Primitive Selves: Koreana in the Japanese Colonial Gaze, 1910–1945 0520266730, 9780520266735

Table of contents :
Contents
Illustrations
Acknowledgments
Note on Transliteration
Introduction
1. A Long Engagement
2. Ethnography as Self-Reflection: Japanese Anthropology in Colonial Korea
3. Curating Koreana: The Management of Culture in Colonial Korea
4. The First K-Wave: Koreaphilia in Imperial Japanese Popular Culture
Epilogue: Postcolonial Valorizations
Notes
Bibliography
Index

Citation preview

Primitive Selves

colonialisms Jennifer Robertson, General Editor 1. Doctors within Borders: Profession, Ethnicity, and Modernity in Colonial Taiwan, by Ming-cheng M. Lo 2. A Different Shade of Colonialism: Egypt, Great Britain, and the Mastery of the Sudan, by Eve M. Troutt Powell 3. Living with Colonialism: Nationalism and Culture in the Anglo-Egyptian Sudan, by Heather J. Sharkey 4. Colonizing Sex: Sexology and Social Control in Modern Japan, by Sabine Frühstück 5. Primitive Selves: Koreana in the Japanese Colonial Gaze, 1910–1945, by E. Taylor Atkins

Primitive Selves Koreana in the Japanese Colonial Gaze, 1910 –1945

E. Taylor Atkins

u ni v e r si t y of ca li for ni a pr e s s Berkeley

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Los Angeles

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London

University of California Press, one of the most distinguished university presses in the United States, enriches lives around the world by advancing scholarship in the humanities, social sciences, and natural sciences. Its activities are supported by the UC Press Foundation and by philanthropic contributions from individuals and institutions. For more information, visit www.ucpress.edu. University of California Press Berkeley and Los Angeles, California University of California Press, Ltd. London, England © 2010 by The Regents of the University of California Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Atkins, E. Taylor, 1967– Primitive selves : Koreana in the Japanese colonial gaze, 1910–1945 / E. Taylor Atkins. p. cm. — (Colonialisms ; 5) Includes bibliographical references and index. isbn 978-0-520-26673-5 (cloth : alk. paper) isbn 978-0-520-26674-2 (paper : alk. paper) 1. Korea—History—Japanese occupation, 1910–1945. 2. Korea—Colonial influence. 3. Postcolonialism— Korea. 4. Korea—Foreign public opinion, Japanese. 5. Korea—Relations—Japan. 6. Japan—Relations— Korea. 7. Imperialism—Social aspects—Japan— History—20th century. 8. Japan—Cultural policy. 9. Public opinion—Japan—History—20th century. I. Title.  

 

ds916.55.a86 2010 951.9'03—dc22

2010008920

Manufactured in the United States of America 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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This book is printed on Cascades Enviro 100, a 100% post consumer waste, recycled, de-inked fiber. FSC recycled certified and processed chlorine free. It is acid free, Ecologo certified, and manufactured by BioGas energy.

For my teachers

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Contents

List of Illustrations Acknowledgments Note on Transliteration

Introduction 1. A Long Engagement 2. Ethnography as Self-Reflection: Japanese Anthropology in Colonial Korea 3. Curating Koreana: The Management of Culture in Colonial Korea 4. The First K-Wave: Koreaphilia in Imperial Japanese Popular Culture

Epilogue: Postcolonial Valorizations Notes Bibliography Index

ix xi xv

1 13 52 102 147

187 201 235 257

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Illustrations

1. “Danjo no fukusō” (men and women’s clothing) / 84 2. A Croat couple from the valley of Serezan near Zagreb, Moscow Ethnographic Exhibition, 1867 / 85 3. 4. 5. 6. 7.

Ndonga women photographed by C. H. L. Hahn / 86 Korean children with changsŭng / 87 Korean changsŭng / 88 Charm at the palace courtyard entrance, Kuba, ca. 1908–9 / 89 Haida totem at entrance of Chief Anetias’ house, Masset, British Columbia / 90 8. Cabinet card by Hudson’s Gallery, Tama, Iowa (ca. 1880) / 91

9. 10. 11. 12.

Changnimjip (“blind man’s house”), Osan / 92 Korean women with headscarves / 99 Three police officers at Hanwangmyo (royal burial site) / 113 Imna Tae Kaya Stone Monument, Independence Hall of Korea, Ch’ŏnan, Republic of Korea, June 2003 / 115 13. Ethnomusicologist Tanabe Hisao / 128 14. Construction of the GGC administrative building (ca. 1916–17) / 139 15. Sheet music for Saijō Yaso’s rendition of “Arirang” (ca. 1932) / 162 16. “Keisang [sic], Korean Dancing Girls” / 177 ix

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Illustrations

17. Postcard featuring kisaeng and geisha / 182 18. Cap from the dome of the former Government-General headquarters, Independence Hall of Korea, Ch’ŏnan, Republic of Korea, June 2003 / 199

Acknowledgments

This project, no less than my previous ones, originated with my music mania. In this case, I developed a fondness for Korean music (particularly p’ansori narrative singing and samul nori drumming) as a Fellow at the Asian Studies Development Program’s Korean Society and Culture Institute in 2000. One of my first thoughts was to wonder how Japanese reacted to Korean music and other performing arts during the colonial period. This book is what happens when one starts thinking and doesn’t have sense enough to quit. Another impetus to write this book developed from my teaching interest in colonialism, which must be one of the most complex of all human relationships. It is so easy—and not the least bit inappropriate—to condemn colonialism as a relationship of dominance, injustice, and exploitation, but it is so much more difficult to comprehend why such relationships develop in the first place, why they endure, and what comes of them. The economic and human tolls entailed in maintaining colonies, not to mention the misguided idealism that motivated so many to venture to distant lands, make it impossible to ascribe colonialism merely to profit-mongering. Likewise, the tangible social and material benefits accrued by some classes of colonized peoples compel us to acknowledge a consent to be dominated, even a concession of metropolitan superiority, that many find incomprehensibly masochistic, given today’s construction of low self-esteem as the theoretical root of all evil. I cannot claim to have answered these questions with a shiny new theory of colonialism—much greater minds have tackled that xi

xii | Acknowledgments

task—but I hope that I have at least done justice to the colonial imbroglio in this account. My first words of thanks go to the faculty and staff of the ASDP Korea institute, particularly director Ned Shultz; and to my students at Northern Illinois University, who in innumerable ways have inspired me to ponder the perplexities of colonial relationships. I also owe a special debt to my dear friend and fellow p’ansori enthusiast Katharine Purcell. On a train from Andong to Seoul, we carelessly tossed around the notion of writing a comparative analysis of p’ansori and the blues. Two and a half years later it was in print. It was in the course of our research that I ran across the vague, scattered references to Japanese suppression of the Korean solo opera that piqued my curiosity and set me on this quest. So, to Sistah Kate, a big kamsa hamnida, much love, and all the boiled peanuts she can eat. Invaluable grant support came from the Northeast Asia Council of the Association for Asian Studies, Northern Illinois University, and the Japan Foundation. I am grateful for speaking and teaching engagements that enabled me to use the East Asian collections at Harvard-Yenching, Stanford, University of Chicago, University of California at Berkeley, and the University of Michigan. The comparative dimension of this book has been of central importance to me, intellectually and personally, and it has required that I consult my friends and colleagues in other fields on a regular basis. I very much appreciate numerous conversations with Sean Farrell, Eric Jones, and Kristin Huffine, without which my thoughts would be substantially poorer. Sundiata Djata, Heide Fehrenbach, Beatrix Hoffman, Nancy Wingfield, and Christine Worobec commented helpfully on grant applications and prospectuses. My colleague John Bentley kindly shared his genius, providing assistance and feedback on my translation efforts. The comments, suggestions, and encouragement I received from Sabine Frühstück, Hosokawa Shūhei, Hyung-il Pai, and Louise Young were invaluable. I offer special thanks to Michael Robinson, whose encouragement of this project from its inception sustained me through multiple bouts of self-doubt. It was likewise indescribably validating that Jennifer Robertson, a scholar whose work I have long admired, showed such interest in this project and solicited the manuscript for inclusion in her “Colonialisms” series. This led to wonderful working relationships with Sheila Levine, Kate Marshall, Emily Park, and Caroline Knapp of University of California Press. It is my blessing and honor to have placed Primitive Selves in their care. It seems to me a miracle that this book has seen the light of day. It was conceived in a haze, with the onset of a chronic sleep disorder, and com-

Acknowledgments

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xiii

pleted in the throes of serious depression. I confess this not as an excuse for the book’s shortcomings, but only so that others similarly afflicted may know what they might nonetheless accomplish—especially if they have a Lynette Swedberg in their corner. My family and friends never wavered in their faith in my ability to “git ’er done.” If you like what you read, thank them. I will donate 100 percent of my author’s royalties from Primitive Selves to the Tahirih Justice Center, a not-for-profit organization that coordinates pro-bono legal, social, and medical services for immigrant women and girls in the United States who are victims of gender-based violence, trafficking, and exploitation. For more information, please go to www.tahirih.org.

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Note on Transliteration

I have followed the revised Hepburn system for romanizing Japanese terms and the McCune-Reischauer system for Korean, except for Seoul (instead of Sŏul) and in cases where an author publishing in English uses an idiosyncratic spelling. The Republic of Korea adopted the Revised Romanization of Korean in 2000 (for instance, rendering Chosŏn as Joseon). There are other romanizations of varying degrees of systemization. My opinion, as a frustrated Korean newbie, is that McCune-Reischauer’s diacritical marks make it easier to pronounce the eight vowel sounds, but the Revised Romanization is more accurate for consonants. I am in no position to suggest yet another alternative. Since McCune-Reischauer remains the standard in Anglophone scholarship, I have chosen to use it here.

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Introduction

While staying in Kyōto in September 2004, I went to see a pretty bad movie (which will remain nameless, but I will say its main character is named Van Helsing). I’ve never been so glad I saw a bad movie in my life. One of the seemingly endless commercials preceding the werewolfery featured a percussive jam session of Japanese taiko and Korean samul nori drummers. All too quickly the rhythmic orgy ended, followed by an announcement for the Japan-Korea Friendship Year (Nikkan yūjōnen) scheduled for 2005. The campaign encouraged and promoted initiatives from private citizens and civic organizations for economic and cultural exchange, special events, and educational programs to facilitate the “deepening” relationship between Japan and the Republic of Korea (ROK).1 Though wearing distinctive national dress, and beating on emblematic national drums (taiko and ch’anggo), the two troupes created a seamless rhythmic groove designed to inspire similarly sinuous collaborations between these neighbors. I had unwittingly waded into the crest of the so-called “Korea Wave” (Hallyu in Korean, Kanryū in Japanese). This was my fifth journey to Japan, and the country was experiencing a “Korea boom” unlike anything I had personally seen before. Probably only someone who has haunted Japan’s plenteous record stores as much as I have could appreciate the sheer volume of Korean pop music now available in Japan. In the first decade of the new millennium, a number of K-pop stars had secured huge, devoted followings in Japan, and Korean songs had become a staple in Japanese karaoke. More surprisingly, Korean dramas were broadcast nightly on 1

2 | Introduction

Japanese television, following the astounding Japanese response to the Korean miniseries Winter Sonata. Add this to the strong (and risibly unreciprocated) support Japanese soccer fans showered on South Korea’s overachieving national team in the 2002 World Cup, and it seemed clear that Korea had resurfaced in Japan’s mass consciousness sixty years after the ignominious fall of the Japanese empire. Certainly this resurgence has not been altogether pleasant. North Korean nuclear saber rattling has raised apprehensions in Japan, stoking the political agendas of Japanese politicians who have long sought to revise the socalled “peace clause” (Article 9) of their constitution. Relations with South Korea have warmed considerably in the last decade, in part because of a sense of mutual interest in declawing the North. But other issues continue to sour Japan-ROK relations: how to narrate colonial history to middle school students through the medium of the textbook; who holds prior sovereignty over Tsushima/Taema-do, situated in the straits between the two countries; and what to call the body of water to Japan’s north and Korea’s east, the Sea of Japan or the East Sea. As the ad for the JapanKorea Friendship Year demonstrates, there is some hope that these tensions can be ameliorated through cultural exchange, that music, television dramas, animated films, and other performing arts will promote the kind of international understanding and genuine warmth to which politicians and diplomats may publicly aspire, but which pride and thorny issues of “national interest” render unattainable. Primitive Selves contends that the early-twenty-first-century Japanese enthusiasm for quotidian Koreana, and the concomitant faith that it constituted a viable conduit for intercultural union, are not without precedent. I neglected to mention why I was in Kyōto in September 2004. I was hunting “Arirangs.” Having recently become enamored of certain genres of Korean music, and wondering how they fared under colonial rule, I had begun investigating how “Arirang,” a song that many Korean authors insisted was oozing with indignation toward Japanese, had become a huge hit in Japan. It took me a while to realize how fortuitous it was to be engaged in such research while vicariously surfing the K-Wave. I had my hook. Primitive Selves advances three principal arguments. First, it challenges the prevailing historiographical characterization of imperial Japanese attitudes toward Koreans and their culture. With precious few exceptions, most historians insist that Japanese were contemptuous of Koreana and determined to obliterate any evidence or memory of an independent national

Introduction | 3

culture and identity through aggressive assimilation directives. A recent call for papers from Journal of Genocide Research includes the Japanese occupation of Korea as a case of “cultural genocide,” indicating how well ensconced this view is. 2 The evidence presented here, however, suggests that there was indeed space for assertions of Koreanness within Japan’s imperial culture, and that Koreana held considerable appeal for some government officials, scholars, hobbyists, and consumers in Japan’s emerging mass media culture. The second argument attempts to explain this appeal: colonial access to Korea gave Japanese an opportunity to meditate intensively on their own historical and modern identity. The themes of loss and nostalgic longing for a purer cultural self are central to Japanese experiences of modernity. Seldom, however, do these themes intrude on imperial studies, where the self-satisfied arrogance of Japanese imperialism takes center stage. The Japanese gaze on Koreana articulated anti-modern ambivalence, offering concrete images of pre-modern “others” with whom the modern “self” could be readily contrasted. Contradiction and nostalgia were thus defining aspects of Japanese colonial discourse. So Primitive Selves attempts to integrate two abiding aspects of modern Japanese history: empire and the “epistemology of loss.”3 That is not to say that I insist upon the singularity of Japan’s experience of colonial modernity. On the contrary, I have found it most enlightening to situate this history within a comparative, global context of colonial ideologies and practices. Studies of imperial Japan and colonial Korea infrequently reference other empires (the reverse is even rarer), assuming that the “reactive” nature of Japan’s imperial expansion and the cruelty of Korea’s colonial experience are nonpareil. Because so much of Japan’s imperial praxis was “mimetic” of others, it is worth noting the resemblances in concept and approach, while still remaining attentive to the distinctive qualities of this particular colonial relationship. Finally, following accepted anthropological wisdom of recent decades, I argue that the acts of gazing and being gazed at fundamentally transformed both the observer and the observed. A shamanic rite (kut) or mask dance (t’alch’um) performed in the presence of Japanese ethnographers and photographers was no longer just what it had been, a spiritual cleansing of the community or a parody of social elites. Such practices were now markers of difference and performances of identity, signifiers which distinguished the observed Koreans from the Japanese spectators. The function of these practices had changed from serving internal community and spiritual interests to acting as resources of knowledge for external observers, loaded with information about what made Koreans Korean. The awareness

