numbers, Frank Baldwin interpreted differently the statistics provided by the contemporaneous Japanese authorities. He argued that these numbers do not take into account that many individuals participated several times in different demonstrations; thus he estimated that roughly three hundred thousand people had participated (1979, 135). The number of casualties is another statistic used by Korean writers to emphasize the high number of participants in the demonstrations. The brute force employed by the Japanese to quell the movement resulted in grave consequences. In the words of Lee Chong-sik, “The surprised Japanese government suppressed the Koreans with a brutal force and cruelty far exceeding the limits of civilized people” (1985, 6), hence another expression of the image of a brutal oppressor emphasized throughout South Korea’s memorializing project. According to official Japanese figures, 553 Koreans were killed, 1,409 injured, and at least 22,000 arrested. 61 Most South Korean accounts, however, prefer the statistics provided by Pak in the “Bloody history of the Korean independence movement”: 7,509 killed, 15,961 injured, and 46,948 arrested in 1,542 gatherings. An explanation for this disparity can be that the lower numbers refer to a shorter period, only to the first month of the demonstrations (Lee 1985, 6). Thus, Shin Yong-ha emphasizes that the higher numbers refer to the March-May period (2000, 255), and Lee Chong-sik mentions another contemporary Korean source that presents even higher numbers but for the longer period of March 1919 – March 1920 (1965 [1963], 114). Writers such as Lee Kibaik (1984, 344) and Yun Kyng-no (Kang et al. 2000, 69) add by asserting that the high numbers are based on sources from the Japanese authorities themselves. The fact that people from all walks of life participated is also a central aspect presented in all the accounts. The diversity in regard to religious affiliation, age, educational levels, and occupation is evident from the numbers and the classification of the people arrested by the colonial authorities.62 Yun provides the following breakdown according to occupation of those arrested between March-May: 58.4 percent 10 11

142

I base the number of arrested on Lee (1965 [1963], 114 and 304n49). Nahm puts the number on “over 19,500” (1988, 264), and Cumings “over 12,000” (1997, 155). See Lee (1965 [1963], 115–118), which relies on Government-General sources.

farmers, 20.8 percent students and intellectuals, 13.8 percent merchants and industrialists (sanggongpja), 3.9 percent laborers, and 3.1 percent without occupation. He then specifically emphasizes the participation of farmers and of laborers (Kang et al. 2000, 69). In comparison, Baldwin’s interpretation of the numbers of the demonstrators arrested differs slightly from Yun. To begin with, he writes that the large number of arrested farmers reflects their high proportion among the population which was eighty percent. This means that the participation of farmers was relatively low in comparison to that of students and intellectuals. With regard to “intellectuals,” Baldwin presents a lower percentage of those arrested than Yun does, 11.5; however, he still assesses their participation as “significant.” Finally, unlike Yun, Baldwin couples merchants with workers from all trades to create a group whose percentage among the arrested was 7.5 (1979, 153). Such differences notwithstanding, Yun sketches the typical characterization of a true all-national movement that cut across social boundaries and was not limited to or by the intellectual affiliation of its initiators. Furthermore, another historian, Kim Sng-sik, emphasizes one more dimension of the movement. He writes that unlike nationalist movements in the West, the Korean movement was an unarmed one (1974, 87), hence he emphasizes the March First Movement’s peaceful characteristics. All the texts in the memorial sites describe the movement as peaceful, and accompanying photographs of marching, empty-handed citizens reinforce this image. It is also an image that is immediately grasped through related statues and bas-reliefs. Cases in point are the reliefs in T’apkol Park and The Spirit of the March First Independence Movement statue at the Independence Hall’s March First Movement Hall. One more feature that is emphasized by the exemplary text and photographs from Seoul National Cemetery’s Photographic Exhibition House presented at the opening of this section, is that although the demonstrations erupted in Korea, the movement influenced Korean independence activities abroad. This is a recurrent theme in other sites as well (namely, Independence Hall and Taejn National Cemetery), and it is a common interpretation in written history. What seems to be the most crucial theme in this regard, as I will show below, is the establishment of the Korean Provisional Government. As we can see, the sites discussed here present the March First Movement as a people’s movement. The 143

examples of the bas-reliefs in T’apkol Park, the exhibits in the Independence Hall, and the National Cemeteries of Seoul and Taejn, and the monument in Sdaemun Independence Park, project the image of a peaceful mass-movement that challenged colonial rule. In this regard, it is a powerful visual image that corresponds to written history and reinforces it. Seen from the South-North contest over historical memory, the March First Movement, as a people’s movement, is a tool for laying claim to legitimacy. In the Northern narrative, the movement is termed the March First Uprising/Rebellion or the March First People’s Uprising/Rebellion (Samil ponggi and Samil inmin ponggi, respectively). Interestingly, Pak Yong-ok referred to this by explaining that a socialist country is more sensitive to historical terminology (1998, 63). In any case, as Hwang Min-ho showed, the development of North Korea’s historiography, in accordance with the country’s ideology and political circumstances, resulted in a narrative that strives to unify the leader, the party, and the people (1998). Under this framework, the Northern narrative, which criticizes the “bourgeois” nationalists of the first decade of colonial rule (see Hwang 1998, 51–56), contends that although the uprising lacked an adequate revolutionary leadership, it was a genuine expression of the people’s zeal for independence (Hart 2001, 42, 51–52; Kang 1990, 15). The NorthSouth contest over the (Korean) “people” is thus clearly demonstrated in the following speech delivered by South Korea’s President Park Chung Hee on March 1, 1974: My dear fifty million fellow countrymen: Today, we observe the 55th anniversary of the Samil Independence Movement, in which our people rose up in unity to overcome national adversity, raising high the banners of independence and peace. […] the North Korean Communist regime continues to escalate tensions in and around the Korean peninsula by intensifying armed provocations and committing inhumane acts […] The resounding cries of “Long Live Independence” that echoed all over the country fifty-five years ago today were the manifestation of our people’s unswerving spirit of independence. […] the present generation of ours today must resuscitate the national spirit of independence, unity and peace – crystallized in the Samil Independence Movement – and sublimate this spirit into the wisdom and vitality required in our quest for greater nationhood ahead (1976, 99–100).

144

It should be noticed that Park addressed “fifty million fellow countrymen,” i.e., Koreans from both sides of the border, while he bypassed the rival regime itself. Park thus appropriated colonial history. He appropriated the March First Movement by linking all contemporary Koreans with the people’s movement of March 1, 1919, and he delegitimized the historical narrative promoted by the Northern regime. Since it is this message that the South’s tangible history has continued to convey, it is doubtful whether, as Pak remarked, a socialist country is more sensitive to historical terminology; we realize that South Korea is just as sensitive. And since the idea of a people’s movement is the locus of the historical significance of the March First Movement, this historical significance will be the subject of the remaining part of this chapter.

Active Physical Resistance A text in Taejn National Cemetery’s Hogukkwan (The hall of defending the country) emphasizes that the March First Movement was a “worldwide independence movement having influence even in China and India.” In similar vein, some South Korean writers typify the movement as having an effect on national movements in China and India as well as in Vietnam, the Philippines, and Egypt (e.g., Shin 2001, 309– 312 and Kang et al. 2000, 71). Shin Yong-ha writes in this regard that “the March First Movement played an important role in triggering the May Fourth Movement in Shanghai” and that Korean nationalists participated in this movement in China. He also contends that India’s non-violent freedom movement “absorbed the spirit of the March First Movement,” and he quotes poems and references written by Rabindranath Tagore and Jawaharlal Nehru praising the Korean people who rose to protest (2000, 267–268). Shin even concludes a long discussion on the movement by asserting that it was the first beacon, the first signal of hope, immediately following World War I, as an independence movement of a small and weak nation facing the powerful victorious imperialistic Powers (2001, 313).63 12

Shin dedicates 152 out of this book’s 492 pages to the March First Movement.

145

Naturally, however, national and tangible histories in South Korea are much more self-oriented and they relate to the effects of the March First Movement on the development of modern Korean nationalism. They do so in such a way that allows the Southern state to consider itself the sole legitimate offshoot of the anti-colonial struggle. In this regard the South’s historical narrative addresses both an active/physical form of struggle, and a more moderate form of struggle. When active struggle is concerned, two themes are conspicuous: the two student-centered demonstrations inside Korea, and the armed struggle that took place outside the colony.

Taking to the Streets According to one comprehensive work on the June 10 Manse Movement, The March First Movement, the 6.10 Manse Movement, and the Kwangju Student Movement – which were our peoples’ struggles for independence and an opposition to Imperial Japan – were three lofty movements in the history of the independence movement (6.10 Manse kinym saphoe 1991, 241).

The following distinction, though, should be made in this regard. As Kim Sng-sik observed, one outcome of the March First Independence Movement was the spread of the national independence ideology as an anti-Japanese one (1974, 195). Strong anti-Japanese feelings thus served as an impetus for joining in for the cause of independence as it was exemplified by the two most significant outbreaks of anti-colonial demonstrations following the March First Movement. The June 10 Manse Movement (6.10 manse undong, or, as it appears in English language works: the June 10 Incident) was a large demonstration that erupted in 1926 during the funeral of Emperor Sunjong, the last ruler of the Chosn dynasty. Days before the funeral, according to one source, 300,000 mourners from all over Korea gathered in Seoul (6.10 Manse kinym saphoe 1991, 52). The organizers of the demonstration intended to touch off a nationwide movement similar to the March First Movement, and some of them secretly drafted tens of thousands of copies of a manse (“long live,” meaning long live independence) leaflet, signed Tan’gi (Tan’gun era) 4259 June 10 (6.10 Manse kinym saphoe 1991, 45–46). On the day of the funeral, approximately 25,000 students 146

lined both sides of the funeral procession’s route (6.10 Manse kinym saphoe 1991, 52), and it is they who began the manse cries. Thousands joined in to what had become the first mass demonstration after the March First Movement. The second event discussed here, the Kwangju Student Movement (Kwangju haksaeng undong), evolved in October–November 1929 and lasted for five months. The incident that sparked the movement was the harassment of a Korean female student by Japanese male students on the Naju-Kwangju train on October 30. This incident led to fights between Japanese and Korean students in the city of Kwangju, and as a result, more and more students started demonstrating nationwide against colonial educational policies. Accounts of this movement put the total number of participants on 54,000 male and female students from 194 schools and from all grades. This means, as Kim Sng-sik mentions, that nearly one out of every ten students was involved in the movement (1974, 202). With regard to the participation of regular citizens, historian Lee Chong-sik states that “few adults took part openly” (1965 [1963], 253), while a more recent account mentions the participation of “many regular citizens” (Kang et al. 2000, 171). In any case, there were groups that supported the students and assisted in spreading the movement. How are these two movements tangibly represented and what messages do these representations convey? In the Independence Hall, the movements are represented in the sixth hall, the Sahoe · munhwa undonggwan – the Hall of Social and Cultural Movements. The related plaques provide general accounts of the June 10 Manse Movement and the Kwangju Student Movement with four points worthy of note. First, the role of leftist organizations in planning the incidents is not omitted. Second, a linkage is made by explaining that the June 10 Manse Movement resulted from “the experience of the March First Independence Movement,” and then it “influenced the Kwangju Student Movement.” Third, both were “grand scale,” “mass,” and “nationwide” movements. And, fourth, the June 10 Manse Movement aimed “to revive the national spirit,” and the Kwangju Student Movement “was not caused by the clash between Korean and Japanese students” but resulted from Japanese colonial policies and contemporary living conditions. Generally, the same message is conveyed in Seoul National Cemetery’s Photographic Exhibition House, but in a more systematic 147

way. The two movements are coupled under a shared title: “The Student Uprising and the National Enlightenment Movement.” The related text explains that “the students realized the pressing misfortunes [tangmynhan piun] of the people and they rose as the spearhead of the anti-Japanese national movement.” Through the June 10 Manse Movement they “set a new fire in the national movement” and “the Kwangju Student Movement spread as a nationwide anti-Japanese movement.” The accompanying photographs show scenes from the demonstrations, but they also stress the students’ role in interacting with farmers in enlightenment campaigns. As the text states, “Although the demonstrations were crushed by Imperial Japan’s oppression […] [the students] were at the forefront of the movement to reform national consciousness.” In addition to the above two sites, there is one particular site which allocates space solely for the purpose of commemorating the Kwangju Student Movement. This is Kwangju Ilgo School in Kwangju, the campus of the former Kwangju Cheil High School of the colonial period. “A Memorial for the Kwangju Student Independence Movement” is the inscription posted on a high pole at the school’s entrance, and a plaque in the yard explains that this is “the birthplace of the Kwangju Student Independence Movement.” A monument and a memorial hall commemorate the movement here. The eleven meter high monument was erected in 1954. It was unveiled in a ceremony that took place on 10 June, thus a symbolic temporal link was constructed at that time with the June 10 Manse Movement. More than four decades later, in 1997, the Kwangju Student Independence Movement Memorial Hall was built. The hall is aimed at the South Korean visitor since except for one or two general texts in English, all are in Korean. While the second floor of the hall is dedicated to Kwangju Cheil High School records and memorabilia, the first floor focuses on the 1929 movement. The texts, photographs, and objects exhibited in the first floor convey the familiar messages that characterize the movement: the movement as one of the three greatest anti-Japanese national nationwide movements demonstrating the students’ and peoples’ heroism and zeal for independence. There is one conspicuously peculiar object in this exhibition. In a glass case, placed beside one single wall and somewhat isolated from the continuum of the main tangible narrative, is a brick 148

from the former colonial Government-General Building. Next to the brick is a sketch showing how the building looked before it was dismantled. Also, hanging on the wall is an aerial photograph taken at the time of the demolition project and showing the debris. The attached plaque explains that this is a brick from the demolition work of the Government-General Building, and that it was a project aimed for correcting (parojapki) national history. Refuting the image of Korea as a former obedient Japanese territory – a counter-image that is accomplished by the act of dismantling the colonial icon and erasing it from the landscape in the early 1990s – is hence included in the overall narrative of the 1929 anti-colonial struggle. Physically, the brick is somewhat detached, thus this tangible symbol of evil is kept at a distance from the rest of the exhibits representing the spirit of struggle and independence. By this, and as with the building’s remains that are exhibited in the Independence Hall, it is possible for the tangible narrative to convey the complex message of struggle, continuity, and the rectification of historical memory. Indeed, the messages embodied in the exhibition of the brick from the former colonial Government-General Building in the Kwangju Student Independence Movement Memorial Hall, are compatible with national and tangible histories as presented here so far. However, I would like to point to a certain statement that appears in this hall in a text that presents an overview of the movement. The text asserts that according to the Japanese police, the movement was “maneuvered from behind by socialists and their underground organizations.” By branding them as “socialists” and “communists,” the text continues, it was the authorities’ intention “to suppress all the Korean independence movements.” This idea coming from a Kwangju-situated memorial site, carries an additional value. Under South Korea’s authoritarian regimes, Kwangju has been a traditional regional base of anti-government activities. At those times, the regimes had promoted exactly this same argument, namely that the dissidents were leftists and/or communists, to delegitimize their challengers and at the same time, to legitimize the government’s harsh oppression of them. In this context, we should remember that the coupling of the words “Kwangju” and “students” have become associated, since 1980, with the Kwangju uprising in particular and with the democratic movement in general. In this sense, the Kwangju Student Independence Movement 149

Memorial Hall can be viewed as engaged in a dialogue with Kwangju’s most famous memorial site: the monumental New Mangwl-dong Cemetery which commemorates the Kwangju uprising of May 1980. This uprising, called simply o-ilp’al (May 18) by Koreans, was an event that began as a student protest, turned into an armed civilian struggle, and was finally suppressed by the army at the cost of hundreds of dead and thousands injured. It is considered a watershed in statesociety relationships in South Korea and in the development of the country’s democratic movement.64 The work on the New Mangwl-dong Cemetery was carried out between 1994–1997 during the presidency of Kim Young Sam. By replacing the local Old Mangwl-dong Cemetery, the new cemetery became a contested ground as some pro-democracy and civil movement groups disapproved of it. They did so on account that it signified to them the appropriation of the Kwangju uprising memory by the state; thus conveying, so they viewed, that the struggle for democracy is embedded in the past while actually the question of whether democracy really was consolidated in South Korea remains open (Yea 2001, 450–451). The Kwangju Student Independence Movement Memorial Hall opened the same year that the new disputed memorial site for the Kwangju uprising was completed. Accordingly, while it basically enhances the official narrative of the anti-colonial struggle, the Kwangju Student Independence Movement Memorial Hall offers an alternative idea as well. It retains the region’s historical role as a base of struggles for independence, freedom, and human rights in the face of both colonial rule and post-colonial dictatorships, which it accomplishes by the three means demonstrated here: (1) the connotations the words “Kwangju” and “students” produce; (2) the existence of this Hall against the backdrop of 13

150

The past few years has seen a rise in the volume of literature dedicated to explore the Kwangju uprising and the place it occupies in South Korea’s memory. For English-language accounts see: Donald N. Clark’s edited volume The Kwangju Uprising: Shadows Over the Regime in South Korea (1988); Sallie Yea’s “Rewriting Rebellion and Mapping Memory in South Korea: The (Re)presentation of the 1980 Kwangju Uprising Through Mangwol-dong Cemetery,” paper presented at the 2nd Biennial Conference of the Korean Studies Association of Australia, Monash University (September 2001); Linda L. Lewis’s Laying Claim to the Memory of May (2002); and, Gi-Wook Shin and Kyung Moon Hwang’s edited volume Contentious Kwangju: The May 18 Uprising in Korea’s Past and Present (2003).

the contested memorial site for the 1980 uprising; and (3) emphasizing that the colonial authorities branded the 1929 independence movement activists as “communists.” It must again be stressed in this regard that post-colonial governments also have accused dissidents of being communists or leftists. Turning at this point to South Korea’s national history, the statement that the Japanese authorities labeled activists as “communists” exemplifies a specific problem that this national history encounters. Although they are highly praised, the June 10 Manse and the Kwangju Student movements do not play a dominant role in the overall narrative. We can judge this from their representations in the Independence Hall and Seoul National Cemetery (Taejn National Cemetery may also be added to this discussion). These movements do not occupy a significant space, and their positioning, although helpful as far as continuity is concerned, are not conspicuous. Why, then, are the June 10 Manse Movement – “Korean people’s massive demonstration,” according to a text in the Independence Hall – and the Kwangju Student Movement – “the greatest struggle following the March First Movement,” according to a text in the National Cemetery – marginalized? I believe the answer lies in the “leftist connection” of these two movements, as this connection was raised by the text in the Memorial Hall at Kwangju Ilgo School. With regard, first, to the June 10 Manse Movement, according to all accounts, leftist groups were involved in the preparations. Each account, however, differs subtly from the others in the weight it gives to the left’s involvement in the movement. 65 Uprooting leftist influence is, then, clearly seen in 6.10 tongnip manse undong (The June 10 long live independence movement), a very detailed work on the June 10 Manse Movement. According to this account there were two nationalist groups and one leftist group that planned the demonstrations. Several days before Sunjong’s funeral, however, most of the activists associated with Kwn O-sl’s leftist group, the Nogonggye, were detected and arrested by the police, thus, explains this account, “it was a setback to the penetration tactics of the cunning communists” (6.10 Manse kinym saphoe 1991, 36–37). This line of argument leads to the conclusion that 14

See Kang et al. (2000, 145–146); Nahm (1988, 278); Lee (1965 [1963], 252); Lee (1984, 363); and, 6.10 Manse kinym saphoe (1991, 28–38).

151

cutting the communists from the movement allowed a strong unity between the two other groups, the Sajiktonggye and the T’ongdonggye, and attracted more citizens to the movement (6.10 Manse kinym saphoe 1991, 73). In North Korea, in comparison, in the early 1960s, the June 10 Movement was depicted as an anti-Japanese movement led by the Communist Party. Later, however, it was conceived as a movement that showed the people’s bravery but was plagued by factionalism and a lack of an adequate leadership (Hwang 1998, 40–42). As with the interpretation of the March First Uprising, this is the North’s way of establishing an historical narrative centered on the later appearance of Kim Il Sung’s leadership. With regard to the Kwangju Student Movement, leftist involvement in it was far more apparent. Partly, this was a result of the activities of an organization called the Sin’ganhoe (New Korea society). The Sin’ganhoe represented an attempt to create a Korean nationalist united front of the right and the left, and, according to Kim Sng-sik, it was established in 1927 with the June 10 Manse Movement acting as the impetus for its creation (1974, 176). During the 1929 Kwangju Student Movement, the Sin’ganhoe supported the students and helped spread the demonstrations. The “Long live Korean independence” slogan of the 1919 March First Movement was now replaced by students shouting “Long live the struggle of the people of a small and weak power” (yakso minjok haebang manse); “Long live the struggle of the oppressed people” (p’iappak minjok haebang manse); “Long live the overthrow of imperialism” (chegukchui t’ado manse); and “Long live the revolution of the proletariat class” (musan kyegp hyngmyng manse) (Kim Sngsik 1974, 193). Such slogans thus represented the involvement of leftist elements from the Sin’ganhoe. Moreover, as one study argues, the Kwangju Student Movement heavily influenced the spread of socialist thought among students, which led to stronger connections between the student movement and socialist and communist organizations (Kang et al. 2000, 172). Generally, as far as South Korean national history is concerned, the June 10 Manse Movement and especially the Kwangju Student Movement are important events “tainted” by communism. How, then, can one distinguish the “true” Korean nationalists from those who were primarily devoted to a certain (foreign) ideology? One way to solve this problem is 152

to apply the prevalent discourse based on the nationalist-communist bifurcation. The meaning of this is that it is common practice to narrate events in such a way that a clear distinction is continuously drawn between “nationalist” and “communist” forces. Another way to defuse the communist mine from the two movements, and here is where tangible history assumes a leading role, is to dedicate a relatively small part to the movements, while at the same time to highlight other themes that serve as more substantial anchors of legitimacy. Such themes are the armed struggle and the Korean Provisional Government.

The Armed Struggle With regard to South Korea’s representation of the anti-Japanese armed struggle, one central point regarding the place of the armed struggle in the historiography of North Korea should be emphasized from the outset. Kim Il Sung, the builder and former all-powerful leader of the North, was an anti-Japanese guerrilla fighter active in Manchuria in the 1930s. Following liberation, Buzo notes, “DPRK [North Korean] nationalism stressed that the guerrilla ethos was not only the supreme, but also the only legitimate basis on which to reconstitute a reunified Korea” (1999, 27). North Korean colonial historiography is thus centered on the notion that the pre-1930s rebellions had failed due to the lack of an adequate revolutionary leadership, a leadership that appeared later with Kim and his guerrillas (Hwang 1998, passim; Hart 2001, 51–52; Kang 1999, 15, 17–18). It is against this backdrop that the characteristics of the narrative of the anti-Japanese armed struggle in the South should be viewed. And since the prevailing method of confronting the North’s narrative regarding the communist movement’s role in the anti-colonial struggle in general has been simply to ignore it (Kang 1999, 16), the nationalistcommunist bifurcation was advanced. Let us turn to see how the issue of the armed struggle is tackled by tangible history. The following is taken from a detailed plaque in the Independence Hall. It is embodied with key messages and themes regarding the historical place of the armed struggle in the South’s narrative:

153

[…] Before and after 1910, Korean patriots trained armies to fight against the Japanese […] Independence activities in North and South America provided financial aid for the construction of bases for Korean independence military forces […] there were about 50 separate independence armies achieving great victories in battles at Pongodong and Ch’ngsalli, and staging wars […] In September 1940, under the auspices of the Provisional Government of the Republic of Korea, the Korean Independence Army was created in Zhongqing, China. With the help of the Chinese National People’s Party, the Korean Independence Army trained young Korean soldiers and conducted fierce battles against the Japanese until Korea achieved liberation in 1945 […] In addition to this movement, heroic struggles by individual patriots occurred […] Assassination attempts were made against leaders of the Japanese occupation, and bombs were thrown at Japanese institutes.

Two points that will be discussed later in this study should be noted. First, the Korean Provisional Government is depicted here as a key player in this form of struggle. This is a crucial matter for establishing the image of legitimacy. Second, the armed struggle is coupled with “heroic struggles by individual patriots,” an issue treated here in Chapter 4. At this stage I will focus on other themes conveyed by the above narrative. According to this text, the armed struggle was continuously carried on throughout the entire colonial period. Also, the text narrates that the struggle climaxed at two points, namely at two specific earlier battles (at Pongodong and Ch’ngsalli), and later, at the activities of the Korean army. Finally, the cooperation with Chinese forces is stressed here as instrumental to the struggle. The fact that an entire exhibition hall is dedicated to the armed struggle testifies to the importance that the Independence Hall attributes to this form of resistance. In doing so it presents the Korean independence movement as historically diversified, including both peaceful (the March First Movement) and violent forms. The hall dedicated to the armed struggle is called Tongnip chnjaenggwan – the Independence War Hall. It is the fifth hall and the one that follows the March First Movement Hall, thus a notion of continuity between the two is conveyed while at the same time an aura of blunt active struggle is cast upon the March First Movement. The hall is divided into three spaces: “The Independence Army” (“Tongnipkun”), followed by “The Korean Restoration Army” (“Han’guk kwangbokkun”), and, finally, “The Heroic Struggle” (“iyl t’ujaeng”) dedicated to individual acts of

154

resistance. The first two will be discussed in the following, and the latter in the next chapter. Upon entering the Independence War Hall, the visitors walk amidst a recreated battle scene. They are in a “valley” peppered with rocks and trees, and with soldiers on both sides engaged in a battle while audio effects of shooting and bombing are heard at the background. It is a recreation of the Ch’ngsalli battle, which took place for nearly a week in October 1920. In this battle several armed units joined to attack a five thousand strong Japanese force killing 1,200 and gaining a “great victory” (Kang et al. 2000, 99). Among the commanders of this battle were Kim Chwa-jin and Hong Pm-to. Hong was also involved in the June 1920 Pongodong battle, the second battle specified in the above text, in which a united Korean force killed 157 Japanese soldiers and wounded three hundred. These two battles are considered to have affected the combat tactics of the Korean independence armed units (see Kang et al. 2000, 99). Another text in the Independence War Hall admits that the various Korean independence forces suffered heavy losses and defeats from the Japanese. Nevertheless, explains this text, since the early 1930s, “the independence armies continued the struggle with some forces advancing into China to join the Korean Independence Army which was under the control of the Provisional Government of the Republic of Korea.” The photographic exhibition that follows specifies in detail commanders and forces in various parts of Manchuria, in the Soviet Far East, and even units training in America. Then there is a section dedicated to the Korean Independence Army with texts, photographs, and artifacts. It describes the formation of the army from previous various armed forces with an emphasis given to the Pongodong battle. There are two central points that should be stressed regarding the depiction of the Restoration Army. The first is that the South’s legitimacy is reinforced through this army. This is apparent from the recurrent theme that the army was active under the auspices of the Korean Provisional Government – a body which is crucial for the legitimacy issue – and from such lines as, “It [the Army] became Korea’s official army of resistance,” and, “After Korea’s liberation, the army returned to Korea.” The second central point is the heroic nature of the army’s struggle. Although admitting that it did not make Japan surrender, there is detailed information (in Korean only) on the activities of this army 155

during the 1940s, with special emphasis on the cooperation with British, American, and Chinese units. It is the joint military operations of these allied forces, concludes one text, “that ultimately resulted in the defeat of Japan in 1945.” Thus the armed struggle in the Independence Hall is represented by an elaborate exhibition that combines messages of heroism and legitimacy in both informative and academic, and popular forms. In comparison, Seoul National Cemetery adds a conspicuous emotional flavor to its presentation. On the second floor of the cemetery’s Photographic Exhibition House, a section called “Tongnipkun i taeil hangjaeng” (“the anti-Japanese struggle of the Independence Army”) opens with the following text: The aspiration for independence burnt even under the gloomy circumstances, and the heart’s desire for national self-esteem was always passionate. This aspiration, this heart’s desire, expressed itself through action in the antiJapanese struggle for independence at battles like Pongodong and Ch’ngsalli.

On the way from the first to the second floor of this exhibition house, on the wall, are two large paintings of battle scenes. One depicts a “righteous army” in 1896, and the second is dedicated to Ch’ngsalli. Military heroism in general, and the Ch’ngsalli battle in particular, has therefore been chosen as a temporal linkage. It visually and conceptually links the origins of the nation and the heroism and uniqueness of earlier Korea, which is presented on the first floor (see pp. 47–49, 63–65), with the later developments of overcoming national crisis. Next to the text cited above is a dominant map entitled “The State of the Independence War” accompanied by photographs of battle scenes, fighters in training, and the ruins left after harsh Japanese retaliation. Emphasis is given to the familiar Pongodong and Ch’ngsalli battles including photographs of Kim Chwa-jin and Hong Pm-to, the two commanders. Hong’s presentation is interesting. Hong appears in a photograph with his wife and son, both parents dressed in military uniforms, Hong with a pistol in his belt, and the wife and son holding flowers. The title of the photograph is “the family of General Hong Pm-to, Supreme Commander of the Korean Independence Army.” It is a message of a militarily heroic yet benevolent family, not unlike the North Korean case where we find “the great Man’gyngdae family” named after the village 156

of birth of Kim Il Sung. This family includes the parents, Kim Il Sung and Kim Jong Suk, and their son Kim Jong Il who succeeded his father in 1994. The trio is also known as “the three (great) generals of Mt. Paektu.”66 On the side opposite to this section is a text explaining, “Kim Ku of the Korean Provisional Government brought together various independence corps and founded the Korean Restoration Army on September 17, 1940.” The most conspicuous object in the scenes presented in this section is the Korean flag, which is also the flag of post-liberation South Korea. Thus, legitimacy is conveyed through the Korean Provisional Government and the Korean flag. It is, however, important to remind ourselves about the history of the flag to realize that this national emblem of independence and legitimacy carries a complex past. To begin with, the Korean nationalist press of the late 1890s and early 1900s promoted the flag as a prominent national icon while ignoring that the symbols which constitute it – the t’aegk and the four sets of trigrams – are borrowed from Chinese thought (Schmid 2002, 78– 80). Also, more important for the present discussion is the commonly held notion that the designer of the flag was an official by the name of Pak Yng-hyo (1861–1939) whose biography epitomizes the historical complexities of colonial Korea and the decades preceding annexation. Pak presumably designed the flag while heading a delegation to Japan in 1882. He returned from that trip as “an enthusiastic advocate of Japanese-style modernization” (Duus 1995, 88), and became one of what historians call the “progressives” who believed that the Japanese model was the key for advancing and strengthening Korea. Some post-colonial historians, such as Lee Chong-sik (1965 [1963], 42) and Lee Ki-baik (1984, 294), labeled him “pro-Japanese” since he later became Minister of Home Affairs and a prominent figure in the Japanese-dominated cabinet of 1894–1895, though others see him as one of the ambitious Korean reformers who promoted the Kabo reforms at that time (see Lew 15

The North has constructed a heroic familial lineage of Kim Il Sung, and the military heroism of his wife and son aims mainly at promoting the military image of Kim Jong Il, the son and successor. On the construction of the military image of Kim Jong Il, see Oh and Hassig (2000, 120–123). The heroic narrative also praises Kim Il Sung’s parents, and even goes further back to highlight the alleged role of Kim’s great-grandfather, Kim ng-u, in the 1866 “General Sherman incident.” On the images of Kim’s father and great-grandfather, see Hwang (1998, 45–48).