4 | Introduction

of being gazed at instigated among Koreans a revaluation of the social worth, meaning, and significance of what had been commonplace practices, culminating in the post-liberation efforts to preserve and promote them as emblems of Korean identity. On the other hand, the Japanese witnessing these practices were likewise transformed by the experience, as they digested and incorporated what they saw into their own (personal and national) narratives and self-conceptions. Cognizant of ancient ethnological and cultural ties between themselves and those upon whom they gazed, they could not help but ponder who they really were, if they indeed were encountering their own primitive selves. For some time now, scholars of imperialism have adopted and employed a notion of “the gaze” rooted in Michel Foucault’s philosophy of the exercise of institutional power through individual bodies and the normalization of customary behaviors. Whereas in popular use, “gaze” has a rather detached, even lackadaisical connotation, when applied to imperial studies it denotes a much more proactive, even nefarious, practice: surveillance. The “gaze” so conceived is an assertion of power by one party over another; the prerogative to gaze and the tools and technologies that make it possible are monopolized by the state, the colonial power, or whatever institution or individual is in a position of dominance. As “the lens through which the ‘Other’ is interpreted and subsequently depicted,” the gaze generates information, which in turn produces knowledge about those who are dominated. 4 Hegemonic parties seek and use this knowledge to better manage and “discipline” populations under their control. In other words, no gathering of data in the context of unequal power is “innocent,” no matter how well intentioned, sympathetic, or magnanimous the gazers may be. Colonial studies thus conceived typically imply that the very acts of observation, data collection, and intellectual elucidation are affirmations of supremacy, cloaked in the self-deluded rhetoric of scientific detachment and neutrality. In much postmodern discourse, this fact alone invalidates both the veracity of the knowledge gathered and the morality of the enterprise of knowing an “other.” This is more or less the concept of “gaze” that I employ here, but with some reservations about the questionable presumptions on which it rests. The best-known application of this theoretical position is Edward Said’s hugely influential Orientalism (1978), which basically argues that the exotic “Orient” (by which Said meant primarily the Islamic cultures of the Middle East) was a figment of the “Occidental” imagination, expressed in literature, art, and other forms of expressive culture. Orientalism, Said contended, was a peculiarly European, Manichean habit of mind that posited

Introduction | 5

the fundamentally alien nature of the Oriental in contrast to the Occidental self; furthermore, artistic expressions of this mentalité, far from being innocuous, constituted an exercise in domination that was positively injurious to those being scrutinized. Said’s critics rightly object to his presuppositions that such a gaze is one-way (as if the gazed-upon are incapable of gazing back, with equal distortion and miscomprehension) and that it is a peculiarly Western practice dating from the Enlightenment (as I describe in Chapter 2, the “ethnographic gaze” as a way of knowing the alien “other” has a long, multicultural history). More fundamentally, while I am no apologist for imperialism, I am not persuaded that the acquisition and application of knowledge to administer the governed is in and of itself malevolent. One problem I have always had with the eternally paranoid, vulgarized version of Foucauldianism to which many scholars subscribe is the usually unstated, unexamined premise that institutions such as the state, professional organizations, schools, hospitals, and the like are inherently wicked and intent on suppressing individual freedom and diversity. I have no delusions of convincing them that the anarchic utopia they (perhaps unconsciously) envisage might be much more dangerous than the “disciplined” society we currently inhabit. At any rate, I am perfectly willing to concede that Japanese efforts to “know” Korea were motivated by a desire to ensure the efficacy and longevity of colonial rule, but not to agree that it would have been better to rule Koreans in ignorance of their beliefs and customs. Many of the Japanese Koreaphiles whose observations form the evidentiary base for this book seem to have been sincere in their belief that Japanese could more ably, and ethically, govern Koreans if they knew something about them. Besides, as I hope Primitive Selves demonstrates, the Japanese gaze on Korea was as much a gaze on the self as on the alien, and the former gaze was sometimes harshly critical. One of the unique twists in this particular colonial relationship was the widely accepted belief in the common ancestry of Japanese and Koreans, which made gazing on the “other” as much an act of introspection as surveillance. It was not uncommon for Euro-American colonial observers to be seduced by the primordial “simplicity” of native life, in contrast to the fussy complexities of modernity, but the presumed racial and ethnic distance made it quite difficult for them to imagine truly being connected to that life. For Japanese, however, who had long, well-documented ethnological, historical, and cultural ties to Koreans, it was far less challenging to visualize themselves as but one generation removed from the lifeways, belief systems, and expressive forms

6 | Introduction

they observed in Korea—a fact that they did not always agree was cause for congratulation. My thinking here has been influenced most profoundly by two works of scholarship, which I repeatedly reference: Nicholas Thomas’s 1994 book Colonialism’s Culture; and Andre Schmid’s article “Colonialism and the ‘Korea Problem’ in the Historiography of Modern Japan.” Both are examples of “new imperial studies” in that both are as attentive to the cultural impact of empire on imperial states as they are to the effects of imperial policies on colonized peoples, but I have found these two works to be particularly insightful and pertinent to the problems I address here. Thomas argues that “colonialism is not best understood primarily as a political or economic relationship that is legitimized or justified through ideologies of racism or progress,” but rather as “a cultural process.” The “coherence” of colonial projects, Thomas maintains, was compromised by both “internal contradictions and the intransigence and resistance of the colonized”; scholars have attributed to colonial powers too much influence, authority, consistency, and self-assurance, when in fact there is far more to colonial relationships than a “global and transhistorical logic of denigration” of subjected peoples. He characterizes the act of colonizing as “fundamentally reflexive,” a form of “self-fashioning” for those who perform it, be they colonial officials, explorers, travelers, chroniclers, soldiers, or even observers and readers who never set foot in the colony. Moreover, such reflexivity was not always to the benefit of the colonial power: “There are too many forms of colonial representation which are, at least at one level, sympathetic, idealizing, relativistic and critical of the producer’s home societies.” Thomas thus prefers to speak of “colonialisms” in the plural, to do justice to the specificity of ideologies and practices in different settings, even within the same empire. 5 Like most theorists of imperialism and colonialism, Thomas makes no specific mention of the practices and ideologies of the Japanese empire, but I find his insights quite applicable here, especially in the Korean context. Japan’s formal empire—consisting of Taiwan, Korea, Karafuto, and Micronesia—and its later occupation of Manchuria, China’s eastern seaboard, and most of Southeast Asia, are too often seen as the products of a peculiar strategic coherence and unity of purpose, based on modern Japan’s sense of political and economic insecurity, and justified by a selfserving, hypocritical ideology of pan-Asian brotherhood. Recently scholars have tried to redress this deficiency with important work on specific colonies and occupied territories in Japan’s empire, but much remains to be done in order to reconceptualize this empire as a system of multiple

Introduction | 7

“colonialisms.” Thomas offers a framework for understanding colonialism as a disjunctive set of ideas and practices, affecting the colonized and the colonizer with comparable (if not necessarily equal) impact, beset with irreconcilable contradictions, and shaped fundamentally by conditions— and peoples—“on the ground.” Schmid’s article (published in The Journal of Asian Studies in 2000) chides historians of Japan and its empire for neglecting Korea in their narratives. A historian of Korea who authored the prizewinning book Korea Between Empires, 1895–1919 (2002), Schmid contends that “Englishlanguage studies of Japan have been slow to interweave the colonial experience into the history of modern Japan.” In his view, “much of the literature is marked by a top-down, metrocentric approach that renders colonial history tangential to the main narratives of the modern Japanese nation and, in some instances, comes precariously close to reproducing versions of Japanese colonial discourse.” Citing the impact of “new imperial history” on the study of British national history, Schmid (quoting Bernard Cohn) hopes to prod historians of Japan to view the metropole and colony as a “unitary field of analysis,” and to assess the effects of empire building on Japan’s successful modernization process, rather than viewing the empire as the outcome of that process. 6 Schmid’s provocative article drew testy responses from some of the historians whose work he criticized, but I was one Japan historian who found it not only persuasive but epiphanic.7 I cannot claim to have addressed all of his concerns here, nor to have produced the kind of “transnational history” he advocates, but in both my teaching and my research it has become habitual for me to envisage the histories of modern Japan and Korea as interlocking and mutually constituting. Like most studies, this one began with one simple-sounding question— what were Japanese reactions to the satire and defiance of vernacular performing arts of Korea?—and expanded in unforeseen directions to include folk religion, Buddhism, geomancy, archaeology, and mass media. The reader may ask why I initially chose to focus on folk performance (minzoku geinō in Japanese, minsok yenŭng in Korean). Aside from the personal aesthetic pleasure I had come to derive from much Korean music, there were two aspects that made this area of focus intellectually captivating. For one thing, minsok yenŭng were visual and aural signifiers of Korean difference, in-your-face proof of the cultural distinctiveness of Korea, which was not insignificant when Japanese were determined both to demonstrate the derivative Sino-centrism of Korean culture and to Japanize as much of it as they could. I argue here, contrary to historiographical precedent, that

8 | Introduction

these performances of Korean distinctiveness could not only persist under Japanese imperialism, but even contribute positively to a multiethnic panAsian cultural regime. The other intriguing aspect was the inherently subversive content of so much Korean performance art, which entertained its audience by exposing the hypocrisy and injustice of the social order, by cleverly rolling the “real world” over to show its ass. The satire of Korean folk performance was so sharp because the precolonial Korean state was so assured of its own virtue. The Chosŏn regime (1392–1910) prided itself on having exceeded China in the implementation of a Confucian moral order, but actually created what was arguably the most inflexibly stratified society in East Asia. Though, like China, it had a civil service examination, hereditary status was required to sit for it: only the sons of male yangban aristocrats and their primary wives— not secondary wives or concubines—were eligible. Koreans also placed more emphasis on consanguineous kinship than did Japanese, who in the absence of a male heir frequently adopted one via marriage to a daughter. Dissatisfaction was rampant among Koreans not privileged by this de facto caste system, and was duly expressed in their arts. In Pongsan, Hwanghae-do, villagers performed masked dance dramas skewering Buddhist clergy and yangban playboys alike for lechery and avarice—the debauched priest’s mask was typically pockmarked, indicating the quality of his karma. 8 The p’ansori opera Ch’unhyang-ka is even more ingenious, presenting a tale of elite corruption and commoner virtue disguised as a Confucian morality tale. The daughter of a lowly kisaeng, Ch’unhyang refuses the advances of the local governor to remain chaste for her absent husband, and suffers mightily for it. While yangban audiences applauded the story’s didactic celebration of wifely fidelity, commoners nodded knowingly to themselves that no hereditary elite had a monopoly on moral virtue. “As popular literature,” the late Marshall Pihl remarked, “p’ansori rejected the aristocratic assumption of a historical mandate for the social status quo and emphasized the contradictions and inequities of the real world in which the common people struggled to survive.”9 By “masking” themselves and their message, literally or figuratively, subaltern Koreans thus deployed their arts as “weapons of the weak.”10 Because of their traditionally subversive qualities, these arts were natural objects of interest to the colonial regime, inspiring curiosity and aesthetic appreciation, but also apprehension that it had taken the yangban’s place as the butt of common folks’ jokes. According to some Korean folklorists, such fears were not unfounded. In their respective studies of Korean “oral literature,” Cho Dong-il and

Introduction | 9

Andrew Nahm argue that commoners deployed “invisible forms” such as popular ballads (kagok) and folk songs (minyo) to create an “underground broadcast” that lamented the loss of sovereignty, expressed the disruption and disorientation that accompanied modernization, and excoriated Japanese imperialists. Others have documented so-called “anti-Japan” variations on the durable “Arirang” song, as Chapter 4 recounts.11 In fact, Cho contends, such songs proliferated among the common folk well before the imposition of colonial rule, such as this ballad from the 1894 Tonghak peasant revolt, the event that instigated war between China and Japan: Those who are fluent of speech are summoned to court, Those who can work get to the public cemetery, Girls who can produce get to be whores, And those who have muscles are called to slave labor.12

As the outlook for a viable, independent Korea dimmed, Nahm remarks, the songs and poems grew ever bleaker in content. “The songs and poems of the colonial period proved indisputably that the Korean people were far from being satisfied or happy with Japanese rule and they told and retold countless numbers of stories about the trials and tribulations of the subjugated and oppressed people.”13 In the sources I have examined, Japanese observers seem to have been more irritated by the inexorable grimness of Koreans’ attitudes than with any direct, explicit criticism of their authority. They regarded this despondency as a national characteristic, for which they had no particular responsibility. Caveats are a necessary part of every Introduction, so much more so in this one. There are limits to what this study intends to and can accomplish, because my knowledge of the Korean language is quite rudimentary. I am well aware that it causes great offense to some scholars and readers for a linguistically unqualified researcher to tread into their territory; when a Japan specialist ventures into Korea studies without adequate language skills, it appears to some as a metaphor for the insensitivity and ignorance with which Japan invaded Korea itself. I have kept in front of me a harsh review of Peter Duus’s study of Meiji Japanese attitudes toward Korea, The Abacus and the Sword (1995), which was criticized for being too “onesided.” I think these criticisms are perfectly valid if a study purports to be more than it can be (which Professor Duus’s does not).14 I am always chagrined to walk into a bookstore and find a book that claims to say something definitive or provocative about Japan but which uses no Japaneselanguage sources. However, appropriately chastened by the limits of my

10 | Introduction

Korean competency, I persevered with this study because of my intellectual passion for the subject and because of an abiding belief that the modern histories of neither Japan nor Korea can be adequately grasped without extensive reference to the other. It has been my good fortune that so many Korean scholars have made their work available in English and Japanese, so it has hardly been a challenge to include a multitude of Korean voices and perspectives, and I have made it a priority to do so. Another coping mechanism has been to stick to the original question— “What did the Japanese make of this?”—in framing the book. Thus this book is a study of Japanese attitudes, policies, and perspectives on Koreana, rather than a social history of the performing arts in colonial Korea, a study which I am clearly not qualified to undertake but which I eagerly await from a linguistically competent scholar. Besides, it seems to me that the impact of empire on the Japanese metropole itself is much less well studied than its effects on Korea. Every Koreanist must address this impact, while many Japanese specialists have managed to avoid it through disinterest or lack of training. While I do indeed hope that I have something meaningful and thought-provoking to say about Korea in Primitive Selves, for the reasons stated above I admit that any contribution this book makes will more likely be to Japan studies. Chapter 1 situates Primitive Selves within the overlapping historiographies of colonial Korea and imperial Japan. In addition to providing a historical overview of the colonial period from the late nineteenth century until liberation, the chapter critically appraises the conventional periodization of colonial Korean history. Whereas historians typically identify three discrete periods of colonial rule—military rule (1910–19), cultural rule (1920–31), and mobilization for war (1931–45)—I argue that the middle, purportedly more liberal period’s mandate to “inspect the conditions of the people” and investigate “matters bearing on old Korean customs and manners” was a consistent feature of colonial rule. Hardly a temporary aberration, the Japanese interest in documenting, preserving, and consuming Koreana emerged in the “dark period” of military rule and persisted into the 1930s, coexisting with aggressive assimilation efforts designed to remold Koreans into Japanese imperial subjects (kōminka). In Chapter 2, “Ethnography as Self-Reflection,” I use printed and photographic ethnographies by Japanese government officials, academic social scientists, and Koreaphilic hobbyists to analyze the multiple, sometimes contradictory, messages in Japanese ethnographic accounts and images of colonial Korea, and to assess their practical and ideological value to the

Introduction | 11

imperial project. I argue that colonial anthropology in Korea was characterized by two conflicting tendencies: on the one hand, ethnographic accounts and images maximized Korean difference to enhance the grandeur of the Japanese empire, dramatize the urgent necessity of Japan’s civilizing influence, and justify the purportedly altruistic intrusion on Korean sovereignty; conversely, these descriptions and images frequently minimized Korean difference to further instill the notion of ethnic kinship between Japanese and Koreans. Furthermore, I situate these Japanese anthropological discourses and images within a globally circulating set of professional conventions and ethnographic iconographies of “primitive peoples.” The conflicted nature of colonial cultural policy is the subject of Chapter  3. The Government-General of Chōsen (GGC, 1910–45) assumed as one of its prerogatives the creation of an institutional infrastructure for the excavation of sites of archaeological importance, the compilation and publication of historical documents, the preservation and display of objets d’art, and the investigation of folkways. The curation of Koreana dramatized the defunct Chosŏn regime’s incompetence with regard to Korean material heritage, and sought to prove long-standing Japanese claims to the peninsula. But curatorial efforts were also motivated by less diabolical interests, with some investigators advocating for the independent value of Korea’s material and cultural heritage and developing affective attachments to it. The ever-present concern for maintaining order in a recalcitrant colony, however, compromised the Government-General’s curatorial ambitions, since the persistence of vernacular resistance in village festivals, folk songs, religious rites, and folk theater incited the regime either to crack down on the festivities, or to redirect popular energies and creativity toward goals that better suited imperial interests. Chapter 4 describes the seldom acknowledged cultural impact of Koreana on imperial Japanese popular entertainment. I examine specific examples that were genuinely popular in Japan—folk songs such as “Arirang” and “The Bellflower Song” (“Toraji t’aryŏng”), imagery of kisaeng (courtesan-entertainers), and the choreography of Ch’oe Sŭng-hŭi, one of imperial Japan’s most prominent celebrities. Koreana was most popular in Japan at a time when assimilation pressures in the colony itself were becoming more forceful. With the onset of war in China and the Pacific, the colonial regime’s highest priority was to knit Koreans more tightly into the fabric of the empire so as to ensure their loyalty and deploy them more effectively for the war effort. This included much tighter censorship of Korean-language media, tougher enforcement of “national language” policies and manda-