157

1977). Pak fled to Japan in the summer of 1895 following internal political rivalry, and from there he established contact with the Independence Club activists, the harbinger of Korea’s modern nationalism. In 1906 Pak returned to Korea with the help of the Japanese, who by then were tightening their hold over Korea following the Protectorate Treaty of 1905. Yet, they soon exiled Pak to Cheju Island after he plotted to assassinate pro-Japanese ministers and opposed the forced abdication of the Korean Emperor. During the colonial period, Pak received various titles from the authorities and as a result, his name appears on the legislators’ list of 708 “pro-Japanese collaborators” published in February 2002. The South Korean flag, then, is a symbol that transcends both the “Japanese touch” of its designer and the Chinese character of its design. Embedded with a specific meaning, it has become a signifier of independence and legitimacy of a state that has emerged from a difficult past which it attempts to resolve. This flag, which dominates all depictions of the March First Movement, became the most identified symbol of post-colonial South Korea. The flag, along with the Korean Provisional Government, conveys legitimacy in the “Anti-Japanese Struggle of the Independence Army” section in Seoul Cemetery’s Photographic Exhibition House. Moreover, this legitimacy is glorified through various forms of armed resistance. According to one text, for example, the Korean Restoration Army “in collaboration with the Allies, plunged into a great anti-Japanese warfare.” The related photographs depict heroic scenes of the Restoration Army in training and cooperating with the foreign allies. Two of them are dedicated to Yi Pm-sk’s Second Branch Unit (che2-chidae) of the Restoration Army, a unit associated with one very specific action of the Korean army. The Unit cooperated in China with the OSS (Office of Strategic Services), the American intelligence body. From May 1945, within the framework of “the Eagle Project,” fifty student soldiers from the Korean Unit were chosen for a special program aimed at preparing them for field operations behind enemy lines. Thirty-eight of them completed this program, but Japan surrendered before they began their activities (Kim Kwang-jae 2000). Military heroism peaks here in a text dedicated to “the fall of Imperial Japan”:

158

Imperial Japan took by force our beautiful Korea, our sovereignty, in addition to destroying world peace. However, in the face of the vigorous struggle of Korean independence, [and] in the face of the surge to guard world peace, it finally unconditionally surrendered on August 15, 1945.

Although the text does not specify military struggle, it conveys this message that since it is positioned immediately after the sections dedicated to the armed struggle. Moreover, it is coupled with a photograph of the mushroom cloud over Japan and photographs of the Japanese signing the surrender documents. At Taejn National Cemetery – Seoul National Cemetery’s twin – the Hogukkwan basically follows the same line as in Seoul regarding themes and texts. In addition, though, it exhibits uniforms of a private and an officer from the Restoration Army in a glass case. Also, attached to the portraits of the various commanders – Yi Pm-sk among them – are photographs of their graves or memorial tablets which are located in both national cemeteries. This presentation emphasizes the naturalness of these military heroes being buried in the South. It is a form of projecting legitimacy because it is a strong image conveying both the spatial and the spiritual linkage between the deceased military heroes of the colonial period and post-division South Korea. One last point should be paid attention to in relation to the representation of the armed struggle in the South. The final part of the exhibitions at both national cemeteries shows photographs that depict a modern and powerful Southern state, including its advanced army. In addition, a different site, the War Memorial in Seoul, is an imposing site dedicated solely for the representation of (South) Korea’s military might. Although the War Memorial differs by nature from the rest of the sites presented here since it basically ignores the colonial period, it is without a doubt the paramount representation of the country’s landscape of military heroism. I thus see it as an inseparable part of a tangible history in which the armed struggle of the colonial period is linked to the military heroism that both preceded and followed it. To sum up, the armed struggle is an important element in the South Korean narrative, one that affirms heroism and continuity. Under this context, and based on the representation of the armed struggle, it is clear that South Korean tangible history invests great efforts to confront what constitutes the core and essence of North Korea’s nationalism. It is the reciprocal influences between the images of two highly praised offshoots 159

of the March First Movement, namely the armed struggle and the Korean Provisional Government, that further underpin legitimacy in the South.

Moderate Struggle Besides active/violent struggle, moderate struggle, too, is inseparable from the overall narrative of anti-colonial resistance. This struggle took on various forms both inside and outside the colony. Inside Korea, new cultural movements developed, and in China, the single most important political representative of the struggle in the South’s historiography, namely the Korean Provisional Government, was established.

The Heroic Cultural Struggle Following the March First Movement, which drew international attention to the Japanese colony, a new governor-general was appointed. As Michael Robinson states, “the task of the new colonial administration was to remove the more obnoxious features of colonial rule while binding Korea more tightly to Japan” (1988, 44). During the 1920s, Sait Makoto (Governor-General 1919–1927 and 1929–1931) introduced the “cultural policy” (bunka seiji), a seemingly more appeasing method of ruling. Under this policy various discriminatory and unpopular laws were amended, a civilian police replaced the military gendarmerie, new educational opportunities for Koreans were announced, and permits for vernacular newspapers were issued while allowing them to write about political and social affairs. Although this policy was more a change in tone and appearance, and it was a policy that tightened Japan’s control over the colony, it also “expanded opportunities for organization and publishing” (Robinson 1988, 45–46). Korean nationalism in the form of cultural and societal organizations and activities is given its share of tangible representation at the Independence Hall. The sixth exhibition hall, the one that follows the Independence War Hall, is called Sahoe · munhoe undonggwan, Hall of

160

Social and Cultural Resistance Movements. 67 It exhibits in detail the education, linguistic, religious, publication, athletic, and other cultural movements of the 1920s. As E. Taylor Atkins observed with regard to the representation of Korean folk songs and dances, “IMH [Independence Hall] exhibits thus claim a prominent role for folk art in the resistance movement, depicting it as socially relevant, militant, uncompromising, and charged with a lethal dose of han (indignation)” (2003, 5). The sixth hall also includes the representations of the June 10 Manse and Kwangju Student movements, as well as housing the rotary press machine of the Chosun Ilbo. Three particular issues embedded in the representations of this cultural activity are of particular interest to the present discussion. First, the explanatory texts stress the growth of the movements following the March First Movement, and emphasize that “although these movements were carried out independently, they led to national unity and solidarity.” Second, an animated film that is projected on a large screen uses strong images to visually illustrate the messages of the hall. In the film, Japanese imperialism is depicted as a whirlwind that blows away familiar Korean cultural treasures. It also shows a nametag on a girl’s hanbok (the traditional Korean clothes) that changes from “Sun-yi” to the Japanese “Akiko,” and it shows people’s faces fading away. Several horrific images are very similar to scenes identified with the Holocaust as well. These include a moving train and suffering people crammed in under unbearable conditions, and figures of screaming men and women consumed by fire. Resistance and hope are portrayed in the film through scenes of children studying secretly in a cave with a Korean flag hanging on the wall. They are then placed on a flower from which emerges a girl who is joined by many others waving flags and turning into colorful flowers themselves. The closing scene is of young people ascending joyfully toward the blue sky. This film is the hall’s message in a nutshell: through cultural movements the Korean people were able to resist Japanese attempts to obliterate their culture, and by this to maintain their identity both during and after the colonial period.

16

This is the English title of the hall as it appears at the site. The Korean title is better translated as “Social and cultural movements hall.”

161

The third particular issue with regard to the Hall of Social and Cultural Resistance Movements concerns its history. This hall opened only in the summer of 2001. As the official journal published at the time by the Independence Hall explained: it has become possible to observe the struggle of the people who fought Japanese imperialism in order to preserve national culture and re-establish an independent country (Tongnip kinymgwan, May 2001, 6). Then, what used to be the sixth hall, the Korean Provisional Government Hall, was moved to the seventh hall while abolishing the Republic of Korea Hall. The significance of these changes was that a hall dedicated to the post-1945 developments and achievements of South Korea was abolished in favor of one more exhibition of resistance in a project that further enhanced the Independence Hall’s general theme of the nation’s struggles for independence. The message of an all-national cultural struggle, as well as the relatively late construction of such an exhibition, signify an effort to strengthen the image of a multifaceted anti-colonial struggle, while at the same time overcoming complexities. The historical role of the “moderate” or “cultural” nationalists of the 1920s was in a problematic situation since the activities of these nationalists had been challenged by a “collaborationist critique” (not devoid of political interests) since the 1980s. Moreover, as Atkins noticed, Korean performers of traditional arts, who are honored at the Hall of Social and Cultural Resistance Movements, had their recordings financed and issued at the time by the Japanese, and the Japanese-run radio broadcast these performances (2003, 7). Thus, the construction of the cultural struggle image not only confronts challenging voices, but by its own nature becomes a space of concealing the ambiguity embedded within Korean cultural activity. This ambiguity during the colonial period is not limited to specific examples such as the above. Instead, the crux of this complexity concerns the question of how generally should cultural activity be interpreted and represented. Michael Robinson, in his research on Korean radio broadcasting during the colonial period, places the advent of radio within the larger movement of the cultural nationalists (1999, 55). He argues throughout this work that because colonial authorities tightly controlled it, Korean radio could not resist Japan directly; however, it was through the construction of culture that radio resisted Japan. “It resisted Japan by creating and maintaining Korean art forms with strong emotive ties to Koreans of all classes” (1999, 54). 162

In comparison, the exhibition of the cultural struggle in the Independence Hall is not limited to pure cultural construction. The “construction of culture” becomes a defined space of direct resistance when these representations are placed within the overall narrative of resistance. This placement subverts other interpretations of the cultural movement, such as the “collaborationist” interpretation. Complexities are hence avoided, as it is typical to histories that are tangibly narrated.

The Korean Provisional Government So far, this chapter has focused on the representations of the differing forms of the national struggle that evolved after the March First Movement. Few references were given to the Korean Provisional Government in this context. The way this body is depicted establishes its highly important image as the glue that bound the various struggles together by acting as the legitimate leadership of the Korean people at that time. This image is the one on which the post-liberation South Korean state bases its stance as the legitimate political heir of the colonial-period Koreans. The Korean Provisional Government’s full name was Taehan Minguk Imsi Chngbu (the Provisional Government of the Republic of Korea), and South Korea decided in July 1948 to name its country Taehan Minguk (the Republic of Korea). “Taehan” means “the Great Han,” a name associated with the successor to Old Chosn (Pai 2000, 248), which is considered the earliest indigenous Korean state. It thus signals the South’s claim as heir to both ancient and recent pasts. North Korea, in comparison, called itself Chosn Minjujui Inmin Konghwaguk (the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea) thus choosing to include the name “Chosn” in its title. By choosing the name of the old indigenous Korean state, as Oh and Hassig assert, “the North Koreans make a claim of having greater political legitimacy” (2000, 3).68 Apparently, this consideration prevailed despite the fact that “Chosn”

17

Pai explains that in South Korea, “The centuries-old name ‘Chosn’ was abandoned because of its association with the Confucian legacy of sadae or subservience to Chinese dynasties” (2000, 248).

163

might also be associated with “Chsen,” Korea’s name during the Japanese occupation. The Korean Provisional Government (hereinafter, KPG) was established in early April 1919 in Shanghai amidst an atmosphere of debate and controversy (Lee 1965 [1963], 130). As one South Korean writer passionately asserts, “One wonderful/amazing outcome of the March First Movement was the establishment of the KPG” (Yi 1999, 193). Since its creation, the KPG went through various changes and suffered from personal and ideological conflicts, but it basically remained active in different places in China until liberation. The following represents one typical assessment of its historical role: As the overall centralizing body of the independence movements, the KPG, which was a result of the March First Independence Movement, had taken an invaluable duty in the anti-Japanese war. Therefore, this centralization – the independence movements centered on the KPG – is a nationalist theme as well (Kim Chang-su 1997, 218).

A highly emotional overtone is apparent in another evaluation: “Even until today the anti-Japanese struggle that is filled with the hardships of the KPG, is a source for nationalist pride which breathes lively in the heart of our nation” (Kukka Pohun Ch’ 1997, 3). Finally, this is how historical assessment unites with national pride and legitimacy through the KPG: Until 1948 [the KPG] played the role as the spiritual prop and stay of the Korean people, as well as the uppermost representative body of the Korean independence struggle. For this reason, the spiritual-historical significance that the KPG occupies in Korean national history can be regarded as exceedingly important (Yi 1999, 193– 194).

How, then, does tangible history corresponds with these images? To start with, the notions presented above are coupled under one roof at Sdaemun Prison History Hall. The Minjok chhang sil (National Resistance Room) and the Hyngmuso yksa sil (Prison History Room) are on the second floor. The rooms display familiar events of the anti-colonial struggle, including the March First, June 10 and Kwangju Student movements, and the armed struggle of the Restoration Army. In the site’s booklet, where the National Resistance Room is referred to, nearly

164

half of the narrative specifying events connected with the anti-colonial struggle focus on the KPG. The narrative explains that, In accordance with the spirit of the March First Independence Movement, the KPG was established in Shanghai, China, on April 13, 1919, and until liberation of the fatherland it served as the central body of the independence movement. It integrated and commanded the independence movements both home and abroad and focused on the training of army officials [...] The KPG organized the Korean Restoration Army in Chunggyng, China, on September 17, 1940, and propelled the armed struggle against Japan. It declared war on Japan, and launched a joint anti-Japanese operation with a coalition army, which included China, Britain and America, until receiving liberation on August 15, 1945, with Japan’s unconditional surrender (Sdaemun-gu ch’ng, Sdaemun hyngmuso yksagwan n.d., 19).

At Independence Hall, the seventh (and last) exhibition hall is called the Korean Provisional Government Hall. The exhibits in this Hall include an impressive collection of texts, photographs, and artifacts related to the KPG’s activities and leading figures. This includes a room where model figures of members of the KPG are placed on a stage and their speeches are heard from loudspeakers. The following is quoted from one text in this Hall: The KPG was a democratic republican government based on the separation of the three branches of government […] as well as the headquarters of the independence movement […] We are proud that Korean democracy was not transplanted after liberation, but has passed throughout the 27-year history of the KPG and is an historical outcome of growth within the independence movement. Moreover, [we] have to start a new long march for attaining national unity and peaceful unification, and overcoming NorthSouth division, with the nationalist merit of the KPG as the departure point (emphasis mine).

The democratic system of both the KPG and South Korea is, according to this text, the logic behind the claim for legitimacy. With the March First Movement – the event that propelled the establishment of the KPG – described in South Korean historiography as being founded upon the values of justice, humanity, and peace (Kim 1974, 87), and as “serving as a momentum for anchoring republicanism in the national liberation movement” (Kang 1999, 53), the political/ideological continuum is further enhanced. The fact that for most of its post-liberation history the South had not been a democracy, is of course obscured. 165

In addition, democracy is interwoven with the KPG’s role as head of the nationalist independence movement, thus creating a formula of a (superior) system of government supported by its historical merit. This formula is presented as the key for achieving unification. Actually, North Korea’s formula is exactly the same in terms of concept but totally different in terms of variables. This is seen in another text in this hall which presents a notion that is strikingly similar to the North’s ideology. The text is dedicated to the activities of the KPG and specifies, for example, “punishment of Japanese imperialism [sic],” “propaganda and diplomatic activities,” preservation of Korean culture and history through publications, and advancing educational and military programs. Thus, according to this text, “It secured authority as the headquarters of the independence movement and the government in exile.” What echoes with North Korea’s central ideological pillar, is the closing paragraph of this text: On the other side [of the above activities], during the diplomatic activities with world Powers such as the Nationalist Government of China and America, [the KPG] also met with the heartlessness of the international order in which countries had given priority to their own interests. Through this we came to realize that the fate of the nation/people could only be determined by our own effort and ability and that a permanent friend in the world of international politics could not exist (emphasis mine).

This message is similar to the North’s chuch’e (self-reliance) doctrine. The core of the chuch’e idea is national self-reliance and pride (Oh and Hassig 2000, 17), thus, taking into account that also the United States at the time had refused to recognize the KPG (Nahm 1988, 311–312), the above text projects the same distrust in foreign countries. The message presented here is a nationalist formula for placing Koreans from both sides of the border under the umbrella of the South’s claimed political and historical legitimate hegemony. This is a recurrent message in more texts in the hall. It is not conceptually limited, however, to South and North Koreans alone as a text in a section called “Path of Unification. National Unification and the Construction of a National Cultural Community” states: Now it is our turn to revive the historical meaning of the KPG that prepared the foundation of our modern democratic republican nation […] and to confirm it as an ideal foundation for the establishment of Korean unification […]

166

Korean societies in Korea, Japan, Sakhalin, China, the Maritime Provinces of Siberia, Central Asia, Canada, America, and South American countries can be united as “the pan-Pacific Korean cultural community” [Hwant’aep’yngyang Hanminjok munhwa kongdongch’e] […] We should overcome the North-South division […] and have self-confidence and a sense of mission to strengthen our solidarity and unity as “Korean people of the world” [segye sok i Hanminjok].

This message encompasses Koreans worldwide, thus it presents itself as a credible outlook unfettered by and transcending the regional conflict in the peninsula. It conveys that the ideological/political conflict is merely an historical phase that should and will be overcome. Taejn National Cemetery’s Hogukkwan includes a text which is very explicit in this regard in a section dedicated to the KPG: The KPG, which immediately after the March First Movement was set up independently in China in order to recover sovereign rights, was the centripetal point of the inland anti-Japanese independence struggle for 27 years; and from 1945 until today it has served the legitimacy of the 5,000-year-nation.

The photographic exhibition supports this message of legitimacy. Photographs of members of the KPG are shown next to photographs of their graves in either one of the two national cemeteries in the South. At Seoul National Cemetery’s Photographic Exhibition House, the KPG and the issue of legitimacy are given special care when the point of transition from occupation to liberation is depicted. Under the title “Delight of Liberation” a text states, Liberation is not something that is given to someone. It is a result of the vigorous independence struggle of our people, from the struggle of the “righteous armies,” [through] the March First Independence Movement, and up to the anti-Japanese armed struggle.

Attached photographs show celebrating citizens greeting members of the KPG returning to Korea at the end of 1945. One photograph is of two noted former-members shaking hands: Syngman Rhee, who became the first president of South Korea, and Kim Ku, a national hero and former head of the KPG (on Kim, see Chapter 4). Then, an accompanying text explains the developments after liberation: South of the 38th Parallel, receiving the support of the UN, a democratic government was established by the election of Dr. Syngman Rhee as president.

167

And, in the North, through the control of the Soviet Union, Kim Il Sung constructed a communist dictatorship.

The de-legitimization is obvious. Not only did the South receive the “support” (chiji) of the international community while the North was “controlled” (chojong) by a foreign Power, but also the South was headed by Rhee, the first premier of the KPG, and it was established based on this body’s ideological concept. Furthermore, Seoul National Cemetery allocated a special plot for KPG members in the Burial Plot for Patriots and Key Provisional Government Officials. The cemetery booklet states, Enshrined here are 200 patriots who sacrificed their lives in the anti-Japanese independence movement, including 13 national representatives of the March First Movement and members of the Righteous Armies from the closing years of the Chosn dynasty (National Memorial Board n.d., 12).

This links the KPG to the heroic recent past, and with legitimacy constructed as described above, the South is portrayed as the natural heir to pre-divided Korea. The remains of the KPG members were brought from China and laid to rest in Seoul National Cemetery in August 1993, exactly a year after South Korea and China agreed on full diplomatic relations. In 2002, on the occasion of the tenth anniversary of establishing these relations, an exhibition called “A Special Exhibition of the Korean-Chinese Cooperative Anti-Japanese Struggle” took place at the Kwangju express bus terminal in August. In this exhibition the KPG was apparently the most prominent theme. Photographs and texts showed in detail various related projects that have gained momentum following the 1992 agreement between South Korea and China. Besides the arrival from China of the remains of the KPG members, these projects included several restoration works undertaken on former KPG buildings in China between 1993 and 2001. Among them was even the hideout, in the early 1930s, of Kim Ku. These projects were advanced as part of the overall improvement in the South Korea-China relationship, an improvement manifested in the economic level, for example, by the surge in two-way trade from 6.4 billion dollars in 1992 to 41.2 billion dollars in 2002 (Kim Taeho 2003, 72). The projects were executed through cooperation between local auth-

168

orities and South Korean bodies such as the Independence Hall, which was also one of the sponsors of this “Special Exhibition of the KoreanChinese Cooperated Anti-Japanese Struggle.” In 1993 the KPG building in Shanghai was restored, and in 1995 a building in Zhongqing, where the KPG resettled in 1940, was also restored and it is this period of 1940–1945 that is presented here as a peak in the KPG’s activities. A text explained that the KPG had set up the Korean Restoration Army and consolidated “all the independence movement forces.” Also mentioned were “the declaration of war against Japan” and the cooperation with the OSS. Photographs and texts related to the March First Movement, the June 10 Manse Movement, and the Kwangju Student Movement were also displayed constructing the familiar image of a heroic continuous struggle while, at the same time, confirming legitimacy. In this context, the KPG’s “twenty-six-years of activity to restore national independence” are described as a “sacrifice for the fatherland,” and as a “lofty effort [sunggohan noryk] that brought light to the darkness.” “It is hoped,” another text stated, “that the lofty spirit of independence [of the ancestors who fought the anti-Japanese struggle in China] will be inherited and further developed.” To conclude, based on the various sites and exhibitions presented here, it is apparent that the KPG’s image is constructed within the historical narrative of heroism and the recreated original legitimate basis of political authority for all Koreans. The republican-democratic values of both the colonial-period KPG and South Korea then become the foundation blocks upon which post-liberation legitimacy is established. The battle for this image is fierce when the North Korean narrative is taken into account. The North’s histories severely criticize the KPG, depicting its members, for example, as “embarking on a pilgrimage to beg for independence,” and as “gathering funds for independence from patriotic-fellow-countrymen and then squandering it” (Hwang 1998, 56). The South, in contrast to the North’s narrative of heroism and legitimacy centered on Kim Il Sung’s guerrillas, invests in a KPG image which is not limited to overseas diplomacy but relies heavily on the role of leading the armed struggle as well.

169

Conclusion: Valor and Legitimacy On December 4, 1884, a group of young Korean reformers staged a palace coup in Seoul. Their goal was to put an end to Chinese domination in Korea by establishing a reform government that would implement new measures based on the Japanese model. The ill-fated attempt became known as the Kapsin Coup (Kapsin Chngbyn).69 This is how Kang Man-gil traces the development of Korean nationalism with relation to the coup: Korea’s modern national movement led by the bourgeois class started from the Kapsin Coup and ended in the March First Movement [...] The interests based on social distinction between yangban and simple folk had crumbled and the March First Movement bloomed as a shared interest of all people – the propertied class, the farmers and the workers alike – to oppose foreign influence (1999, 52).

Perceived as being the driving force of uniting not only people but also right and left ideologies (Kang 1999, 43, 54), this is what makes the March First Movement the favorite anchor of legitimacy for South Korea under the context of the anti-colonial struggle. Furthermore, it is precisely on this basis that nationalist-communist bifurcation is applied to de-legitimize the sister from the north. Showing, first, that the March First Movement was a milestone that paved the way for an all-national united struggle, and second, that it was the communists who later broke away from this united effort and hampered it, is also blaming North Korea for parting from the unity after liberation was gained. Depicted as a watershed in the South’s narrative of anti-colonial struggle, the movement was memorialized by tangible history already during the presidency of Park Chung Hee (1963–1979). Examples include the early restoration works in T’apkol Park, the erection of several engraved stone tablets and monuments, and a few memorial halls to commemorate specific patriots (on these patriots, see next chapter). 18

170

While Bruce Cumings asserts that “their [the reformers’] bid for power was as puerile and rash as it was disastrous” (1997, 113–114), Shin Yong-ha writes that “the Kapsin Coup served as a lamppost on the path of the formation and development of modern Korean nationalism. In Korea’s recent history, all nationalist movements have inherited the spirit of the Kapsin Coup” (2000, 68).

However, it was in the post-Park era that the colonial period was allowed to dominate historical memory. This happened because the new president, Chun Doo Hwan, suffered from an acute legitimacy problem, while enjoying not having a “colonial skeleton” in his cupboard. These were favorable conditions to officially turn to colonial memory in the face of the ensuing “textbook controversy” with Japan and the contemporaneous rising sense of vulnerability (explained in Chapter 1). Accordingly, the construction of the Independence Hall in the 1980s was a timely and popular act marking a crucial change in the development of tangible colonial history. It placed the anti-colonial resistance at the forefront of the historical fight for independence. Later projects have followed the same historical narrative of a continuous and heroic history that emphasizes this struggle. T’apkol Park, for example, the cradle of the March First Movement according to the South’s perception, was officially designated an Historic Site not before 1991, during the presidency of Roh Tae Woo (1988–1993). Under such conditions, by centering on the “people” in this narrative, tangible history serves a twofold purpose. First, it binds the people to the state. Before, the “people” were perceived as a somewhat passive historical actor subjected to the power of those who ruled them. Later, President Park echoed this concept, but added that it was he who would lead the people and channel their spirit to create a new history. Then, in the 1980s a historiography that challenged the state developed. This narrative elevated the active historical role of the minjung, broadly defined as the alienated masses, while undermining the legitimacy of the post-liberation governments. Seen in this context, the “people” are active protagonists in tangible national history, as with the contesting narrative. At the same time, however, their post-liberation state, which is depicted as the sole heir to the Korean leadership of the colonial period, has been their legitimate representative. In short, since the 1980s, it has become convenient for official national history to bond people and state on the basis of the tangible colonial history of struggle. Concomitantly, the second purpose that tangible history served by centering on the “people” and their connection to the South Korean state has been to affirm that the South is the legitimate heir to the pre-divided Korean people vis-à-vis the North. It should be noted that under the democratic governments that came after Chun’s authoritarianism, the necessity for domestic legitimization has gradually weakened. Thus, it 171

was not the change in the system of government that dictated that anticolonial resistance should continue to loom large over the historical memory of South Korea’s national struggle. Instead, it is the lingering peninsular rivalry that still dominates the shaping of national history. The four democratic presidents of the 1988–2008 period applied different strategies in the relations with the North. In general, Roh Tae Woo (1988–1993) led the Nordpolitik aiming to draw the North closer by improving the South’s relations with East European countries, the Soviet Union and China; Kim Young Sam (1993–1998) presented a tougher attitude toward the North; and Kim Dae Jung (1998–2003) conducted his controversial Sunshine Policy (criticized at times for being overly compromising) aimed at improving North-South relations on the basis of coexistence. President Roh Moo Hyun (2003–2008) then followed his predecessor’s footsteps in this regard. Also, in June 2000, an historic meeting between the leaders of the two Koreas, Kim Dae Jung and Kim Jong Il, was held in P’yngyang, and a second summit between President Roh and the Northern leader took place in October 2007. In light of these shifts and trends, it came as no surprise when a heated public debate erupted when a North Korean delegation paid an official visit to the National Cemetery in Seoul in August 2005. The delegation, which consisted of some 180 officials and citizens, arrived in the South for four days to take part in joint celebrations marking sixty years to the liberation from Japanese colonial rule. While the Uri Party, the party loyal to President Roh, welcomed the visit, and the Leftistnationalist Democratic Labor Party was highly enthusiastic about it, the conservative Grand National Party was much more reserved and suspicious. Riot police even struggled with demonstrators who protested against the visit in front of the cemetery. The main concern expressed by those who objected was that a South Korean delegation would be expected to show similar respect, perhaps at the Kmsusan kinymgungjn – Kumsusan Memorial Palace – where the embalmed body of Kim Il Sung lies. Parallel to these developments and changing policies, tangible history continued to engage in the traditional fight over legitimacy, and in this context, it is interesting to notice how the South’s tangible history of resistance depicts China. China has not only been the closest ally of North Korea, but it also sent hundreds of thousands of soldiers to fight 172

on the North’s side during the Korean War (1950–1953). Despite this, in North Korean national history, “references to the Chinese role in Korea’s liberation were downplayed,” and “Kim [Il Sung] claimed to have single-handedly defeated the Japanese forces and liberated the Korean peninsula” (Oh and Hassig 2000, 100). Conversely, South Korea’s tangible colonial history completely overshadows China’s prior military assistance to the enemy and its role in the tragedy of division, by highlighting Chinese support to and cooperation with Korean independence activists. Although such Chinese backing was appreciated in earlier historiography as well, tangible history, through its strong visual means, reinforces the image of pre-division friendship and shared historical fate. This has meant, at least to some extent, the appropriation of the North’s most identifiable ally. In conclusion, tangible history has been affirming and reaffirming that, fluctuations in North-South relations notwithstanding, the South remains the sole legitimate heir and representative of pre-divided Korea. To be sure, the anti-colonial struggle was a display of “defeated heroism” as it did not lead to the Japanese surrender. However, by appropriating this struggle, a crucial message embedded in the South’s tangible history has been a message of assurance. It has been a confirmation regarding the continuity of the preferred ways of life as they are known in the South in light of the idea of future reunification.

173

Chapter 4: The Structure of Patriotism

Clearly the most emotional rhetoric found at the various memorial sites is the one related to patriots and patriotism. Tangible history, free of the limitations that are imposed upon academic writing, is a major vehicle for transmitting emotional images and messages. Together with school textbooks, which are another central arena for conveying such messages, the role of tangible history is to cast the required dose of passion and emotion that complement (the preferred) historical knowledge. The present chapter explores the emotional terrain of patriotism by demonstrating the language of patriotism prevalent in South Korean tangible history, and by focusing on who the selected patriots are and how they are represented. These historical figures are the manifestations of the somewhat elusive and abstract notion that patriotism is, manifestations that function as identifiable anchors for the targeted audience. I will attempt to show here that patriots from the colonial period have been the most conspicuous figures in tangible history since the late 1980s. This, I argue, is an offshoot of the trend demonstrated so far in this study regarding the absorption and advent of colonial memory since the early 1980s. At the outset I will clarify the term “patriotism” and its relationship with “nationalism” in order to fully understand the critical contribution of patriotism to national and tangible histories. Then I continue by demonstrating the images that dominate the language of patriotism, and, finally, I deal with patriots in three parts according to the nature of their activity and the way that national history remembers them. Special care is given in this analysis to identify particular spiritual/religious and cultural symbols which are familiar to Korean “readers” of the tangible history of patriotism and patriots. These symbols are highly important to the process of transmitting desired nationalist and patriotic messages. It should be noticed in this regard that in South Korean society there are about thirty percent Christians, twenty-three percent Buddhists, and less than one percent who follow small indigenous religions. In general, the remaining non-religious population is familiarized with the historical and religious significance Christianity and Buddhism have to their culture. 175

Moreover, Confucian values dominate society, and the practice of shamanism and geomancy (p’ungsu) is still popular.

Patriotism: The Emotional Linchpin of Nationalism Not all scholars of nationalism are comfortable with the attempt to distinguish patriotism from nationalism. John Breuilly, for example, writes that “I do not find the distinction between ‘nationalism’ and ‘patriotism’ a very helpful one. Generally it appears to be a moral rather than an analytical distinction” (1993, 19). I do believe, however, that although the two are closely connected and at times they overlap, it is possible to outline the characteristics of patriotism as it is advanced by national and tangible histories. One way of understanding patriotism is expressed by Yael Tamir, who believes that “the essence of patriotism is not military heroism but an ongoing civic concern for the welfare and interest of one’s state” (1997, 37). In similar vein, this approach constitutes the locus of Morris Janowitz’s work, The Reconstruction of Patriotism: Education for Civic Consciousness. Janowitz introduces the term civic consciousness because, as he writes, I wish to avoid the negative connotations of patriotism as well as the persistent ambiguities of ideology. I also wish to deal explicitly with the reconstruction of patriotism into a format relevant for citizenship and civic education in today’s highly interdependent world. Citizenship, I contend, involves nationalism and patriotism but does not mean xenophobia or militarism (1983, 8).

Janowitz also writes that “patriotism is a primordial attachment to a territory and society” (1983, 8). As it is apparent, then, from Tamir and Janowitz, the terms patriotism and nationalism are imbued with strong negative or positive connotations. Historical events in the past century involving wars, occupation, expansionism, dictatorships, and struggles to attain, regain, or sustain independence were responsible for creating these negative or positive images. In addition, both Tamir and Janowitz point to the inward orientation of patriotism, namely, the connection to a specific state, territory, and society. 176

To be sure, patriotism has been criticized at times as a cause of tragedy and suffering for others, and terms such as chauvinism, jingoism, fascism, and Nazism are commonly used. 1 Indeed, the most famous saying in this regard – and the one that has pretty much become a cliché – is Dr. Samuel Johnson’s “patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel.” Such an approach notwithstanding, I believe that generally speaking, in contemporary discourse the inward orientation of patriotism is responsible for the positive connotation of the term. This is because “the focus of nationalism,” in comparison, “goes beyond simple national welfare,” and nationalism has an “offensive character,” “which embraces a comparison with other countries, and the desire to best those other nations” (Worchel with Coutant 1997, 193). The inward orientation of patriotism is thus imbued with a purely emotional characteristic, not necessarily attached to the ideological and political agenda of nationalism. Furthermore, although helpful in realizing that patriotism is inward oriented and commonly perceived as positive, there is one more important matter we should consider with regard to Tamir and Janowitz. Tamir’s view of patriotism as the daily fulfillment of national obligations (1997, 39), and Janowitz’s suggestion for an agenda aimed at the reconstruction of such civic consciousness, are a yardstick that most people can relate to and see themselves as patriots according to it. This, however, is not the material that national histories prefer to work with. Worchel with Coutant assert that patriotism “consists of acts and beliefs based on securing the identity and welfare of the group without regard to either self-identity or self-benefit” (1997, 193). This is what national history highlights, and it is why, I believe, and in the words of Daniel Bar-Tal, “Patriots are the society’s most revered heroes, and patriotism is viewed as a core value in the societal ethos” (1997, 246). In light of the above, Bar-Tal’s definition of patriotism becomes useful:

1

On this see Bar-Tal (1997) and Staub (1997). Staub uses the term “blind patriotism,” defined as “an intense alignment by people with their nation or group and uncritical acceptance of and support for its policies and practices, with an absence of moral consideration of their consequences or disregard of their impact on the welfare of human beings who are outside the group or are members of its subgroups” (1997, 213).

177

Defined as an attachment of group members toward their group and the country in which they reside, patriotism can be found in every ethnographic group that lives in a particular geographical space. This attachment, which is associated with positive evaluation and emotion, is expressed by beliefs connoting contents of belonging, love, loyalty, pride, and care toward the group and land. […] Patriotism, in contrast to nationalism, does not dictate the nature of the group’s political organization (1997, 246–247).

What is crucial to national and tangible histories in this regard is thus the emotional characteristic of patriotism. Another writer on patriotism, Maurizio Viroli, has elaborated on this point. Viroli believes that nationalism and patriotism “can and must be distinguished” (1995, 1). Also, in similar vein with Tamir and Janowitz, he asserts that the “right sort of patriotism” will grow by strengthening “the practice and the culture of citizenship” (1995, 184). Finally, according to Viroli, We need historical interpretation rather than scientific theories, to uncover and understand the meanings of the themes, metaphors, allusions, exhortations, and invectives that the language of patriotism has been crafting over the centuries to sustain or repeal, damper, inflame, or rekindle a rich and colourful universe of passions […] Though fragmented and incomplete, stories of love of country, love of liberty, and love of unity, of patriots narrating experiences of moral and political exile, of historians attempting to reconstruct the past in order to reshape the nation’s cultural identity, of philosophers investigating possible alchemic transformations of the passions of love and pride, respect, compassion, charity, hatred, fear, and resentment tell us more than models, theories, and definitions (1995, 5).

In this chapter I adopt Viroli’s portrayal of patriotism as a rich emotional terrain. Conceptually, it sharpens the realization that in the patriotismnationalism interaction, patriotism is an emotional basis for the ideological and political agenda of nationalism. As for national history, the emotional terrain provides the glorious aspect that is associated with patriots and patriotism. In this regard, as Worchel with Coutant argue, heroic, patriotic acts and later references to these acts, are highest in the early stages of national development and when a nation is confronted with an outside threat (1997, 200). Accordingly, in the case of South Korea, two points deserve attention: first, it continuously believes that there are challenges to its existence, legitimacy, and/or ideology; and, second, in contemporary discourse, a nationalist struggle for regaining independence, as in the case of the anti-colonial struggle, is less 178

vulnerable to the negative connotations of nationalism (expansionism, jingoism, etc.). To demonstrate how this has affected the representation and advancement of patriotism in South Korea’s tangible history, I focus on two connected forms: one, the representation of selected historical heroes and the narration of their acts; and, two, the use of a conspicuously emotional rhetoric, a type of rhetoric that tangible history especially excels at.

South Korean Language of Patriotism The language of patriotism is widespread throughout South Korea’s museums and memorial sites. The following selected examples represent the terminology, the ideas, and the images that dominate this language. To begin with, engraved on a large stone in the grounds of Taejn National Cemetery, is the following text: Where is Korea’s soul? It is in our breath and in our veins, and in our pulse. It is in our poetry and in our soil, and in our existence. It is in the struggle to defend our country and in the cultural legacy, and it is in our patriotic spirit.

In this text, the word that is used for soul, in “Korea’s soul,” is hon. The question of where this soul exists is answered by interlacing the physical body, culture, land, and the struggle over the country. These are all inward-oriented facets, compatible with the notion of patriotism. In this regard, in the closing line of the text appears the word aegukchngsin that means “patriotic spirit” and is combined by aeguk (蚆纯), the common word for patriotism, and chngsin (誐蘡) which means spirit, soul, mind. As suggested by the characters that make up the word aeguk, patriotism is love (蚆) of the country (纯). Accordingly, one common

179

word for patriot is aegukchisa (蚆纯譝萮), a determined (譝) man of honor (萮) who loves the country.2 At the core of patriotism, however, exists a notion that bears a much deeper meaning than simply “country.” In the words of Viroli, who follows the nineteenth-century French historian Fustel de Coulanges, As Fustel de Coulanges wrote, ancient patriotism, was a religious sentiment. The word “country” signified terra patria (land of the fathers). The fatherland of every man was that part of the soil which his domestic or national religion had sanctified, the land where the remains of his ancestors were deposited, and which their souls occupied. […] The fatherland was a sacred soil inhabited by gods and ancestors and sanctified by worship (1995, 18).

This flavor of ancient religious patriotism dominates the language of patriotism in South Korea’s tangible history, and the term “fatherland” frequently appears in the texts. The following engraving, found at both Taejn and Seoul National Cemeteries, is exemplary in this regard: The fatherland and the nation are my love My honor. My energy. My life I devote my short life to them I exist forever with them.

The word for fatherland is choguk which is comprised of the characters of ancestor/forefather (諐) and country (纯). A distinction is drawn in this text between fatherland and nation, thus emphasizing the significance of each of them. Moreover, the word for nation here is kyre – a pure Korean word, not one that originated from Chinese.3 Kyre is basically synonymous with minjok (芮諦), the other commonly used word for nation. In the Si-sa Elite Dictionary (2001) it is defined “offspring of the same forefather; brothers; brethren; fellow countrymen; a race; a people; a nation.” The above text thus conveys the inseparable triangular bond between ancestors, descendants, and land – a bond that transcends time, as the final two lines suggest. This image is conveyed also by the location of this text at Seoul National Cemetery (at Taejn National Cemetery it is engraved on a

2 3

180

The poems presented here are written originally in hangl. I present the hanja, the Chinese characters, only for the sake of clarification. Over half of the words used in Korean are of Chinese origins.

large rock on the premises). It is placed at a section called Ch’ungyltae, Area of Unswerving Loyalty, the burial place of approximately two hundred patriots, including leaders of the March First Movement and officials of the Korean Provisional Government. 4 The dominating structure at this section is the Muhusnyl chedan, the Altar to Heirless Patriots, in which are enshrined some 130 memorial tablets for patriots who left no descendants. The altar transmits a powerful nationalist message which is based on familiar spiritual and religious concepts. In Korean tradition, where filial piety and ancestor worship have constituted the backbone of society for centuries, an ancestor tablet is made as part of funeral procedures. Although the tablet is burned or buried at the grave when the mourning period is over (Janelli and Janelli 1982, 62), there are exceptional cases when an ancestor is granted a special privilege by the government by having a permanent tablet (Janelli and Janelli 1982, 115n14). Thus, South Korea, by state act (the altar and tablets), represents itself as the primal son who is responsible for observing the etiquette related to cherishing the memory of the nation’s ancestors. The heirless patriots now have a son, a legitimate descendant, in the form of South Korea. Also, at the entrance to the Altar to Heirless Patriots there is a black slab surrounded by two dragons. The engraving on the front side of the slab is from the handwriting of President Park Chung Hee and it reads “minjok i l,” “the soul of the nation.” The abovementioned text is engraved on the backside of this slab. Through both the text itself (“I exist forever with them”) and the graves and memorial tablets that surround it, the South Korean visitor is spatially connected to the patriotic forefathers in an infinite temporal linkage. The following text, placed in the Photographic Exhibition House at Seoul National Cemetery, is another example of the image of the timeless patriotic spirit: Stirring Korean martyrs! Though the body dies-away the soul does not leave the country. And though one takes his last breath

4

One foreigner is also buried at the Ch’ungyltae. This is Frederick W. Schofield, a Canadian missionary who is highly respected by South Korean historiography for his support for the cause of independence.

181

the will of our martyrs and patriots, who are living inside the nation, and the blood they spilled, forever will passionately flow within the breast of the nation.

Here, too, kyre is used for nation. Also, two important words that appear here, and are frequently used in similar texts as well, are isa (martyr) (褠萮) and ylsa (patriot) (蝀萮), which is basically the same as aegukchisa. In this regard, other common words are snyl (蓘蝀) for patriotic forefather, and sunguk ylsa (薿纯蝀萮) for martyr. Turning back to Taejn National Cemetery, a similar passionate rhetoric is exhibited by a forty-three-meter-high monument simply called Hynch’ung t’ap (a memorial tower) (Figure 4.1). This dominating monument is defined as the symbol, or the emblem, of the cemetery (see Kungnip Taejn Hynch’ungwn n.d., 8), and thus its photograph dominates the front cover of all the brochures and booklets distributed at the site. At the front of the monument is a plaque that elaborates on its meaning. It begins with: Hynch’ung t’ap stands to revere for eternity the distinguished service and loyalty of the fallen heroes who fought for the country, and the patriotic martyrs who died a glorious/heroic death for the fatherland and the nation/people [minjok].

The closing line of the text states that the tower symbolizes that the cemetery is consecrated ground (sngyk); hence, again, the spiritual religious aspect of patriotism, as this aspect has been characterized by the words of de Coulanges. Furthermore, as the text explains, the monument is dedicated to the patriots who died for the country and, accordingly, their memory is enshrined inside the tower. Here, there is a hall in which memorial tablets for the war dead who were not found, and remains of unknown soldiers are placed. The tower itself stands at the center of a wall screen that stretches 110 meters in length, and the designs, statues, and reliefs inside the hall and outside – on the wall screen and the tower – are a mixture of modern and traditional elements. Among the familiar traditional elements one can identify, for example, ancient crowns, bronze bells, wooden masks, and longevity symbols (Figure 4.2). These elements spatially bond a glorious past of culture and struggle with the present and with, in the words of the site’s booklet, “the soaring

182

glorious future of the fatherland” (Kungnip Taejn Hynch’ungwn n.d., 9).

Figure 4.1 Hynch’ung t’ap, Taejn National Cemetery

Figure 4.2 A close-up on the basis of the Hynch’ung t’ap – see the traditional symbols on the tower behind the figures

183

A second Hynch’ung t’ap, a thirty-one-meter-high monument that is located at Seoul National Cemetery, is similar in this regard. To begin with, both structures are approached by a passage through a traditionally styled gate. Also, two statues of tigers – the tiger being a familiar and significant animal in Korean folk culture – are placed in front of the gate signifying, as one booklet defines, “the wish to protect the souls of the patriotic martyrs [sunguk snyl] and war dead [hoguk yngnyng]” (National Memorial Board n.d., 6). Although, as in Taejn, remains of unknown soldiers and memorial tablets for those missing in action from the Korean War (1950–1953) are enshrined inside the memorial hall, the monument functions as a symbol for the struggle and patriotism of modern Korea since the late nineteenth century. This is evident from the reliefs that have been carved and the statues placed on the granite screen that stretches along both sides of the tower. The curators clarify this point in a text which is placed at the entrance to the Photographic Exhibition House next to a miniature model of the monument: Carved in the reliefs are scenes that symbolize the glory of establishing the fatherland and the history of overcoming national crisis, starting from the March First Independence Movement, [and] the liberation of August 15, April 19, May 16, etc.5

As for the statues, the text explains that they are of “patriotic fighters” on the left side, and of “heroes who defended the country” on the right. The statues “symbolize every type of the brave men’s spirit of defending the country and protecting liberty.” The distinction between the two statues is explained by the text. The first statue is for the (pre-1945) Righteous Armies of the closing years of the Chosn dynasty, the anti-Japanese struggle of the patriotic forefathers, the non-violent anti-Japanese independence movement, the anti-Japanese struggle of the Independence Army, the entry of the Restoration Army into the war against Japan, etc.

The second statue is for “the military, the navy, the air force, the marine corps, the paratroops, and also the police.” The Hynch’ung t’ap thus bonds colonial Korea with post-colonial South Korea. It memorializes 5

184

“April 19” signifies the student uprising that toppled the regime of Syngman Rhee in 1960, and “May 16” was when Park Chung Hee initiated his military coup in 1961.

South Korea’s modern history of patriotism by conveying that the fatherland is a value that transcends all the temporary time frames in which independence may have been lost or internal strife prevailed. The imbedded message is that the ongoing care for the fatherland was, still is, and will always be the key to the existence of the country and the Korean people. The image of the patriotic ancestors and their connection to the future of the nation and the fatherland, as conveyed by the Hynch’ung t’aps, is central. It is what the aim of advancing patriotism is all about. The following is a very explicit example in this regard. It is part of a text, which is placed inside Taejon National Cemetery’s Hogukkwan at the section dedicated to “The robbing of sovereign rights and the antiJapanese struggle”: 35 years of darkness of the era of Japanese imperialism! [However] even during this enormous daily disgrace, our patriotic forefathers developed a tenacious struggle for independence devoting body and mind for the sake of restoring sovereign rights. This nationalist spirit [minjok hon] of the patriotic forefathers is our root. This spirit is the breath of life; we should all revive today this sincere patriotism and invigorate the nation’s vitality, and [we should all] be at the lead when cultivating the future of the progressive nation!

Here, the word chosen for patriotism was uguk which is comprised of the characters for worry, concern (衃) and country (纯). Patriotism is thus a matter of both loving the country and being concerned about it – a passionate, emotional combination, a result of which was the acts of selfsacrifice that are the theme of this text. Furthermore, this text reflects the usage of the colonial period as a historic focal point through which to convey the general historical message regarding patriotism. At a different site, the Independence Hall, we find that the same is done symbolically by the design of a monument. Here stands a monument called Ch’umo i chari, which means “place of reverence,” although the curators have chosen to name it Patriots Memorial in the English version (Figure 4.3). The monument is located at the far end from the entrance of the Independence Hall, at a spot that can be regarded as the spatial apex of this monumental site. Before ascending a set of stairs that lead to the monument, the visitor encounters a plaque that explains the following:

185

The Place of Reverence is a space that pays tribute to the indomitable nationalist soul [minjok hon] and spirit of self-sacrifice [hisaeng chngsin] of the deceased patriots [aeguk snyl].6

The text also explains that The reliefs carved on the 105-meter wall, together with the ten longevity symbols, convey the eternal history and diverse lives of our people and the infinitude of the nation. The fountain in the center signifies the everlasting gushing spring of the life of the nation, and the beacons at both sides brighten up the darkness of the [colonial] period.

A total of 105 stairs connect the spot, where the plaque is located, to the 105-meter long monument. Through this number, the monument is a symbolic reminder of an event known as the “Case of the 105” or the “Korean Conspiracy Trial.” The “Case of the 105” occurred in 1911, several months after Japan had formally annexed Korea. The case, famous at the time, involved the arrest of approximately seven hundred Koreans accused of being connected to a plot to assassinate the Governor-General Terauchi Masatake. Of those arrested, 105 were finally prosecuted (and only five were put in prison). This event signified, at the outset of the annexation, the Japanese resoluteness to quell any show of resistance, and accordingly, over two hundred thousand “rebellious” Koreans were arrested by 1918 (Nahm 1988, 226–227). Thus, through the design of its structure, the Ch’umo i chari monument transmits a patriotic message that revolves around a well known historical event of the early stages of colonial rule. Furthermore, in this monument, too, the usage of familiar traditional elements is conspicuous. In this case, these are the ten longevity symbols, which are mentioned in the above text and which appear on the reliefs. “The Koreans never appear to have tired of exercising their imagination to produce designs which basically represent longevity,” thus for centuries, such symbols have been put on screens, furniture, shoes, dishes, and elsewhere (Covell 1982, 32). Turtles, deer, cranes, and pulloch’o, the magic fungus, are included among these symbols, hence,

6

186

The parallel English version on the plaque at the site states: “[…] designed to serve as a place to the unyielding and self-denying spirit of the Korean independence fighters.”

again, traditional Korean thought and culture are woven into the image of modern patriotism.

Figure 4.3 Ch’umo i chari, Independence Hall

One last conspicuous example, which demonstrates the South Korean image of modern patriotism centered on the colonial period is the Sunguk snyl ch’unym t’ap, the monument for patriotic martyrs, which was constructed between August 15, 1991, and August 15, 1992. It is made of a 22.3-meter high obelisk and a forty-meter long granite screen (Figure 4.4), and is located near Sdaemun Prison on the grounds of Independence Park. Two images should be stressed with regard to this monument. The first is the language of patriotism expressed by the scenes and a text. The reliefs on the granite screen depict all forms of active anti-Japanese resistance including the Ch’ngsalli battle, the March First Independence Movement, the armed struggle, and the acts of four specific patriots: An Chung-gn, Ryu Kwan-sun, Yun Pong-gil, and Yi Pong-ch’ang. Accordingly, a text on a bronze plaque at the site employs expressions such as “patriotic martyrs who dedicated their invaluable lives for the country [nara] and the people [minjok],” “the spirit of the love of one’s country and people [aegukaejok chngsin],” and “handing down the path for posterity.”

187

Figure 4.4 Sunguk snyl ch’unym t’ap (Monument for Patriotic Martyrs), Independence Park, Seoul

The second interesting image regarding the monument is the symbolism of the obelisk. Fourteen designs of the South Korean national flag constitute the obelisk, “to symbolize the lofty volition and spirit of independence of the Korean people throughout the country” (Sdaemungu ch’ng, Sdaemun hyngmuso yksagwan n.d., 40). Actually, under colonial rule, Korea was organized into thirteen provinces, thus it appears that one additional design here signifies a united peninsula under Southern hegemony. These two abovementioned images combine to convey an important message in which the language of patriotism is employed for the sake of legitimacy, and for the sake of the preferred future. To conclude, the examples presented here add up to convey the general features of the language of patriotism of South Korea’s tangible history. As demonstrated, firstly, a highly passionate rhetoric dominates this language of patriotism, and, secondly, the tangible representation of patriotism is imbued with religious characteristics which are part of Korea’s historical and cultural tradition (e.g., martyrdom and memorial tablets). Below, through the analysis of specific patriots it is possible to demonstrate this unique South Korean religious and spiritual form of patriotism in more detail while specifying the various influential religious systems in this regard. Also, the South Korean language of 188

patriotism is centered on the idea that through sacrificing their lives, the patriotic forefathers functioned as the guardians of the nation’s soul. The historical role of these guardians was twofold: to make sure that this soul, which has been existing for centuries, does not extinguish itself, and at the same time, to hand this soul down to the descendents. In this context the language of patriotism highlights the colonial period, thus colonial memory is again placed at the forefront as a source of both inspiration and legitimacy. Accordingly, since the late 1980s more care has been given to memorialize patriots from the colonial period. These patriots will be the subjects of the remainder of this chapter.

By Gun and Bombs A person who commits political assassination can be revered at one place as a patriot, and called a terrorist in another. Terminology is in the eyes of the beholder and subject to personal sets of beliefs. In any case, as Franklin L. Ford reminds us, intentional homicide “has been a chronic feature of political association itself.” Also, on some occasions […] personalized violence has struck in the midst of an atmosphere so charged with hatred and foreboding that some such flash of deadly energy seemed then, and still seems in retrospect, all but inevitable (1985, 381).

In this context I examine the representation of Koreans who attacked Japanese leading figures during the colonial era. To be sure, violent attacks were not directed only toward the Japanese. In December 1909, for example, Yi Chae-myng attempted to assassinate Yi Wan-yong, the Korean prime minister who signed the Treaty of Annexation later in 1910. Also, in March 1908, Chn Myng-un and Chang In-hwan killed Durham W. Stevens, the Japanese-employed American advisor. It is attacks on the Japanese, however, that have become most remembered by South Korean national history, and it is An Chung-gn and Yun Pong-gil who have become the most important patriotic figures in this regard as far as tangible history is concerned.

189

An Chung-gn On the morning of October 26, 1909, the prominent Japanese statesman, It Hirobumi, arrived at Harbin station in Manchuria. He was on his way to conduct talks with the Russians to secure their affirmation regarding Japan’s annexation of Korea. It had just finished inspecting the guard of honor when An Chung-gn (1879–1910), who was waiting his chance, leaped forward firing at him from his Browning revolver. Three shots hit It who collapsed and died on the spot. Several rounds hit other Japanese officials as well. An was immediately arrested and after several days of initial investigations in Harbin, he was moved to a prison located in the part of Manchuria dominated by Japan. The Japanese put An on trial and finally executed him by hanging on March 26, 1910. By the act of sacrificing his life and killing the Japanese statesman who personally “negotiated” at gunpoint the November 1905 Protectorate Treaty, An became one of the most revered national heroes in both South and North Korea. An is so respected that he was posthumously given the rare honor of naming after him a hyng, a form (kata) in T’aekwndo, the most noted among Korea’s martial arts. The form includes 32 movements representing An’s age at death. To appreciate this honor, we should bear in mind that other hyngs practiced by the International T’aekwndo Federation are named after figures such as Tan’gun – the legendary forefather of Korea, Kwanggaet’o – the great conqueror king of Kogury, Wnhyo – the great Buddhist monk of Silla, Yi I – the sixteenth century “Confucius of Korea,” and Admiral Yi Sun-sin – the hero of the sixteenth century wars against the Hideyoshi invasions. It is possible to locate An’s assassination of It in the context of contemporaneous world history, as political assassinations occurred at different places around the globe.7 Broadly speaking in this regard, two comparable cases come to mind: the June 1904 killing of General Nicholas Bobrikov, the Russian Governor-General of the Grand Duchy of Finland, by the Finnish nationalist Eugen Schauman, and the June 1914 assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand by the Serb nationalist

7

190

For political assassinations in the first two decades of the twentieth century, see Ford (1985, 241–256).

Gavrilo Princip. All three were famous incidents that demonstrated patriotic zeal in the face of foreign intervention. Naturally, however, national and tangible histories are not much interested in such historical comparisons. These comparisons advance the notion that An’s act was a political assassination; a neutral term at best and imbued with negative connotations at worst. In this regard, Shin Yong-ha, in his Preface to the collected works of An, writes that An punished It. To stress his point, Shin puts quotation marks on the word amsal, assassination (1995, Preface). 8 Shin further explains that An should not be appreciated only through this single act. We should also realize, Shin writes, first, that An was an intellectual and, second, that punishing It was part of an organized activity and a strategy employed the Righteous Army in which An served as a commander (1995, Preface). This latter point is especially important from the standpoint of national history. It implies that while the aura of glory that surrounds An’s act is maintained, the assassination is at the same time well grounded within the broader historical framework of Korean resistance. One site where this image is tangibly transmitted is the Independence Hall. The Hall’s fifth exhibition hall is the Independence War Hall (Tongnip chnjaenggwan). Three themes are presented here: “The Independence Army,” “The Korean Restoration Army,” and “The Heroic Struggle” dedicated to individual acts of resistance. Three bronze statues on pedestals dominate half the space of this hall. One of them is a statue of An Chung-gn. An’s statue is placed between the statues of Yun Pong-gil and Kim Chwa-jin, the famous military commander who was involved, among others, in the Ch’ngsalli Battle of 1920. An’s and Yun’s personalized attacks are hence tangibly narrated as part of the overall anti-colonial struggle, thus branding them as “political assassinations” would mean to belittle them. Written history, too, advances this image. Two examples from two different types of such historiography are worth mentioning here. The

8

As a response to the questions of his Japanese prosecutor, An outlined “The Fifteen Crimes of It Hirobumi,” which included, among others, the murder of Queen Min in 1895, imposing treaties on Korea, dethroning the Korea Emperor, dissolving the Korean army, and taking over all of Korea’s sovereign rights.

191

first is the multi-volume Han’guksa (The history of Korea) published in 1994. Here, in volume 12 of the series, although An’s killing of It is termed as amsal (assassination), it is narrated under the context of the Righteous Army’s frequent attacks on infrastructure – damaging mail services, cutting electric wires, and especially, destroying railroads and attacking railway stations (Kang et al. eds. 1994, 226). The second example is a children’s book called Aha! Kttaen irn inmuri issgunyo (Aha! There were such figures then) published in 2003. Through short texts and colorful drawings, this book narrates the biographies of thirty-three selected Korean historical figures from ancient times until the colonial period. It is no coincidence, by the way, that thirty-three was also the number of “national representatives” who signed the 1919 Declaration of Independence. The colonial period is termed in this children’s book “The occupation period under Imperialist Japan” (Ilche kangjmgi). In one scene, which depicts An Chung-gn’s trial, the judge asks An what was the reason for killing It. An replies: “It was for the sake of the country [nara] and the people [minjok]. Because of It, the country has ceased to exist” (Chi and Yi 2003, 119).9 The Patriot An Chung-gn Memorial Hall (An Chung-gn isa kinymgwan) in Namsan Park, Seoul, is the one place where all the abovementioned messages about An Chung-gn are coupled together with detailed biographical information. This hall was constructed during the late 1960s and was opened on October 26, 1970, exactly sixty-one years after An killed It. “President Park Chung-Hee’s thoughtful consideration,” explains a publication of the association for commemorating An, was significant for establishing the hall (The Association for Commemorating Martyr Ahn Choong Keun 2001, 40). Two conspicuous exhibits are situated outside the hall. One is a 4.4 meter-high bronze statue of An on a pedestal, whose construction was completed in July 1974. Actually, a statue of An was erected in a girl’s high-school in May 1959, during the regime of Syngman Rhee, and was moved to Namsan Park in April 1967, during President Park’s administration. In June 1973 the statue was again moved, this time to Kwangju. It was renovated, making it “a larger and [more] realistic statue” (The Association for Commemorating Martyr Ahn Choong Keun 9

192

This book is one in a series of three books written in similar style. The other two books are dedicated to Korean ways of life and to the country’s history of wars.

2001, 1), and it is this newer version that currently stands adjacent to the hall. The second exhibit outside An’s memorial hall is a rock garden comprised of twenty large stones engraved with quotations from An’s writings. Various bodies, mainly business groups, have donated these stones over the years. At the entrance to the hall, next to one of the two tigers that guard it, is a stone that bears the carved handwriting of Park Chung Hee. The inscription is in Chinese characters, and reads: “芮諦誀罃 ࢂ 訽耨” (minjok chnggi i chndang) – “a shrine/sanctuary of true national spirit.” This image, signifying that An Chung-gn embodies the nation’s spirit, is recurrent. A plaque in front of the entrance explains that the hall was established “for the purpose of revering martyr An Chung-gn’s devotion and lofty spirit of loving the country and the people [aeguk aejok], and for enhancing national spirit [both] inside and outside the country.” Also, the opening lines of the text in the brochure distributed at the site are: “Among the many patriotic forefathers [snyl] who sacrificed their lives to save the fatherland, martyr An Chung-gn is the best representative among those who elevated the national spirit” (An Chung-gn isa kinymgwan). Inside the hall, various exhibits and techniques are employed to transmit An’s biography and his role in Korean history. These include, besides informative texts and photographs, a model of a railway station and a recreation of the assassination through holograms; a model of An writing calligraphies in prison; calligraphies of An on the walls; showcases containing personal items, weapons and newspaper clippings; and touch-screen computers. A small movie theater screens a film, which outlines the milestones of An and his activities. One biographical detail that the film, a text, and the hall brochures and booklet all emphasize, is that An was born with seven black spots on his chest and abdomen. Because of that, so it is explained, he was thought to have received the power of the constellation, the Big Dipper. This is a very meaningful spiritual connection. The Big Dipper (puktuch’ilsng) has been for centuries an important and popular source for worship in Korean shamanism, and Seven Stars Shrines were accordingly established throughout the country.10 An Chung-gn is thus 10

On the Seven Star worship, see Covell (1986, 79–85).