12 | Introduction

tory shrine visits, and the Name Change (sōshi kaimei) Campaign, which compelled Koreans to adopt Japanese names. There remained, however, a place for what was distinctively Korean, as a charming indicator of the multiplicity of “local colors” that constituted the new cultural order of Japan’s empire. The book concludes with an appraisal of the role of folk performance art in nation-building efforts in postcolonial Korea. Both Korean states, in their competing assertions of legitimacy, valorized “the people” (minjung), mobilized the performing arts to define and enshrine Korean national identity, and provided institutional support for the preservation and performance of these expressive forms, both at home and abroad. Moreover, dissident groups in South Korea performed shamanic exorcisms and t’alch’um dramas to identify themselves with the masses and to pressure the government toward democratization. I argue that, whereas Korean political and intellectual elites had traditionally despised these expressive forms, the experience of colonial scrutiny transformed them from caste-specific genres to symbols of Koreanness, worthy of state patronage. Moreover, folk performance art has become a medium for commemorating the country’s colonial history and spirit of resistance.

chapter 1

A Long Engagement

The headlines in U.S. newspapers in late August 1910 were nothing less than cataclysmic: “ ‘Hermit Kingdom’ Near End”; “Corea [sic] Ends Existence Soon”; “Korea as a Nation to End This Week”; “Corea No Longer a Nation”; “Korea Now Japanese.”1 Reporting the dramatic events of the week of August 22–29, American news stories adopted a tone of resignation, finality, and inevitability. “Throughout the negotiations, the mass of the Koreans have been kept in entire ignorance of what has been going on,” the New York Times stated. “It is not believed, however, that annexation by Japan will involve disturbances in any section of Korea, which is thoroughly policed. . . . The vast majority of the people of Korea realize that conditions in their country will be improved by annexation, and it will be impossible for the malcontents to arouse sufficient feeling to create uprisings.”2 American journalists portrayed the annexation of August 22 and the abdication of the Yunghŭi Emperor Sunjong (1874–1926) on August 29 as the logical, inescapable outcomes of the Portsmouth Treaty of five years earlier, the terms of which allowed Japan to establish a protectorate over the peninsula then formally known as the Taehan Empire. Their reports presumed that nothing could be done to prevent a Japanese takeover, and focused rather on the issue of whether or not Japan would honor extraterritorial rights and previous tariff agreements Korea had made with Western powers. A New York Times editorial acknowledged how 13

14 | Chapter One

imprudent it would be for imperial powers (including the United States) to reproach Japan for its actions. The act of annexation will be severely criticized, doubtless, as the manner of administration previously has been. But it would be extremely difficult to select the Government which would comply with the scriptural condition for casting the first stone. Japan has taken over Korea with little pretense that it is not actuated by its own interests. It has sufficiently valued those interests to fight two bloody and costly wars [against China and Russia] in their defense. The position of Great Britain in Egypt, of France in Madagascar, of Germany in East Africa, of the United States in the Philippines does not rest on bases any more clearly democratic than that of Japan in Korea. And if it be true, as it unquestionably is, that the wishes of a great part, possibly of the great body, of Koreans are disregarded in the annexation of the kingdom, the Japanese answer would be precisely the answer of the United States in the case of our Oriental possessions. Three ways only were open: abandonment, with the certainty of chaotic disorder as a consequence; surrender to some other power, or complete rule. Japan took, as the United States took, the third way. . . . The prospect, therefore, at present for any foreign criticism of the annexation of Korea is not very formidable. 3

S. H. Kimm (Kim Sik-hun), former attaché of the Korean Legation in Washington, D.C., and president of the Korean Patriotic Association in New York, told the New York Times that Korean resistance fighters continued guerrilla assaults against the Japanese, with the expectation that the United States would in fact come to their aid. “Everywhere, he says, there is a patriotic uprising burning fiercely despite frequent defeat of the Koreans by the better-equipped Japanese soldiers, and kept aflame by the hope that in the near future Japan will find herself with a more powerful enemy on her hands, when Korea can regain her 4,243-year-old independence and throw off the yoke of annexation.”4 The cavalry never came. In this chapter I provide a narrative overview of the intense historical engagement between Japan and Korea, culminating in the imposition of colonial rule. I review the most significant moments of Korea’s colonial history and the administrative and discursive adjustments Japan’s GovernmentGeneral of Chōsen (GGC) made over the course of its forty-year rule. Because subsequent chapters are organized thematically rather than chronologically, this recounting provides a necessary sense of time and place in which to contextualize the analysis that follows. Finally, I revisit this historical narrative with insights gleaned from the research in later chapters, with a particular aim to reconsider the conventional depiction of Japanese indifference and contempt for Korean culture. Usually historians regard

A Long Engagement | 15

any Japanese lenience toward expressions of Korean identity during the colonial period as an ephemeral peculiarity of the decade of “cultural rule” (bunka seiji) that followed the national uprising of spring 1919. I argue to the contrary, that the impulse to study and comprehend, document and record, preserve and exhibit distinctively Korean cultural traits was consistently present throughout the colonial period, despite the various significant modifications made to colonial policies over four decades. Without question, whatever official support the GGC offered for such projects was motivated by its desires to better pacify and manage the colony and to shore up the ethnohistorical ideologies by which it justified colonial rule. As later chapters demonstrate, however, other Japanese constituencies who took an interest in Koreana did so for different reasons, some of which did indeed complement official aims, some of which did not. For many Japanese, Koreana offered the pleasure of the exotic, aesthetic or affective fulfillment, and/ or a means for reflection on the viability of their own cultural integrity and identity in the modern age.

blu n t i ng t h e dagge r For Japanese, annexation was the culmination of a decades-old dream to secure its borders and preserve its sovereignty while European imperial powers ripped into the rest of Asia; securing the Korean peninsula had long since become a canonical element of the Meiji leadership’s defensive, besieged worldview. For Koreans, the events of late August 1910 marked the beginning of a long national nightmare. They would never know if the reforms implemented in the previous two decades might have borne fruit, enabling their nation to march into the modern age with sovereignty and pride intact. The new Japanese government watched smugly as some Koreans engaged in heated finger-pointing after the annexation treaty was signed, lending credence to the Japanese charge that the indigenous government was too beleaguered by factionalism and cronyism to rule responsibly. Some of the less judicious observers of Korean history have argued that Japanese harbored millennia-old territorial ambitions to conquer the peninsula. For them, the 1910 annexation was the foreseeable result of a transgenerational conspiracy to subjugate Korea dating back to antiquity. 5 The ancient Japanese chronicles, Kojiki (712) and Nihon shoki (720), recount an apocryphal conquest of Korea by Empress Jingū (ca. 169–269 c.e.), in which the vanquished Silla “bowed their heads to the ground, and sighing, said:—“Henceforth for ever, these lands shall be styled thy western

16 | Chapter One

frontier provinces, and will not cease to offer tribute.”6 In the seventh century the Yamato court did in fact send troops to the peninsula, but at the request of the kingdom of Paekche defending itself from the onslaught of its neighbor Silla (in alliance with Tang China).7 Seafaring marauders (waegu; wakō) from the Japanese archipelago relentlessly tormented the coastline of Koryŏ (918–1392) for much of the medieval age. The Mongol empire used the peninsula as the launch point for its assault on Japan in 1274 and 1281, forcing reluctant Korean mariners to ferry them across the Tsushima Straits and provide logistical support for the campaign. Although these attempts to subjugate Japan failed, their imprint on Japanese minds persisted well into the modern era: many Japanese were convinced that the “divine winds” (kamikaze) that decimated the Mongol fleet indicated heavenly protection, but they were equally persuaded that if anyone wanted to attack Japan, Korea was the place from which to do it. The worst conflict between Koreans and Japanese came in the 1590s, when the supreme warlord Toyotomi Hideyoshi (1536–98) dispatched some 158,800 samurai—hardened by a lifetime of near-constant civil warfare— to slash and burn their way through the Korean peninsula to subdue the Chinese Ming emperor in Beijing. Boasting of the peace and prosperity he had brought to Japan after more than a century of civil warfare, Hideyoshi informed the Korean king Sŏnjo (1552–1608), “I have in mind to introduce Japanese customs and values to the four hundred and more provinces of [China] and bestow upon it the benefits of imperial rule and culture for the coming hundred million years. . . . I have no other desire but to spread my fame throughout the Three Countries, this and no more.”8 Sŏnjo ignored Hideyoshi’s request that Japanese troops be allowed to pass through his kingdom to attack the Ming and paid dearly for it. The devastation of the ensuing Imjin War (1592–98) was unimaginable. Hideyoshi’s “scorched earth” policy destroyed four-fifths of arable land; by some accounts starvation claimed more lives than battle. Census data, land registers, and slave records were destroyed (the latter by the Korean slaves themselves), making revenue collection virtually impossible and property ownership difficult to determine. Women suffered indescribable horrors at the hands of Japanese, Ming, and even Korean troops. In a culture in which female chastity was insistently prescribed, women who managed to kill themselves before being violated were eulogized, while those who survived unspeakable sexual violence were dishonored and deserted by their husbands and families. With so few “chaste” marriage partners left available to elite Korean men, Sŏnjo was forced to issue a decree ordering them not to abandon their wives and concubines.9

A Long Engagement | 17

Hideyoshi’s successor, Shōgun Tokugawa Ieyasu, sought to normalize relations with the Chosŏn government, in an effort to gain diplomatic recognition for his new regime and to keep abreast of continental affairs (particularly the impending collapse of the Ming). However, he and his descendants tended to depict Korean embassies as congratulatory or tributary missions comparable to those Chosŏn had habitually sent to the Ming court, so as to impress domestic warlords. Rather than continue to nourish such delusions of grandeur on the part of the Japanese regime, Chosŏn eventually stopped sending such delegations, though trade relations persisted throughout the early modern period.10 A resurrection of Japanese interest in Korea occurred with the opening of Japan to trade with the Western powers in 1854, the overthrow of the Tokugawa, and the creation of the Meiji state in 1867–68. The Chosŏn government initially refused to recognize the imperial status of Japan’s restored sovereign Mutsuhito (1852–1912) and rebuffed Japanese overtures for trade and diplomacy on terms of international conduct set by the Western powers. To have accepted these terms would have been at variance with the explicitly Confucian hierarchical standards for international relations in East Asia, by which Korea accepted the transcendent authority of the Chinese sovereign. There could not be two emperors.11 An internal dispute over how to respond to Chosŏn’s “arrogance” caused a major rift in the new Meiji government (Seikan ron, 1873); in fact, the venerated samurai Saigō Takamori (1827–77) parted ways with his fellow restorationists over this very issue. In correspondence with his colleague Itagaki Taisuke, Saigō argued, If . . . we send an envoy to tell the Koreans that we have never to this day harbored hostile intentions, and to reproach them for weakening the relations between our countries; at the same time asking them to correct their arrogance of the past and strive for improved relations in the future, I am sure that the contemptuous attitude of the Koreans will reveal itself. They are absolutely certain, moreover, to kill the envoy. This will bring home to the entire nation the necessity of punishing their crimes. This is the situation which we must bring to pass if our plan is to succeed. I need hardly say that it is at the same time a far-reaching scheme which will divert abroad the attention of those who desire civil strife, and thereby benefit the country.

With characteristic bravado, Saigō offered himself as the sacrificial envoy. Mark Ravina describes Saigō’s stance as “either inchoate or contradictory,” sometimes bellicose, sometimes restrained. His suggestion that hostilities with Korea would have the added benefit of distracting internal dissenters certainly echoed one of Hideyoshi’s motivations for the invasions of the

18 | Chapter One

1590s: that escapade got thousands of restless warriors out of the country, where they could seek thrills and booty without disturbing the recently established, fragile peace Hideyoshi had imposed. But Ravina contends that Saigō’s “quest was moral rather than strategic. In Saigō’s mind, the most pressing matter was to determine the Koreans’ true intentions and ascertain whether they intended to impugn the Japanese imperial house.”12 Saigō ended his life a turncoat in 1877, having (reluctantly) assumed leadership of a rebellion against the imperial state he had helped establish. Japan was not the only foreign power pressuring Chosŏn to open its borders to trade and diplomacy, but it was the first to succeed. In February 1876, following a skirmish several months earlier between the Japanese warship Un’yō and Korean land-based artillery, the Chosŏn court relented and signed the Treaty of Kanghwa, opening three ports (Pusan, Inch’ŏn, and Wŏnsan) to Japanese trade and granting Japanese extraterritorial rights. The terms replicated almost to the letter the Treaty of Kanagawa (1854) between Japan and the United States, as well as the Ansei Treaties (1858, with France, Britain, the Netherlands, the United States, and Russia), which the Meiji government found so demeaning as to make their revocation its primary mission. Undisturbed by the hypocrisy of imposing such demands on another state, Japanese used the Kanghwa treaty to drive a wedge between Chosŏn and its traditional suzerain, Qing China, and worked tirelessly to guarantee that Korea kept Japan’s best interests at heart.13 Enthusiasts for an aggressive Korea policy could be found outside the government and the military, even in the most politically liberal circles. The foremost intellectual exponent of “civilization and enlightenment,” Fukuzawa Yukichi (1835–1901), held the Korean and Chinese governments in such contempt that in 1885 he famously suggested Japan bid both adieu: We do not have time to wait for the enlightenment of our neighbors so that we can work together toward the development of Asia. It is better for us to leave the ranks of Asian nations and cast our lot with civilized nations of the West. As for the way of dealing China and Korea, no special treatment is necessary just because they happen to be our neighbors. We simply follow the manner of the Westerners in knowing how to treat them. Any person who cherishes a bad friend cannot escape his bad notoriety. We simply erase from our minds our bad friends in Asia.14

Fukuzawa mentored a handful of Koreans who came to Japan to study the Meiji model of modernization. He tacitly supported political sedition at the Korean court, offering assistance to Kim Ok-kyun (1851–94), a conspirator in the failed Kapsin Coup of December 4–7, 1884. Kim’s Enlightenment fac-