193

portrayed as a chosen messenger who fulfilled his historical mission. The image is further buttressed by An’s connection to one more religion that is prevalent in South Korea: the emphasis that after he had converted to Catholicism at the age of 19, An led the life of a faithful Christian, further advances this image as well as underscoring An’s role as a martyr. This image is significant in light of the fact that South Koreans live in a society where approximately thirty percent are Christians (over 18 percent Protestants and nearly 11 percent Catholics). 11 One reason that “both Catholicism and Protestantism have enjoyed the fervent support of their followers,” is that “identified strongly with nationalism during Japanese rule, Christianity, especially Protestantism, emerged after 1945 as a religion that resisted Japan successfully” (Ch’oe, Lee, and de Bary, eds. 2000, 378). With regard to his role in the struggle to maintain Korea’s sovereignty, emphasis is given both to An’s “moderate” and “violent” activities. Firstly, following the Confucian model, An was a teacher and an educator, and an intellectual who wrote down his thoughts. Secondly, An was a fighter. He organized and commanded, so it is claimed, a three hundred strong force in the Righteous Army and fought the Japanese in 1908. The film on An stresses that in compliance with international law, he released the Japanese prisoners his troops had captured. Also, in early 1909, several months before killing It, An was part of a unique initiative. “Together with eleven like-minded death-defying comrades,” as the sites brochure states (An Chung-gn isa kinymgwan), An cut off a joint of his fourth finger in an act that symbolized the group’s determination to fight the Japanese. An later signed his calligraphies with his palm, and the imprint of this mutilated palm became a distinctive symbol of the memorial hall (Figure 4.5). It appears on engraved stones, on the brochure, and at different places inside the hall, signifying that the chosen messenger had hence prepared his body and mind for the final act.

11

194

Based on data that appeared in a JoongAng Daily online article entitled “Over the Past 10 Years, Korea Got More Religious” published on November 19, 2008.

Figure 4.5 A scene from inside Patriot An Chung-gn Memorial Hall

At this point, the narrative demands an answer to the question: Why It? After all, already in June 1909 he had resigned from his post as the first Resident-General in Korea after serving in this position for over three years. Punishment, as suggested earlier, is part of the answer. However, through the film on An, we mainly learn that It was “the nation’s bitter enemy” who stood at the pinnacle of the pyramid of Japan’s kingdom of evil. The film claims that It had planned to conquer the region and make Japan the leader of the yellow race, and that this plan was developing in his mind while he was making his last train trip. Such an explanation serves the interest of presenting clear-cut images with regard to the significance of An’s act. It transcends the more complex image of It, An’s target. In comparison, one historian of Japan, for example, writes that It “was known for his liberal views, but acted in Korea as a tough imperialist” (Shillony 1997, 145), while a second historian sketches a complex image of It as a gradualist and a moderate

195

compared with other chauvinists in the Japanese Diet (Duus 1995, 197– 200, 235–236). Tangible history thus works to override such ambiguities. Accordingly, a recurrent theme in the memorial hall is that An, as he stated at his trial, was motivated by the desire to protect the peace in Asia. The image of An Chung-gn is completed at his memorial hall in the narrative that depicts the events following the assassination. First we learn that Russian military policemen pushed An down immediately after firing his fatal shots, but he rose and shouted three times in Russian “long live independence.” We also learn that Chinese intellectuals respected An for helping them “to awake the sleeping and corrupted Chinese people who had no way to protect their country from invasions.” An’s Japanese interrogators also respected him and did not torture him. It was only due to an order that came from Tokyo that An was finally given an unjust trial and the death penalty (The Association for Commemorating Martyr Ahn Choong Keun 2001, 12–16). Finally, An’s death is narrated in no less glorious a fashion than his birth. We are told that after hearing the verdict, he asked with a smile whether “there was no penalty more than [the] death sentence in Japan” (The Association for Commemorating Martyr Ahn Choong Keun 2001, 16). Interestingly, An refused to appeal to a higher court. This decision, as the memorial hall publication explains, “was much influenced by his mother” and “showed his manly dignity” (The Association for Commemorating Martyr Ahn Choong Keun 2001, 16). Accordingly, in the section in the hall dedicated to An’s trial, there is a conspicuous quotation attributed to his mother: “Dying for a just cause, instead of cowardly seeking your survival, is a filial piety to the mother” (emphasis mine). In his last words, An promised that in heaven, too, he will continue his efforts for Korea’s independence. He thus linked together the two worlds, the sites publication explains, and inspired succeeding generations to love the country and fulfill their duties to the nation (The Association for Commemorating Martyr Ahn Choong Keun 2001, 17– 18). An’s exact time of execution, 10:00, is given, thus freezing this significant moment in time for all eternity. After the execution, An’s body, in an uncommon manner, was put in a special coffin made of pine tree boards, “together with the holy picture of Jesus Christ which he had carried all the time when alive” (The 196

Association for Commemorating Martyr Ahn Choong Keun 2001, 5). This sense of Christian martyrdom, as mentioned earlier, is not strange to South Koreans. Furthermore, the country is peppered with sacred sites identified by the Korean Catholic Church as places where Christians spilled their blood for their belief in persecutions conducted by the Confucian government of Chosn in the nineteenth century. As Don Baker has shown, not only does the Korean Catholic Church, in comparison with other religious groups, show the most systematic approach in identifying and organizing these sites for pilgrimage, but it also “places the greatest emphasis on history, and on sanctification by blood shed in the past” (2004). Perhaps out of intention, the Japanese did not bury An in a separate grave and he was buried in the lot for prisoners, thus his exact burial spot is unknown. Nevertheless, an empty plot without a gravestone has been prepared in Hyoch’ang Park, Seoul, waiting for the time An’s body would be recovered (Figure 4.6). The empty grave is a powerful spiritual/religious symbol, but, at the same time, a complex one as well. Korean folklore and ancient belief lack a consensual explanation regarding the whereabouts of the soul of the dead.12 One possibility is that the soul remains with the buried body or in the grave. However, what exists in an empty grave when the body is buried elsewhere? And how does the soul react if the deceased was not given an appropriate burial? In Korea, where filial piety has been one of society’s most fundamental values, the dead ancestor has to be buried and mourned according to strict etiquette rules. From the standpoint of Confucianism – the social and political thought which has been dominating Korean society for centuries – ancestral rituals “inculcate proper social sentiments among living kin” (Janelli and Janelli 1982, 85). And although, as Janelli and Janelli observe, ancestor worship perceives the ancestors as passively awaiting “the offerings on which their welfare depends and accept them as expressions of indebtedness,” “shamanism, by contrast, portrays ancestors as self-interested, afflicting their kin to enhance their own comfort or satisfy their desires” (1982, 166)

12

Although Hahm (1988, 75–78) focuses on the shamanistic perception, I adopt here Janelli and Janelli’s broader “folkloric nature,” which is not limited to a specific religion (see Janelli and Janelli 1982, 58–60).

197

(shamanism, which is still practiced today in the South, exists in the Korean peninsula, so it is commonly held, since Neolithic times at least).

Figure 4.6 Sam i samyo (“tombs of the three martyrs”) Plot. The graves of Yun Ponggil, Yi Pong-ch’ang, and Paek Chng-gi, and the empty grave of An Chung-gn. Hyoch’ang Park, Seoul

Moreover, another belief system that should be brought to mind here is p’ungsu (wind and water), or “geomancy” as it is commonly known. According to this theory, which originated in China (where it is called feng shui) and has been highly regarded in Korea for centuries, it is imperative that buildings and graves be constructed on auspicious topographic sites, namely, sites that do not interfere with the harmonic flow of the earth’s energy forces. According to the various components of Korean traditional culture, then, failing to give the deceased a proper burial and/or having his body lying in some random topographic spot is a severe violation of social and moral values, as well as an abuse of the cosmic forces. This may result in misfortune.13 An Chung-gn’s empty grave is thus a complex spiritual and religious symbol, which sends, however, one clear nationalist message: it 13

198

For discussions on the causes of this misfortune according to Korean belief system – and especially on the question of whether displeased ancestors are responsible for it – see Janelli and Janelli (1982, 71–79, 154–176).

is only natural that the soil of post-liberation South Korea is the proper and legitimate place for absorbing and embracing this patriot. In the face of An being revered by both North and South Korea, the empty grave, whether or not it contains An’s soul, conveys the message that this Korean heroic ancestor “belongs” to the South that assumes the role of the elder and devoted son responsible for the funeral and mourning. And the notion that “mourning costume is viewed as a tangible expression of guilt for inadequacies in the care and support of one’s parents” (Janelli and Janelli 1982, 64), adds a strong emotional flavor to this image in light of a divided Korean nation, a nation which has yet failed to fully live up to the heritage of its patriotic ancestors. In any case, as An’s empty grave “tells” us, the legitimate “son” and representative of colonial Korea is the South. To conclude, according to one historical view, in the face of the limitations imposed on the movement inside Korea, An’s killing of It, together with the struggle of the Righteous Army, signaled the advent of the anti-Japanese armed struggle outside Korea in places like Manchuria and Siberia (Kang et al. eds. 1994, volume 12, 245). According to the tangible representations of An, the figure who was responsible for this was a young devoted patriot whose birth, life, and death were shrouded in a spiritual-religious aura – a true martyr by definition. And according to the empty grave in Hyoch’ang Park, this figure belongs to South Korea, as the South is the true heir to the anti-colonial struggle.

Yun Pong-gil In early 1932, Japanese forces clashed with the Chinese in Shanghai at a time of growing involvement, since September 1931, of the Japanese Army in China. After the fighting was over, the Japanese arranged to celebrate their victory on the occasion of the emperor’s birthday, and on April 29, 1932, an impressive celebration took place in the city at Hongkou Park. The Japanese anthem was playing, when suddenly a young Korean by the name of Yun Pong-gil (1908–1932) stepped forward and threw a bomb toward the Japanese dignitaries standing on the dais. They were all injured. Among them were: the Japanese Minister to China, Shigemitsu Mamoru; the Commander in Chief of the Japanese Army in Shanghai, General Shirakawa Yoshinori; Vice Admiral Nomura 199

Kichisabur; and Consul-General to Shanghai, Murai Kuramatsu. General Shirakawa and another Japanese, Dr. Kawabata Teiji who was head of the Association of Japanese Citizens in Shanghai, later died from their wounds. Shigemitsu, who later served as foreign minister, lost a leg, and Nomura, later an ambassador to America, lost an eye. Yun was arrested, imprisoned, and then executed in December 19 by a two-man firing squad. Yun Pong-gil’s attack was carried out as part of the activity of the Hanin aeguktan – the Korean patriotic association – organized and headed by Kim Ku. It was one of two well-publicized incidents at the time. Almost four months earlier, another member of this association, Yi Pong-ch’ang, threw a hand-grenade in an assassination attempt on the Japanese Emperor outside the Sakurada Gate of the palace in Tokyo. Today, Yun Pong-gil and Yi Pong-ch’ang, and another patriot, Paek Chng-gi, are buried side by side in Hyoch’ang Park next to the empty plot for An Chung-gn, It’s assassin. In April 1987, the construction of the Martyr Yun Pong-gil Memorial Hall – Maehn Yun Pong-gil isa kinymgwan (Maehn was Yun’s penname) – in Seoul started, and finally opened in December 1988. It is managed by the Association for Commemorating Martyr Maehn Yun Pong-gil, established in 1965. The 9.8 meter-high statue of Yun, which stands outside the memorial hall, was unveiled on April 29, 1992, on the sixtieth anniversary of the incident in Shanghai. An engraving on the pedestal depicts a scene which is based on a famous photograph, showing Japanese policemen holding Yun after the attack. The inscription reads: “i nhye kiri kiri urrbora” – “forever revere this blessing.” Accordingly, the similar familiar language of patriotism is apparent in the following lines in a poem called Tto hana i t’aeyang, “One more sun,” by Hwang Km-ch’an: High are the waves in the sea of love, which martyr Maehn Yun Pong-gil himself has left; and forever and ever the wave of devotion shall not pass away. So much it soars in the breath and the life today (Maehn Yun Pong-gil isa kinym saphoe 2003, 8).

200

The poem appears in a 2003 publication called Kyre sarang (Love of the nation) by the Association for Commemorating Martyr Maehn Yun Pong-gil. It includes poems, articles, and newspaper clippings related to Yun, as well as records of commemorative events for him and quotations from his sayings. Interestingly, what dominates the front cover of this volume is the figure “1,” which is constructed of photographs of the “Red Devils.” The “Red Devils” is the nickname for the enthusiastic fans of South Korea’s national soccer team. During the 2002 Korea-Japan World Cup, South Korea was in a soccer-frenzy, especially as its national team kept advancing, and scenes of thousands of youngsters wearing red T-shirts and face colors dominated the streets and the national media. In similar vein with the image of the “Red Devils” employed in the Independence Hall to link present-day South Korea with the nation’s long history of struggle (see pp. 39–40), the design and content of Kyre sarang thus convey the inseparability of the summer of 2002 sports-related patriotic pride, from the 1932 patriotic deed and martyrdom of Yun Pong-gil. What, then, do Martyr Yun Pong-gil Memorial Hall and related publications teach us about this patriot? To start with, Yun’s biography is narrated in line with the values and morality of Confucianism. “The scholar-official,” wrote Yi I, the sixteenth-century great Confucian thinker, “fulfilled a prominent role as a morally superior man (hyn) who was called upon to lead the ignorant masses.”14 Yun’s portrayal basically follows this model, but in a way, without the unpleasant patronizing and conceited overtones. Yun’s image is constructed around what may be termed “snbi spirit” – the spirit of a virtuous man: an intellectual with high morals who understands right from wrong and acts as a social leader. Suh Kyoung-yo wrote about “snbi spirit,” and concluded his essay with a paragraph that represents the ideal image concerning the link between this Confucian spirit and such figures as Yun Pong-gil: Throughout Korean history, the snbi have taken a leadership role. In modern times the struggle for independence demanded virtuous and patriotic leaders. The snbi played that role. They set the moral standard for the individual and the community. The snbi were not simply a class; they were intellectuals who put their values in practice, who were unbending in their pursuit of those values. Their spirit continues to serve us well today (1996, 35).

14

Quoted in Deuchler (1992, 109).

201

The first image of Yun Pong-gil is that he was a special child. A text in the Martyr Yun Pong-gil Memorial Hall explains that Yun was a descendant of the famous General Yun Kwan from the Kory dynasty, who had successfully fought the Jurchen invasions in the early twelfth century. Also, an explanation related to a photograph of five aligned large rocks, states that Yun’s grandmother, who had five grandchildren, used to boast, “My grandchildren are of noble birth, and they received the spirit of the ‘rocks of five brothers’” (Maehn Yun Pong-gil isa ig che 60-chunyn kinym sap ch’ujin wiwnhoe 1992, 29).15 This notion is an expression of Korean folk beliefs, which view conspicuous rocks as embodiments of deities and spirits. Yun is then described as a child prodigy. His mother played the leading role in his education, and by the age of 7 Yun already knew by heart the “Thousand-Character Text” (Chnjamun) primer (Maehn Yun Pong-gil isa ig che 60-chunyn kinym sap ch’ujin wiwnhoe 1992, 24–25). Yun was nurtured on both education and patriotism, writes Kim Hak-jun in Kyre sarang, and the March First Movement, which erupted nationwide when Yun was 12 years old, inspired him and strengthened his strong will about “anti-Japanese independence” (hangiltongnip) (2003, 23). The combination of education and patriotism is a central theme inside the memorial hall. The educated and patriotic young boy grew to become an educator and a fighter. This image is apparent at the entrance hall where two dominating twelve-meter long and 3.5-meter high drawings are placed. One shows Yun lecturing before an audience of women, men, and children; the other depicts the bombing in Shanghai. Also, photographs in the exhibition hall show the Punhngwn, the house, which as the related text explains, Yun established in his “crusade against illiteracy.” He also intended for it to be “the house of the restoration of the fatherland” (choguk kwangbok i chip), but the Japanese finally tore it down. The Punhngwn was later restored in 1974. Many photographs, texts, and personal items further narrate Yun’s role as an educator for literacy and patriotism among the farmers. I believe that it was no coincidence that a year before the restoration of the 15

202

This is a publication by the Promoting Committee for Commemorating the 60th Anniversary of the Patriotic Deed of Martyr Maehn Yun Pong-gil. It is obtainable at Martyr Yun Pong-gil Memorial Hall.

Punhngwn, in 1973, a story under the theme of “Nongch’on l irk’in Yun Pong-gil” – “Yun Pong-gil who awakened the rural community” – was included in a Korean language fifth grade elementary school textbook. Also in 1973, the “Maehn nongminsang” – Maehn peasant award – was announced (Maehn Yun Pong-gil isa ig che 60chunyn kinym sap ch’ujin wiwnhoe 1992, 122). At that time, President Park Chung Hee’s nationwide Saemal Undong (New Village Movement), which intended to advance the development of the rural areas, was already in process. Although this 1970s agrarian movement was saturated with rhetoric that centered on much earlier national heroes, e.g., Yi Sun-sin and the Silla dynasty hwarang warriors (see Jager 2003, 77–96), it was under this context that patriot Yun’s activities with the farmers were included as well. As for the Shanghai bombing, the Martyr Yun Pong-gil Memorial Hall presents photographs and texts that narrate Yun’s admission to Kim Ku’s Hanin aeguktan (Korean patriotic association), and contains several exhibits that depict the incident from various angles. First there is a model showing Hongkou Park immediately after the bombing. Yun is waving the Korean flag and bleeding Japanese are scattered on the dais. In one glass case there is also a model of the bomb that Yun had used. Another showcase includes eyeglasses and two stones. The glasses belonged to Murai Kuramatsu, Consul-General to Shanghai who was wounded in his legs by the attack. A descendant of Murai donated the glasses to the memorial hall in 1992. The two stones are said to have come from the site of the attack. This combination of artifacts tangibly freezes in time the moment at Hongkou Park, thus symbolically grounding the image of its eternal significance. In accordance with the way of narrating Yun’s life, much space is also allocated to his death as a martyr on December 19, 1932. While the depiction of Yun’s life is dominated by the Confucian model of a welleducated child prodigy and later, a young man who was active in leading the masses, images from other belief systems are involved in the depiction of his death. Photographs and drawings show scenes from before and after the execution. In a detailed description of that day, the exact time of Yun’s death, 07:40, is given, thus again, a specific moment is frozen for the sake of eternal memory. An exhibition in a showcase of the 1.8 meterlong wooden pole to which Yun was tied when executed further 203

buttresses this image. Most importantly, the photograph of the blindfolded Yun being executed while tied with his hands stretched to the sides to cross-shaped pegs, brings to mind the image of Jesus (Figure 4.7). And as for Yun’s body, his remains were brought to South Korea in 1946 and buried at Hyoch’ang Park in the Sam i samyo (“the tombs of the three martyrs”) plot where the empty grave of An Chung-gn is also. Later, exactly sixty years after his death, on December 19, 1992, the cleaning of the grave where Yun was buried between 1932–1946, in a garbage dump in Japan, was completed. The place was designated an historic spot and has been preserved as such since then. In Yun’s case, then, and in comparison with the case of An Chung-gn, South Korea was able to complete its duty toward the ancestor by both bringing his body to rest and purifying his original burial site. With regard to the significance of Yun’s Shanghai bombing, as it is tangibly constructed, several complementary images are conveyed. To begin with, the second floor of the Martyr Yun Pong-gil Memorial Hall is called Hangil tongnip undong sajinjnsisil. Although the adjacent English language name is “Patriotic Photo Exhibition,” a more accurate translation would be: “Photographic exhibition of the anti-Japanese independence movement.” The English translation at the site thus conveys a message that is already conceptually imbedded in the original Korean version: when dealing with the concept of patriotism, the anticolonial struggle is the first and foremost context that comes to mind. Accordingly, Yun’s act is woven here into an historical survey of the related struggle, starting from the Righteous Army of about 1905 and up to the Korean Restoration Army of 1945.

204

Figure 4.7 Execution of Yun Pong-gil (photograph exhibited in Martyr Yun Pong-gil Memorial Hall, Seoul)

Furthermore, Yun’s act is said to have had profound impact on the anticolonial struggle. A text in the memorial hall, for example, presents the following saying by Chiang Kai-shek, leader of the Chinese Nationalists: “One Korean youth carried out the heroic deed, which our [Chinese] four hundred million people and one million-strong military force failed to do.” Accordingly, the editors of Han’guksa (The history of Korea) explain that Yun’s attack revived the confidence of the Chinese in Kim Ku’s Hanin aeguktan, and this Korean body thus received “full backing” from Chiang’s Guomindang (Nationalist Party) (Kang et al. eds. 1994, volume 16, 152). Furthermore, the brochure that is handed out at the memorial hall specifies five points regarding the Shanghai bombing. The historian Shin Yong-ha wrote this text. Firstly, states the brochure, the attack delivered “a very big political and military blow to imperial Japan” by annihilating the headquarters of the Japanese occupation army in Shanghai. Secondly, it “astonished” the international community and drew its attention to the “Korean people’s indomitable [pulgul] spirit of independence and fierce [ch’iyrhan] independence movement.” Thirdly, it reinforced and restored the collapsing Korean-Chinese nationalist solidarity and opened up new opportunities for the Korean independence movement in China. Fourthly, it reactivated and revived the stagnating Korean Provisional Government. Lastly, “The success of martyr Yun’s heroic fight 205

awakened the spirit of independence of the Korean people both in and outside the country” while injecting fresh vigor into the independence movement. Yun’s act, writes Shin in the brochure, “formed a new milestone [ijngp’yo] and left behind a merit that will shine for eternity in the history of the independence movement of the Korean people” (Maehn Yun Pong-gil isa kinymgwan). The brochure further advances this form of historical analysis that is imbued with the language of patriotism. A colored drawing of the Shanghai bombing is placed in the middle of Shin’s text, and photographs related to the act also appear. One of Yun’s sayings is also presented here. The following is a segment from it: In my youth I realized that there was a love much more sturdy than the love for parents, than the love for siblings, than the love for the wife and children. This is the passionate love of devotion for the country [nara] and the people [kyre]. Even if I leave my beautiful country and my parents, I have chosen this road and I am determined to follow this strong love.

In light of the above it is easy to understand why in the Si-sa Elite Korean-English Dictionary, the one example given under the entry “ig,” which means a heroic/patriotic deed, is “the patriotic deed of Yun Pong-gil” (YBM Sisa yngsa 2001, 1698). The acts of both Yun Pong-gil and An Chung-gn have greatly inspired South Korean national history and its language of patriotism. The tangible narrative in this regard creates and maintains a crucial balance in which these acts are signalized and at the same time incorporated into the overall context of resistance. Moreover, the tangible narrative makes efforts in representing the protagonists, Yun and An, through a lens that is much wider than the specific act itself. In this way, their last heroic deed is perceived as the apex of a lifetime commitment and activity for the cause of Korean independence. Finally, although emphasis is given to the constructive role of their mothers, Yun and An are prominent representatives of manly patriotism. The role of the exemplary female patriot is reserved for Ryu Kwan-sun.

206

Korea’s Joan of Arc On March 1, 2002, the Donga Ilbo, one of South Korea’s leading newspapers, announced on its online edition that 88-year old Mrs. Cho Su-ok had been chosen as the first recipient of the “[R]yu Kwan-sun Prize.” An association of three bodies offered the prize: the newspaper, Ch’ungch’ngnam-do (the province where Ryu was born), and Ewha High School, which Ryu had attended. The prize, explained the paper, was established “to standardize the image of modern women by awarding a woman or a women’s organization who preserves martyr [R]yu’s progressive and future-oriented thoughts.” During the colonial period, Mrs. Cho, the winner of the prize, had been jailed for five years for refusing to worship at a Japanese Shint shrine, and later she “dedicated her whole life” to orphans and old people. This prize exemplifies how South Korea remembers Ryu Kwan-sun (1902–1920). Not only is Ryu perhaps the most familiar figure of the March First Independence Movement, but she was also a (young) woman. Ryu has become the symbol of the most glorified anti-colonial struggle in South Korea, while concomitantly symbolizing the active role that women had taken in the resistance movement. Accordingly, an early book on Ryu was entitled Tchyan Ttakk’ wa Yu Kwan-sun – Joan of Arc and Ryu Kwan-sun (author Chng Kwang-i, 1954). In addition, a p’ansori (a traditional Korean “one-man opera”) was written about her, and several movies about her life were produced as well (in 1948, 1959, 1966, and 1974). Who was she? Ryu Kwan-sun entered Ewha girl’s school in Seoul in 1916. With the rise of the March First Movement in 1919, she participated in demonstrations, but after the colonial authorities had closed down her school she returned to her hometown in Pyngch’nmyn, Ch’nan. There, on April 1, 1919, she was arrested while leading a demonstration in Aunae Market. Ryu was put on trial and sentenced to three years in prison. In August she was transferred to Sdaemun Prison and received an additional seven-year sentence on charges of contempt of court. It is said that she continued to organize “manse” (“long live,” meaning “long live independence”) cries in prison. Ryu was tortured, and she finally perished in prison on October 12, 1920, at the age of 18.

207

The story of Ryu Kwan-su has inspired the language of patriotism. In one account, for example, Im Tae-su writes that she was brutally tortured by the Japanese and, […] left the words, “Even if you kill me, you could not obstruct the independence of our country. All of you will undoubtedly perish.” On October 12, 1920, at 8:12 in the morning, our great shining star was snuffed out at the age of 18 and ceased to shine over this land (1997, 23–24).

Similarly, the childrens book Aha! Kttaen irn inmuri presents two explicit drawings. In one, Ryu stands at a demonstration waving the Korean flag and facing a Japanese military policeman who is pointing his rifle at her. While she is shouting “Long live Korean independence!” the Japanese exclaims, “The teenage girl is not afraid”. In another drawing, Ryu is lying in her prison cell after she has been tortured, and says with a tear running down her cheek, “Even if you kill me, you cannot prevent our country’s independence. All you Japanese will undoubtedly perish.” In the background stands a Japanese guard who is enraged upon hearing these words (see Chi and Yi 2003, 128–129). As for the significance of her role in the March First Independence Movement, the historian Shin Yong-ha writes that Ryu was a 16-year old student who stood at the forefront of “the biggest and most intense demonstration of independence, not only in Ch’ungch’ngnam-do, but in the whole country.” Three thousand people participated in this demonstration, writes Shin, and the day ended with nineteen martyrs and thirty injured. He also stresses in poetic language that Ryu was “brutally murdered by military sword and died as a martyr” (2001, 246–248). With such images in mind, let us now examine how Ryu has been commemorated in the landscape. In Sdaemun Prison History Hall, the memorial site that stands on the grounds where Ryu was imprisoned and where she eventually died, there is a model of her shouting “manse” in a cell. Ryu shouted every morning and evening, explains the site’s booklet, and although the Japanese tortured her “she did not bend her will for the independence of the fatherland” (Sdaemun-gu ch’ng, Sdaemun hyngmuso yksagwan n.d., 31). On March 1, 1920, Ryu organized a “manse” shouting in prison to commemorate the anniversary of the March First Movement, and as a result, she was moved to an underground solitary cell. The especially harsh conditions there and the torture inflicted on her brought 208

to her death in October. The underground cells were discovered during the renovation works at the place in the late 1980s and were restored. The curators decided to name the spot “Ryu Kwan-sun gul” (Ryu Kwansun cave) and it is here where photographs and texts that present Ryu’s biography, are placed outside the cells (entrance to the cells is prohibited). The cells are protected by a peculiar structure (Figure 4.8), and according to curator Yang Sng-suk, the architect who designed it in the late 1980s, Kim Hong-sik, had in mind to blend various Asian styles signifying the invasion of Japan to the whole region. The idea, controversial at the time, was finally adopted (2002, interview with author). The “Ryu Kwan-sun gul” is hence a unique Ryu-related tangible representation, which bears with it the message of the great suffering that Japan inflicted not only on Korea, but on all its neighbors as well.

Figure 4.8 Ryu Kwan-sun gul (“Ryu Kwan-sun cave”), Sdaemun Prison History Hall, Seoul

Furthermore, halls and monuments to commemorate Ryu have been established already since the latter half of the 1960s. For example, a 9.8meter high bronze statue of Ryu showing her raising a torch was constructed in Namsan Park, Seoul, in 1970. Also in Seoul, the Ryu Kwan-sun Memorial Hall in the Ewha Girls High School was completed in 1974. On the grass in front of the building is a small but conspicuous statue showing Ryu in a rather irregular posture. She is not waving a flag (or a torch) in her hand as she is usually presented, but instead, a large 209

Korean flag wraps a relatively smaller figure of her from the back. It is a design that enhances the image of the symbiotic relationship between Ryu and the nation, and between contemporary Koreans and this heroine. The building itself is an auditorium with some two thousand seats. On the second floor is a modest exhibition dedicated to Ryu which includes a statuette, a large drawing of her, and mainly texts and photographs. The first obvious message is that Ryu’s role is deeply grounded in Korea’s history of suffering and resistance – a history that stretches from initial Japanese involvement in the peninsula in the early 1870s until 1945. The texts and photographs narrate all the familiar events and developments of this period, while emphasizing Japanese cruelty and Korean suffering and heroism. Woven into this context is the biography of Ryu starting from her school days, through her anticolonial activity, and up to her death in prison. An important feature is patriotic sayings from prison that are attributed to her. One is, “It is quiet outside; however, if we will be quiet too, they will think we are dead, so let us shout manse.” Another saying appears in black letters on a big photograph of Sdaemun Prison: “Sir, I am determined to sacrifice myself for the country. The same determination of one-tenth of the people will help achieve our country’s independence.” Other photographs show various monuments that have been established in South Korea to commemorate Ryu, thus further buttressing her image as a central anchor of national pride. In this regard, one glass case holds copies of several books written about Ryu over the years. Among them is Pak Hwa-sng’s T’aor nn pyl: Ryu Kwan-sun i ilsaeng (Burning star: the life of Ryu Kwan-sun) (1972) – comparing Ryu to a star being a recurrent image in South Korea. What is interesting in this showcase is one particular book. It is a Japanese language book written by the author Saotome Katsumoto, and called Ry kan jun no aoizora (Azure sky of Ryu Kwan-sun). The designers of the exhibition attached a text explaining that the Japanese author hopes “the Japanese people will always keep her name close to their hearts.” Through this statement, the curators advance an image of the respect that the Japanese give to the Korean spirit of resistance and independence. The exhibition’s last item, placed following photographs showing the Japanese surrender and the joy of liberty, is a large photograph of the 210

South Korean flag. The message of the inseparability of Ryu from the overall narrative of resistance, and also the inseparability of present day South Korea from this narrative, is completed. The biggest memorial site for Ryu, and one that encompasses all the images referred to above, is located in Pyngch’n-myn, Ch’nan-si, some ninety-five kilometers south of Seoul. This is the area where Ryu was born and active. Ryu’s statue, a shrine, and a small museum are placed around a plaza which constitutes this site. Together, these three forms of commemoration signify the interlocking of the spiritual with the historical, of the holy with the revered flesh and blood. The structures are positioned in such a way that the elevated shrine faces the visitors who reach it by climbing a set of steps. Before starting the climb, they are given the chance to pay respects to Ryu through her statue, located to their right. Indeed, based on my observations at the site, most Korean visitors bow before the 7.1-meter high statue and make a silent prayer. A plaque explains, “the shrine was constructed to cherish the soul and pay tribute to the spirit of loving the country and the people [aegukaejok] of patriot Ryu Kwan-sun.” Accordingly, Im Tae-su writes that it “forever cherishes the patriotism of patriot Ryu Kwan-sun, and spreads the shining spirit of the March First Movement to future generations” (1997, 24). The familiar design of the shrine is that of an ancestor shrine or a mourning shrine, and inside it, ritual incense in front of a large drawing of Ryu. Also, a sign asks the visitor, “Please bow twice and silently pray in a pious mind.” These religious symbols and the fact that the message is written only in Korean signifies, I believe, the intimate relationship between Ryu and post-liberation Koreans. Only they, so it appears, can capture the true essence of this patriot and her patriotism. A conspicuous object stands in front of the entrance to the museum, which is located facing the statue on the other side of the plaza. This is a time capsule that was placed on April 1, 2003, and that will be opened on the same date in 2102. A plaque explains that the intention is to hand down to future generations the legacy of Ryu “so they would understand the activity of the predecessors and further expand it.” Ryu is thus a temporal vehicle for connecting contemporary South Koreans not only with their forefathers but with their descendants as well. In their desire to preserve a connection between the past and the future, the curators here 211

attempt to shape the future in light of how they presently perceive the past. And the museum is the site of memory in which this past is narrated. The familiar story about Ryu is presented here through photographs and texts, and several artifacts help to magnify her martyrdom. One is a line in a text that emphasizes that Ryu became a Christian. Also, there are two tableaus of figures – one showing Koreans confronting Japanese security forces in a demonstration, and the other showing Japanese leading Korean prisoners in yongsu masks (masks that were put on prisoners when they were moved from place to place) – and there is a related hologram show. Next, there are also the familiar replicas of the wall-torture chambers. Finally, a small video room projects a film about Ryu stressing the overall historical context of her activities, her Christian background and her initiative in organizing the demonstration, and the torture she was subjected to until her death. At the exit of the museum is a small souvenir shop. In a representation of a mixture between sanctity and the mundane, the visitor can buy, among other things, a portrait of the martyr on a dish. In an adjacent corner, the visitor is also invited to stamp printings of two versions of the Korean flag on a page with designated spaces. One version is of the flag that demonstrators waved during the March First Independence Movement, and the other is the contemporary national flag, which is a later version of that same flag. The national emblem thus interactively bonds Ryu Kwan-sun, anti-colonial resistance, and contemporary South Koreans. Another significant point about this memorial site concerns the fact that the three objects that constitute it were established at different times: the shrine was built between 1969–1972, under President Park Chung Hee, and later renovated and expanded in 1985–1986, during the time of President Chun Doo Hwan; Ryu’s statue was unveiled on October 12, the date Ryu died, 1983; and the museum was opened in April 2003. Added to that, other large-scale memorial sites, namely the Independence Hall and the National Cemeteries, too, dedicate space to represent Ryu in the context of the anti-colonial struggle. This development in establishing monuments to Ryu, or, put differently, the historiography of tangible history, shows that South Korea has not relinquished Ryu’s memory throughout the various periods.

212

Finally, in tangible history, the figure of Ryu Kwan-sun has been instrumental in establishing the dominant image of women leading demonstrations. How does this image correspond with what we know about the March First Movement? Data shows that of the 19,525 people arrested during the movement, 471 were women and girls (Lee 1965 [1963], 115), meaning 2.4 percent. On the one hand, this figure can be interpreted as signifying a low level of women’s participation. On the other hand, though, one can argue for “the magnitude, relative to traditional times, of the female presence in the March First Movement” (Wells 1999, 200). In any case, there is no question about the position taken by tangible history in this regard. And like Joan of Arc – the French peasant girl who led the French forces against the English in the fifteenth century and who was burnt at the stake, and to whom Ryu was compared in Chng Kwang-i’s book from 1954 – Ryu became the prominent national heroine of the country.

Complicated Nationalism So far, this chapter has dealt with figures that South Korea reveres as patriots mainly because they were involved in a specific event. In the present section I explore the tangible commemoration of two people whose nationalist activities are much richer and span a much longer period. It is because of the nature of this long term and diversified activity that the two, An Ch’ang-ho and Kim Ku, have not only become famous, but from the standpoint of post-liberation national history, problematic figures as well.

An Ch’ang-ho An Ch’ang-ho (1878–1938), also known by his pen-name Tosan, was a nationalist who worked mainly abroad for the cause of Korean independence. It is said that An adopted the pen-name “Tosan,” meaning “island mountain,” as a sign of his determination to stand high above the sea of

213

turmoil Korea was in. Since it is beyond the scope of this study to elaborate on An’s biography, the following is a brief overview of it. An was born in P’yngyang, and in 1895 he moved to Seoul where he became a Christian at the school of the Presbyterian missionary Dr. Horace G. Underwood. In 1902 An began his long sojourn in America, where he soon became a prominent leader in the Korean community. After returning to Korea in 1907, on the eve of annexation, An founded the Sinminhoe – the New People’s Association – which “advocated a program of cultural activities, education and native economic development that would lay the foundation for later nationhood” (Eckert et al. 1990, 261). In 1909, although he had nothing to do with the event, An was among other national activists whom the Japanese arrested following It’s assassination by An Chung-gn. After two months in prison An was released and went abroad. Until his death he was active in China and America, and he toured Korean communities in Russia and Mexico as well. An was involved in the creation of various nationalist associations and institutions, and he served in ministerial posts at the Korean Provisional Government including leading it as acting premier in the summer of 1919. In 1932, following Yun Pong-gil’s attack, An, who was technically a Japanese subject, was arrested in Shanghai by the Japanese who had security forces in the city. He was sent to Korea, tried, found guilty for breaking the Peace Preservation Law, and served a prison sentence between 1933–1935. Between 1935–1937, An toured the country and then lived in seclusion at a hermitage. In June 1937, a month prior to the outbreak of the Second Sino-Japanese War, the Japanese police began arresting Korean activists and An was detained again. In prison he was tortured and became very ill. He was hospitalized and later died in Keij Imperial University Hospital (the present Seoul National University Hospital) on March 10, 1938. Turning now to the tangible commemoration of An Ch’ang-ho, Tosan kongwn (Tosan Park) is a site that was constructed in Seoul to memorialize An. Called “Tosan” after An’s pen-name, the park was completed in 1971 and occupies a total area of nearly 30,000 square meters. The following is the purpose of the site according to the brochure of the memorial hall that stands on its grounds:

214

Tosan Park was established to adopt An Ch’ang-ho’s patriotic spirit of devotion for the independence and sovereignty of this country, as well as his educational spirit of enlightening the people, as a paragon for the nation (Tosan An Ch’ang-ho kinymgwan).

A text on a plaque that stands at the entrance to the park conveys the same message. The text also signifies the function of the park as a place of both recreation and commemoration: there are 7,600 bushes and trees of thirty-five species planted here, as well as various objects dedicated to An.16 There is also the four-hundred-meter long “Tosan sunhwangil” – the Tosan circular path – used for jogging and walking. The commemorative objects on the grounds are diverse in type and style. They include: the traditionally styled graves of An and his wife; a modern bronze statue of An; the modern building of the memorial hall; sayings of An engraved on rocks; and a huge rock, which is a monument to An’s spirit. The Tosan kisangbi – the spirit of Tosan monument – is one of the first noticeable objects at the park. It was constructed in 1973, the same year that An’s grave was moved here from a different cemetery and the remains of his wife brought from Los Angeles, and the same year that An’s statue was erected. The Tosan kisangbi is unique in style because it is not formed like other rock monuments in South Korea, which are usually put on a pedestal and stand out as artificial additions to the landscape. In comparison, the Tosan kisangbi is a huge primal rock that emerges from the ground. In more than one way it resembles ancient monuments like the fifth century King Kwanggaet’o monument, and as John Brinckerhoff Jackson reminds us, “In the primitive view of nature, stone is not dead, it is a concentration of power and life” (1984, 108). The monument bears the Chinese characters 聍葢罃葿 – Tosan kisang, meaning the spirit of Tosan – carved from top to bottom. A plaque in front of the monument encapsulates the spirit of An, the spirit that the monumental rock signifies, in five principles: chaju chngsin (spirit of independence), chilli chngsin (spirit of truth), hyptong chngsin (spirit of cooperation), kaejo chngsin (spirit of reconstruction), and aeguk chngsin (spirit of patriotism). Thus, through the contents of the text and the design of the monument, the object conveys the might 16

For a critique on the design of this park including a suggestion for renovation and alternative designs, see Mun (2001).

215

and the perpetuity of An’s legacy. In addition, the fact that in Korean folk culture conspicuous natural rocks are sometimes regarded as deities, means that the symbolic significance of the Tosan kisangbi stretches beyond the legacy, and to the spirit of An itself. In similar vein, the importance of An’s spiritual legacy is advanced in booklets to children visitors, which the memorial hall distributes. The booklet explains about An Ch’ang-ho and his historical role, and it includes colored drawings, questions to dwell on, and even a crossword puzzle. The booklet ends with the directive: “Study An Ch’ang-ho’s thought of love of the nation and love of the country, and practice it habitually in your life” (Tosan An Ch’ang-ho snsaeng kinym saphoe n.d., 15). The Memorial Hall of Tosan An Ch’ang-ho (Tosan An Ch’ang-ho kinymgwan) was built in 1998 and is the latest addition to the park. The hall serves both as a narrator of An’s biography through its exhibitions, and as an education center through its research center, lecture hall, and organized activities targeted mainly for school children. Accordingly, the hall advances the image of An as a committed patriot and a long-term devoted nationalist. An’s historical role, as the memorial hall presents it, corresponds with scholarly works on An. Yi Kwang-su, for example – a known cultural nationalist who has later been commonly condemned by postliberation South Korea as a collaborator – published the biography of An in 1947, and regarded him together with none other then Admiral Yi Sun-sin as the two greatest national heroes of Korea (Kim 1996, xv). Also, in a recent biography of An, Kim Hyung-chan specifies three major influences on An’s thought: the Sino-Japanese War of 1894–1895, Confucian teachings (which An later became a strong critic of), and Christianity (1996, 1–10). These, in turn, shaped An’s “prophetic mission” (1996, 10–12) and, Kim argues, “Even in his death Tosan fulfilled his chosen mission as a prophetic patriot” (emphasis mine) (1996, 268). Another writer, An Pyng-uk, asserts, “It is not without reason that Tosan was called a Gandhi of Korea” (1983, 234). This observation is interesting from two aspects. First, in August 2001 a bronze statue of An was erected in a very different place: downtown Riverside, California. An’s connection to the place dates to 1904 when he came to live there with his family. His statue stands there near the statues of Martin Luther 216

King and Gandhi – two figures who preached non-violent struggle. 17 Secondly, there is another Korean, Cho Man-sik, who is “often called the Gandhi of Korea” (Eckert et al. 1990, 292). Cho Man-sik was a nationalist who emerged in the north as a prominent leader after liberation and prior to the official division of the peninsula. He was, however, purged by Kim Il Sung. Determining who should be regarded as “the Gandhi of Korea,” and the dialogue that An’s statue conducts with that of Gandhi’s (and of King’s for that matter) in Riverside, represent an attempt to construct a (not so accurate) image of An as a figure who continuously preached non-violent struggle. Moreover, there exists a broad discussion related to the categorization of An. In light of his diverse activities, scholars have applied different labels to him in their attempts to define his role within the overall context of the Korean independence movement. In one related critique, Jacqueline Pak suggests that these scholarly works have usually neglected An’s military efforts (2001, 150). In this regard, it can be said that Tosan Park, in similar vein with conventional perception, leans toward the more pacifist image of An portraying him as a “gradualist.” It is the life-long activity of An, which the managers of the site – the Tosan An Ch’ang-ho Memorial Foundation (set up in 1947) – view as an inspiration for promoting patriotism, as they specify in the site’s brochure: The Memorial Hall of Tosan An Ch’ang-ho was constructed to pay tribute to the achievements of Tosan An Ch’ang-ho – who devoted his entire life to the modernization and independence of the fatherland – and to awaken the growing generation to Tosan’s spirit of love of the country, and through this to direct our future (Tosan An Ch’ng-ho kinymgwan).

Finally, considering the dates that the park and the objects on its grounds were established, and related commemorative events were designated, An Ch’ang-ho was not always a preferred model for promoting patriotism. During the 1950s–1960s tangible history practically ignored 17

In May 1999 Kangnam-gu, which is the the district in Seoul where Tosan Park is located, and Riverside, became twin cities. The An Ch’ang-ho Memorial Foundation of Riverside inaugurated the memorial, which also includes a time capsule with publications and picture books about An. It will be unsealed in August 2051 (Mun, “Tosan kongwn,” 20). Also, Riverside Road in Kangnam-gu is the only road in Seoul named after an American city.

217

An. Only in the early 1970s was the park created under the authorization of President Park Chung Hee, and a road was even named after An at that time (1973). However, the practice of conducting annual memorial services to mark the dates of An’s death and birth began only on March 10, 1988, and November 9, 1993, respectively, and the memorial hall was established in 1997–1998; all events occurring after Park’s presidency. These trends are compatible with written history about An. Kim Hyung-chan, in the preface to the biography on An, points to the paucity of publications on him during the presidencies of Syngman Rhee and Park. Kim explains that Rhee discouraged “serious studies” on An because of the political rivalry that had existed while the two were active in America during the colonial period (1996, xv). Moreover, An is depicted by Jacqueline Pak as “a pioneering constitutional democrat”(2001, 147). Thus, as for the military regimes that followed Rhee, asserts Kim Hyung-chan, they “gave lip service” to An, and they did not encourage studies on him because his “political philosophy ran against what Korean military dictators practiced” (1996, xv). In conclusion, as a role model for advancing patriotism, An Ch’angho was a problematic figure, from personal and ideological aspects, to the post-liberation South Korean regimes. Above all in this regard, I believe that he was a reminder of a difficult colonial past as far as these regimes were concerned. Unlike the three patriots who were referred to previously in this chapter, An’s role in the independence movement was much longer, diverse, and political, hence potentially more problematic for post-colonial governments that had an interest in marginalizing the colonial past. Another figure with similar characteristics was Kim Ku.

Kim Ku No other nationalist figure from the colonial period epitomizes, as Kim Ku does, such a wide disparity between being so famous and revered, yet at the same time, so neglected by tangible history. A quick search of the database of the National Assembly Library yields numerous works on Kim Ku, including a significant number of M.A theses and Ph.D. dissertations that have been published in South Korea in the 1990s and early 2000s. Also, all history books that deal with the colonial period elaborate on the activities of Kim. Yet, it was not until 1991 that a first 218

memorial hall for him was established, and only in 2002 a new spacious museum and memorial hall dedicated to Kim was opened. To understand this trend I begin with an outline of Kim’s biography. Kim (penname: Paekpm) was born in 1876. At the age of 18 he joined the Tonghak peasant movement and later fought with the Righteous Army. In March 1896, he killed a Japanese lieutenant named Tsuchida at Chihap’o Port as revenge for the Japanese-initiated murder of the Korean Queen Min several months earlier. Kim was caught by Korean authorities and sentenced to death, but King Kojong later commuted the penalty. Kim managed to escape from prison in 1898 and entered a monastery where he became a Buddhist monk. A year later he left, and assuming a false identity, began working as a teacher in the countryside. In 1903 Kim converted to Christianity and continued his educational activities. In 1907 he joined the Sinminhoe (New People’s Association) and was again arrested following the assassination of It by An Chung-gn in 1909. He was released in 1915 and returned to his educational activities. In 1919, with the development of the March First Movement, Kim escaped the Japanese and arrived in Shanghai. From that time on, he was active in China until the end of colonial rule: he was active in the policies and the politics of the Korean Provisional Government, including heading it on several occasions; he cooperated with Kim Wnbong’s iyldan (the righteous corps), which initiated attacks on Japanese dignitaries in Korea, Japan, and China; in 1931 he set up the Hanin aeguktan (the Korean patriotic association); he received support from Chiang Kai-shek; and, in 1940 he moved to Chongqing, which was the new seat of Chiang’s Nationalist government, and helped form the Korean Independence Army. During this 1919–1945 period, Kim was thus a key player both in the politics of the exiled independence movement, as well as in the resistance itself. After liberation he returned to Korea and was an outspoken activist against foreign trusteeship and against conducting separate general elections in the South. On June 26, 1949, Kim was assassinated by Second Lieutenant An Tu-hi, perhaps at the directive of President Syngman Rhee. Kim Ku was a political rival to Rhee during South Korea’s embryonic stages, and earlier, at times, in the exiled independence movement. Thus, it is not surprising that he was not commemorated in the 1950s. Tangible history, however, provides us with an ironic twist in 219

this regard. President Rhee had his own statue erected in Namsan Park in Seoul, which was unveiled in 1956. The statue, including the pedestal, towered eighty-one ch’k in height (approximately 24.5 meters; one ch’k = 0.994 foot) symbolizing the president’s eighty first birthday, and it was known at the time as the tallest bronze statue in the world (Chng, Ym, and Chang 1996, 231). The fate of this statue was similar to that of another dominant Rhee statue, the one placed in T’apkol Park: it was brought down during the April 19 uprising that ousted Rhee’s regime in 1960. A few years later, in 1969, a bronze statue of Kim Ku was erected in the same place, Namsan Park, and it is this statue, not Rhee’s, that now stands at the site. The discussion on Kim’s statue in Namsan Park leads us to the presidency of Park Chung Hee. Inscribed at the back of the statue are the words of President Park: The loyalty of serving the country shall shine for eternity like the sun and the moon. On the occasion of the construction of the bronze statue of Paekpm Kim Ku, August 1969, President Park Chung Hee.

An irony exists in this case, too, as Korean works have stressed. The symbolic connection between Kim and Park, manifested through the statue, is a connection between a nationalist who fought the Japanese (Kim) and a person who served in the Japanese army, not to say a Japanese collaborator (Park) (Chng, Ym, and Chang 1996, 234–236; Chng 1995, 83). Interestingly, one source notes that the sculptor of the statue, too, was a collaborator (Chng 1995, 83). In addition, Kim’s statue was but one of a series of statues erected in Namsan Park during the latter half of the 1960s. The series included statues of Kim Yu-sin, the Silla dynasty hero general (statue built in 1969); Samyng Taesa, a Buddhist monk who fought the Hideyoshi invasions (1968); Yi Hwang, the great sixteenth century Confucian philosopher (1970); Chng Yag-yong, a noted scholar of the late Chosn dynasty (1970); and figures who took part in the anti-Japanese struggle since the early twentieth century such as Yi Chun (1964), Ryu Kwan-sun (1970), and Yi Si-yng (1969).18 Added to that, the memorial hall of An 18

220

Yi Chun was one of three messengers sent by King Kojong to appeal to the Second Hague Peace Conference, in 1907, against Japan’s intervention in Korea. After the mission failed, Yi died at The Hague, either out of grief or by committing suicide.

Chung-gn, It Hirobumi’s assassin, was also constructed in Namsan Park at that time. As we can see, then, the park exemplifies the relative growth in attention paid during the late 1960s to tangible history of the colonial period, with the memory of Kim Ku being part of this trend. Another important site in this regard is Hyoch’ang Park in Seoul. The park covers an area of about 122,000 square meters. It serves both as a memorial site and as a place of recreation, and is where Kim Ku is buried. Kim’s grave in Hyoch’ang Park was twice a subject of debate in post-colonial South Korea. First, in 1959, President Rhee, who was not pleased with the location of the grave of his former political rival, wanted to move the grave to the suburbs under the pretext of constructing a sports stadium there for the upcoming Asian soccer tournament. The relocation plan of the grave was withdrawn following public objection, but the stadium was completed in 1960 after the dense forest that had covered the area was axed. Also, immediately after President Park assumed power in 1960, a relocation plan was again promoted, but, according to the information supplied on the Paekpm kinymgwan website, it was shelved following “opposition from all strata of society.” Later during Park’s presidency, however, in 1972, a ten-year landscape architecture project was begun, free entrance to the park was cancelled, and an entrance fee was charged until 1981. Under Park, in 1969, two more commemorative objects of different nature were erected here. One was a statue of the great seventh century Buddhist monk Wnhyo, and the other was a tower in memory of the fight against communism. Thus, again, tangible colonial history was incorporated into a broader tangible narrative. The commemorative significance of Kim Ku in the park does not end in the existence of his grave and its history. As a plaque at the site explains, following liberation Kim was responsible for bringing to burial here the remains of three patriots. At a plot called the Sam i samyo, “the tombs of the three martyrs” (Figure 4.4), are buried Yun Pong-gil, Yi Pong-ch’ang, and Paek Chng-gi who was caught in Shanghai in 1933 before he managed to carry out an attack on a restaurant where Japanese dignitaries were convening. Next to the three graves stands the Ryu Kwan-sun is the heroine of the March First Independence Movement discussed earlier in this chapter. Yi Si-yng was active in the exiled independence movement and a member of the Korean Provisional Government.

221

empty grave of An Chung-gn, waiting for the day when his remains will be found and brought to rest in South Korea. Also buried in a distinctive spot on the grounds of the park are three former members of the Korean Provisional Government – Yi Tong-nyn, Cho Sng-hwan, and Ch’a I-sk – whose remains were brought from China and buried in 1948. The image of Hyoch’ang Park as a center of patriotism, with Kim Ku playing a key role in the narrative, was further enhanced since the late 1980s by the addition of more commemorative objects. First, iylsa, “shrine of heroism,” was opened on the grounds in 1989/1990. Inside are enshrined the portraits of seven martyrs including Kim. Also, in 1995, a bronze statue of Yi Pong-ch’ang was erected adjacent to the park’s surrounding wall. Yi, who was a member of Kim Ku’s Hanin aeguktan, is depicted in a pose of throwing a grenade during his 1932 assassination attempt on the Japanese Emperor in Tokyo (Figure 4.9). A related inscription on a plaque opens with the following lines: The nationalist soul [minjok hon] and the spirit of independence [tongnip chngsin] of the eminent martyr Yi Pong-ch’ang – who sacrificed himself for the cause of the independence of the fatherland at a time when the country was occupied by imperial Japan – burns forever in the heart of the nation [kyre].

Figure 4.9 Yi Pong-ch’ang statue adjacent to Hyoch’ang Park, Seoul

This message along with the other commemorative objects in Hyoch’ang Park related to the colonial period, demonstrate the act of overcoming the colonial past. The nature of this act is a creation of a continuous

222

heroic past, and this should be understood, I believe, within the context of the way the site’s pre-1945 history is represented. Originally, the place was a cemetery during the late Chosn dynasty and was called Hyoch’ang wn (Hyoch’ang Garden). Later, as explained on the official website of the new Kim Ku memorial hall, the scenic park began to fall into ruin when “illegally invading Japanese army units” were stationed there on the eve of the 1894 war with China. During the colonial period, in 1924, the Japanese turned the place into Hyoch’ang kongwn (Hyoch’ang Park), and on the eve of their defeat, in March 1945, they moved the Chosn dynasty graves to a different location. In the words that appear on the Paekpm kinymgwan website, “This was practically the end of Hyoch’ang Garden as a glorious royal mausoleum.” Thus, “During the Japanese occupation,” according to a different official source – a tourist guide for Yongsan-gu, the district in Seoul where the park is located – “the name was changed to Hyochang Park in an attempt by the Japanese to destroy historical relics by amending park laws” (Yongsan Tourist Information 2001, 21). This approach – namely, that colonial authorities did everything in their power to annihilate Korean historical treasures, and that only the Japanese were involved in this policy – has become common in South Korea. 19 Accordingly, Hyoch’ang Park, by later transforming it into a memorial site for both Korean patriots from the colonial period and for patriotism, amends its colonial past by purifying itself and reemerging as a symbol of pride and dignity. Already in 1945 such an act was done, perhaps in a very spontaneous manner, when “the tombs of the three martyrs” were placed at the spot where the grave of the child Crown Prince Munhyo (1782–1786) had formerly been located before the Japanese moved it several months earlier. Moreover, in June 1989, forty years after the murder of Kim Ku, Hyoch’ang Park was designated as Historic Site No. 330. More than signifying national rebirth, this designation of the park is an act of maintaining continuity, and the latest addition that buttresses this message is Paekpm kinymgwan, “Paekpm memorial hall,” or Kim Koo Museum and Library as the curators have named it in English. Initially, a first and modest memorial hall for Kim, measuring about 110 square meters of exhibition floor, was opened in October 1991. 19

For a critique on this approach, see Pai (2001).

223

Later, in the mid-1990s, the Association of Commemorative Services for Patriot Kim Ku (set up already in 1949), which managed the place, began collecting funds for the construction of a new hall. The new Paekpm kinymgwan was finally opened in October 2002 not far from where the older hall had stood. The modern styled building has nearly 6,700 square meters of floor space of which about 1,700 square meters, divided between two floors, are dedicated to the exhibitions. The building also contains convention and conference halls, research rooms, a restaurant, and a souvenir shop. It was built just outside Hyoch’ang Park, overlooking Hyoch’ang Stadium, thus together with the park and with the bronze statue of Yi Pong-ch’ang, a landscape that conveys a powerful heroic and patriotic image is constructed. Upon entering the Paekpm kinymgwan, the first dominant object that faces the visitor is a huge white statue of Kim Ku sitting on a chair (Figure 4.10). It is the only object present at the entrance hall, and thus it allows the visitors to be completely focused on this imposing image of the national hero and to be prepared to learn more about him in the exhibition halls. Through texts, photographs, video films, maps, models, and artifacts, the well-invested exhibitions unfold Kim’s biography from birth until his assassination. The narrative opens with a history in a nutshell of Kim and contemporaneous events. This creates an organized timeframe, which enables the visitor to make sense of the rich information that follows. The detailed information starts with the uniqueness of Kim the boy. Through animated films and comics he is described as a clever, naughty, and resourceful child. It is said that at the age of 12 he wanted to pass the state examinations and transcend his low social status to become an official, but he abandoned this desire because the “corrupted trafficking of official posts” disappointed him. This competent child then grew to become a relentless activist for the cause of Korean independence, and the narrative specifies his diverse forms of action. The dual image of Kim, in accordance with the Confucian “snbi [virtuous man] spirit,” as both an intellectual and an activist dedicated to the welfare of his compatriots is apparent throughout the exhibitions. Even in prison, as one text explains, he “awakened patriotism” among fellow prisoners. The following statement, taken from a recent publication of the Paekpm kinymgwan, is important with regard to Kim’s dual image:

224

In keeping the root of [his] pluralistic, middle-stratum, comprehensive thought, Paekpm did not become agitated and did not lose his benign smile even during the storm and the raging waves that lasted a period of fifty-years (Paekpm kinymgwan 2002, 30).

Accordingly, the most commonly represented photograph of Kim in various types of publications is the one of his benevolent smiling face. This image overcomes the possible notion of him being solely a fierce nationalist.

Figure 4.10 Kim Ku’s sitting statue. Paekpm kinymgwan (Kim Koo Museum and Library), Seoul

It would be a mistake, however, to conclude that his role as military leader is overshadowed. To begin with, the narrative conveys the image that Kim Ku’s spirit of resistance – the one he had also passed to his fellow activists and to his subordinates – runs in the blood of his family. One text, for example, which was selected from his diary, tells us that his mother received some money that was collected for her birthday. Instead of buying something for herself, she bought a pistol and gave it to Kim and his friends so they would kill Japanese with it. Central to Kim’s military image is the role of the Hanin aeguktan, which he had organized in China in 1931, and which produced noted patriots such as Yun Pong-gil, and Yi Pong-ch’ang. The text explains 225

that Kim reorganized the Korean Provisional Government and without an army, this government chose the “heroic struggle” (iyl t’ujaeng) to be the “best method of anti-Japanese struggle” (Paekpm kinymgwan 2002, 48). In similar vein, at a different site – the Independence War Hall, the fifth exhibition hall of the Independence Hall – there is a representation of the Hanin aeguktan and a related text specifies that it “was the most famous resistance group in the 1930s.” This image is a straightforward challenge to the official narrative of the sister from the north. In North Korea, the guerilla struggle of Kim Il Sung in Manchuria during the 1930s is the most revered form of anti-Japanese resistance; hence the narrative of Kim Ku and his martyrs is the South’s answer for that same period. Furthermore, much space is dedicated in the Paekpm kinymgwan to Kim Ku’s role in training young soldiers, to the setting up of the Korean Independence Army, and to the role of this Army in the antiJapanese war on the eve of Japan’s surrender. The following song that is exhibited constitutes part of this narrative and supplies it with the required emotional layer. It is called T’kchn yongsa i norae, “Song of the special brave soldiers”: Whether rain is falling or snow dropping, or a strong wind violently blowing, a will that is strong as a rock is our spirit. The coming special brave soldiers hold up righteous guns and swords, and advance ahead to retake the fatherland [choguk kangsan]. The roaring of guns shake the earth, and the enemy comes pouring in; blood flows in a fight to the end. Going over the mountains and crossing the sea, treading on the soil of the fatherland, in those days the enemy was driven away, and the t’aeguk flag raised up high.

The last exhibition at the Paekpm kinymgwan relates to Kim Ku’s post-liberation activity. Emphasized here is his strong objection to foreign trusteeship, to the division of Korea, and to the separate presidential elections that were held in the southern part in May 1948 in which Syngman Rhee was elected. There is also a very explicit villain in this narrative: the United States Military Government that ignored Kim’s

226

efforts to keep the peninsula united.20 Moreover, the United States is also blamed in relation to Kim’s assassination. A text states that President Syngman Rhee’s regime, with the indirect support of the United States Military Government, was behind the assassination. In comparison, a booklet by the Independence Hall – a site that represents the mainstream national narrative – simply states, “On June 26, 1949, [Kim Ku] met with an assassin’s bullets and died as a martyr for the country” (Tongnip kinymgwan 2001, 99).21 This comparison shows that under today’s democratic system, the Association of Commemorative Services for Patriot Kim Ku, which manages Kim Ku’s memorial hall, is able to present an alternative narrative to that of the official line. Moreover, it criticizes the United States. It should be noticed in this regard that this hall was opened in October 2002, four months after an American armored vehicle had run over two 14-year old South Korean girls in ijngbu, north of Seoul – an incident that stirred South Korean public and evoked large scale antiAmerican demonstrations. This anti-American sentiment and critique in the background was not a new phenomenon. During the 1980s, following the May 1980 Kwangju uprising, a trend has emerged of criticizing the United States for not preventing the killing in Kwangju and for supporting the authoritarian regime of Chun Doo Hwan (see Kim Jinwung 1994). In this context, the post-1987 memorial halls for Kim Ku are also manifestations of alternative voices from the pre-democratic era. The artifacts that comprise the representation of the murder at the Paekpm kinymgwan include, among others, a replica of a window with two bullet holes, a variety of Kim’s personal belongings, a photograph that focuses on the crying face of an old woman, Kim’s bloodstained clothes, and a ted mask’ – a death mask. This representation enhances a tragic image of a righteous hero who fought for lofty ideals but died at the hands of adversaries who were motivated by political and personal interests. Accordingly, Kimsoft.com – a South Korean-run website (no longer available online at the time of this writing) – wrote about Kim’s exhibited bloodstained clothes, “This robe 20

21

Prior to May 1948, Kim Ku, together with other like-minded activists, was engaged in dialogues with leaders from the north in an attempt to prevent the official division of the peninsula that separate elections would create. This booklet presents all the seventy monuments with sayings by patriots engraved on them, which are scattered over the Hall’s grounds.