A Long Engagement | 19

tion (Kaehwap’a) found clear inspiration in Meiji Japan’s embrace of Western science, technology, and political ideas and institutions. Their revolt against the conservative, pro-Qing faction in Seoul had middling Japanese support, but did not prevail against three thousand Chinese troops who marched in to restore their partisans to power.15 Another Fukuzawa protégé, Yu Kil-chun (1856–1914), was an important figure in the ambitious Kabo Reforms of 1894–96. Modern Japan’s most prominent public intellectual thus played a provocative role as inspiration and advocate for those who agitated against the reactionary Chosŏn regime. Fukuzawa’s was not the only unofficial initiative to meddle in Korean affairs on behalf of Japanese interests. One of modern Japan’s most bizarre conspiracies—the so-called Ōsaka Incident (December 1885)—involved a plot by radical dissidents to spark hostilities with Korea. The feminist educator and activist Fukuda Hideko (1865–1927) was caught stockpiling explosives and raising money for a planned expedition across the straits; predicting that she and her comrades would be killed by Chosŏn authorities for creating a disturbance, they hoped the Meiji government would retaliate for their deaths. What so incensed Fukuda was the post-Kapsin accord signed by the Qing statesman Li Hongzhang (1823–1901) and Japan’s Itō Hirobumi (1841–1909) in April 1885, which stipulated that neither country would send troops into Korea again without first consulting the other. “My sense of outrage and indignation was aroused by the pusillanimous behavior of our government officials,” Fukuda fumed. “They were bent on oppressing the people at home but were cowardly in dealing with foreign affairs. They were willing to sully our national honor while pursuing their own ephemeral honor. They concentrated on enhancing their personal ease and comfort while they ignored developments destined to plague the nation for a century.”16 The plot was discovered before Fukuda and her private militia could depart for Korea; charged with “crimes against the state,” she spent three years in prison. The year 1885 was significant not only for the publication of Fukuzawa’s kiss-off to Asia and Fukuda’s unsuccessful scheme; it was also the year when the Prussian officer Major Klemens Wilhelm Jakob Meckel (1842– 1905) began a three-year term as instructor at the Japanese Imperial Army Staff College and advisor to the Meiji government. Meckel is said to have uttered the words that may well have sealed Korea’s fate: the peninsula, he warned his hosts, was “a dagger thrust at the heart of Japan.” For the better part of the previous two decades, Japanese officials had recognized that its interests were best served by having, at the very least, a cooperative and friendly Korean neighbor, but Meckel’s counsel—which presumed an

20 | Chapter One

expansionist Russia or hostile China might launch an attack on the archipelago from the Korean peninsula, as the Mongols had seven centuries earlier—lent special urgency to this aspect of homeland security.17 Events in Korea after 1885 did little to inspire confidence in Japanese observers. Internal turbulence and continued interference in Korean affairs by China, Russia, and other potential antagonists only nourished Japanese insecurities. Japan’s foremost objective—a stable, pro-Japanese Chosŏn court—remained elusive, a situation for which Japanese agents blamed the politically assertive wife of King Kojong (1852–1919), Myŏngsŏng, better known as Queen Min (1851–95).18 Yet it was a domestic rebellion of unprecedented scope, originating in the southwestern Chŏlla provinces, that catalyzed the most intrusive foreign involvement thus far in Korea. The so-called Tonghak Peasant Revolution originated with the religious syncretism of Ch’oe Che-u (1824–94), yet evolved into a quasi-political movement whose objectives included dethroning the Yi dynasty, punishing corrupt yangban officials, redistributing farmland, and expelling foreign influence from Korea.19 As Tonghak peasant soldiers closed in on Seoul in the late spring of 1894, Kojong requested Chinese military aid. Despite the Qing government’s notification to Japan of its impending actions, Japanese responded that the deployment of Chinese troops to Korea violated the Li-Itō Accords, and within two days of the Qing communiqué dispatched the Imperial Army to the peninsula. By mid-summer Japanese troops had entered Seoul, taken Kojong into their custody, and installed the remnants of the reformist Enlightenment faction as the new “government” of Chosŏn. While these newly installed leaders developed the Kabo reform agenda (which asserted Korea’s independence from China, abolished slavery and caste distinctions, and promoted meritocracy over hereditary privilege), Japanese and Chinese troops engaged each other— and occasionally the Tonghak army—in a war whose eventual outcome stunned the world. 20 The end of the Sino-Japanese War in 1895 left essentially two contenders—Russia and Japan—for the affections of the Korean court; within a decade they, too, would be at war to settle the matter. Life in Seoul was anything but uneventful in the interregnum. A few months after peace terms with China were concluded, which included cession of Taiwan as Japan’s first colonial bauble, Japanese agents committed an act so dastardly that its remembrance provokes anger in Koreans to this day. Japan’s new resident minister in Seoul, Viscount Miura Gorō (1847–1926), acting independently of his government, hatched a plot to assassinate Queen Min and her minions and to install a friendlier cohort (including the queen’s

A Long Engagement | 21

estranged father-in-law, Hŭngsŏn Taewŏn’gun, 1821– 98). On October 8 a team of Japanese policemen and hired goons broke into the queen’s quarters in Kyŏngbok palace and dragged her outdoors, where they hacked her to death with swords, briefly displayed her body in another building, then incinerated her corpse in a pine grove on the palace grounds. 21 Miura’s attempts to conceal his “diplomatic methods” were as clumsy as the crime itself and he was recalled to Tokyo immediately (though never convicted). His ghastly effort to make Korea more friendly to Japan backfired, as a bereaved Kojong sought refuge in the Russian legation and anti-Japanese sentiment surged among the general population. 22 When Kojong emerged from his year-long residence in the Russian legation (Feb. 11, 1896–Feb. 20, 1897), he was more defiant of Japanese demands than ever. He ordered a general repeal of the Japanese-backed Kabo Reforms and purged his cabinet of the “friendly-to-Japan bloc” (ch’inilp’a), replacing it with ministers who favored Russia and the United States. The newly formed Independence Club (Tongnip Hyŏphoe, 1896– 99) howled in protest at Kojong’s trade concessions to both powers, but the king otherwise asserted Korean independence by formally changing the name of his kingdom from Chosŏn to Empire of the Great Han (Taehan Cheguk). By converting his own title from king (kukwang) to Kwangmu Emperor (Kwangmuje), Kojong renounced his subordination to the Qing emperor, effectively ending Korea’s centuries-old tradition of “serving the great” (sadae). 23 The Chinese were in no position to object. Yet true independence remained as elusory to the people of Taehan as strategic security did to Japanese. The continued Russian presence in Seoul was bitterly offensive to the victors of the Sino-Japanese War, even more so because Russia’s instigation of the Triple Intervention (April 23, 1895) had forced Japan to relinquish one of its most valuable territorial concessions from the peace deal with China, the warm-water port of Lüshun on the Liaodong Peninsula. 24 One cannot overstate the importance of this episode to subsequent events of the following half century. Humiliated and mortified by their inability to resist Russia, France, and Germany’s “friendly advice,” Japanese broke several years of parliamentary gridlock to generously fund future military appropriations, and lost much confidence in the willingness of Western powers to treat them as equals. The final insult came when Russia wrested from the Qing a twenty-five-year lease on the Liaodong Peninsula and commenced construction of the South Manchurian Railway linking Lüshun with Harbin. Diplomatic exertions were no match for the irreconcilability of Russian and Japanese interests in Northeast Asia, and the Korean court’s habit of playing one against the

22 | Chapter One

other to its own advantage was not conducive to peace. Once again Korea became the battleground for a major war in which it was not a combatant, the outcome of which would determine its destiny. The global impact of Japan’s eventual victory over Russia has been readily acknowledged by historians: it undermined presumptions of white supremacy, heartened anti-colonial nationalists from Southeast Asia to India to Egypt, and convinced the great powers that Japan could not be trifled with in Pacific Asia. 25 Commenting on the Baltic Fleet’s decisive defeat in the Tsushima Straits, one U.S. editorial deemed it “most pitiful.” The one-sidedness of the conflict, by sea or by land, which has been raging for fifteen months in the Far East is pitiful. Let us forget the merits of the quarrel, and judge its progress only by its conduct. At every encounter we find on one side preparedness, foresight, provision; on the other carelessness, ignorance, blind trusting to blind luck. . . . All the remaining sea power of Russia lines up for this final conflict, with ample and undisturbed opportunity for preparation. Seven thousand Russians, in a hundred and fifty million dollars’ worth of ships, after months of practice, under the command of the best man available [Rear Admiral Zinovi Petrovitch Rozhdestvenski], deliberately enter upon the contest, with the resolution to do or die. . . . What is the result? They die but they do not do. A score of their ships are sunk or surrendered. The remnant are left to seek a precarious shelter. And [Admiral] Togo [Heihachirō] reports his fleet virtually uninjured! . . . What is the explanation? We are tempted to recur to Lord Salisbury’s words, spoken at the outset of the [Spanish-American] war in 1898, which gave so much umbrage to poor Spain, and to say that the explanation is the contrast between living and dying nations. 26

Yet Russia was hardly the only “dying nation” in this episode. Any hopes for Korean national independence sank with the Baltic Fleet. Some hail the Treaty of Portsmouth (Sept. 5, 1905) as “one of history’s great peace negotiations,” marking “the emergence of a new era of diplomatic negotiations, multi-track diplomacy.”27 However, such accolades utterly disregard the perspectives and interests of Koreans. Emissaries from Korea traveled to Oyster Bay, New York, to plead with U.S. President Theodore Roosevelt (1858–1919), the treaty’s official arbitrator, to advocate for Korean national independence. They insisted that the 1882 Korean-American Treaty of Amity and Commerce obligated the United States to defend Korean sovereignty. 28 Little did they know that only days before their arrival (July 29), a secret agreement negotiated between U.S. Secretary of War William Howard Taft (1857–1930) and Japanese Prime Minister Katsura Tarō (1848–1913) had formally acknowledged Japan’s claims to Korea, in exchange for Japanese guarantees not to challenge U.S.

A Long Engagement | 23

interests in the Philippines and South Pacific. Thus, Article II of the Treaty of Portsmouth stated: The Imperial Russian Government, acknowledging that Japan possesses in Korea paramount political, military and economical interests, engages neither to obstruct nor interfere with measures for guidance, protection and control which the Imperial Government of Japan may find necessary to take in Korea.29

Japan lost little time exercising its hard-won free hand in Korea. Scarcely more than two months passed before five of the Kwangmu Emperor’s eight ministers defied their sovereign’s wishes and signed a treaty by which Japan assumed responsibility for Korea’s foreign relations and stationed a Resident-General (tōkan) in Seoul, “primarily for the purpose of taking charge of and directing matters relating to diplomatic affairs,” while possessing “the right of private and personal audience of His Majesty the Emperor of Korea.” The one stipulation that at all resembled a concession to Korea was Article 5: “The Government of Japan undertakes to maintain the welfare and dignity of the Imperial House of Korea.”30 In the first of a thirty-year run of Annual Reports that the Japanese colonial government published—in English, for international scrutiny—the Residency-General (tōkanfu) took the opportunity to rehash the history of Korea’s “maladministration” and relations between the two countries, and to restate that nothing less than Japan’s national security had been at stake throughout. 31 The relations of propinquity have made it necessary for Japan to take and exercise, for reasons closely connected with her own safety and repose, a paramount interest and influence in the political and military affairs of Korea. The measures hitherto taken have been purely advisory, but the experience of recent years has demonstrated the insufficiency of measures of guidance alone. The unwise and improvident action of Korea, more especially in the domain of her international concerns, has in the past been the most fruitful source of complications. To permit the present unsatisfactory condition of things to continue unrestrained and unregulated would be to invite fresh difficulties, and Japan believes that she owes it to herself and to her desire for the general pacification of the extreme East to take the steps necessary to put an end once for all [sic] to this dangerous situation. 32

In an oft-cited editorial published two days after the Protectorate Treaty between Japan and Korea was announced, journalist Chang Chi-yŏn (1864– 1921) condemned “the so-called ministers of our government, who are not even worthy of being compared to dogs and swine, sought their own rewards and gains, got frightened by momentary threats, and, to our consternation, became traitorous criminals. They handed over to foreigners a nation with a four-thousand-year history and a dynasty that has lasted five

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hundred years, thereby reducing twenty million souls to being the slaves of foreigners.”33 Only months earlier, during the Russo-Japanese War, Chang had openly endorsed “productively engaging with Japan in pursuit of ‘civilizing’ reforms,” though with national sovereignty intact. His editorial earned him three months in prison. 34 Eventually even the protectorate no longer suited Japanese needs; in July 1909 the Japanese Cabinet drafted a plan for formal annexation. 35 Ruling through the extant government had proven unsatisfactory, Japanese officials explained, “owing to the fact that Korean officials paid little respect to advice given, so long as they were free to adopt or reject it at their own will.”36 The risks of permitting the continued existence of a recalcitrant monarchy became most apparent when Kojong secretly dispatched emissaries to the Second World Peace Conference at The Hague in June 1907. Their mission was to persuade the international community that the Protectorate Treaty had been signed under duress and to beseech intervention on Korea’s behalf. “The Japanese are behaving like savages,” one of the delegates complained. “They are committing all kinds of barbarities against property and against the people, especially the women.”37 The ResidentGeneral, Marquis Itō Hirobumi, who had long advocated “indirect” control of Korea through the indigenous monarchy and its cabinet, despaired of ever securing Kojong’s cooperation and thus prevailed upon the Korean cabinet to arrange for his abdication in favor of his son Sunjong. Duus characterizes Sunjong as “a man of limited mental capacity,” perfectly content to rule as a “ceremonial monarch,” and therefore “an ideal ruler from the Japanese point of view.”38 Ultimately, Sunjong’s reign as the Yunghŭi Emperor was brief. In 1909 the Residency-General attempted to secure popular support by arranging two peninsula-wide “imperial progresses,” which placed the compliant sovereign “front and center” in the public sphere, “creating a nationally shared experience” for Koreans. The plan backfired, Christine Kim argues, inciting anti-Japanese nationalist outrage rather than placating Koreans with an assurance that their monarch was on board with the Japanese modernization agenda. Eventually the RGC admitted to being unable to adequately suppress “insurgents and brigands” without increased use of the gendarmerie (kenpeitai). It also reported that the Korean royals and ministers felt “uneasiness and anxiety” after Korean patriots assassinated American advisor Durham White Stevens (1851–1908) in San Francisco (March 1908) and retired Resident-General Itō in Harbin (October 1909), and attempted to murder Korean premier Yi Wan-yong (December 1909). “In order to sweep away evils rooted during the course of many years as

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well as to secure the well-being of the Korean Imperial family, to promote the prosperity of the country, and at the same time to ensure the safety and repose of Japanese foreign residents,” the 1910–11 Annual Report stated, “it had been made abundantly clear that, the protectorate system being unable to achieve these aims, Korea must be annexed to the Empire and brought under the direct administration of the Imperial Government.” The Report went on to allege that the climate of fear had “induced certain classes of Koreans to tender to their Sovereign and the Resident-General a petition for Annexation,” a claim scholars have disputed ever since. 39 On August 29, 1910, Sunjong officially—if grudgingly—relinquished the throne the Yi dynasty had occupied for 518 years. Like any good imperial power, the Japanese regime exercised its prerogative to rechristen its new territorial acquisition, in this case reviving the name “Chōsen” (the Japanese pronunciation of Chosŏn).40 The renaming was not an insignificant gesture: it constituted a denial of any progress Korea had made in the previous decade, a way of symbolically pushing it back in time to a thoroughly discredited past state; furthermore, it extinguished any lingering pretensions to “empire” Taehan still maintained. As the preceding narrative summary indicates, the list of historical grievances Koreans hold against Japan is indeed lengthy and frequently appalling. It is not sufficient proof, however, of an inexorable, transhistorical Japanese plot to conquer Korea. It is more accurate to say—as Hilary Conroy and Peter Duus have—that at different points in its history, Japanese had substantial interests in peninsular affairs and used a variety of more or less intrusive strategies to pursue and protect those interests. These included, but were not limited to, collaborations with “progressive” Koreans who sought to emulate Meiji Japanese accomplishments and actively sought Japanese guidance, financing, and even military support for their projects, yet who did not surrender the idea of a sovereign Korea. The 1910 annexation was less the result of a multi-generational cultural impulse to dominate Korea than of specific events and conditions at the turn of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, some of which were well beyond the control of either country. The surge of Western imperialism in Japan’s backyard, Duus writes, “provided the context in which the Meiji leaders acted and a model for them to follow.” Similarly, Western imperialism presented Korea with a series of unprecedented challenges and no-win scenarios for which its government—plagued by factionalism and facing rising domestic discontent from the rural populace and a sizable contingent of bitter, disenfranchised gentry-scholars—was unprepared. But the outright seizure of Korea was neither a forgone consequence of Meiji-era

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diplomatic, military, and economic policies, nor of Korean diplomatic missteps, nor was it even a practicable option until just prior to the annexation itself. 41

da r k t i m e s Japanese historians conventionally describe the first decade of colonial rule with the dispassionate, straightforward phrases “military rule” or “martial law” (budan seiji), because Japanese law required the Governor-General to be an active-duty military officer, and internal order was maintained by the sword-bearing military police. Koreans, on the other hand, typically refer to this period as amhŭkki (“the dark times”). The third and final Resident-General (following Itō and Baron Sone Arasuke, 1849–1910), Terauchi Masatake (1852–1919), set the tone. Staying on with the new title Governor-General (sōtoku), Terauchi reportedly bellowed to recalcitrant Koreans, “I will whip you all with scorpions!” “[I]f the remark is apocryphal,” Mark Peattie quips, “the sentiment was not.” Terauchi’s “humorless” demeanor, stern paternalism, and vindictive responses to any hint of Korean resistance left an indelible imprint on Korea’s first decade as a colony. 42 Pacification was Terauchi’s top priority during his tenure, followed by the implementation of compulsory schooling, cadastral surveys of arable land, and the “encouragement” of Koreans to become more industrious. On his watch, the Korean vernacular press was severely circumscribed, guerilla insurgencies ruthlessly suppressed, and nationalist agitation squelched anywhere it appeared. To the outside world, he presented himself as a firm patriarch in charge of fifteen million insolent children; to Koreans, he was a surly plenipotentiary who brooked no defiance. Answerable to neither the Cabinet nor the Diet, but only to the Japanese emperor, Terauchi and his successors enjoyed an autonomy of action in Korea that was the envy of colonial administrators elsewhere. 43 Terauchi insisted that the colonial occupation of Korea was “entirely different from that of the colonies of western countries in their relation to their mother countries,” which he presumed made Japanese rule of Korea more morally legitimate than, say, Dutch rule of the East Indies. With “the natives differing widely in race, as well as in manners and customs from those of the nation to which they belong, it is of the greatest difficulty to make them integral parts of the governing country, so that they remain permanently as colonies.” Incorporation of Korea as an integral part of Japan was conceivable, however, since “the two [are] in close proximity as regards their geographical position and their inhabitants being the same in race. It

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seems that no great obstacle lies in the way of the two nations being assimilated and so becoming one.” Articulating what would become a cardinal principle of imperial apologetics, the Governor-General explained that historical circumstances had driven a wedge between Japan and Korea, so that a monumental time gap separated them from one another: “. . . in contrast to Japan, which, thanks to the wise and beneficent reigns of her successive Emperors, has steadily progressed towards civilization, Chosen lagged behind the times and fell into a state of weakness and decadence.” Under these circumstances, he maintained, “there naturally exists a relationship in which one is the leader and guide and the other, the follower and pupil.”44 “It is, however, a mistake to think that all Koreans . . . without exception, are glad at the new régime,” Terauchi conceded, trying his hand at understatement. He condemned dissenters as “misguided and bigoted.” “Many of these people, actuated either by selfish motives or sentiment, dream of recovering the independence of their country and from time to time indulge in seditious utterances or acts. . . . [T]he fact that such men still exist cannot be said to be pleasing.” Fortunately, the reorganization of the colonial government had made it possible to crush such defiance. The prior Residency-General, as the “guardian and overseer of the Korean Government . . . could not carry out reform measures directly,” nor “introduce modern institutions without hindrance and hesitancy.” The new regime, on the other hand, “took the position of an active worker” and thus “was able to act freely.”45 Some Koreans could see tangible benefits from a more “active” colonial state. Building and infrastructure projects were certainly welcomed by some (though others protested the geomantic havoc they created). “Father hated the Japanese coming, but to me, they weren’t all that bad,” Yi Sang-do, a former truck driver, testified. “Whenever we had a rainy season, our village flooded. Look what happened: Those Japanese came and built reservoirs, dams, and bridges.” “I must say their organization impressed me,” Yi added. “They planned things. They came with blueprints. They built things that worked. . . . I think probably it was good, in the long run.” Retired banker Kang Pyŏng-ju acknowledged that in the 1910s “our troubles came, not just from the Japanese, but from our own men as well,” because guerilla resistance fighters “went around extorting money from wealthy people,” even killing those who refused to pay. 46 Under such conditions, then, many Koreans may have seen advantages in the crackdown on armed insurgency. The GGC seemed confident it was earning the goodwill of its subjects. Its July 1918 Annual Report—the first under Governor-General Hasegawa Yoshimichi (1850–1924)—crowed that

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“the fundamental policy of the new regime being well understood by the people, their trust in the Government is deepening, and the friendly feeling between Koreans and Japanese is growing warmer. The realization of interdependence and mutual help of the two races is seen everywhere and in every branch of activity.”47 In such a state of self-delusion, it is little wonder that Japanese were staggered and bewildered by the events of March 1, 1919, and that they responded as viciously as they did. U.S. President Woodrow Wilson’s professed commitment to “autonomous development” in the post–Great War world order—by which he meant the peoples of the vanquished AustroHungarian empire—had sparked hope among colonized populations around the globe, no less so among Koreans.48 Sensing that their moment to plead for international sympathy had arrived, Koreans at home and abroad embarked on a campaign to pressure Japan for independence, sending a representative to the Paris Peace Conference and convening a “congress” of diasporic Koreans in Philadelphia to make a formal appeal to the United States. The Koreans played hardball, invoking religious and political principles dear to the Western powers to make their case. Without independence, Dr. Yi Sŭng-man (Syngman Rhee, 1875–1965) admonished Wilson and French Premier Georges Clemenceau, Korea “cannot develop into a free Christian democracy.” The Philadelphia congress told Americans, “our hope is universal Christianity,” and resorted to flattery in its appeal: “You have already championed the cause of the oppressed and held out your helping hand to the weak of the earth’s races. Your nation is the Hope of Mankind; therefore we come to you.” Delegate Henry Chung (1890– 1985) compiled a book containing all of Korea’s treaties with foreign powers, to remind them of their obligations to recognize and preserve Korea’s national integrity. Chung also assured Americans, “The charge that Korea is swept by Bolshevism is absolutely false.”49 Korean pleas to the Versailles signatories were in vain, for the main outcome of the peace talks was the expansion of the victors’ empires and the retraction of the losers’. Having secured German colonies in Africa and established “mandates” over former Ottoman territories, British and French diplomats realized how foolish they would look reproving Japan for protecting its own imperial interests. Americans listened to Korean grievances—especially when articulated by American missionaries—but would not risk antagonizing Japan. Japan’s willingness to yield on the issue of a racial equality clause in the League of Nations Charter, in exchange for acknowledgment of its imperial space (which now included Germany’s lease on China’s Shandong peninsula), further dramatized the cynical real-

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politik that dominated the conference. The Korean mission to Paris ended with no more success than that to The Hague twelve years earlier. 50 These diplomatic efforts worked in loose concert with a monumental domestic uprising that most scholars agree constituted the birth of Korean nationalism. 51 The March 1st Movement (Sam’il undong) easily rates as one of the most momentous anti-colonial actions in world history, alongside the Indian Rebellion (1857–58), the South African Bambatha Uprising (1906), M. K. Gandhi’s hartal campaign (1919–22), and the Mau Mau Uprising (1952–60). Compared to the Chinese May 4th Movement it inspired, which was dominated by university students, the March 1st Movement engaged a much broader social spectrum in overt nationalist agitation. In response to a declaration of independence, which was secretly distributed for simultaneous public readings throughout the country on March 1, 1919, women and men, young and old, rural and urban, aristocratic and déclassé took to the streets together chanting “Manse!” (“Long live Korea!” the equivalent of the Japanese banzai). 52 Although numerical precision is elusive in assessing an event like the March 1 Movement, there is no question of its impact. Over a million Koreans closed their shops, abandoned their labors, and gathered in churches, parks, and public areas or took to the streets, chanting and waving flags on behalf of an idea that was still novel to most of them: the nationhood of Korea. One American missionary who witnessed the events of March 1 described it as “the most wonderful passive resistance movement in history.”53 While there seems to be no evidence of direct influence, the (initially) nonviolent character of the Korean uprising preceded by mere weeks the peaceful women’s march that sparked nationwide demonstrations against British occupation in Egypt, and Gandhi’s satyagraha in protest of the Rowlatt Act. Certainly the actions of the thirty-three Korean nationalists who instigated the movement foreshadowed Gandhi’s acquiescence to the consequences for civil disobedience: after reading their declaration of independence at Seoul’s Taehwagwan restaurant at 2:00 p.m. on March 1, the Koreans promptly turned themselves over to the police. Although uncompromising in its avowal of Korea’s “right of national survival . . . on the strength of five thousand years of history,” the declaration (authored by Ch’oe Nam-sŏn, 1890–1957) again prefigured Gandhian philosophy by linking national liberation to moral reform of the oppressor: “Our task is to build up our own strength, not to destroy others,” it stated. Independence for Korea today shall not only enable Koreans to lead a normal, prosperous life, as is their due; it will also guide Japan to leave its evil path and perform its great task of supporting the cause of the East, liberating China from

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a gnawing uneasiness and fear and helping the cause of world peace and happiness for mankind, which depends greatly on peace in the East. How can this be considered a trivial issue of mere sentiment?54

The remarkable brutality of the Japanese response to the nationwide demonstrations was indicative of their sense of betrayal and astonishment at Koreans’ temerity and ingratitude. Not until early summer did the Japanese re-pacify the peninsula, and then only with a troop surge. The severity of the crackdown on what had started out as an extraordinarily peaceful revolt provoked some Koreans to respond with violence of their own—which, of course, played right into Japanese hands—and to replace the manse chant with “Japanese bastards” (waenom). 55 The casualty estimates—over 7,500 dead, 15,000 injured, 46,000 arrested (including 471 women and girls)—do little to convey the horror of the suppression, in which torture, mutilation, and summary execution were routine. In one instance, twenty-nine Koreans burned to death when they were locked in a church that was then set afire. “[The police] went after the young men,” Pak Chun-gi recalled. “Those young men were beaten and speared, slashed with sabers, and I’ve seen it—they cut off some men’s legs. It was just a gory scene. I heard crying and screaming.”56 The March 1st Movement produced a number of martyrs, the most famous of whom may be Yu Kwan-sun (1904–20), an Ewha University student who organized an independence demonstration in her home village of Chiryŏng. She was arrested and her parents killed when gendarmes broke up the gathering; sentenced to seven years imprisonment, Yu died on October 12, 1920, in Seoul’s notorious Sŏdaemun prison, reportedly as a result of repeated beatings and torture. 57 One of the focal exhibits at the Independence Hall of Korea (Tongnip Kinyŏmgwan) in Ch’ŏnan, South Korea, recreates the atmosphere of Sŏdaemun, with a variety of torture implements on display, blood-stained walls, torture victims’ screams heard through loudspeakers, and Japanese mannequins torturing Korean mannequins. A wall-sized photograph shows a Korean man whose ear has been cut off; a life-sized display shows the leg-screw torture inflicted on Yi Cha-kyŏng, with her chŏgori topcoat ripped open to expose her breast. 58 Reports of the crackdown seeped out to the international media, despite Japanese censors’ best efforts, but condemnation of Japan was far from universal: with the blood of the Jallianwala Bagh Massacre (Amritsar, April 13, 1919) on its hands, for instance, Britain could not credibly object. The GGC could not have hoped for a better apologist than Rev. Dr. E. D. Soper, professor at Drew Theological Seminary in Madison, N.J., who had recently returned from a trip to Korea and deemed its people “unfit

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for self-government.” Soper attributed the independence uprising to “the widespread talk of ‘self-determination for small nations,’ fostered by agitators.” Acknowledging the “severity of Japanese rule” and the destructive “activities of many Japanese ‘freebooters,’ ” the professor maintained that “many of the early day evils were remedied,” and that the outbreak of war in Europe and President Wilson’s ill-advised rhetoric had inspired malcontents to rabble-rouse. “When the ex-Emperor died on Jan. 23 last,” Soper said, “Korean women wailed for days at the palace gates. This was aggravated by a report that Yi Heui [Kojong] had committed suicide in disgrace over the betrothal of his son to a Japanese Princess. Political agitators took advantage of the occasion to stir up the people and remind them that they might obtain independence for Korea by appealing to the Peace Conference at Paris.” “Cases of cruelty were common,” Soper conceded, but Japanese administration had nonetheless yielded “marked improvement in the methods of transportation, industry, farming and finance. The Japanese have cleaned up the cities and towns, indescribably filthy, and are making them ‘model centres of the Far East.’ ”59 Koreans found a more sympathetic advocate in the Canadian missionary Frederick Arthur McKenzie (1869–1931), who published a book-length account of the uprising entitled Korea’s Fight for Freedom (1920). A longtime critic of Japanese rule, McKenzie wrote with a grisly attention to detail about Japanese retributive excesses. 60 He made a point of spotlighting the heroism and suffering of Korean Christians, to better persuade Western readers that these were not faceless Orientals, but rather sisters and brothers in Christendom whose bodies were being broken and lives extinguished. McKenzie sharply rebuked his readers for their complacency: You, the Christians of the United States and of Canada, are largely responsible for these people. The teachers you sent and supported taught them the faith that led them to hunger for freedom. They taught them the dignity of their bodies and awakened their minds. . . . Your teaching has brought them floggings, tortures unspeakable, death. I do not mourn for them, for they have found something to which the blows of the lashed twin bamboos and the sizzling of the hot iron as it sears their flesh are small indeed. But I would mourn for you, if you were willing to leave them unhelped, to shut your ears to their calls, to deny them your practical sympathy. 61

McKenzie’s graphic account inspired some liberal Japanese intellectuals to join the chorus of condemnation. Though rarely questioning the “legitimacy of empire under the prevailing international conditions,” they strongly objected to the discriminatory treatment of Koreans in general,

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and to the particular cruelty of the Japanese reaction to the March 1st Movement. Tokyo University economist Yanaihara Tadao (1893–1961) regarded it as a “victory for the Korean people,” and argued that the uprising had thoroughly discredited “politics by sabre.” Furthermore, he rejected the notion that Koreans were indifferent to and incapable of self-government; following his 1924 tour of Korea and Manchuria, he wrote, “even the pebbles by the roadside cry for freedom.”62 Two months after the uprising began, Yanagi Muneyoshi (Sōetsu, 1889–1961), an aesthete who figures prominently in this study, published a serialized essay entitled “Thinking of Koreans,” in which he lambasted the policies and premises of Japanese rule in Korea. Hatred of Japan and a desire for independence were “natural” consequences of military rule and cultural annihilation, he wrote. “It is impossible for Japanese to compel Koreans to love Japanese by force, without giving love to them.” Yanagi lamented that Koreans had no advocate comparable to Lafcadio Hearn (1850–1904), whom he characterized as having achieved profound understandings of Japanese people through their arts and folklore. True amity and cultural understanding between Japanese and Koreans could only be achieved through art and religion, Yanagi claimed, because “those who know the true meaning of friendship and peace are the religious and the artists.” “Only Christianity has given Koreans the requisite love. It is only natural that the missionaries have collected so much of their affection. Maybe many religionists are impure. But it is a fact that some of them have loved Koreans more warmly than Japanese administrators have.” Yanagi also criticized the colonial education system’s objective of making Koreans Japanese and its omission and distortion of Korea’s “tragic” history. “Ancient Japanese art is indebted to Korea,” he reminded readers. “Anyone who visits Hōryūji or the Nara Museum is aware of that fact.” If assimilation (dōka, “becoming the same”) meant purging Korean cultural accomplishments from memory, Yanagi warned, “it is an assimilation that should be feared.” The proper path for Japanese was to preserve and honor Korean heritage by teaching it in schools, rather than to efface it. “Education must revive Koreans, not kill them.”63 Blinded by their rage at Korean insolence, GGC officials initially ignored such censure; pacification was their priority. “It need hardly be stated,” the Governor-General blustered, “that the sovereignty of the Japanese Empire is irrevocably established in the past, and will never be broken in the future.”64 Yet Hasegawa betrayed hints of regret and introspection when he resigned in August. In a memo to his successor Admiral Saitō Makoto (1858–1936), Hasegawa admitted, “It is a source of great shame