227

is as sacred as the robe Jesus wore at the time of his crucifixion. Kim Gu [Kim Ku] shed his blood for Korea and the Korean people.” As it is apparent from the analysis of the tangible history of Kim Ku, personal and political interests did not vanish after his death. Instead, they continued to dictate how Kim was to be remembered. He was ignored during Rhee’s presidency, first, because he was a personal political rival to the president as well as to his regime which was filled with former Korean collaborators; and, second, because Kim’s anti-trusteeship position was a taboo since it was North Korea’s official policy at the time. His positions, then, stood in sharp contrast to the interests of America and Rhee during the 1945–1948 period and to the extreme anticommunism propagated by both Rhee and Park Chung Hee. Later, receiving some treatment during the latter half of Park’s term, and blooming since the end of the 1980s, Kim Ku’s memory has evolved to become an important and legitimate facet of contemporary colonial memory.

Conclusion: Politics of Post-colonial Filial Piety In February 2004, Seoul City officials announced that the nineteen-meter high statue of Admiral Yi Sun-sin, the hero who fought the sixteenth century Japanese invasions, would be moved to a nearby park by the spring of 2005. As the Korea Times reported online on February 16, this was a result of a facelift that was planned to take place in Sejong-no, the sixteen-lane road located in central Seoul. Yi’s statue was erected in 1968 and has since stood there dominating the Sejong-no – Chong-no intersection, one of the capital’s busiest traffic arteries. The construction of this monument was part of the national historiography promoted at the time by President Park Chung Hee. The figure of Admiral Yi was central in this heroic narrative, and Park even portrayed himself “as a latetwentieth-century Admiral Yi, one who saved the nation from Communist threat and an unfavorable international situation” (Shin 1998, 154). The idea of uprooting Yi’s statue from the public center it has dominated sparked a public debate, and the relocation plan was finally 228

abolished. Later, in December 2006 Seoul Metropolitan Government announced a plan to construct a 500 meter-long and 27 meter-wide public area called Kwanghwamun Plaza, which will serve, among others, as an historical national landmark (Seoul Metropolitan Government website). Discussions were held and surveys taken to decide whether Yi’s statue should stand alone in the place, or should a statue of King Sejong be situated beside it. Some even proposed erecting additional statues. For example, Patriot An Chung-gn Memorial Hall suggested that An Chung-gn’s statue would be brought to the plaza from its present location in Harbin, China. As the Korea Times reported in its article “Gwanghwamun Plaza to Have Statue of Seated King Sejong,” city officials responded to these suggestions by saying that “too many statues close to each other might create a mess and the significance of each statue might be lost” (Korea Times, February 2, 2009, online). In August 2008 President Lee Myung-bak, whose term began in February and whose popularity was already plunging, announced a plan to build a modern history museum in the area. He declared: I have respect for the greatness of all Korean people who have created a history of miracles by achieving modernization and democratization unprecedented in the world in the short period of 60 years. We must make sure that our descendants learn about that history and feel pride in their nation […] The founding of the republic would have been impossible without liberation [from Japanese occupation] and liberation without national founding would have been meaningless. We all should be one at a time when we are marking the 60th anniversary of the founding of the republic.

The aim, he added, was “to make the next six decades an [sic] prouder period. If we are disunited at this time, the next 60 years will inevitably be darker than the past 60 successful years” (Chosun Ilbo, August 5, 2008, online). In January 2009, the Metropolitan Government announced the decision of having both statues of Yi and Sejong stand there, with Sejong’s statue designed to be of the same size and height to Yi’s. Also, it announced the opening of an online discussion at its website “to collect public opinion on the statues” (Korea Times, February 2, 2009, online). Thus, the debates, rhetoric, and decisions regarding Yi Sun-sin’s statue and its surroundings demonstrate the contested terrain pertaining to the selection of national heroes as tangible history expresses them.

229

From an historical viewpoint, initially, during the presidency of Syngman Rhee (1948–1960), whose police and bureaucracy were dominated by Koreans who had formerly worked with the colonial authorities, patriots from the colonial period were undesired reminders of a problematic past. Moreover, Rhee’s colonial and post-colonial personal experience was imbued with personal and political schisms and rivalries with figures such as An Ch’ang-ho and Kim Ku. It seems that by having his own statues erected (in T’apkol and Namsan Parks) Rhee believed that forgetting these figures, while elevating his own image at the same time, would be easier. Later, during the presidency of Park Chung Hee, more leeway was allowed for constructing colonial memory, and figures from the colonial period were anchored as revered patriots within this memory. Already in 1962, less than ten months after the military coup that had brought Park to power, selected independence fighters from the colonial period began receiving from the government, even posthumously, the National Foundation Medal of Merit of the Republic of Korea. Among the recipients of this decoration that year were An Chung-gn, Yun Ponggil, Ryu Kwan-sun, and An Ch’ang-ho. Furthermore, in the late 1960s and early 1970s colonial-period activists were commemorated by statues, memorial halls (for Ryu Kwansun and An Chung-gn), and a park (Tosan Park) in a process that paralleled Park’s shift to a tougher authoritarian rule. During that time several factors – including the strengthening of political opposition, economic slowdown, and America’s move to withdraw forces from South Korea (Eckert et al. 1990, 363–365) – had mounted to create a sense of insecurity for Park. Against this backdrop, he appropriated, although in a relatively limited manner, the memory of popular colonial-period patriots. This act intended to induce cohesiveness through patriotism at a time of growing crisis, and it was carefully controlled so that the president’s personal troubled colonial past would not surface. In 1972, Park declared martial law, and introduced the infamous Yusin Constitution that “transformed the presidency into a legal dictatorship” (Eckert et al. 1990, 365). At that time, the Saemal Undong (New Village Movement) was in process, and under this context patriot Yun Ponggil and his activity with the farmers were included in the campaign in various ways.

230

In the post-Park era, under the dictatorship of Chun Doo Hwan (1980–1988), colonial memory was advanced because Chun, who had no colonial stain in his past, capitalized on the anti-Japanese sentiment that erupted following the 1982 textbook controversy with Japan. It was an opportunity for him to improve his public image, and in fact, it was an opportunity to create legitimacy for a regime that lacked any whatsoever. Most of the energy in this regard was directed toward the construction of the Independence Hall – an unprecedented commemorative event on a national-scale – and the blooming of a tangible history that was related to selected patriots came after the shift to democracy in 1987. With more freedom provided to them since the late 1980s, various associations for the commemoration of specific activists have managed to build monuments and halls for their heroes. As it becomes apparent from the analysis in this chapter, there are clear differences in the way each patriot has been tangibly remembered. Ryu Kwan-sun was not a problematic figure. Thus, her memory can be traced from the early 1950s when books and films were dedicated to her, and she continues to be venerated until the present day. Two other activists, An Chung-gn and Yun Pong-gil, received attention during the Park era (although in a rare act, a statue of An was built on the eve of Rhee’s downfall) and their memory was relatively elevated as part of introducing colonial history in a limited dose. In comparison, since the 1960s, Ryu, An, and Yun were three patriots who have appeared frequently in school textbooks as well. These textbooks, according to Kim Hyn-sn’s analysis, have advanced two types of “great men”: the army general and the (colonial period) independence activist (2002, 185). Kim’s findings point to a decline in the place dedicated in the textbooks to the former type, while a rise in the place dedicated to the latter since the late 1970s (2002, 195, 201). A fourth patriot presented in this chapter, An Ch’ang-ho, was a veteran diversified activist whose role in the independence movement demanded an open and comprehensive discussion, which was not encouraged by the post-colonial governments. Nevertheless, he did receive some attention during the Park era at a time when colonial memory was advanced in a controlled manner in the early 1970s. The most problematic figure as far as the 1948–1987 governments were concerned was Kim Ku. Firstly, he was a political rival to the first president. Secondly, there was an unresolved tension between his many 231

activities for Korean independence and the circumstances of his death. An attempt to resolve this tension would have resulted in a surge of colonial memory at times when such memory was preferred to be kept limited. It could have resulted in blaming the state for being involved in the murder of a patriot. Lastly, for many years after his death, his positions against division, foreign trusteeship, separate elections, and American policy in Korea between the years 1945–1948, were still a problem for the regimes that sought the friendship of the United States. Those regimes were reluctant to advance knowledge about such positions, as the Northern rival, too, held these positions at the time. Discussions about his biography, and rumors surrounding his assassination were thus better left alone. Accordingly, the claim at Kim Ku’s memorial hall of possible American involvement in the 1949 assassination of Kim, exemplifies the openness related to criticism of the United States. During the 1980s, such critique was linked to anti-government critique as the United States was accused for supporting the authoritarian regime. Thus, the post-1987 Kim Ku memorial halls are manifestations of alternative voices during the pre-democratic era. They were alternative then, firstly because the desire to commemorate Kim was politically problematic from the government’s standpoint, and secondly because of the linkage between the anti-American critique and the anti-government critique. And after the transformation to democracy in 1987, the anti-American critique has still not been encouraged by the government even during times of tension between the two countries. The result of the trends outlined above, is a present-day landscape that is dominated by figures from the colonial period and a conspicuously emotional language of patriotism. In this regard, Eyal Naveh reminds us that in a humanist-liberal culture and a democratic system, it is not death that makes a hero of a killed leader. Instead, “the totality of his career, ideas and goals, which has been further noticed following his tragic death, has magnified his image and made his legacy a part of the values of the collective” (2000, 125). Naveh writes, The killed leader is thus linked to the basic religious model in which the suffering and dead hero, by the exposure of his life and achievements before the public, advances salvation and leads society to a better moral situation (2000, 125–126).

232

Indeed, pre-1987 South Korea was not a democratic system as it was ruled by an authoritarian regime. Nevertheless, South Korea was not an ultra-nationalist society in which a different pattern of the martyr-hero image prevails: a society where death is sanctified as a value. 22 Accordingly, in face of an ongoing rivalry with North Korea, selected patriots and patriotic texts have been employed to ensure cohesiveness. Before 1987, this also played an important part in the regime’s attempt to secure legitimacy for itself. Since the shift to democracy, it has gradually become less crucial to link national heroes to a specific government or head of state. Thus, related monuments and halls that have mushroomed are an expression of the inclusion of colonial memory into historical memory by both national-official and popular forces. As for the way patriots are represented and patriotism advanced, the present-day South Korean passionate language of patriotism bears some resemblance to the rhetoric of the early twentieth century. In 1905, Min Yng-hwan, a high government official, committed suicide after his protest about the Protectorate Treaty with Japan had no effect. Newspapers at the time praised Min as a patriot, his act as a sacrifice for the nation, and his spirit as still being alive (Schmid 2002, 143–146). It was part of the emerging notion regarding the soul or the spirit of the nation. This is a notion dominant in post-colonial South Korea as well and one that draws its strength from a traditional belief system. “Ideally,” write Janelli and Janelli, “every Korean family exists forever. With each succeeding generation, its headship passes from father to his eldest son” (1982, 29). Through the tangible representation and commemoration of the patriots, and the spiritual/religious components embedded in these acts, the South Korean state presents itself as performing the duty of the eldest son who ensures the continuity of the nation. This is a way to unify patriots who are best known for their involvement in one event with patriots whose activities were more complicated and that took place over a longer period of time. More importantly, it is a way to undermine the legitimacy of North Korea. Finally, the commemorated patriots are commonly portrayed as martyrs in a religious sense. Tangible history sanctifies their death, and the fact that many of them were Christians, a fact often highlighted in the representations, enhances the image of martyrdom. The foreign religion, 22

On the two patterns of the martyr-hero image, see Naveh (2000, 123–126).

233

with the bloody history of persecutions of Catholics in pre-modern Korea, with its anti-colonial nationalist image, and with the popularity it has been enjoying in post-liberation South Korea, is thus embraced as an important facet in the patriotic narrative. Death as a value, however, is not sanctified. Although the language of patriotism is highly emotional and imbued with religious and spiritual images, contemporary conditions do not require citizens to become martyrs. Instead, South Koreans are encouraged to be patriots according to the concept that links patriotism to civic virtue. With the conflict on the peninsula still not resolved and the position vis-à-vis Japan still not secured, the highly emotional tone of the language of patriotism remains a preferable means to advance this concept by both the state and the private associations that construct monuments to the colonial period.

234

Conclusion: Tangible History in South Korea – Its Features and Politics

The main concern of the present study was to analyze South Korea’s tangible history in order to trace shifts in the way the country has officially chosen to remember its colonial past. In this study, tangible history has been perceived as a narrative told by a selection of popular memorial sites, the combination of which forms a significant part of the country’s commemorative landscape. The South Korean commemorative landscape is built on the blend of concepts and forms that originated in the West, with particular local historical and cultural elements. The modern ideas concerning what a “nation” is, and why and how this “nation” should and can be tangibly expressed, are all manifested in the existence of such landscape. Also, this landscape employs artistic and stylistic designs that are conspicuously influenced by, and adopted from, the memorial halls, cemeteries, statues, and monuments that are to be found in Europe and America and that have their roots going back to the nineteenth century. Into this cast, native Korean elements have been poured, while also adding unique stylistic designs, in a process that has been determined by the interests of various political and social agents under changing sociopolitical conditions. At a rough estimate, a total of five million people a year visit the sites explored here, hence the public has been highly exposed to its national history. Furthermore, with languages other than Korean still relatively scarce in most of these sites, it is clear who the main target audience is. As in South Korea the colonial period is commonly called “the occupation period,” the term signifies how the period is perceived there. Accordingly, the historical narrative constitutes, among other things, a basis for evaluating the anti-colonial resistance capability of the Koreans. Basically, the narrative revolves around several central themes: life under colonial rule, the brutality of the Japanese occupier, and the issue of collaboration. Tangible history portrays a narrative of continuous suffering, hardships, and humiliation. The texts often use terms such

235

as “exploitation” and “plunder,” and the exhibitions show photographs of poor and suffering Koreans. The texts emphasize that the Korean colony benefited the colonizing country only and that Koreans did not profit at all from the changes Japan introduced throughout the period. Through such narrative, tangible history establishes an approach which has to contend with other historical approaches. In Japan, for instance, among the diversified body of related research that exists there, there is an approach that stresses how the colony had benefited from the modernization introduced by the colonizer. In addition, both foreign and Korean scholars are engaged in research that seeks to unveil the complexities and gray areas of colonial life. Such approaches pose a challenge to the traditional national narrative which creates a dichotomy between the exploiting occupier and the exploited occupied people. Tangible history, then, attempts to overcome challenging approaches through its strength in conveying vivid visual images and messages. In this context, the depiction of the Japanese occupier’s brutality plays a key role. The Japanese are presented as perpetrators of inhumane crimes, and photographs of executions and of mutilated Koreans are prevalent at the sites. Also, the exhibitions display instruments for inflicting pain and tableaus of dummies that recreate horrific scenes of torture. The screams of the tormented Koreans, together with their cries for independence, are heard through loudspeakers. Some scenes show Koreans demonstrating while waving their bare hands – an image which underscores both Korean determination and the brutality of the Japanese who employed harsh measures against non-violent demonstrators. One especially problematic historical issue that tangible history attempts to overshadow is the issue of collaboration with colonial authorities. Since the establishment of South Korea in 1948, this issue has been perceived as a problematic past because the administration and the police of the first government were based, in no small measure, on Koreans who had formerly served colonial authorities. Moreover, President Park Chung Hee, who headed the country later, had served in the Japanese Army in the 1940s. The South Korean state has thus been tainted by a stain that could threaten its legitimacy from the point of view of both its own citizens and of North Korea, which purged collaborators during its incipient stages. To overcome this problem, tangible history employs several techniques. A monument to the memory of South Korean policemen links the police of the first years after 236

independence to the anti-communist struggle during the Korean War. Also, the exhibitions display a clear selection of several traitors; scapegoats by whose ostracism from the Korean nation, all the others are purified. In general, by “forgetting” the collaborators, and by presenting Korean heroes adjacent to the traitors, tangible history overcomes this problematic past. Indeed, the sources of tangible history of the early 2000s are to be found mainly in the 1980s, when President Chun Doo Hwan – who contrary to his predecessors, was not tainted by a problematic colonial past – governed the country. However, tangible history still concealed the issue of collaboration. In great measure, the reason was that during the 1980s, an alternative historiography emerged that viewed the postcolonial authoritarian regimes as illegitimate and as not truly representing the Korean people. This historiography challenged the officialnational narrative as it expanded the scope of collaboration beyond a handful of traitors, and brought to the open the issue of the many collaborators who had served in the post-colonial governments of the South. Later, since the establishment of a democratic government in 1987, the motivation to undermine state legitimacy has waned. The issue of collaboration, however, is still poignant and problematic and surfaces on different occasions. Political opponents, for example, use it in their debates, and incidents such as the “March First crane demonstration” of 2003, too, are manifestations of the political framework under which the issue is being advanced. The depiction of the colonial period as a time when all Koreans suffered and when the Japanese displayed extreme cruelty, thus anchors several images: firstly, the capability of Koreans to resist despite unbearable conditions; secondly, the unique Korean self-identity of “Us” in comparison to the Japanese “Other”; and thirdly, the pure “Us,” devoid of traitors – an image that reinforces the stance of the government domestically, the image of South Korea facing Japan, and the position of the South in the context of the battle over memory with the sister to the north. This depiction rejects narratives suggesting that South Korea was influenced by economic, political, and other colonial legacies, and supports the historical narrative of the spirit of independence that existed before, during, and after the colonial period. Hence, when in a wellpublicized event, the government demolished the former colonial Government-General Building that had dominated the heart of Seoul 237

until 1995, a strong tangible message was sent of overcoming humiliation. This message further bolstered the image of valor and the spirit of anti-colonial struggle. And in this regard, the March First Independence Movement is perceived and treated as the most important manifestation of the anticolonial struggle. It is perceived as a watershed in the sense that it inspired Koreans to rise and resist the oppressor, a result of which was a struggle that took place in various forms. The memorial sites underscore the most fundamental aspects of this movement, as far as the national narrative is concerned. T’apkol Park in Seoul, for example, the spot where the movement commenced, throughout the years has been a site where restoration works, which conveyed messages through tangible history, have taken place. Besides strengthening the notion that the movement erupted in the south of Korea, a crucial message transmitted by a set of bas-reliefs is the image of a popular movement in which people from both sexes and all walks of life participated. This message appears also in other memorial sites through statues, reliefs, photographs, and texts. The concomitant visual impression stresses the non-violent nature of the uprising. Through these two central messages, namely the movement as originating in the South and as the people’s movement in nature, South Korea appropriates this resistance movement in face of the North Korean narrative. Indeed, the North does not appreciate the March First Movement as the South does. It claims that the ill-fated movement lacked a qualified leadership, one that would appear later in the form of the guerrilla fighter Kim Il Sung. The Northern narrative emphasizes, however, that the movement originated in P’yngyang, the current North Korean capital, and that it was a popular resistance movement. Through tangible history, then, South Korea attempts to neutralize its sister’s narrative. One major implication of the movement, as apparent in the memorial sites, is the active and armed struggle that followed. The tangible narrative focuses here on two anti-Japanese demonstrations that erupted in the 1920s and on the armed struggle in Manchuria. One of these large-scale demonstrations happened in Kwangju in 1929, and in 1997 the Kwangju Student Independence Movement Memorial Hall was built there. The fact that Kwangju is a city that views itself as a traditional pro-democratic bastion that has resisted the authoritarian 238

regimes, is of significance: the city’s anti-colonial tradition is linked to post-colonial anti-governmental tradition through related memorial halls and monuments. As for the armed struggle, since North Korean nationalism is centered on Kim Il Sung’s anti-Japanese struggle which is presented as the only legitimate source for a reunited Korea, by appropriating the violent and armed struggle, the South challenges the core of the adversary’s national legitimacy. In this sense we hardly find a difference between the authoritarian regimes and the democratic governments. The Independence Hall, which has been established at the directive of the regime of former Army General Chun, offers an historical narrative that heavily relies on military heroism, while during the 1990s, too, military valor has been promoted through a monumental site such as the War Memorial. Furthermore, tangible colonial history adopts two important techniques in its appropriation of the armed struggle in the context of grounding legitimacy. First, in a common and familiar fashion, it juxtaposes “nationalists” with “communists,” hence directing attention to the commitment of the former to the nation, as compared with the latters commitment to (a foreign) ideology. The second technique is to emphasize the role of the Korean Independence Army which was established in the early 1940s and cooperated with the Allies. South Korea, by presenting itself as successor to the Independence Army, establishes itself as the legitimate heir of the anti-colonial fighting force that allegedly fought at the time in the name of all Koreans. Legitimacy is also reinforced by glorifying the non-violent struggle, a struggle that is termed “cultural nationalism.” Tangible history portrays it as an inseparable part from the overall struggle, thus it overcomes existing alternative narratives claiming that many of the cultural nationalists were collaborators. In addition, tangible history praises the role of the Korean Provisional Government that was established in China shortly after the outbreak of the March First Movement. This government is depicted as the representative political body that oversaw both the armed and diplomatic struggle outside the colony. By anchoring the historical status of the provisional government, South Korea rejects the North’s narrative of depicting this government as weak and corrupt. Moreover, the South presents itself as the successor to this government;

239

namely, as the natural heir of the representative body of colonial-period Koreans. Tangible history of the anti-colonial struggle, which focuses on the March First Movement and its implications, thus constitutes a vital source for establishing South Korea’s stance in face of the North. The fact that since the early 1980s, convenient conditions for accepting colonial memory developed, made it easier for official tangible history to establish cohesiveness between people and state on the basis of predivision history. By centering on the Korean “people,” official tangible history appropriates what was once considered a passive historical player and which later turned into an active protagonist in the alternative historiography that challenged the legitimacy of the post-colonial governments. At the same time, tangible history conveys that the South is the only legitimate representative of all Koreans. Concomitantly, there is a reassuring message that although South-North relations have experienced dramatic shifts since the late 1980s – including practical expressions of rapprochement, which peaked in the historical meetings of the two leaders in 2000 and in 2007 – the familiar ways of life, as they are known in the South, would never be compromised. A leading role that tangible history plays in this regard, is in conveying patriotic messages through highly emotional language and the glorification of selected heroes. Accordingly, I share the view that although “nationalism” and “patriotism” are closely linked, it is possible to distinguish between them on the premise that patriotism is the emotional linchpin of the political and ideological agenda which is at the essence of nationalism. By exploring the language of patriotism, as this language manifests itself in South Korea’s memorial sites, we discover an emotional realm saturated with recurrent images and terminology. The “Korean soul/spirit” is among the most important images. The Korean soul is represented as having existed since ancient times, and despite hardships and predicaments, Koreans have remained unique and unified while the spirit of the nation passes on through their history. The texts stress Koreans’ willingness to sacrifice themselves for the fatherland, and a conspicuous related motif is the image of the nation as a single organic body with an eternal soul. The blood shed by patriots is depicted as an eternal element that nourishes the spirit of the nation. In addition, monuments dedicated to Korean patriotism display familiar cultural, 240

traditional, and religious elements and by this, they transmit the message of homogeneity in which the spirit of struggle and cultural achievements interlock. The emotional rhetoric, the message that in their sacrifice the forefathers protect the soul of the nation, and the centrality of the colonial period – all add up to create the language of patriotism that targets present-day South Koreans. The role of the colonial period as a critical historical link is underscored by the image of the protectors of the nation’s soul passing this spirit on to their descendants through the colonial period. The language of patriotism does not sanctify death as a value. Instead, it encourages South Koreans to be loyal citizens. In a situation where the conflict on the peninsula is still unresolved, and the position vis-à-vis the former colonizer still sensitive, this emotional language serves as a preferable means to enhance civic consciousness. And for supporting the messages of the language of patriotism, national historical narratives resort to specific patriotic heroes as anchors of identification. For example, the National Folk Museum of Korea (Kungnip minsk pakmulgwan) has recently published Munhwa i pitkkaltl: 100 kajiro purnaen urimunhwa i mt – “The Colors of Culture: The Beauty of Korean Culture in 100 Icons.” Among the selected cultural icons here are nine historical figures (ten including Tan’gun), and four among them represent active struggle and heroism: King Kwanggaet’o and Yi Sunsin, who represent military heroism, and An Chung-gn and Ryu Kwansun, who represent “the shout of independence” and “patriotic passion,” respectively (see Kungnip minsok pangmulgwan 2008). In tangible history, the most conspicuous and familiar patriots in the South’s commemorative landscape are those connected with the colonial period. An Chung-gn is depicted as a martyr whose life and death are imbued with spiritual elements drawn from Korea’s rich belief system. An empty grave awaits the time his body will be discovered and brought back to its “natural” soil – that of South Korea. As in An’s case, the image of another patriot, Yun Pong-gil, is shaped according to the familiar form of the Confucian scholar and social leader, and his act, too, is depicted as inspiring the anti-colonial struggle. In similar vein with some of the depictions related to An, also Yun’s death is saturated with Christian motifs. And, finally, the Christian element is also apparent in the case of the woman-patriot, Ryu Kwan-sun – “Korea’s Joan of Arc” who perished in prison at the age of 18, and who is considered the most 241

famous heroine of the March First Movement. Over the years, she has been remembered through films, books, statues, and memorial halls, including a highly invested site that was constructed in 2003. To a large extent, Ryu’s role in the national narrative in general, and in tangible history in particular, is to ground the image of the dominant participation of women in the March First Movement. Interestingly, the religious aspect of South Korea’s tangible history reminds of another country where religion plays a crucial role in forming post-colonial national memories: the Philippines. As Linantud shows, Filipino memories and heritage are steeped in Catholic spirituality. However, Linantud also asserts that this feature demonstrates a difference between the Philippines and South Korea with regard to the establishment of heritage (2008). 1 Indeed, the cultural and historical legacy of the Philippines is different. In particular, contrary to Korea, the Philippines was under colonial rule for centuries and was occupied by Japan for only three years (1942–1945). Nevertheless, based on the findings of this book, it appears that the birth of the two Koreas from the colonial period, together with the place of Christianity in post-colonial South Korean society, were influential factors in forming a national tangible history in South Korea that is definitely imbibed with a variety of familiar religious and spiritual elements. Two more prominent patriots in the commemorative landscape are An Ch’ang-ho and Kim Ku. Both represent a richer aspect of nationalist activity spanning a longer time in comparison with the patriots mentioned before. They were active during the colonial period in various ways, including serving in the provisional government, establishing political organizations, educating, and in some measure, being active in the armed struggle. The major difference between them, with relation to commemoration, is that An had a park dedicated to him in the early 1970s (and in 1998 a memorial hall was built there), while a modest museum for Kim was built only in 1991 and a large museum opened only in 2002. The ways in which these five patriots have been commemorated, mirror how South Korean governments have dealt with the colonial period. Under President Syngman Rhee, colonial memory was still very 1

242

The problem with Linantud’s analysis is that it focuses on only one type of memorials – on war memorials.

much fresh and the president displayed animosity in his diplomatic engagements with Japan (see Lee 1985, 23–42). However, despite these anti-Japanese sentiments, Rhee did not initiate significant projects aimed at narrating the colonial past. At that time, tangible history of the colonial period was scant because the colonial past was problematic: not only was Rhee’s administration filled with former collaborators, but, also, figures such as An Ch’ang-ho and Kim Ku were the president’s former political rivals. During the rule of President Park in the 1960s and 70s, the colonial past was still problematic due to the president’s personal history. Therefore, it was not the colonial period that was the focal point of tangible history, but a much older past. The explanation for this trend lies within the political circumstances of that time, and three factors should be considered in this regard. 2 First, Park assumed power after conducting a military coup. Second, in the early 1960s, Park was negotiating a controversial normalization treaty with Japan, signed in 1965. Lastly, in 1972, following domestic and international developments, Park enforced the Yusin Constitution that “transformed the presidency into a legal dictatorship” (Eckert et al. 1990, 365).3 Within this context, national history became instrumental in earning popular support for, and legitimizing, the oft-contested regime, and it was the history of the ancient Silla Kingdom and dynasty (37 BCE–935 CE) that was advanced. The reason for promoting Silla history was twofold. First, in 668 Silla defeated Kogury, which was the ancient northern kingdom from which North Korea claims its own legitimacy, and it united the peninsula for the first time in Korean history. Secondly, Silla had originated from today’s southeastern Kyngsang region, the home of Park Chung Hee and his power base (Schmid 1997, 41). Presenting the regime as the descendent of Silla, the unifier of the “Korean people,” provided a narrative of heroism and legitimacy that served both domestic and 2 3

I draw here from Schmid (1997, 41). Combined domestic and international factors led to the declaration of the Yusin Constitution. Domestic factors include the rise in popular support for the opposition party, economic slowdown, and potential dissent by laborers. International factors were centered on what seemed as “the beginning of the end of the global system of American economic and military hegemony upon which the ROK had been founded and continued to depend” (Eckert et al. 1990, 363–365).