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that the recent disturbances broke out while I occupied the important post of governor general of Korea.” Although blaming “dissident Koreans abroad” for instigating the uprising, he acknowledged that “the main reason is to be found in the pent-up anger of the Koreans regarding the overly demanding and intrusive nature of the new [colonial] government and the social discrimination they have experienced. This is indeed deplorable.” Hasegawa’s main recommendation was a more “gradualist approach” to the goal of assimilation. “Although this may seem abundantly clear, those people charged with the actual work of implementing assimilation are apt to seek hasty results. Reflection on the past record deepens my conviction about this matter.” He also apprised Saitō that the “major grievance” of Koreans was the contempt with which they were treated by many Japanese, and suggested measures for remedying this. He did not, however, advise abandoning corporal punishment for malcontents: “Among foreigners and the Korean educated class, there is a strong demand for abolition of [flogging] as something uncivilized. It is, however, the means of punishment most suited to the level of advancement of the Koreans, and we should not lightly abandon it.” After all, Hasegawa warned, “Obsequiousness and suspicious ingratitude are part of the traditional Korean character.”65

ru l e by/of cu lt u r e Undeterred by a bomb thrown under his carriage when he arrived in Seoul, Baron Saitō announced a new administration with the slogan “cultural rule” (bunka seiji). 66 Its pronouncements about policy reform were only marginally contrite about the excesses of martial law, yet not at all apologetic about the imposition or continuance of colonial rule itself. In fact, GGC propaganda depicted cultural rule as a natural “next phase” in colonial administration, for which preparations had already begun: Encouraged by the progress made by the Korean people in both culture and material well-being, the Government of Japan decided to set in motion a series of reforms so as to fit the administration of Chosen to its new conditions, and plans for that purpose were already in the process of being drafted, when in March, 1919, disturbances suddenly broke out in different parts of Chosen, and for several months the Government found itself fully occupied in restoring order. 67

In the GGC version, then, the March 1st Movement had disrupted and delayed, rather than instigated, administrative reform. The stated aim of the reorganization was “to treat both Japanese and Koreans as equals, and to enable the people of Chosen to live in peace and

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prosperity by endowing them with an administration conducted on a liberal and cultural line.” Cultural rule would thus enable the GGC to fulfill long-standing goals for the well-being of the Emperor’s recently embraced subjects. Discrimination in the civil service, peerage, and judiciary was formally abolished. Though “indigenous to Korea,” flogging was deemed “contrary to the spirit of the new policy of administration” and was therefore eliminated—although new prisons would be opened “to cope with the increase certain to occur in the number of prisoners after the abolition of corporal punishment.” To commemorate the marriage of Korean Crown Prince Yi Un (1897–1970) to Japanese Imperial Princess Nashimoto-noMiya Masako (Yi Pang-ja, 1901–89), a general amnesty liberated from prison “three thousand Koreans implicated in the disturbances of the spring of 1919.” The legal requirement that the Governor-General be an active-duty military officer was rescinded, though no civilian would ever hold the post (in contrast to the analogous post in Taiwan). Other notable reforms included the replacement of the gendarmerie with a centralized civilian police force (over half of which would be Korean by the time of liberation); the lifting of a ban on Korean-language publications; reform of the education system to allow Koreans greater opportunities for advanced learning and to teach Korean (as an ancillary language); pay incentives for Japanese colonial administrators and police officers who learned the Korean language; and a pledge “to preserve anything of good there is in Korean usage and culture, and to utilize it for the smooth administration of the country.” The GGC claimed quick results from its reorientation: “To-day all is quiet throughout Chosen, the Korean people having been all but completely reconciled to the new régime.”68 Many historians are skeptical about both the intent and extent of the policy change; even those who grant that the GGC ruled with a “lighter hand” after the March 1st Movement consider it less the result of fundamental soul-searching about the theory and practice of colonial administration, than a strategic effort to make colonial control less visible and thus more insidious. The eminent Lee Ki-Baik condemns cultural rule as “largely fraudulent and deceptive”; Bruce Cumings describes it as an intensification of “divide-and-rule tactics”; David Brudnoy says “the reforms as envisioned were benevolent and enlightened,” especially compared to Terauchi’s “policy of intellectual strangulation,” but were not applied forcefully enough to redeem Japan’s colonial record; and, according to Kang Wi Jo, the new policy allowed for continued suppression of the Ch’ŏndogyo religious community (the successor to the Tonghak movement). 69 Michael Robinson agrees that the new administration “replaced naked repression

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with a softer—in retrospect, more effective—policy of manipulation,” but is more charitable in evaluating it. “Scholars who see conspiracies everywhere will dismiss the new policies as calculated and Machiavellian, and in hindsight they do appear to have been a brilliant political maneuver. The reforms were not, however, as calculated as it might appear in retrospect.” He gives Saitō high marks for consulting personally with “moderate, middle-of-the-road nationalists” in an effort to “find the middle ground between complete repression . . . and tolerance for relatively benign activities.” Clearly, Robinson writes, the new freedoms were calculated to blunt overt dissent and encourage a cooperative attitude in Korea. This was a considerable gamble, given the ferocity of the disturbances that had precipitated the reforms in the first place. In hindsight, the policy worked very well—by providing outlets for mild forms of dissent and by making the governance and economy slightly more inclusive of Koreans, the Japanese strengthened their hegemony. But in 1920 it was unclear whether it would work at all.70

Robinson’s study of “cultural nationalism” in the post–March 1st Movement period documents those “mild forms of dissent,” which frequently took the form of folkloric and historical investigations and artistic expressions of Korean identity, or more present-minded discourses on “selfstrengthening” in preparation for a hoped-for (if discreetly articulated) objective of future sovereignty.71 Permitting these moderate assertions to proliferate in the now-legal vernacular press also enabled the GGC to concentrate its fire on adherents of “Bolshevism” in the peninsula, which it did relentlessly. To be fair, after the Peace Preservation Law (March 1925) was implemented, the Japanese government showed no more mercy to communists in the metropole (naichi) than to their Korean comrades. Given the prolific use of the word bunka as a modifier in interwar Japan, I think its use to describe a new approach to colonial governance is noteworthy, if somewhat—maybe deliberately—cryptic. It is tempting to suggest that bunka seiji was selected to replace budan seiji because of a classical Chinese “conceptual dichotomy” between the ideographs bun and bu. “In this context,” Tessa Morris-Suzuki observes, “bunka [culture] and bunmei [civilization] imply the ordering and improvement of society by the use of bun (the written word, learning or scholarly rule) rather than by the use of bu (the sword).”72 But I hesitate to make too much of this, because I do not presume that colonial officials would be aware of such arcane etymological or philosophical niceties. It is much more likely that bunka seiji drew whatever resonance it possessed from popular understandings and usages of bunka in post–World War I Japan, an ethos that Morris-Suzuki

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calls “culturism” (bunkashugi). Bunka was identified with “the ‘higher strata’ of social existence,” manifested most prominently in the so-called “cultural residence” (bunka jūtaku), the suburban family home, “which symbolized a shift from the Meiji equation of civilization with industrial production to an equation of social advance with the new consumption patterns of the expanding middle classes.” The cultural residence was, “in short, the most tangible symbol of the popular equation of culture with the novel and the foreign.” With the rise of mass consumerism in the late 1910s and 1920s, it became commonplace to tack bunka onto “any newfangled commercial product which one wished to sell to a gullible public.” Japanese living a “culture lifestyle” (bunka seikatsu) cooled their bunka jūtaku (sweetly nestled in bunka mura, “culture villages”) with a bunka senpūki (electric fan), wore bunka shitagi (“culture underwear”), and entertained themselves with bunka eiga (“culture films”). A “floating signifier” (in Jordan Sand’s apt phrase), bunka implied a cosmopolitan modernity, an alertness to novelty and convenience, and an efficient, economical, and sanitary domestic life. For some critics, it meant nothing more than a superficial obsession with specifically American middle-class lifestyles. Appended to any commodity, Harry Harootunian remarks, bunka created the illusion that “for a moment [it was] not like a commodity.”73 To borrow and reapply Harootunian’s construction, it is plausible that bunka was added to seiji to make it “for a moment not like” seiji. In other words, bunka—with its implied meanings of openness, efficiency, economic and scientific rationality, comfort, material prosperity, and timeliness—suggested an entirely new mode of colonial management that, in contrast to the ubiquitous visual reminders of compulsion associated with the budan approach, made seiji seem less seiji-like. This may or may not have been evident to all or even most Japanese, Koreans, and foreigners who encountered the phrase—but that may have been its best trait. The association of bunka with mass consumer culture lent it a vacuity that made it impossible to pin down, or to hold the GGC accountable for any specific commitments. Like all good “spin” it sounded grand and may even have been sincere, but ultimately was so poorly defined as an ideal for colonial administration that it would be nearly impossible to judge its success or failure. After all, if electric fans and underwear could be “cultured,” why not colonialism? This raises other questions. Did bunka seiji mean governance by culture, or governance of culture? And, either way, to whose bunka did the slogan refer? Saitō appeared to answer the first question with his phrase “administration conducted on a liberal and cultural line,” suggesting rule

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by culture—though, again, this is virtually unintelligible unless we recognize the “floating” conceptualization of bunka at the time. On the other hand, governance of culture might be more historically descriptive of what actually occurred. The GGC’s elaborate pre-publication censorship apparatus, as well as the official and informal incentives to self-censorship, modeled on practices in the naichi, certainly indicate this. So do the ethnographic surveillance and curatorial activities described in Chapters 2 and 3, and the more aggressive efforts to assimilate Koreans to a prescriptive ideal of Japanese imperial subjecthood in the late 1930s and 1940s. That is to say, Saitō’s reform platform may have considered bunka as the subject of administration, when in fact it was the object of administration. So, then, whose bunka? There are several possibilities, all of which might be partially true. If the aim of colonial rule was assimilation, then it seems obvious that bunka seiji meant “rule by Japanese culture.” However, Japanese imperial officials and apologists routinely articulated a self-image of Japanese culture as a unique synthesis of “Asian values” and technologically and culturally progressive modernity. Furthermore, in interwar Japan the term bunka was widely understood to connote cosmopolitan modernity and Western lifestyles. Therefore, bunka seiji might also be understood as “rule by modern (Western) culture.” Indeed, the GGC went to tremendous pains to demonstrate to the rest of the world the scientific rationality, cosmopolitan sensibility, and liberal benevolence of its management style. It spoke in terms that replicated the best impulses and practices in Euro-American colonial administration, while aspiring to surpass them, as well. There is another possibility, which may strike some as counterintuitive if not patently absurd: bunka might refer to Korean culture. Skeptics might concede this point only insofar as bunka seiji meant governance of rather than by culture. But there is cause for suggesting the opposite. Saitō promised “to preserve anything of good there is in Korean usage and culture, and to utilize it for the smooth administration of the country.” “I am a great admirer of the old Korean civilization and intend to encourage and promote the study of Korean manners, traditions, literature, and history,” the Governor-General explained. “It would be absurd to think of destroying the ancient Korean language and customs. We shall continue to offer Japanese education, but there will be no coercive attempts to crush out the Korean spirit and traditions or legitimate aspirations.”74 As Chapter 2 demonstrates, this was not, in fact, a novel declaration, but rather a restatement of earlier GGC objectives that admittedly had been imperfectly implemented. It did indicate, however, a renewed commitment to

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study, assess, and preserve any aspects of Korean customary thought and behavior that could possibly mediate the colonial relationship; presumably, convergences of values and interests could be identified that would promote collegiality, cooperation, and prosperity. An entire organ of government—the Central Council (Chūsūin), composed of Korean notables and local magnates—was convened for the express purpose of consultation with the GGC on Korean customs and “old usages” (kyū kanshū).75 Additional evidence for the notion of Korean culture as the subject rather than the object of bunka seiji is the efflorescence of intellectual inquiry into Korean history, folklore, ethnography, and artistic traditions, conducted independently and sometimes collaboratively by Korean cultural nationalists and Japanese scholars and Koreaphiles. It is no exaggeration to characterize the 1920s as a time of Korean cultural renaissance, during which nationalist intellectuals continued the interrupted work of the so-called Enlightenment (Kaehwa, ca. 1895–1910), the goal of which was no less than to situate Korea within the international framework of nation-states and to define its national essence (kuksu).76 Doing so not only enhanced Korean cultural pride (a necessary precondition for future sovereignty), it also slyly discredited the Japanese historiographical convention that the sadae principle had made Koreana nothing more than a substandard derivative of Chinese culture. This last possible reading of the “culture” in “cultural rule” conforms with Robinson’s assertion that it meant “limited Korean cultural autonomy.”77 However, I am reluctant to settle on any one of the three possibilities suggested above. The expansive and indistinct qualities of the modifier bunka allowed for all of these to coexist and this may well have been the reasoning behind describing a new administrative approach as “cultural.” The upshot of adopting bunka seiji as a guiding principle was that virtually any action could be explained or justified with reference to it: Japanese culture could be promoted through assimilation directives; bureaucratic rationalization, educational curricula, public health and sanitation initiatives, industrialization, clarification of land ownership, and infrastructural development advanced the colony’s modernity; and Korean culture could be included as evidence of Japan’s liberal benevolence and of Korean involvement and investment in the colonial enterprise. I may be giving colonial administrators too much credit for prescience, but intentionally or not, by selecting the richly ambiguous term bunka they had settled on a vision of colonial management that gave them maximum flexibility, while persuading all but the most incorrigible nationalists and outside observers that they had heard and heeded the lessons of March 1919.