243

peninsular causes. Accordingly, “the state mobilized massive resources” including standardizing textbooks and heavily investing in museums and historical sites in Kyngju, Silla’s old capital (Schmid 1997, 41). One central project in this regard was the construction of new museum facilities and elevating the former “Branch of the National Museum” to the level of Kyngju National Museum in 1975. Parallel to these developments, tangible colonial history, too, received some attention at the time. Under Park, restoration works in T’apkol Park took place, and several engraved stone tablets and monuments were constructed. Most important, during the crisis of the late 1960s and early 1970s, projects to commemorate the patriots An Chung-gn, Yun Pong-gil, Ryu Kwan-sun, and An Ch’ang-ho were advanced. Since the 1980s, a major development has taken place regarding tangible history of patriots from the colonial period. Not only was there a rise in efforts to commemorate patriots who had already received attention earlier, but even the most problematic figure, Kim Ku, had a large museum built in his memory. Kim’s commemoration is significant because he posed a problem for post-colonial regimes, and his murder was probably committed at the directive of President Rhee. To deal with the tension created by Kim’s contribution to the anti-colonial struggle, on the one hand, and the circumstances of his death on the other, meant placing colonial memory on the front stage at times when this was inconvenient. Moreover, Kim’s position against the division of Korea and his criticism of American policy in Korea following the division, were a problem for the South Korean governments. Accordingly, texts in the museum for Kim Ku, which criticize President Rhee and America’s involvement in Kim’s assassination, signify the rise of an alternative tangible history made possible thanks to the consolidation of democracy in the South. Furthermore, tangible history’s “statement” in this context is explicit and meaningful. While an impressive museum and memorial hall for Kim now stands in Seoul, the two statues that President Rhee had erected for himself at T’apkol and Namsan Parks were brought down by the demonstrators of April 19, 1960. Both statues spent years at a junkyard before a former official in the Rhee administration collected them in the late 1960s. They now lie rusting and forgotten in a private backyard, with the Namsan statue having only its head left. In a Chosun Ilbo editorial titled “Watching the Rusting Statues of Syngman Rhee,” the 244

writer asserts that those who oppose Rhee are Leftists whose claims are those of people “who are on the same side as North Korea.” He laments over the present condition, writing that the face and body of the statue of Rhee are “rusting away miserably in someone’s backyard, amid a clutter of pots, barbed wire and branches,” (Chosun Ilbo, March 28, 2008, online). In a symbolic comparison, Kim Ku is now the one who is proudly overlooking the capital city from his Hyochang Park edifice. In light of the above, the debates surrounding the statue of Yi Sunsin, too, epitomize trends and contentions related to the selection of national heroes. Removing the statue, that was erected under President Park, from the heart of the capital, would have significantly transformed the urban commemorative landscape. At the same time, patriots from the colonial period are receiving growing attention in tangible history. In the face of North Korea, the spiritual and religious elements that are imbued in the depiction of these patriots reinforce the role of the South as the elder-legitimate son, the one who according to Confucian thought is responsible to honor and cherish the memory of the forefathers. How can we explain the shift that occurred in the 1980s with regard to commemorating the colonial period? The answer probably lies in South Korea’s reaction to the “textbook controversy” with Japan in 1982. When the controversy broke out, South Korea was ruled by Chun Doo Hwan who had an acute legitimacy problem, and whom one scholar described as “the most unpopular leader in postwar Korean history” (Cumings 1997, 380). Chun “earned” this title mainly because he had used the army to quell fierce anti-government demonstrations in the city of Kwangju in May 1980, an act which led to the killing of some two hundred civilians. The Kwangju massacre became a landmark in the contemporary history of state-society relations in South Korea, and followed Chun as a dark shadow throughout and after his presidency. At the same time, Chun had no dark colonial past in his biography. He was the first South Korean leader not associated with the colonial period (Cumings 1984, 479), as he was born in 1931 and belonged to a younger generation than that of his predecessors. Chun had no colonial “sleeping dogs” that had to be kept “lying.” Because of this, Chun was easily drawn to capitalize on contemporary anti-Japanese feelings through which he attempted to create legitimacy for his regime. As public passions ran high in reaction to what was perceived as the former colonizer’s attempt to whitewash its problematic past, the regime 245

seized the opportunity to create a united front with civic society. The new political atmosphere was favorable for incorporating the private and popular memory of the colonial period into the collective experience. It was a point of convergence between popular memory – “produced in the course of everyday life,” everyday talk, and in letters, diaries, photograph albums, “held to the level of private remembrance” and “not offered the occasion to speak” (Popular Memory Group 1982, 210–211) – with official-national memory. The time for colonial memory to be perceived mainly as a humiliating experience, and to be considered by governments as a problematic past, has passed. Now, as popular and official memories converge, the colonial experience has been internalized. 4 Since South Korea was governed for decades by authoritarian regimes, this process points to the limitations that official dominant narratives may have in terms of their effort to dictate and fully control historical memory on all levels. Furthermore, under the general context of state-society relations in South Korea during those authoritarian regimes – relations that witnessed anti-government activities and the existence of non-official, subversive, and/or alternative ideologies and historiographies – this process may be seen as indicating the existence of yet one more contemporaneous alternative current. More than anything else, colonial memory in its new trend has been internalized as a memory of a struggle that constitutes a link in a long and continuous history of heroism. The first practical implication, as far as tangible history was concerned, was the well-publicized fund-raising campaign for building Independence Hall – a monumental museum and memorial site, one of the largest of its kind in the world. It is dedicated to the colonial period and was opened in 1987. Following this project, more memorial sites for the colonial period have mushroomed, signifying the further anchoring of the recollections of the colonial period in South Korea’s historical memory. Important comparisons should be made at this point between South Korea and two other countries: Singapore and Taiwan. In Singapore a shift occurred during the 1990s, as only then the state began to actively incorporate the war into national history (Muzaini and Yeoh 2005, 4–5; 4

246

I derive this model, which explains a shift in the form of collectively remembering a problematic past as a result of such convergence, from Anita Shapira’s treatment of Holocaust memory in Israel. See Shapira (1996–1997).

Muzaini 2006, 214–215). It was a time when a heritage movement grew strong, thus “in contrast to the earlier silence around heritage, the state had finally begun to engage ‘history’ and ‘heritage’ as the catchphrases of the day” (Muzaini 2006, 214). Accordingly, out of the intent to anchor the memory of the war, the state initiated various and numerous acts of commemoration, including the construction of memorials (Muzaini and Yeoh 2005, 5; Muzaini 2006, 214). To be sure, the state’s efforts were controversial. Among local citizens, some, first, felt that too much emphasis was given to commemorate the foreign soldiers; second, had different ideas on what “locally-Singaporean” was; third, felt being left out of the process; and fourth, felt that the state was promoting other agendas (Muzaini 2006, 221). Thus, in both Singapore and South Korea, tangible history of the time of Japanese occupation has been both contentious and dynamic. Of course, the differences in cultural and historical legacies, in socio-political post-colonial development, and in geopolitical conditions, have dictated the differences between the features of tangible history of the two countries. With regard to the case of Taiwan, which, like Korea, was under Japanese colonial rule for a relatively long period of time (1895–1945), both similarities and differences exist as compared with South Korea. In Taiwan, too, the transition to democracy affected the process of identity formation since the late 1980s. As Chen explains: “After the lifting of martial law [in 1987], the long repressed resistant identity has emerged and expressed in various forms.” Taiwan has experienced a rapid development of local museums, which became sites “where memories and history have a conversation, and different cultural identities are taking form and transforming” (2003, 257). Also, in Taiwan too national identity formation was influenced by the issue of legitimacy in the international arena. And finally, as Chen contends, Japanese colonialism is represented in Taiwan’s museums to the extent that “the influence and legacy of Japan […] constitute an integral part of the construction of Taiwanese identity” (2003, 77) – a condition that bears resemblance to a central feature of South Korean tangible history. However, two important differences between Taiwan and South Korea exist as well. In Taiwan, following the change in government in 2000, as Wang notes, the official narrative shifted from representing Taiwan as the true representative of traditional Chinese culture, to a “new mosaic model of multiculturalism” where “aboriginal cultures, 247

along with the once disgraced imprints of Japanese colonialism […] are now preserved and promoted to a ‘national status to represent Taiwanese culture” (2004, 806). In contrast to Taiwan, the structure of South Korean society is not ethnically complicated, thus related multiculturalism is not an issue in its formation of national identity. A second difference lies in the fact that anti-Japanese sentiments are more clearly manifested in South Korean national, tangible, and popular histories, than they are in Taiwan. Indeed, as Wang asserts, many of Taiwans mainlanders view Japan as “their biggest common enemy and almost exclusively the defining ‘Other of the Chinese nation” (2004, 796). Yet at the same time, positive evaluations of the Japanese colonialism are not rare in historical and popular accounts (Chen 2003, 97, 136–137), and, as Chen shows (2003, 97), Japanese architecture is not missing from Taiwanese tangible history. To add to the complexity of the Taiwanese case, one must also bear in mind the relations between the native Han Chinese who have been living in Taiwan for centuries and have experienced the Japanese colonial rule, and the Han Chinese who came from the mainland after the war. As scholars pointed out (Huang 2003; Chen 2003, 136–137), the postwar suppression of the Taiwanese by the Guomindang government – especially as manifested in the 228 Incident of 1947 when tens of thousands were killed – had a profound influence on shaping the memory of the Japanese colonial rule. For the Taiwanese, as Huang explains, “the earlier colonizers [i.e., Japan] turned out to be a better set [than the postwar Nationalist government]” (2003, 309). Over time, the Taiwanese attitude toward Japan shifted “from nationalist aversion to post-colonial nostalgia” (Huang 2003, 312). As emphasized, in comparison with Taiwan, South Korea is not characterized by a clash of different ethnic groups. With the transition to democratic government in 1987, and throughout the following years, the memory of the anti-colonial struggle thus continued to serve the South in its protracted battle over legitimacy with the North. Through this memory, South Korea continues to reaffirm its stance as the sole legitimate representative of the Korean nation. Accordingly, tangible history of the colonial period is a major source for establishing the South’s position and uniqueness in the face of its two significant “Others,” the Northern regime and Japan, the former colonizer.

248

At the same time, current developments further demonstrate the challenges that face dominant tangible history. For example, in 2007 it was reported that the government was planning to spend 45 million US dollars on a revitalization plan for Independence Hall, which is the flagship of the hegemonic narrative. In order to tackle the problem of declining attendance, the plan is aimed at updating the style and method of the displays at the site, making it especially more attractive for the teenagers who constitute 70 percent of the visitors (Yonhap, August 31, 2007). In addition, entrance fees to the site have been abolished. Finally, concomitant with the consolidation of the democratic system, it is also possible to detect manifestations of alternative tangible history. Cases in point are the broader context and location of the Kwangju Student Independence Movement Memorial Hall, the “Chosun Ilbo old rotary printing press incident” at the Independence Hall, and the criticism of American involvement in the South in the late 1940s as presented in the museum for Kim Ku. Also interesting will be to follow the results of the cooperation and exchanges agreement that the Independence Hall signed with the Korean Revolution Museum in P’yngyang in July 2007. These developments and manifestations will most likely enrich alternative trends that will expand and influence the form of remembering and commemorating the colonial period in South Korea in the future.

249

Bibliography

Brochures and Booklets An Chung-gn isa kinymgwan (brochure). Independence Hall. N.d. Chnan. The Independence Hall of Korea (brochure). Kungnip Taejn Hynch’ungwn. N.d. Minjk i l. Taejn. Maehn Yun Pong-gil isa kinymgwan (brochure). National Daejeon Memorial Board. N.d. Daejeon National Cemetery. Daejeon. National Memorial Board. N.d. Minjok i l (The Spirit of the Nation). Seoul. Sdaemun-gu ch’ng, Sdaemun hyngmuso yksagwan. N.d. Sdaemun hyngmuso yksagwan. Seoul. Sdaemun Prison History Hall. N.d. Seodaemun Prison History Hall. Seoul. T’apkol kongwn (brochure). Tongnip kinymgwan. 2001. Tongnip kinymgwan aeguk si – rk pi. Tongnip kinymgwan. Tongnip kinymgwan. N.d. Tongnip kinymgwan: chnsip’um yorok. Tosan An Ch’ang-ho kinymgwan (brochure). Tosan An Ch’ang-ho snsaeng kinym saphoe. N.d. Tosan An Ch’ngho kinymgwan. Seoul. The War Memorial of Korea. N.d. Seoul. The War Memorial of Korea (brochure). Yongsan Tourist Information. 2001. Seoul: Yongsan District.

251

Newspapers and Magazines Chosn Ilbo. Chosun Ilbo. Online. Donga Ilbo. Online. JoongAng Daily. Online. Korea Herald. Online. Korea Times. Online. Taipei Review. Online. Tongnip kinymgwan. Yonhap. Online.

Websites Independence Hall. http://www.i815.or.kr/EN/Introduce/appl/Introduce_05.php (accessed January 19, 2009). Kimsoft.com. http://www.kimsoft.com/2002/kimgu0210.htm (accessed March 20, 2004). Paekpm kinymgwan. http://www.kimkoomuseum.org/m02exhibition/sub.asp?pagecode= m02s06 (accessed February 19, 2009). Seoul Metropolitan Government. http://english.seoul.go.kr/today/news/newsclip/1239894_3675.html (accessed February 23, 2009). The Seoul National Cemetery. http://www.mnd.go.kr:8088/snc_new/web/eng_snc/m19.html (accessed January 26, 2009). VANK (Voluntary Agency of Korea). http://www.prkorea.com/english/textbook/mainright.html (accessed February 3, 2009).

252

Interview Yang Sng-suk. 2002. Interview by author. Seoul, August 1.

Books, Periodicals, and other Sources An, Pyng-uk. 1983. An Ch’ang-ho: The Man and His Thought. In Main Currents of Korean Thought, ed. The Korean National Commission for UNESCO, 224–246. Seoul and Oregon: Si-sa-yong-o-sa and Pace International Research. Anderson, Benedict. 1991. Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origins and Spread of Nationalism, revised ed. London: Verso. Arendt, Hannah. 1964. Eichmann in Jerusalem: A Report on the Banality of Evil, revised and enlarged ed. New York: The Viking Press. Asian Political News. FindArticles.com. 1998. Japanese Teacher Reminisces about Kim Dae Jung as Pupil. October 12. http://findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_m0WDQ/is_1998_Oct_12/ai_5 3425413/pg_1?tag=content;col1 (accessed February 16, 2009). The Association for Commemorating Martyr Ahn Choong Keun. 2001. Ahn Choong-Keun, The Great Patriotic Martyr of Korea. Seoul: The Memorial Hall of Martyr Ahn Choong-Keun. Atkins, E. Taylor. 2003. Elegies to Resistance: Memorializing Colonialera Korean Folk Culture. Paper prepared for the MCAA Presidential Panel, Illinois State University, October. Baik, Tae-Ung. 2007. Justice Incomplete: The Remedies for the Victims of the Jeju April Third Incident. In Rethinking Historical Injustice and Reconciliation in Northeast Asia: The Korean Experience, ed. Gi-Wook Shin, Soon-Won Park, and Daqing Yang, 94–113. London and New York: Routledge. Baker, Don. 2004a. Personal communication. March 15. --------. 2004b. Hallowed Ground: Surveying the Religious Geography of Korea. Paper presented at Critical Geography of Korea Conference, UCLA, California, May 15.

253

Baldwin, Frank. 1979. Participatory Anti-Imperialism: The 1919 Independence Movement. The Journal of Korean Studies 1: 123– 162. Bar-Tal, Daniel. 1997. The Monopolization of Patriotism. In Patriotism in the Lives of Individuals and Nations, ed. Daniel Bar-Tal and Ervin Staub, 246–270. Chicago: Nelson-Hall Publishers. Barthes, Roland. 1972. Mythologies, trans. Annette Lavers. New York: Hill and Wang. Blackburn, Kevin and Edmund Lim. 1999. The Japanese War Memorials of Singapore: Monuments of Commemoration and Symbols of Japanese Imperial Ideology. South East Asia Research 7(3) (November): 321–340. Breuilly, John. 1993. Nationalism and the State. In Nationality, Patriotism and Nationalism, ed. Roger Michner, 19–48. St. Paul, Minnesota: PWPA. Buzo, Adrian. 1999. The Guerrilla Dynasty: Political Leadership in North Korea. Colorado: Westview Press. --------.2002. The Making of Modern Korea. London and New York: Routledge. Chen, Chia-Li. 2003. Learning, Recollection and Connection: A Study of Culture Identities Amongst Visitors to Local Museums in Taiwan. PhD Dissertation, University of Leicester. Chi, Ho-chin and Yi Hyk. 2003. Aha! Kttaen irn inmuri issgunyo. Korea: Kim Yngsa. Ching, Leo T.S. 2001. Becoming “Japanese”: Colonial Taiwan and the Politics of Identity Formation. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press. Ch’oe, Yng-ho, Peter H. Lee, and Wm. Theodore de Bary, eds. 2000. Sources of Korean Tradition, vol. 2, From the Sixteenth to the Twentieth Centuries. New York: Columbia University Press. Chng, Chae-chng, Ym In-ho, and Chang Kyu-sik. 1996. Sul knhyndaesa kihaeng. Seoul: Sulhak yn’guso. Chng, Un-hyn. 1995. Sul sinae ilche yusan tapsagi. Seoul: Hanul. Chung, Youn-tae. 2002. Refracted Modernity and the Issue of ProJapanese Collaborators in Korea. Korea Journal 42(3) (Autumn): 18–59. Clark, Allen D. and Donald N. Clark. 1969. Seoul: Past and Present. Seoul: Royal Asiatic Society. 254

Clifford, Mark L. 1998. Troubled Tiger: Businessmen, Bureaucrats, and Generals in South Korea, revised ed. Armonk, New York: M. E. Sharpe. Cole, Elizabeth A. and Judy Barsalou. 2006. Unite or Divide? The Challenges of Teaching History in Societies Emerging from Violent Conflict. Washington: United States Institute of Peace, Special Report 163. http://www.usip.org/files/resources/sr163.pdf (accessed July 21, 2010). Covell, Alan Carter. 1986. Folk Art and Magic: Shamanism in Korea. New Jersey and Seoul: Hollym. Covell, Jon Carter. 1982. Korea’s Cultural Roots. New Jersey and Seoul: Hollym. Cumings, Bruce. 1984. The Legacy of Japanese Colonialism. In The Japanese Colonial Empire, 1895–1945, ed. Ramon H. Myers and Mark R. Peattie, 478–496. Princeton: Princeton University Press. --------. 1997. Korea’s Place in the Sun: A Modern History. New York: W.W. Norton and Company. De Ceuster, Koen. 2000. The Changing Nature of National Icons in the Seoul Landscape. The Review of Korean Studies 3(2) (December): 73–103. --------. 2001. The Nation Exorcised: The Historiography of Collaboration in South Korea. Korean Studies 25(2): 207–242. Deuchler, Martina. 1992. The Confucian Transformation of Korea: A Study of Society and Ideology. Cambridge: Council on East Asian Studies, Harvard University Press. Dudden, Alexis. 2008. Troubled Apologies among Japan, Korea, and the United States. New York: Columbia University Press. Duus, Peter. 1995. The Abacus and the Sword: The Japanese Penetration of Korea, 1895–1910. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press. Eckert, Carter J., Ki-baik Lee, Young Ick Lew, Michael Robinson, and Edward W. Wagner. 1990. Korea Old and New: A History. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Em, Henry H. 1999. Minjok as a Modern and Democratic Construct: Sin Ch’aeho’s Historiography. In Colonial Modernity in Korea, ed. GiWook Shin and Michael Robinson, 336–361. Cambridge: Harvard University Asia Center.

255

Ford, Franklin L. 1985. Political Murder: From Tyrannicide to Terrorism. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. Fujitani, Takashi. 1996. Splendid Monarchy: Power and Pageantry in Modern Japan. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press. Gellner, Ernest. 1997. Nationalism. London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson. Gragert, Edwin H. 1994. Landownership under Colonial Rule: Koreas Japanese Experience, 1900–1935. Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press. Grayson, James H. 1997. The Myth of Tan’gun: A Dramatic Structural Analysis of a Korean Foundation Myth. Korea Journal 37(1) (Spring): 35–52. Hahm, Pyong-choon. 1988. Shamanism and the Korean World-view. In Shamanism: The Spirit World of Korea, ed. Chai-shin Yu and Richard Guisso, 60–97. Berkeley, California: Asian Humanities Press. Han, Young-woo. 1985. Kija Worship in the Kory and Early Yi Dynasties: A Cultural Symbol in the Relationship between Korea and China. In The Rise of Neo-Confucianism in Korea, ed. Wm. Theodore de Bary and JaHyun Kim Haboush, 349–374. New York: Columbia University Press. Han’guk minjok undongsa yn’gu hoe, ed. 1998. Han’guk minjok undongsa i saeroun panghyang. Seoul: Kukhak charyo wn. Hankyoreh. 2002. Ilche chinilban minjokhaengwija 708myng myngdan. http://www.hani.co.kr/section003000000/2002/02/003000000200202282132001.html (accessed February 17, 2009). Hart, Dennis. 2001. Remembering the Nation: Construction of the March First Movement in North and South Korean History Textbooks. The Review of Korean Studies 4(1) (June): 35–59. Heylen, Ann. 1999. A Re-Examination of Taiwan’s Colonial Past. Taipei Times, November 8, http://www.riccibase.com/docfile/eth-tw04.htm (accessed February 18, 2009). Ho, Samuel Pao-San. 1984. Colonialism and Development: Korea, Taiwan, and Kwantung. In The Japanese Colonial Empire, 1895– 1945, ed. Ramon H. Myers and Mark R. Peattie, 347–398. Princeton: Princeton University Press. 256

Hong, I-Sop. 1968. The Question of Defining the First Half Period of the Twentieth Century in the Korean History. Journal of Social Sciences and Humanities 28 (June): 1–17. Hooper-Greenhill, Eilean. 2000. Museums and the Interpretation of Visual Culture. London and New York: Routledge. Huang, Chih-Huei. 2003. The Transformation of Taiwanese Attitudes toward Japan in the Post-colonial Period. In Imperial Japan and National Identities in Asia, 1895–1945, ed. Li Narangoa and Robert Cribb, 296–314. London: RoutledgeCurzon. Hur, Namlin. 1998. Collective Memory, Historians, and the Construction of the National Identity of Koreans through the Japanese. The Review of Korean Studies 1 (September): 5–25. Hwang, Min-ho. 1998. Pukhan yksa hakkye i minjok undongsa yn’gu tonghyang. In Han’guk minjok undongsa i saeroun panghyang, ed. Han’guk minjok undongsa yn’gu hoe, 33–57. Seoul: Kukhak charyo wn. Im, Tae-su. 1997. Che 77-chugi Yu Kwan-sun ylsasunguk ch’umoje. Tongnip kinymgwan (October): 23–24. Irwin-Zarecka, Iwona. 1994. Frames of Remembrance: The Dynamics of Collective Memory. New Jersey: Transactions Publishers. Jackson, John Brinckerhoff. 1984. Discovering the Vernacular Landscape. New Haven and London: Yale University Press. Jager, Sheila Miyoshi. 2002. Monumental Histories: Manliness, the Military, and the War Memorial. Public Culture 14(2): 387–409. --------. 2003. Narratives of Nation Building in Korea. Armonk, New York: M.E. Sharpe. --------. 2005. Korean Collaborators: South Koreas Truth Committees and the Forging of a New Pan-Korean Nationalism. Japan Focus (June 6). http://www.japanfocus.org/_Sheila_Miyoshi_JagerKorean_Collaborators__South_Korea_s_Truth_Committees_and_th e_Forging_of_a_New_Pan_Korean_Nationalism (accessed February 4, 2009). Janelli, Roger L. and Dawnhee Yim Janelli. 1982. Ancestor Worship and Korean Society. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Janowitz, Morris. 1983. The Reconstruction of Patriotism: Education for Civic Consciousness. Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press.

257

Jung, Sook-hyun. 1999. Kihohakjk imijakyng l t’onghae pon sdaemun tongnip kongwn i kongganhaesk. Master’s theses, University of Seoul. Kammen, Michael. 1997. Some Patterns and Meanings of Memory Distortion in American History. In Memory Distortion: How Minds, Brains, and Societies Reconstruct the Past, ed. Daniel L. Schacter, 329–345. Cambridge, Mass: Harvard University Press. Kang, Hildi. 2001. Under the Black Umbrella: Voices from Colonial Korea, 1910–1945. Ithaca, New York: Cornell University Press. Kang, Man-gil. 1990. How History is Viewed in the North and in the South: Convergence and Divergence. Korea Journal 30(2) (February): 4–19. --------. 1999. 20 segi uri yksa. Seoul: Ch’angjak kwa pip’yng. Kang, Man-gil et al. 2000. Uri minjok haebang undongsa. Seoul: Yksa pip’yngsa. Kang, Man-gil et al., eds. 1994. Han’guksa. 27 vols. Seoul: Han’gilsa. Kim, Chang-su. 1997. 1930-yndae Chungguk es i hangil ynhap chnsn kwa Taehan Minguk Imsi Chngbu. Han’guk minjok undong yn’gu 16 (October): 203–219. Kim, Dong-Choon. 2007. The War Against the ‘Enemy Within: Hidden Massacres in the Early Stages of the Korean War. In Rethinking Historical Injustice and Reconciliation in Northeast Asia: The Korean Experience, ed. Gi-Wook Shin, Soon-Won Park, and Daqing Yang, 75–93. London and New York: Routledge. Kim, Hak-jun. 2003. Maehn Yun Pong-gil isa i sasang kwa saengae. In Kyre sarang. Maehn Yun Pong-gil isa kinym saphoe, 23– 31. Seoul: Maehn Yun Pong-gil isa kinym saphoe. Kim, Hyn-sn. 2002. Aegukjui i naeyong kwa pynhwa: 1960–1990 nyndae kyogwas punsk l chungsim ro. Chngsin munhwa yn’gu 25(2) (June): 177–205. Kim, Hyung-chan. 1996. Tosan Ahn Ch’ang-ho: A Profile of a Prophetic Patriot. Los Angeles: Academia Koreana. Kim, Jinwung. 1994. The Nature of South Korean Anti-Americanism. Korea Journal 34(1) (Spring): 36–47. Kim, Kwang-jae. 2000. Han’guk Kwangbokkun i han · mi hapchak hullnnyn. Han’guk tongnip undong kwa chonggyo hwaltong 25 (August): 345–376.

258

Kim, Kyo-kyng. 1994. Tan’gun rung es naon ppy e taehan nyndae ch’kjng kylgwa e taehay. In Tan’gun l ch’ajas, ed. Yi Hyng-gu, 54–57. Seoul: Sallimt’. Kim, Minchul. 2002. Chigm ch’inilp’a ch’angsan l kronha nn iyu. Yksa pip’yng 59 (Summer): 12–26. Kim, Sam-ung. 1997. 33in i yaksok. Seoul: Tosch’ulp’an sanha. Kim, Sng-sik. 1974. Ilcheha Han’guk haksaeng tongnip undongsa. Seoul: Chngmsa. Kim, Taeho. 2003. Sino-Korean Relations: “Dizzy with Success” or Crisis in the Offing? Korea Focus 11(6) (November–December): 70–84. Kim, Young-Geun. 2000. Ilcheha singminjijk kndaesng i han t’kjing: Kyngsng es i tosi kynghm l chungsim ro. Sahoe wa yksa 57: 11–44. Korea Journal. 1987. Opening of Independence Hall, the Nation’s Shrine (trans. Koh, M.) Korea Journal 27(10): 69–70. Korean Overseas Information Service. 1993. A Handbook of Korea. Seoul. Kukka Pohun Ch’. 1997. Taehan Minguk Imsi Chngbu i ppt’ong kwa yksajk chaejomyng. Privately Published by the Kukka Pohun Ch’. Kungnip minsok pangmulgwan. 2008. Munhwa i pitkkaltl: 100 kajiro purnaen urimunhwa i mt. Seoul. Available at http://www.nfm.go.kr/downfile/book_mag/414/05.PDF (accessed February 23, 2009). Kwak, S. and H. Lee. 1997. Conditions of Economic Development in Korea in the First Half of the Twentieth Century. In Economic Development in Twentieth Century East Asia, ed. Aiko Ikeo, 87–99. London and New York: Routledge. Kwon, Yonung. 2000. Korean Historiography in the 20th Century: A Configuration of Paradigms. Korea Journal 40(1) (Spring): 33–53. Lee, Chong-sik. 1965[1963]. The Politics of Korean Nationalism. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press. --------. 1985. Japan and Korea: The Political Dimension. Stanford: Hoover Institution Press, Stanford University. Lee, Ki-baik. 1984. A New History of Korea, trans. Edward W. Wagner with Edward J. Shultz. Seoul: Ilchokak.

259

Lee, Peter H., ed. 1993. Sourcebook of Korean Civilization, vol. 1, From the Early Times to the Sixteenth Century. New York: Columbia University Press. Lew, Young I. 1997. The Reform and Ideas of Pak Yng-hyo, 1894– 1895. Korean Studies 1: 21–61. Linantud, John L. 2008. War Memorials and Memories: Comparing the Philippines and South Korea. International Journal of Heritage 14(4): 347–361. Lone, Stewart. 1988. Of “Collaboration” and Kings: The Ilchinhoe, Korean Court, and Japanese Agricultural – Political Demands During the Russio-Japanese War, 1904–1905. Papers on Far Eastern History 38 (September): 103–124. Maehn Yun Pong-gil isa kinym saphoe. 2003. Kyre sarang. Seoul: Maehn Yun Pong-gil isa kinym saphoe. Maehn Yun Pong-gil isa ig che 60-chunyn kinym sap ch’ujin wiwnhoe. 1992. Torok Yun Pong-gil isa. N.p., Maehn Yun Pong-gil isa ig che 60-chunyn kinym sap ch’ujin wiwnhoe. Markovits, Andrei S. and Simon Reich. 1997. The German Predicament: Memory and Power in the New Europe. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. The Maureen and Mike Mansfield Foundation. 2005. Dong-A Ilbo Opinion Poll on South Korean Attitudes Toward Japan and Other Nations. http://www.mansfieldfdn.org/polls/2005/poll-05-2.htm (accessed February 18, 2009). McKenzie, Frederick A. 1969 [1920]. Korea’s Fight for Freedom, reprint. Seoul: Yonsei University Press. Mitsuhiko, Kimura. 1986. Financial Aspects of Korea’s Economic Growth under Japanese Rule. Modern Asian Studies 20(4): 793–820. --------. 1993. Standards of Living in Colonial Korea: Did the Masses Become Worse Off or Better Off Under Japanese Rule? The Journal of Economic History 53(3) (September): 629–652. ---------. 1995. The Economics of Japanese Imperialism in Korea, 1910– 1939. The Economic History Review 48(3) (August): 555–574. Mizoguchi, Toshiyuki and Yamamoto Yz. 1984. Capital Formation in Taiwan and Korea. In The Japanese Colonial Empire, 1895–1945, ed. Ramon H. Myers and Mark R. Peattie, 399–419. Princeton: Princeton University Press.

260

Morris-Suzuki, Tessa. 1998. Re-Inventing Japan: Time, Space, Nation. Armonk, New York: M.E. Sharpe. Mun, Chae-sng. 2001. Tosan kongwn chaejngbi hwan’gyng slgye. Ph.D. diss., Seoul National University. Muzaini, Hamzah. 2006. Producing/consuming Memoryspaces: The Genesis/politics of Second World War Commemoration in Singapore. GeoJournal 66: 211–222. Muzaini, Hamzah and Brenda S.A. Yeoh. 2005. Contesting “Local” Commemoration of the Second World War: The Case of the Changi Chapel and Museum in Singapore. Australian Geographer 36(1): 1– 17. Myers, Ramon H. and Mark R. Peattie, eds. 1984. The Japanese Colonial Empire, 1895–1945. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Myers, Ramon H. and Yamada Sabur. 1984. Agricultural Development in the Empire. In The Japanese Colonial Empire, 1895–1945, ed. Ramon H. Myers and Mark R. Peattie, 420–452. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Nahm, Andrew C. 1988. Korea: Tradition and Transformation. Elizabeth, New Jersey: Hollym International Corp. National Memorial Board. 1999. Minjok i l (che 4 chip). Seoul: National Memorial Board. Naveh, Eyal. 2000. Dimui ha-martir ke-noten mashma’ut le-retzah manhig be-hevrah democratit. In Defusim shel hantzaha: Asufat ma’amarim, ed. M. Mayzel and I. Shamir, 117–128. Tel Aviv: Ministry of Defense. Nelson, John K. 2002. Tempest in a Textbook: A Report on the New Middle-School History Textbook in Japan. Critical Asian Studies 34(1): 129–148. Ogle, George E. 1990. South Korea: Dissent Within the Economic Miracle. London and New Jersey: Zed Books. Oh, Kongdan and Ralph C. Hassig. 2000. North Korea Through the Looking Glass. Washington: The Brookings Institute. Olick, Jeffrey K., and Daniel Levy. 1997. Collective Memory and Cultural Constraint: Holocaust Myth and Rationality in German Politics. American Sociological Review 62(6) (December): 921–936. Olick, Jeffrey K., and Joyce Robbins. 1998. Social Memory Studies: From “Collective Memory” to the Historical Sociology of Mnemonic Practices. Annual Review of Sociology 24: 105–140. 261

Paekpm kinymgwan. 2002. Paekpm kinymgwan chnsi torok. Seoul: Paekpm kinymgwan. Pai, Hyung Il. 2000. Constructing “Korean” Origins: A Critical Review of Archaeology, Historiography, and Racial Myth in Korean StateFormation Theories. Cambridge: Harvard University Asia Center. --------. 2001. The Creation of National Treasures and Monuments: The 1916 Japanese Laws on the Preservation of Korean Remains and Relics and Their Colonial Legacies. Korean Studies 25(1): 72–95. Pak, Hwan. 1998. Han’guk yksa hakkye i minjok undongsa yn’gu tonghyang. In Han’guk minjok undongsa i saeroun panghyang, ed. Han’guk minjok undongsa yn’gu hoe, 3–32. Seoul: Kukhak charyo wn. Pak, Jacqueline. 2001. Review of Tosan Ahn Ch’ang-ho: A Profile of a Prophetic Patriot, by Kim Hyung-chan. Korean Studies 25(1): 147– 151. Pak, Yong-ok. 1998. 3.1 undong e taehan nambokhan i yksa isik pigyo. In Han’guk minjok undongsa i saeroun panghyang, ed. Han’guk minjok undongsa yn’gu hoe, 59–85. Seoul: Kukhak charyo wn. Park, Chung Hee. 1962. Our Nation’s Path: Ideology of Social Reconstruction. Seoul: Dong A. --------. 1976. Toward Peaceful Unification: Selected Speeches and Interviews by Park Chung Hee. Seoul: Kwangmyong. Park, Jong-ki. 1997. The New Historiographical Trends of South Korea in the Late 1980s. Korean Social Science Journal 24(1): 147–157. Peattie, Mark E. 1984. Japanese Attitudes Toward Colonialism, 1895– 1945. In The Japanese Colonial Empire, 1895–1945, ed. Ramon H. Myers and Mark R. Peattie, 80–127. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Popular Memory Group. 1982. Popular Memory: Theory, Politics, Method. In Making Histories: Studies in History-Writing and Politics, ed. Richard Johnson, Gregor McLennan, Bill Schwartz, and David Sutton, 205–252. London: Hutchinson in association with the Centre for Contemporary Cultural Studies, University of Birmingham. Renan, Ernest. 1990. What is a Nation? trans. Martin Thom. In Nation and Narration, ed. Homi K. Bhabha, 8–22. London and New York: Routledge. 262

Robinson, Michael E. 1988. Cultural Nationalism in Colonial Korea, 1920–1925. Seattle: University of Washington Press. --------. 1999. Broadcasting, Cultural Hegemony, and Colonial Modernity in Korea, 1924–1945. In Colonial Modernity in Korea, ed. Gi-Wook Shin and Michael Robinson, 52–69. Cambridge: Harvard University Asia Center. Roy, Srirupa. 2007. Beyond Belief: India and the Politics of Postcolonial Nationalism. Durham: Duke University Press. Schmid, Andre. 1997. Rediscovering Manchuria: Sin Ch’aeho and the Politics of Territorial History in Korea. Journal of Asian Studies 56(1) (February): 26–47. --------. 2002. Korea Between Empires, 1895–1919. New York: Columbia University Press. Schuman, Howard and Jacqueline Scott. 1989. Generations and Collective Memories. American Sociological Review 54(3) (June): 359–381. Schwartz, Barry. 1991. Social Change and Collective Memory: The Democratization of George Washington. American Sociological Review 56(2) (April): 221–236. Shapira, Anita. 1996–1997. Ha-Shoah: Zikaron perati ve-zikaron tziburi. Zemanim 57: 4–13. Shauli, Ran. 2001. Tevah hasar mashema’ut: Al zikaron tevah ha-sinim be-thilat ha kibush ha-yapani be-singapur. Master’s theses, Hebrew University, Jerusalem. Shillony, Ben-Ami. 1997. Yapan ha-modernit: Tarbut ve-historia. Tel Aviv: Schocken Publishing House Ltd. Shin, Dong-won. 2002. Sekyulsl kwa singminji kndaesng pip’an. Yksa pip’yng 58 (Spring): 341–362. Shin, Gi-Wook. 1998. Nation, History, and Politics: South Korea. In Nationalism and the Construction of Korean Identity, ed. Hyung Il Pai and Timothy R. Tangherlini, 148–165. Berkeley: Institute of East Asian Studies, University of California. --------. 2006. Ethnic Nationalism in Korea: Genealogy, Politics, and Legacy. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Shin, Gi-Wook and Michael Robinson. 1999a. Introduction: Rethinking Colonial Korea. In Colonial Modernity in Korea, ed. Gi-Wook Shin and Michael Robinson, 1–18. Cambridge: Harvard University Asia Center. 263

--------. eds. 1999b. Colonial Modernity in Korea. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Shin, Yong-ha, ed. 1995. An Chung-gn yugojip. Seoul: Ykminsa. --------. 1997. Tongnip kinymgwan kllnnip kwa singminjui sakwan: Singminji kndaehwaroni ch’ngsan. In Tongnip kinymgwan 10 nynsa, Tongnip Kinymgwan, 511–513. Ch’nan: Tongnip kinymgwan. --------. 2000. Modern Korean History and Nationalism, trans. N.M. Pankaj. Seoul: Jimoondang. --------. 2001. Ilche kangjmgi han’guk minjok sa, vol. 1. Seoul: Sul Taehakkyo ch’ulp’anbu. Smith, Anthony D. 1999. Myths and Memories of the Nation. New York: Oxford University Press. S, Koeng-il. 1998. Minjok undong yn’gu pangbp i saeroun mosaek. In Han’guk minjok undongsa i saeroun panghyang, ed. Han’guk minjok undongsa yn’guhoe, 121–162. Seoul: Kukhak charyown. Soh, Chunghee Sarah. 2007. The Korean “Comfort Women” Tragedy as Structural Violence. In Rethinking Historical Injustice and Reconciliation in Northeast Asia: The Korean Experience, ed. GiWook Shin, Soon-Won Park, and Daqing Yang, 17–35. London and New York: Routledge. Staub, Ervin. 1997. Blind versus Constructive Patriotism: Moving from Embeddedness in the Group to Critical Loyalty and Action. In Patriotism in the Lives of Individuals and Nations, ed. Daniel BarTal and Ervin Staub, 213–228. Chicago: Nelson-Hall Publishers. Suh, Kyoung-yo. 1996. Loyalty, Filial Piety and the Snbi Spirit. In Korean Cultural Heritage: Thought and Religion, compiled by The Korea Foundation, 30–35. Seoul. Suh, Yong-Sug. 1996. The Transformation of Historical Perspectives on Postliberation Capitalism, trans. Chae Eun-Hee and William A. Hayes, Korean Studies 20: 161–188. Tamir, Yael. 1997. Reflections on Patriotism. In Patriotism in the Lives of Individuals and Nations, ed. Daniel Bar-Tal and Ervin Staub, 23– 41. Chicago: Nelson-Hall Publishers. Tongnip kinymgwan. 1997. Tongnip kinymgwan 10 nynsa. Ch’nan: Tongnip Kinymgwan. Viroli, Maurizio. 1995. For Love of Country: An Essay on Patriotism and Nationalism. Oxford: Clarendon Press. 264

Wang, Horng-Luen. 2004. National Culture and its Discontents: The Politics of Heritage and Language in Taiwan, 1949–2003. Comparatives Studies in Society and History 46(4): 786–815. Wells, Kenneth M. 1988. Between the Devil and the Deep: Nonpolitical Nationalism and “Passive Collaboration” in Korea During the 1920s. Papers on Far Eastern History 37 (March): 125–147. --------. 1995. Introduction. In South Korea’s Minjung Movement: The Culture and Politics of Dissidence, ed. Kenneth M. Wells, 1–9. Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press. ---------. 1999. The Price of Legitimacy: Women and the Knuhoe Movement, 1927–1931. In Colonial Modernity in Korea, ed. GiWook Shin and Michael Robinson, 191–220. Cambridge: Harvard University Asia Center. Wilson, Keith. 1996. Introduction: Governments, Historians, and “Historical Engineering.” In Forging the Collective Memory: Governments and International Historians through Two World Wars, ed. Keith Wilson, 1–27. Providence and Oxford: Berghahn Books. Worchel, Stephen with Dawna Coutant. 1997. The Tangled Web of Loyalty: Nationalism, Patriotism, and Ethnocentrism. In Patriotism in the Lives of Individuals and Nations, ed. Daniel Bar-Tal and Ervin Staub, 190–210. Chicago: Nelson-Hall Publishers. YBM Sisa yngsa. 2001. Si-sa Elite Korean-English Dictionary. Seoul: YBM Sisa yngsa. Yea, Sallie. 2001. Rewriting Rebellion and Mapping Memory in South Korea: The (Re)presentation of the 1980 Kwangju Uprising Through Mangwol-dong Cemetery. Paper presented at the 2nd Biennial Conference of the Korean Studies Association of Australia, Monash University, September. Yi, Hyng-gu. 1994. Mri kl. In Tan’gun l ch’ajas, ed. Yi Hyng-gu, 18–19. Seoul: Sallimt’. Yi, Kyng-jae. 1993. Tak’yument’ri Sul chngdo yukpaengnyn, vol. 1. Seoul: Sul shinmunsa. Yi, Yn-bok. 1999. Taehan Minguk Imsi Chngbu i yksajk wisang. Han’guk minjok undong i yksa wa mirae 23 (December): 193– 207. 6.10 Manse kinym saphoe. 1991. 6.10 tongnip manse undong: che 65chunyn kinym charyojip. Seoul: 6.10 Manse kinym saphoe. 265

Zerubavel, Yael. 1994. The Death of Memory and the Memory of Death: Masada and the Holocaust as Historical Metaphors. Representations 45 (Winter): 72–100.

266

Index

An Ch’ang-ho, 213–218, 230, 231, 242, 243, 244 An Chung-gn, 187, 189, 190–199, 200, 204, 206, 214, 219, 221, 222, 229, 230, 231, 241, 244 An Ik-t’ae, 114 Arendt, Hannah, 96 Auschwitz, 96, 97 Baker, Don, 33, 197 Bar-Tal, Daniel, 177 Barthes, Roland, 17, 67 Bobrikov, Nicholas, 190 Breuilly, John, 176 Bronze Age, 44, 48, 50 Buddhism/Buddhist, 24, 25, 48, 50, 131, 132, 175, 190, 219, 220, 221 Chang In-hwan, 110, 189 Chang Po-go, 51, 60 Chang T’aek-sang, 65, 66 Ch’angdkkung palace, 48, 50 Cheju, 105, 135, 158 Chen Chia-Li, 247, 248 Chewang un’gi, 24, 25 Chiang Kai-shek, 205, 219 ch’inilp’a, 102, 113. See also collaboration, “pro-Japanese” Cho Chin-t’ae, 116 Cho Hn, 63 Cho Man-sik, 65, 217 Ch’oe Nam-sn, 29, 44, 114, 131 Ch’oe Rin, 114 Chn Myng-se, 65 Chn Myng-un, 110, 189 Chng Yag-yong, 220 Chongmyo Royal Ancestral Shrine, 48, 50

Ch’ngsalli battle, 154, 155, 156, 187, 191 Chsen, 42, 77, 164 Chosn dynasty, 20, 24, 25, 26, 27, 29, 31, 33, 34, 45, 48, 50, 51, 52, 53, 54, 55, 56, 57, 60, 61, 62, 63, 64, 65, 67, 69, 70, 72, 77, 80, 91, 117, 132, 137, 146, 163, 168, 184, 197, 220, 223 Chosun Ilbo, 35, 114–116, 136, 161, 244, 249 Christianity/Christian, 33, 37, 175, 194, 197, 212, 214, 241 Chu Si-gyng, 65 chuch’e, 39, 166 Ch’umo i chari, Independence Hall, 185, 186, 187 Chun Doo Hwan, 12, 69, 111, 112, 113, 171, 212, 227, 231, 237, 239, 245 collaboration, “pro-Japanese,” 66, 84, 102–117, 124, 127, 162, 163, 235, 236, 237 “comfort women,” 88 Confucianism/Confucian, 25, 26, 54, 85, 132, 163, 176, 194, 197, 201, 203, 216, 220, 224, 241, 245 Cumings, Bruce, 81, 86, 104, 108, 111, 129, 170 De Ceuster, Koen, 90, 104, 108, 110, 112, 113 Democratic Labor Party, 172 Donga Ilbo, 115, 116, 207 Dudden, Alexis, 120 Duus, Peter, 75, 86, 108, 109 Eckert, Carter J., 75, 81, 105 Em, Henry, 25, 29, 30 Ferdinand, Franz, 190

267

flag of South Korea: as a commemorative symbol, 94, 139, 161, 188, 203, 208, 209, 210, 211, 212, 226; complex meaning of, 157–159 Fujitani Takashi, 28, 29 Gandhi, 216, 217 Gellner, Ernest, 23 Government-General Building, 71, 117– 124, 127, 129, 149, 237 Gragert, Edwin H., 75 Grand Hall of the Nation, Independence Hall, 37, 40 Grand National Party (GNP), 102, 172 Grayson, James H., 24, 30, 31 Guomindang, 205, 248 Han Do-Hyun, 82 Han, Young-woo, 25 Hanin aeguktan, 200, 203, 205, 219, 222, 225 Harbin, 190, 229 Heylen, Ann, 123 Hideyoshi Toyotomi, 54, 190, 220 Hogukkwan, Taejn National Cemetery, 49, 60, 61, 62, 63, 100, 145, 159, 167, 185 Holocaust, 68, 96, 161, 246 Hong I-sop, 77 Hong Pm-to, 155, 156 Hongkou Park, 199, 203 Hooper-Greenhill, Eilean, 16 Hur Namlin, 35, 125 Hwanin, 33, 45 Hwanung, 33, 38, 45 hwarang, 66, 203 Hyoch’ang Park, 197, 198, 199, 200, 204, 221–224 Hynch’ung t’ap, National Cemeteries, 182–185 Ilchinhoe, 108, 133 Independence Gate, 89–92, 139 Independence Hall, 34–45, 53, 55, 56, 57, 59, 71, 73, 76, 83–84, 85–89, 90, 94,

268

111, 114–120, 125, 138, 139, 143, 147, 149, 151, 153–156, 160–163, 165, 169, 171, 185–187, 191, 201, 212, 226, 227, 231, 239, 246, 249 Iryn, 25 Israel, national memory in, 68–69, 246 It Hirobumi, 190–192, 194, 195, 199, 200, 214, 219, 221 Jager, Sheila Miyoshi, 56, 113 Janelli, Roger L. and Dwanhee Yim, 197, 233 Janowitz, Morris, 176, 177, 178 Japanese Aggression Hall, Independence Hall, 73, 76, 86, 88, 94, 119, 125, 138 Jesus, 196, 204, 228 Jimmu, 24, 31 June 10 Manse Movement, 146–148, 151, 152, 169 Kang Kam-ch’an, 59, 60, 61 Kang Man-gil, 21, 76, 141, 170 Kang, Hildi, 83, 84 Kanghwa Island, 45, 47, 50, 60, 63 Kapsin Coup, 170 Khitans, 51, 61 Kigensetsu, 31 Kija, 25, 26, 30, 31, 43, 45 Kim Chae-wn, 30 Kim Chng-ho, 48 Kim Chong-s, 51, 65 Kim Chwa-jin, 155, 156, 191 Kim Dae Jung, 102, 113, 114, 172 Kim Hyn-sn, 60, 231 Kim Hyng-jik, 136 Kim Il Sung, 33, 39, 136, 137, 152, 153, 157, 168, 169, 172, 173, 217, 226, 238, 239 Kim Jong Il, 39, 157, 172 Kim Jong Suk, 157 Kim Ku, 157, 167, 168, 200, 203, 205, 213, 218–228, 230, 231, 232, 242– 245, 249 Kim Pu-sik, 24 Kim Sng-sik, 143, 146, 147, 152

Kim Sng-su, 116 Kim Wn-bong, 219 Kim Young Sam, 117, 150, 172 Kim Yu-sin, 220 Kimura Mitsuhiko, 79, 80 King, Martin Luther, 217 kbuksn (“turtle ship”), 55–58 Kochosn, 24, 27, 43, 44, 47 Kogury, 25, 40, 41, 44, 51, 53, 54, 59, 61, 64, 190, 243 Kojong, King/Emperor, 109, 130, 131, 138, 219, 220 Korean Democratic Party (KDP), 104 Korean Independence Army, 154, 155, 156, 219, 226, 239 Korean National Police, 105 Korean Provisional Government (KPG), 46, 129, 132, 143, 153, 154, 155, 157, 158, 160, 162, 163–169, 181, 205, 214, 219, 221, 222, 226, 239 Korean Restoration Army, 154, 155, 157–159, 164, 165, 169, 184, 191, 204 Korean War, 46, 57, 105, 106, 173, 184, 237 Kory, 20, 24, 25, 50, 51, 53, 60, 61, 62, 64, 131, 202 Kumsusan Memorial Palace, North Korea, 172 Kwak Chae-u, 54, 60, 63 Kwanggaet’o, King, 41, 53, 64, 215, 241 Kwanggaet’o stele, 41, 51, 53–58, 64, 65 Kwangju, 168, 192; 1980 uprising/massacre, 111–112, 149, 150, 227, 245; Student Independence Movement (1929), 146–152, 161, 164, 169, 238, 249 Kwangju Ilgo (Cheil) School, 148, 151 Kwon Yonung, 29 Kyebaek, 65, 66 Kyngbok Palace, 117, 118 Kyngch’al ch’unghon t’ap (Monument for the Loyal Dead of the Police), 105–108 Kyngju, 24, 48, 244 Kyre i t’ap, 35, 36

land survey, colonial period, 73–76 Lee Chong-sik, 125, 142, 147, 157 Lee Hoi-chang, 102 Lee Myung-bak, 229 Lee, Ki-baik, 24, 29, 62, 78, 141, 142, 157 Liaotung, 47 Linantud, John L., 242 Manchuria, 41, 44, 47, 53, 73, 74, 76, 107, 138, 153, 155, 190, 199, 226, 238 March First (Independence) Movement, 22, 31, 61, 77, 98, 99, 101, 129, 130– 145, 146, 147, 151, 152, 154, 158, 160, 161, 163, 164, 165, 167, 168, 169, 170, 171, 181, 184, 187, 202, 207, 208, 211, 212, 213, 219, 221, 238, 239, 240, 242 March First Movement Hall, Independence Hall, 138–139, 143, 154 Masada myth, 68–70 McKenzie, Frederick, 85 Millennium Democratic Party (MDP), 102, 115 Min Chong-sik, 65 Min Yng-hwan, 109, 233 Ming dynasty, 26 minjung nationalism, 111, 112, 171 Mongols, 53, 60, 61, 62 Morris-Suzuki, Tessa, 28, 42 Mt. Paektu, 27, 28, 38, 40, 41, 47, 50, 157 Munhyo, Crown Prince, 223 Munmu, King, 61, 62 Murai Kuramatsu, 200, 203 Myoch’ng, 24 Nach’l, 27 Nahm, Andrew C., 75 naisen ittai, 42 Namsan Park, 192, 209, 220, 221, 230, 244 National Folk Museum of Korea, 241 National Foundation Day, 30–32

269

National Heritage Hall, Independence Hall, 40, 53, 54, 59, 125 Nehru, Jawaharlal, 145 Neolithic Age, 44, 48, 50, 198 Nissen dsoron, 41, 42 Olick, Jeffrey, 11, 13 Paek Chng-gi, 198, 200, 221 Paek Nam-un, 29 Paekche, 41, 51, 59, 65 Paekpm kinymgwan, 221, 223, 224, 225, 226, 227 Pagoda Park. See Tapkol (Pagoda) Park Pai Hyung Il, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 32, 43, 45, 82, 118, 163 Pak Hwan, 19 Pak n-sik, 20, 141 Pak Yng-hyo, 157 Paleolithic Age, 44, 50 Pang ng-mo, 116 Parhae, 44, 48, 51, 53 Park Chung Hee, 12, 20, 65, 66, 69, 70, 105, 107, 110, 113, 118, 132, 144, 170, 171, 181, 184, 192, 193, 203, 212, 218, 220, 221, 228, 230, 236, 243, 245 Philippines, 145; memory and commemoration in the, 242 Photographic Exhibition House, Seoul National Cemetery, 46, 63, 65, 74, 101, 137, 138, 143, 147, 156, 158, 167, 181, 184 Pongodong battle, 154, 155, 156 Princip, Gavrilo, 191 Protectorate Treaty, 26, 27, 28, 109, 158, 190, 233 p’ungsu, 176, 198 P’yngyang, 24, 25, 136, 172, 214, 238, 249 Qing dynasty, 26, 53 Queen Min, 86, 191, 219 Red Devils, 39, 201

270

Renan, Ernest, 19, 52, 66 Rhee Syngman. See Syngman Rhee Righteous Army, 85, 191, 192, 194, 199, 204, 219 Riverside, California, 216, 217 Robbins, Joyce, 11, 13 Robinson, Michael, 18, 21, 75, 82, 91, 116, 131, 160, 162 Roh Moo Hyun, 113, 115, 172 Roh Tae Woo, 69, 171, 172 Roy, Srirupa, 15 Russo-Japan War, 26, 108, 109 Ryu Kwan-sun, 87, 98, 101, 139, 187, 206, 207–213, 220, 221, 230, 231, 241, 244 Saemal Undong, 203, 230 Sait Makoto, 160 sambylch’o, 60, 62 Samguk sagi, 24–26 Samguk yusa, 24, 25, 30, 34, 44, 47, 48, 50, 64 Samiljl, 31, 135 Samsng Temple, 44, 45, 47, 50 Samyng Taesa, 220 Schauman, Eugen, 190 Schmid, Andre, 26, 27, 53 Schofield, Frederick W., 181 Schwartz, Barry, 13, 14, 22 Sejong, King, 228, 229 Seoul, 17, 33, 34, 49, 82, 118, 124, 131, 146, 159, 170, 207, 214, 217, 223, 227, 228, 229, 237, 238, 244 Seoul National Cemetery, 34, 45–49, 50, 64, 65, 73, 105, 107, 109, 137, 143, 147, 151, 156, 158, 159, 167, 168, 172, 180, 181, 184 shamanism, 82, 114, 176, 193, 197 Shang, 25 Shanghai, 145, 164, 165, 169, 199, 200, 202, 203, 204, 205, 206, 214, 219, 221 Shauli, Ran, 121 Shigemitsu Mamoru, 199, 200 Shillony, Ben-Ami, 74 Shin Ch’ae-ho, 20, 29, 44

Shin Gi-Wook, 18, 28, 30, 82 Shin Yong-ha, 22, 83, 85, 86, 130, 141, 142, 145, 170, 191, 205, 208 Shint, 42, 88, 122, 207 Silla, 20, 24, 25, 41, 48, 50, 51, 53, 59, 61, 62, 65, 66, 190, 203, 220, 243 Sin’ganhoe, 152 Singapore, memory and commemoration in, 120, 121, 124, 246 Sinminhoe, 214, 219 Smith Anthony D., 14 S Chae-p’il, 91 Sdaemun Independence Park, 89, 91, 92, 98, 134, 139, 140, 141, 144, 187, 188 Sdaemun Prison, 88, 89–98, 99, 109, 111, 126, 138, 164, 187, 207, 208, 209, 210 Soh, Chunghee Sarah, 88 Skkuram grotto, 48, 50 Son Pyng-hi, 132–134, 137 snbi spirit, 201, 224 Song Pyng-jun, 108, 133 Statue of Indomitable Koreans, Independence Hall, 37, 39, 40 Stevens, Durham W., 110, 189 Sui, 53, 59, 61 Sunjong, King/Emperor, 146, 151 Sunshine Policy, 172 Suwn, 48, 50, 99, 101 Suwn Fortress, 48 Syngman Rhee, 65, 66, 103, 104, 105, 107, 110, 112, 132, 167, 168, 184, 192, 218, 219, 220, 221, 226, 227, 228, 230, 231, 242, 243, 244, 245 Tabot’ap, 48 t’aegkki. See flag of South Korea Taejn National Cemetery, 34, 49–52, 60, 100, 143, 145, 151, 159, 167, 179, 180, 182, 183 Taejonggyo, 27 T’aekwndo, 190 Tagore, Rabindranath, 145

Taiwan, 74, 79; memory and commemoration in, 122–124, 246–248 Tamir, Yael, 176, 177, 178 Tang, 25, 41, 44, 53, 59, 61, 62 Tangible history, the concept of, 13–18 Tan’gun, 24–38, 43, 44, 45–48, 50, 146, 190, 241 T’apkol (Pagoda) Park, 99, 100, 131– 137, 141, 143, 144, 170, 171, 220, 230, 238, 244 Terauchi Masatake, 41, 125, 186 Three Kingdoms, 24, 41, 43, 51, 53, 66 Tokyo, 29, 86, 107, 196, 200, 222 Tosan Park, 214–218, 230 Tripitaka, 50, 61, 62 “turtle ship.” See kbuksn lchi Mundk, 59, 60, 61 Underwood, Horace G., 214 Uri Party, 172 USAMGIK (United States Army Military Government), 103, 104 Viroli, Maurizio, 178, 180 von Ranke, Leopold, 29 “wall torture chamber,” 87, 94, 212 War Memorial, Seoul, 55–58, 159, 239 Wiman, 43 Wn’gaksa, Buddhist temple, 131, 132, 135, 137 Wnhyo, 190, 221 Worchel, Stephen, 177, 178 World Cup, 2002, 39, 201 Yi Chae-myng, 110, 189 Yi Chun, 220 Yi dynasty, 20, 21, 125 Yi Hwang, 220 Yi In-jik, 114 Yi Kwang-su, 113, 216 Yi Nng-hwa, 44, 114 Yi Pm-sk, 65, 158, 159 Yi Pong-ch’ang, 187, 198, 200, 221, 222, 224, 225

271

Yi Si-yng, 220, 221 Yi Sun-sin, 55, 56, 59, 60, 63, 64, 190, 203, 216, 228, 229, 241, 245 Yi Sng-hyu, 25 Yi n-sang, 65 Yi Wan-yong, 108–110, 189 Yi Yong-gu, 133

272

yongsu masks, 87, 93, 94, 212 Yun Ch’i-ho, 114 Yun Kwan, 64, 202 Yun Pong-gil, 187, 189, 191, 198, 199– 206, 214, 221, 225, 230, 231, 241, 244 Yusin Constitution, 230, 243

WORLDS OF EAST ASIA WELTEN OSTASIENS MONDES DE L’EXTRÊME-ORIENT Edited by / Herausgegeben von / Edité par WOLFGANG BEHR, DAVID CHIAVACCI, ROBERT H. GASSMANN, EDUARD KLOPFENSTEIN, ANDREA RIEMENSCHNITTER, PIERRE-FRANÇOIS SOUYRI, CHRISTIAN STEINECK & NICOLAS ZUFFEREY

The aim of the series "Worlds of East Asia" of the Swiss Asia Society is to publish high-quality, representative work issuing from academic research on all aspects of East Asia. It comprises, and receives, studies on present-day and historical East Asian cultures and societies covering the fields of art, literature and thought as well as translations and interpretations of important sources. Furthermore the series intends to present studies that offer expert knowledge on relevant themes and current questions appealing not only to the academic public, but also to an audience generally interested in East Asia. One important goal of the series is to establish a forum for academic work in the fields of the humanities and social sciences in Switzerland. However, the series is also committed to the rich variety of studies and writing on East Asia in the international research community. The main publication languages for studies, collections (by individual or several contributors), and surveys are therefore German, French, and English. The series is supervised and internally reviewed by an editorial board comprising leading representatives in East Asian studies.

Bd. 1

Martin Lehnert Partitur des Lebens. Die Liaofan si xun von Yuan Huang (1533-1606). 2004, 299 S. ISBN 3-03910-408-X

Bd. 2

Simone Müller Sehnsucht nach Illusion? Klassische japanische Traumlyrik aus literaturhistorischer und geschlechtsspezifischer Perspektive. 2005, 306 S. ISBN 3-03910-478-0

Bd. 3

Matthias Richter Guan ren. Texte der altchinesischen Literatur zur Charakterkunde und Beamtenrekrutierung. 2005, 504 S. ISBN 3-03910-634-1

Bd. 4

Harald Meyer Die „Taisho-Demokratie“. Begriffsgeschichtliche Studien zur Demokratierezeption in Japan von 1900 bis 1920. 2005, 471 S. ISBN 3-03910-642-2

Bd. 5

Verena Werner Das Verschwinden des Erzählers. Erzähltheoretische Analysen von Erzählungen Tayama Katais aus den Jahren 1902-1908. 2006, 433 S. ISBN 3-03910-667-8

Bd. 6

Ildegarda Scheidegger Bokutotsusô. Studies on the Calligraphy of the Zen Master Musô Soseki (1275–1351). 2005, 207 S. ISBN 3-03910-692-9 / US-ISBN 0-8204-7563-7

Bd. 7

Samuel Guex Entre nonchalance et désespoir. Les intellectuels japonais sinologues face à la guerre (1930-1950). 2006, 300 S. ISBN 3-03910-829-8

Bd. 8

Satomi Ishikawa Seeking the Self. Individualism and Popular Culture in Japan. 2007, 253 S. ISBN 978-3-03910-874-9

Bd. 9

Helmut Brinker Laozi flankt, Konfuzius dribbelt. China scheinbar abseits: Vom Fussball und seiner heimlichen Wiege. 2006, 180 S. ISBN 3-03910-890-5

Bd. 10

Wojciech Jan Simson Die Geschichte der Aussprüche des Konfuzius (Lunyu). 2006, 339 S. ISBN 3-03910-967-7

Bd. 11

Robert H. Gassmann Verwandtschaft und Gesellschaft im alten China. Begriffe, Strukturen und Prozesse. 2006, 593 S. ISBN 3-03911-170-1

Bd. 12

Judith Fröhlich Rulers, Peasants and the Use of the Written Word in Medieval Japan. Ategawa no sho 1004–1304. 2007, 223 S. ISBN 978-3-03911-194-7

Bd. 13

Wang Hui: Translating Chinese Classics in a Colonial Context: James Legge and His Two Versions of the Zhongyong. 2008, 224 S. ISBN 978-3-03911-631-7

Bd. 14

Martina Wernsdörfer: Experiment Tibet. Felder und Akteure auf dem Schachbrett der Bildung 1951-2003. 2008, 547 S. ISBN 978-3-03911-671-3

Bd. 15

Roland Altenburger: The Sword or the Needle. The Female Knight-errant (xia) in Traditional Chinese Narrative. 2009, 425 S. ISBN 978-3-0343-0036-0

Bd. 16

Yiu-wai Chu & Eva Kit-wah Man (eds): Contemporary Asian Modernities. Transnationality, Interculturality, and Hybridity. 2010, 318 S. ISBN 978-3-0343-0093-3

Bd. 17

Andrea Riemenschnitter: Karneval der Götter. Mythologie, Moderne und Nation in Chinas 20. Jahrhundert. 2011. 603 S. ISBN 978-3-0343-0584-6

Bd. 18

Guy Podoler: Monuments, Memory, and Identitiy. Constructing the Colonial Past in South Korea. 2011. 272 S. ISBN 978-3-0343-0660-7