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co -h a bi ta n ts i n a va ll ey of da r k n e s s Terauchi Masatake’s masterly understatement—“It is, however, a mistake to think that all Koreans . . . without exception, are glad at the new régime”—is as apt for the era of cultural rule as for 1913. It is true that most guerilla activity had been forced across the Yalu River into Manchuria, and that most Koreans had resigned themselves to the reality of colonial rule and therefore tried to build their lives to conform with that reality. A new urban middle class emerged as a result of Japanese economic and education initiatives, demonstrating that it was possible—if neither common nor likely—for Koreans to prosper under such circumstances. But occasional disturbances (such as student demonstrations in Kwangju in November 1929) and acts of terrorism forced both the GGC and the home government to be ever vigilant. Attempted and successful assassinations of high-profile Japanese kept tempers high: in the Sakuradamon Incident (January 8, 1932), Yi Pong-ch’ang (1900–32) tossed a hand grenade at Emperor Hirohito’s carriage as it left the palace, killing two horses; on April 29 of the same year, Yun Pong-gil (1908–32) murdered General Shirakawa Yoshinori (1869– 1932) and injured several Japanese officials celebrating the emperor’s birthday in Shanghai’s Hongkou Park.78 Yi, Yun, and Itō’s assassin An Chunggŭn (1879–1910) have all been posthumously honored as Korean national heroes since liberation, but the immediate outcome of their actions was a hardening of Japanese hearts and increased mistrust between rulers and subjects, making the last decade or so of colonial rule more treacherous to navigate for both sides. Korea remained the most intransigent and potentially volatile of any of Japan’s formal colonies. There is substantial consensus among historians that a shift in colonial policy coincided with Japanese military adventurism across the Yalu in Manchuria. Not long after the 1910 annexation, Manchuria had taken Korea’s place as the primary object of Japan’s imperial desire. Having enhanced its own homeland security by incorporating Korea, Japan now claimed that Soviet expansion and Chinese instability threatened its colony; another buffer layer was needed. There were many complementary motivations for a Japanese incursion into Manchuria, not least of which was a desire to crush the armed Korean resistance armies that had sought refuge there. However, as Prasenjit Duara has argued, in the post-Wilsonian, League of Nations era, it was increasingly unacceptable to seize colonies outright, especially regions over which a nominal sovereignty was established. In this case, the international community generally recognized China’s claims to territorial sovereignty over Manchuria. So Japan’s task

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with Manchuria was fundamentally different—and much more convoluted—than its previous imperial expansions had been. For one thing, the Japanese Kwantung Army’s actions on September 18, 1931—dynamiting a stretch of the South Manchurian Railroad outside Mukden (Shenyang), then accusing nearby Chinese garrison troops of the crime—occurred with neither the sanction nor the knowledge of the Japanese civilian government or the military High Command. The Cabinet, reluctant to admit to the world that it did not have complete control of its armed forces, was forced to accept the fait accompli and concoct a justification for the Kwantung Army’s swift seizure of Mukden on September 19. The invasion was more than just a defense of Japanese “interests” in Northeast Asia, Japanese claimed; it was also a “liberation” of the Manchurian people from the tyranny of an incompetent, unstable Republican Chinese government. In other words, Japanese intervention was allied with the aspirations of the various ethnic groups of Manchuria for “self-determination.” Furthermore, rather than claiming Manchuria as another colony, Japan supported the creation on March 1, 1932, of a new “nation-state,” Manchukuo, under the leadership of the last Qing sovereign, the Kangde Emperor Puyi (1906–67). Duara astutely points out that Manchukuo prefigured the “junior partner or client state” of the Cold War, but that it ultimately “failed to settle upon a vision of community” that could validate its nationhood.79 It took little time for Koreans to realize their new role in the empire: in essence, the entire peninsula had been drafted in Japan’s increasingly belligerent demand that Republican China accept its leadership in an autarkic pan-Asian, politico-economic union. With typical self-delusion, the GGC portrayed the Manchurian Incident as a turning point in relations between the colony and metropole, with many Koreans becoming persuaded of the wisdom of the Japanese imperial presence: The Korean people became aware of the new international situation of the Japanese Empire and were instilled with a stronger feeling for the Empire, so that there have been not a few even among the Korean patriots who have relented their previous attitude. This change of sentiment has been further fostered by the protection given by the Imperial Government to the Koreans, hitherto so oppressed in Manchuria, and a fresh desire to emigrate to Manchuria has arisen, with a will on the part of the Koreans to work out their own lives there under the protection of Japan. 80

The outbreak of hostilities between the Japanese and Chinese armies at Lugouqiao (Marco Polo Bridge) on July 9, 1937, wiped away the last liberal vestiges of cultural rule. As their homeland became the “forward military depot” (tairiku zenshin heitan kichi) for Japan’s continental ambitions, it

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became virtually impossible for Koreans to evade the impact entirely. They were exhorted to make sacrifices comparable to those required of Japanese: to move north to settle the Manchurian frontier, to join the army, to work in war industries or to fill in for Japanese labor in the most odious jobs (particularly mining), to save or donate money, to eat less, to avoid extravagance, and to pray for victory and the wellbeing of Imperial soldiers and sailors. As was the case in Japan, even children were not exempted from national service in time of war. An article in the May 1938 issue of the GGC monthly Chōsen advocated using the medium of “paper plays” (kamishibai) to promote Japan’s Asian policy among children. 81 Its author contended that “well-informed people” had “finally recognized the efficacy of kamishibai” for “the diffusion of healthy thoughts.” In essence, “pure, sincere” children could become the conduits through which propaganda was communicated, as they learned the proper messages from kamishibai and then shared these with their parents. The writer mentioned specifically a five-volume, sixtypage kamishibai entitled “Red Place of the Wasteland” (Arano no akaba), commissioned by the South Manchurian Railway Company to promote “proper awareness of Manchuria” among youngsters. Although this form of entertainment was only starting to develop in Korea, it promised to deliver results similar to those obtained in Japan. The article concludes with a fifteen-image set with narration, entitled “Livelihood Patriotism” (Seigyō hōkoku), illustrating the propaganda value of paper plays to the imperial project. The kamishibai features a young man named Han who declines to go drinking with his buddy Chŏn so that he can work for the empire. When Chŏn gripes, Han informs him that farm and factory labor and other productive uses of time will translate into victory in the China war and prosperity for the empire. Chŏn, appropriately chastened, takes up his hoe. 82 Although both nations shared a media environment increasingly saturated with prescriptions for proper conduct during “extraordinary circumstances” (hijō jikyoku), it is little surprise that Korean sacrifices amounted to far more than those demanded of ethnic Japanese. Rural immiseration, already endemic as a result of the global economic depression, intensified significantly; as tenancy rates exploded and land ownership became concentrated in fewer hands, agrarian workers became available as surplus labor for Japanese purposes. The extraction of labor amounted to a “population hemorrhage,” as millions of Koreans, either voluntarily or by conscription, picked up roots and emigrated to cities, to Japan, to Manchuria, or elsewhere in search of work. Japan’s Manchurian project entailed rapid,

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state-guided industrialization of the Korean north, where power plants, munitions, chemical processing, and other heavy industries concentrated. Many southern farmers migrated to these new workplaces as the agrarian depression deepened (tenancy rates in the southwestern Chŏlla provinces rose as high as 80 percent). As Robinson puts it, “The heretofore rural-based population of Korea was shaken up, dispersed, and brought back together in a decade.”83 After 1938, Korean men were drafted into the Japanese military to do menial work and guard POW camps. But it was Korean women, by any measure tens of thousands of them, who endured the most unimaginable horrors. Tricked, cajoled, or sold into the Japanese military’s so-called “comfort corps” (iandan), they were repeatedly raped and brutalized by soldiers and sailors at highly organized military brothels throughout East and Southeast Asia. 84 The cold fact that most of these women were recruited by Korean subcontractors highlights both the mercenary desperation of the war years and the deterioration of any sense of ethno-national allegiance after March 1919. The late-1930s made the amhŭkki twenty years earlier look a tad brighter by comparison. Koreans who escaped such cruel fates were still at the mercy of the most insistent and excessive assimilation programs in the colonial world. Concocting slogans such as “making one body of Japan and Korea” (naisen ittai) and “imperialization” (kōkoku shinminka or kōminka, integrating Koreans as imperial subjects), the GGC envisaged a seamless integration of Koreans into the Japanese polity. Lenience toward even moderate expressions of a distinct Korean identity all but ended. Japanese authorities were particularly irritated by Korean delight at the success of Olympians Son Ki-jŏng (1912–2002) and Nam Sŭng-nyong (1912–2001) in the 1936 Olympic Games. Officially members of the Japanese Olympic team, Son and Nam won gold and bronze medals, respectively, in the marathon. Discreetly concealing the Japanese flag on his uniform with his laurel branch, Son bowed his head solemnly as the Japanese anthem, “Kimigayo,” was played at the medal ceremony. The Korean-language newspaper Tong’a ilbo was more brazen, printing an altered image in which the Japanese flag was totally erased from Son’s uniform (though, curiously, not from Nam’s), an act that earned eight staffers nine months in jail. 85 “The victory of the Korean marathon racer at the Olympic Games at Berlin in August of [1936] was seized as a sign of the superiority of the Korean race,” the GGC fumed, “arousing almost fanatic excitement, fanned by certain Korean Nationalists, which did much to harm popular tranquility. The minds of the people have now however gradually settled down aided by the careful guidance of the authorities,” a phrase that sounds ominous in retrospect. 86

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By the end of the decade, all Koreans were pressured to share the indignity that Son and Nam bore in Berlin, where they were officially known by their Japanese names (Son Kitei and Nan Shōryū). Under the terms of the Name Change (J: sōshi kaimei; K: ch’angssi kaemyŏng) Campaign of 1939–40, Koreans were urged to adopt the Japanese pronunciations of the Chinese characters for their names. This measure (part of the third revision to the colonial civil code) reversed an earlier GGC decision (Order 124, October 26, 1911) to forbid Koreans from adopting Japanese names. After annexation, some Koreans had taken Japanese names, possibly with the hope of receiving some kind of socioeconomic benefit for doing so. But the GGC, wanting to clearly differentiate Japanese from Koreans, forced them to revert to their original names. Some thirty years later, however, Governor-General Minami Jirō (1874–1955) deemed it necessary to make Korean household registries conform to the Japanese standard. The overall purpose was to make the formal unit of social identification the household (ie) rather than the ancestral clan, in conformity with what the GGC disingenuously characterized as the “age-old beautiful custom of Japan” (Nihon korai no bifū). Under the terms of Ordinance 19 (1939), Koreans were directed to “create family names” (sōshi) distinct from their clan names (J: sei; K: sŏng) and regional lineage affiliations (J: hongan; K: pon’gwan). Koreans were given six months to register these with local authorities (by August 1940, around 80 percent of households had done so). Wives, who had traditionally been invisible on their husbands’ registries (as if offspring just magically appeared), were now to adopt their spouses’ surnames, as Japanese did. Ordinance 20 (1940) gave Koreans the option of paying a fee to adopt a personal name (kaimei) that sounded Japanese. 87 Historians (and, of course, politicians) have debated the degree and severity of compulsion in the Name Change Campaign. There were tangible consequences for refusing to comply, including loss of employment and educational opportunities, ration cards, and postal services. Local officials likely took unauthorized compulsive action to ensure people within their jurisdictions conformed. Fisherman/farmer Pak Sŏng-p’il claims that Japanese beat him up because of his refusal to change his name; as the eldest son in his family, he felt a responsibility to retain his clan name. Kim Wŏn-gŭk, a former Tobacco Authority officer, testifies, “My clan had several meetings with lots of debate about whether to go along with name change. Some were dead set against it, but finally after several meetings they gave in. . . . They said it was only a formality, our hearts were still Kim and we would always remain Kim.” “At least in our region,” he adds, “those who did not change their name to Japanese were the first targets of

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the draft to the factories.”88 Mizuno Naoki, author of the most thorough study of the Name Change Campaign to date, has located court documents and police reports that indicate prosecutions of Koreans under the Peace Preservation Law: “All behavior critical of sōshi kaimei was deemed a ‘disturbance of law and order.’ ” Rather than promulgate a new law, the GGC used extant law to enforce the change of names, by expanding its definition of what constituted violations of public order. Mizuno also notes that, just as some politicians in Japan feared, the Name Change Campaign was more effective in promoting nationalist consciousness than in suppressing it. 89 Comparably onerous were the requirements that Koreans pay regular homage to the Japanese emperor at State Shintō shrines (jinja), utter daily oaths of loyalty in schools, and refrain from using Korean language in everyday life. Although few, if any, Koreans took much spiritual sustenance in their obligatory shrine visits, Christians found it most odious, for it violated a core tenet of their faith to worship another deity. By the mid-1930s, when Governor-General Ugaki Kazushige (1868–1956) mandated Korean attendance at shrines on designated national holidays, the Japanese no longer fretted about offending the Christian missionary community or their home nations. Having sanctified their aggression as a “holy war” against Western civilization itself, they made veneration of the imperial lineage a religious obligation for all subjects, and devotion to another faith was no excuse for noncompliance. A major shrine, Chōsen Jingū, “dedicated to the memory of the Imperial Grand Ancestress [Amaterasu Ōmikami] and of the Emperor Meiji,” was completed in 1925 on the slopes of Seoul’s Namsan (and would be one of the first Japanese structures demolished after liberation). In the 1930s hundreds of lesser shrines (jinshi) were built in cities and villages throughout the country, a trend contemporaneous with the government takeover and management of local shrines in Japan, as well.90 After October 2, 1937, Korean schoolchildren, like their Japanese counterparts, began each day with an oath of loyalty (kōkoku shinmin no seishi) to the Japanese sovereign: Watashi domo wa Nihon teikoku no shinmin dearimasu. Watashi domo wa kokoro o awasete tennō heika ni chūgi o tsukushimasu. Watashi domo wa ninku tanren shite, rippana tsuyoi kokumin to narimasu. We are subjects of the empire of Japan. With hearts united, we shall devote our loyalty to His Majesty the Emperor. We shall endure adversity and make ourselves exemplary, strong national subjects.

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Bowing to the east, they shouted, “Long live His Majesty the Emperor!” (Tennō heika banzai!).91 Such rituals were standard elements of the statesponsored “spiritual mobilization” program (kokumin seishin sōdōin undō) from which no Japanese, Korean, Taiwanese, or other colonial subject was exempt. Wartime slogans such as “Our spirit against their steel!” presumed that the combined spiritual energy and self-sacrifice of the entire empire would prevail against Western material resources and technological advantages. For Japanese “true believers,” the daily shouts of children from the outlying empire (gaichi or gaibu) toward Tokyo’s Imperial Palace amplified the spiritual power of the collective. The most ludicrously excessive—and utterly unsuccessful—directive of the war years commanded Koreans to speak only the “national language” (kokugo, that is, Japanese) at all times (kanarazu kokugo jōyō). The cultural rule policy permitting a vernacular press and Korean-language classes in schools had enabled most Koreans to slide on their Japanese skills; only those who aspired to the limited professional, civil service, and business opportunities available to Koreans had any real incentive to master the language. But as the war progressed language policy hardened: in 1938 Governor-General Minami ordered that Japanese be used for instruction in all classes; the same year, compilers of a dictionary to standardize Korean usage were arrested; all Korean-language newspapers were closed down in 1940; and two years later Korean was abolished entirely from the school curriculum.92 A Chōsen article noted that even after three decades of colonial rule, only 15 percent of the population knew Japanese, because the school had been the only real venue for its proliferation. Unless and until Japanese was used exclusively in private homes and public spheres, it would fail to take root.93 Ultimately, the most draconian assimilation directives failed in part because cultural rule had allowed a generation of Koreans to reclaim public space and create their own civic and cultural organizations, and they had taken full advantage of such opportunities. They used the mass media and communications technologies imported by Japan to discuss, negotiate, and argue about the weightiest issues of the times: Korean national identity, gender hierarchies, the relative merits of tradition and modernity, the virtues of capitalism or socialism, and engagements with the outside world.94 Unfortunately, these affiliations, movements, cooperatives, and initiatives reflected the deep divisions that plagued Korean society, some of which emerged (or were deliberately cultivated) under Japanese rule, and some of which were remnants of the Chosŏn social order. The chasms pitting the propertied against the landless, the revolutionaries against the

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conservatives, the modern urbanites against the left-behind agrarian folk, the literate against the illiterate, the feminists against the patriarchs, and those who stayed at home against the returning expatriates would eventuate in a civil war of global significance, which one longtime scholar of it has called “a substitute for World War III.”95 “Life for the Japanese changed overnight,” physicist Kang Sang-uk muses, reflecting on the August 15, 1945, surrender of the empire to Allied forces. “In our Chŏngju area, our people policed themselves, and treated the Japanese well. The Japanese went to live in shelters or schools, and went out during the day to find jobs. We ourselves hired a Japanese woman as a maid.”96 Other Japanese were not as fortunate; those Koreans who had worked for them as civil servants, administrators, and police officers even less so. In the euphoria and occasional chaos that enveloped the peninsula, many celebratory bonfires were fed by the tinder of Shintō shrines. Governor-General Abe Nokuyuki (1875–1953) cooled his heels anxiously for a long three weeks, awaiting the arrival of Allied forces to whom he could officially surrender. Bruce Cumings, Charles Armstrong, and others have eloquently recounted how Koreans addressed and argued about the challenges they faced in 1945, complicated exponentially by the uninvited occupations of U.S. and Soviet forces.97 Those challenges and differences of opinion were as much a legacy of Japanese colonial rule as were the railroads, telephone lines, modern buildings, factories, and other matériel unwittingly bequeathed to the Korean people. Ever since, this peninsula—this proverbial “shrimp whose back is broken in a war between whales” (korae ssaum e saeu tŭng t’ŏjinda)—has been a consistent object of international attention and a place of significance to the security and prosperity of the world. The magnitude of the struggles, failures, and accomplishments of the Korean people is disproportionate to their numbers and the geographic size of their homeland, a fact that no one could have predicted in the 1870s, when Chosŏn was compelled to abandon its figurative hermitage.

a long ga ze The traumatic denouement of colonial governance, with its overreaching and frequently cruel assimilation initiatives, has become the prism through which the entire colonial period has been viewed. Even scholars who acknowledge the ebbs and flows of GGC policy are wont to project back in time the official stances and contemptuous attitudes toward Korean culture

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that were most evident in the final eight years. This was an understandable, and not entirely unproductive, historiographical trend in the first decades after liberation, as Korean historians attempted to refute Japanese “distortions” of their heritage through the practice of nationalist historiography (minjok sahak).98 In many respects, it was a rare opportunity for historians to become heroes: by rescuing Korean history from Japanese-coined clichés such as slavish Sino-centrism (J: jidai; K: sadae) and dynastic stagnation (teitairon), they contributed to the nation-building process in both peninsular states by imbuing Koreans with a firm sense of pride in who they were. However, nationalist historiography was based on presuppositions no less questionable than those that Japanese colonial scholars brought to their studies of peninsular history. These can be summarized as follows: The presumption that the inhabitants of the peninsula have always been “Korean” in the modern sense, possessing an unchanging, homogenous ethno-national identity (tan’il minjok) with “5000 years” of history; The projection backwards of the geopolitical boundaries of the modern Korean state(s), so that any polity occupying the peninsula was regarded as “Korean” (and thus relevant to contemporary border disputes with China and Japan); The abiding sense of serial victimization at the hands of outside aggressors, against which Koreans valiantly—if not always successfully—resisted; The belief that the principal tension of the colonial period was between self-serving collaboration and sacrificial nationalist resistance; The conviction among liberal-to-left intellectuals that the common people (minjung) had always been and continued to be the most progressive force in Korean history. The advances in historical consciousness to which nationalist historiography contributed are offset somewhat by the unquestioned acceptance of these paradigms, which sometimes led to distortions of severity comparable to those made by the former colonizers.99 These problems are exacerbated by the ideological and political divisions between North and South Korea, as historians have attempted to read and interpret colonial history for the purpose of legitimating one state and discrediting the other. With the maturation of democracy in South Korea, however, historians

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of Korea have been at greater liberty to question these nationalist paradigms. The historiography of the colonial period, in particular, has benefited enormously from historians’ readiness to set aside the simplistic “collaboration-resistance” dyad, yielding a much more richly textured—and more authentic—awareness of how Koreans thought and lived, worked and played, prospered and suffered, unified and divided under Japanese governance.100 Scholars continue to write passionately indignant histories of the period, but they no longer monopolize colonial Korean history; more importantly, Korean and Japanese historians have engaged in fruitful collaborative research ventures that bode well for the future of the field.101 Still, there remains a tendency, even in the most dispassionate accounts, to characterize Japanese attitudes toward Koreans and their culture as insensitive and disinterested at best, and steadily scornful and repressive at worst. Any displays of official Japanese interest or support for Koreana are regarded as anomalies of the cultural rule decade. I attribute this tendency partly to the aforementioned “prism” that the late colonial era has become, but also to the general habit of history and cultural studies to critique authority and to identify and deconstruct the insidious mechanisms by which hegemony is exercised by some over others. Few scholars in the humanities and social sciences don’t enjoy sticking it to The Man. This habit is clearly beneficial to humanity. But it also breeds a cynicism that can distort historical perspective as much as uncritical readings of hegemonic voices do. It causes us to question the sincerity of someone like Yanagi Muneyoshi, who was profoundly moved by the “beauty of the [Korean] line” (sen no bi), or of the armchair folklorist and constable Imamura Tomo, who studied what he described as the “beautiful customs” (bifū) of Korea because “the execution of my duties required harmonious relations with the populace.” We need not endorse Japan’s colonial rule of Korea to take seriously the intellectual interest, aesthetic pleasure, and genuine affection for Koreana that a respectable number of Japanese exhibited. Neither does acknowledgment of formal or informal Japanese patronage diminish the achievements of the Korean artists and intellectuals who documented, preserved, and performed or otherwise disseminated examples of native cultural heritage. The hard-nosed GGC—The Man in our narrative—expressed an openness to the potential moral, aesthetic, and historical value of Koreana at the outset of colonial rule. It announced a determination to investigate, record, and protect material heritage and whatever customs and traditions that did not interfere with its administrative goals. Yes, it reserved the right to determine what was worthy and what was not, what should be maintained

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and what should be discarded, but in making such decisions it usually consulted outside experts, who were often quite sympathetic to Koreans and enamored of their culture, rather than letting ill-informed bureaucrats make arbitrary judgments. While proclaiming assimilation as its ultimate objective, the GGC also admitted that a thorough knowledge of prevailing norms and circumstances must form the basis for competent governance and effective incorporation of Koreans as imperial subjects. The bellicose Governors-General Terauchi Masatake and Minami Jirō may have shown little respect for Korean heritage and sensibilities, but people who worked for them often did. A number of long-term, costly projects indicate an official commitment to understanding and preserving Koreana throughout the colonial period, not just under Saitō and Ugaki’s relatively liberal regimes. The first organized, state-sponsored efforts to collect ethnographic data and to locate and preserve historical monuments date from the 1910s. Much of the earliest work—like so much else—was entrusted to the apparently versatile gendarmerie, but professional scholars and specialists became involved very quickly. A major folklore anthology was published as early as 1915, and included a spirited defense of Koreans’ “beautiful customs.” The same year, the Yi royal family’s collection of artistic treasures and antiquities was organized into a national museum, just a stone’s throw away from the future headquarters of the GGC. Heritage preservation laws were promulgated the following year to prevent underground trafficking in antiquities. In the aftermath of March 1919, there was a major scholarly effort to document and film Korean traditional music and dance, and a new governmentsponsored art exhibition. Multivolume collections of antiquities, historical documents, and folktales and songs were published, including the muchmaligned 38-volume History of Korea.102 Thick tomes of ethnographic ephemera continued to appear with the GGC imprint until well into the 1940s. Indeed, the GGC applied its accumulated ethnographic knowledge of “old usages” in the Rural Revitalization Program of the 1930s, guiding the mobilization of farmers through indigenous mechanisms such as the “village compact” (hyangyak), instead of relying on the rural gentry or police.103 But perhaps more significant were unofficial efforts by Japanese academics, hobbyists, and the mass media to collect and publicize evidence of Korean cultural accomplishments and singularity, often with the stated objective of improving relations between Japanese and Koreans. This was a task the GGC could not convincingly accomplish with its own bloodied hands. Such evidence indicates a much more sustained and engaged gaze on

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Koreana than most accounts acknowledge. No one disputes that these things happened when they did, but historians undervalue their significance, because the cruel excesses of Korea’s colonial experience usually command their attention. And well they should. Remembrance of these events is meaningful. We may rarely heed the “lessons” of history, especially those involving the exercise of state power or the respectful treatment of other human beings; but if those “lessons” are forgotten entirely, we would all be much worse off. At its best, history is a moral science— not a guide to future action, nor a smug denunciation of people too dead to defend themselves, but rather a cautionary tale of remonstrance. “Our histories do not teach us what moral judgments to make, but they do pose, illustrate, and illuminate moral questions by making us see things as they are,” James Sheehan muses. “By telling stories about the moral choices men and women must confront and by showing the implications of these choices, history gives us problems to think about.”104 When contemplating the colonial relationship between Japan and Korea from this perspective, what are we to “think about”? Many choose to identify a deep-seeded Japanese cultural defect to explain the motivations and peculiar brutality of imperial expansion (a tack Iris Chang adopted in her 1997 bestseller The Rape of Nanking); others engage in counterfactual speculation about the capacity or incapacity of Koreans to modernize themselves had Japan not interfered. In my view, neither of these “points to ponder” yield moral insights of much value. It is much more productive to think about the consequences of, say, how best to respond to imperialist aggression (which Japan did by initiating its own), or how some Koreans managed to find ways to live their lives under colonialism, while others could not or refused to reconcile themselves to it. Or, why did Korean nationalists decide a united front against Japanese rule was less important than ideological commitments to socialism, feminism, or selfstrengthening? Perhaps the most important issue on which to meditate is the efficacy or counterproductivity of escalating violence as a tool either of governance or of resistance to tyranny. So it is not my intention to suggest that students of Japanese colonial rule in Korea should abandon their attention to its crimes, betrayals, and horrors and just “get over it.” Instead, I hope to add “texture” to existing narratives by highlighting the ways that Korean heritage and expressive culture mediated the colonial relationship, and provided a means whereby Japanese and Koreans contemplated their respective identities and modernities. Without denying that ethnography, historiography, archaeology,

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heritage management, and the mass marketing of the Korean “brand” could function as projections of Japanese colonial hegemony, I also try to recount the ways that Koreana offered aesthetic pleasure, spiritual sustenance, and moral admonishment to reflective Japanese for whom modernity was at best a mixed blessing.

chapter 2

Ethnography as Self-Reflection Japanese Anthropology in Colonial Korea

Ethnography is as old as empire. Whenever ambitious civilizations pushed their boundaries outwards, encompassing smaller polities and encountering less acquiescent populations along their borders, descriptions of unfamiliar peoples and their customs seemed imperative. Ethnography’s value to empire was both practical and ideological. Ethnographic reconnaissance could be beneficial, if not indispensable, to the conquest and pacification of targeted regions. Consequently, imperial chroniclers from antiquity, the Middle Ages, and the early modern era left substantial ethnographic corpuses, which sometimes constitute the only records of nomadic, preliterate peoples, those who were literally and figuratively at the margins of imperial states. Yet the principal contribution of ethnographic description to empire has been in the realm of ideology. Regardless of epoch or imperium, ethnographic observations of alien peoples were in themselves assertions of imperial privilege and power: to gaze, to gather, to survey, to define, to quantify, to judge—these were among the empire’s prerogatives. In doing so, with varying degrees of self-awareness, empires were also defining and refining their own self-images. Whatever its practical utility, or lack thereof, ethnography in service to empire shaped ideology by using the observed “other” to define, praise, and occasionally even critique the observing self. My intent in this chapter is to tease out the multiple, sometimes contradictory, messages in Japanese ethnographic accounts and images of colonial Korea, and to assess their practical and ideological value to the impe52

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rial project. I argue that colonial anthropology in Korea was characterized by two conflicting tendencies, both of which served official colonial objectives only obliquely: ethnographic accounts and images maximized Korean difference to enhance the grandeur of the Japanese empire, dramatize the urgent necessity of Japan’s civilizing influence, and justify the purportedly altruistic intrusion on Korean sovereignty; but often these descriptions and images simultaneously minimized Korean difference in accordance with the dictates of the ideology of common ancestry (nissen dōsoron), so as to make the annexation appear as a smooth integration of backward cousins into the Japanese family-state, and to enable a rediscovery of Japanese origins that enhanced the ongoing efforts to promote national cultural identity within the metropole. Examples of this reflexive process—which James Clifford has called “ethnographic self-fashioning”—abound in the chronicles of the great empires.1 As early as the fifth century b.c.e., the Greeks had developed an “ethnographic tradition,” a “somewhat standardized set of topics and interpretative strategies for writing about other peoples,” in which the description of foreign barbarians “allowed for a redefinition of ‘Greek’ as its opposite term in a dichotomy, so that from this point on Greeks tended to identify themselves as a single people in contrast to all the non-Greek barbarians.” An “established convention” by Roman times, ethnographic literature constituted more than unflattering and self-aggrandizing portraits of western and central Europeans, Celts, North Africans, Persians, and South Asians: Gaius Cornelius Tacitus (56–117 c.e.) used ethnography as a “forum for discussing the sorts of moral and social interests in which [he] had such a keen interest.”2 Though disgusted by some Germanic customs (“it seems to them slothful and unmanly to acquire with sweat what one can obtain by blood”), Tacitus presaged the romantic primitivism of modern anthropology when he expressed admiration for their uncorrupted lifeways (“they lead lives of well-protected chastity, corrupted by none of the enticements of public performances, none of the temptations of banquets”). 3 Half a world away, Sima Qian (145?-90? b.c.e.), court historian for the Chinese Han Dynasty, was less conflicted in assessing the customs of the recalcitrant Xiongnu, northern nomads whom he characterized as “a source of constant worry and harm to China.” “Their only concern is self-advantage, and they know nothing of propriety or righteousness,” he wrote, thereby rendering an account of alien others as a tribute to the virtues of the Chinese self. 4 Likewise, when the Mughal conqueror Babur (1483–1530) described Hindustan “as a place of little charm,” with “no beauty in its people, no graceful social intercourse, no poetic talent

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or understanding, no etiquette, nobility, or manliness,” a place where the “peasantry and common people parade around stark naked,” he reasserted the primacy of the Persian-Timurid heritage he claimed as his birthright (Hindustan’s one redeeming quality, Babur conceded, was that “it is a large country with lots of gold and money”). 5 It was possible for ethnography to threaten imperial ideologies, if the observers sympathized too much with those whom they investigated, or witnessed firsthand the cruel excesses of empire. The first Spanish bishop of Chiapas, Bartolomé de Las Casas (1484–1566), frequently lauded as the “founding father of European anti-colonialism,” published a compassionate ethnographic report on indigenous Americans, detailing the atrocities committed against them by the conquistadores and dramatizing the genocidal impact of the encomienda system in Spanish America. 6 “[I]t would constitute a criminal neglect of my duty to remain silent about the enormous loss of life as well as the infinite number of souls dispatched to Hell in the course of such ‘conquests,’ ” Las Casas insisted.7 Ethnography could thus serve as the remonstrative conscience of empire, as well as its reconnaissance force; it could inspire reflection on the means and ends of imperial conquest, instigate a transformation in imperial apologetics, or, more fundamentally, motivate a critical reevaluation of what made the imperial self so special. In recent years, we have witnessed exponential growth in scholarship on the cultural meanings and impacts of empire. Whereas earlier narratives assumed a one-way flow of cultural power and influence, and the imposition of metropolitan ideas, values, and lifestyles on hapless colonies, a fundamental premise of much of this new historiography is the mutual constitution of identities within a colonial relationship: “colonialism was as much involved in making the metropole, and the identities and ideologies of colonizers, as it was in (re)making peripheries and colonial subjects.”8 Rather than viewing empire-building as a mere by-product of the triumphal “rise of the West” to unprecedented global dominance, historians increasingly regard imperial conquest as an essential, defining component in the modernization of European political, economic, and cultural systems. “Europe was made by its imperial projects,” Frederick Cooper and Ann Laura Stoler insist, “as much as colonial encounters were shaped by conflicts within Europe itself.”9 This was accomplished not just in the rubber and tea plantations of South and Southeast Asia, or the diamond mines of southern Africa, but also in the drawing rooms, libraries, and churches of Western Europe and North America, where the explosive growth and worldwide dissemination

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of ethnographic information and images allowed broad and diverse audiences to gaze upon the colonized without ever setting foot in the colony. More often than not, this gaze was “blurred with misinformation, misconceptions, and stereotypes,” but it was also conflicted in its assessments of self and other.10 Certainly, ethnographic imagery of colonial “primitives” resounded with chortles of metropolitan superiority. By the mid-nineteenth century, conventional dyads for articulating difference—settled/nomadic, agricultural/pastoral, literate/non-literate, centralized states/diffuse polities, monotheistic/polytheistic, Christian/pagan (or Muslim/infidel), civilized/barbaric (huà-yí in Chinese parlance)—were supplemented (if not entirely displaced) by an evolutionary concept, borrowed from Darwin and applied to sociological thinking by Herbert Spencer. Human history was an ascent from “savagery” to “civilization,” or from “feudal” society to “modern” society. Difference was not merely articulated in geographical or cultural terms, but in temporal ones as well: “ ‘Primitive’ others,” Michael Kearney observes, “were different kinds of people because they had technologies and ways of life that were comparable to previous phases in the social evolutionary past of Western society that had ‘advanced’ beyond these ‘simpler’ forms to become modern.”11 Until Franz Boas (1858–1942) loosened its grip on anthropological mindsets, cultural evolutionism—the belief that all human societies pass through progressive developmental stages from barbarism toward the “evident end” of civilization, though at different paces—was “the guiding principle of all the historical sciences,” giving “purpose and direction to the young discipline” of anthropology.12 “A key premise of evolutionary anthropology,” Patrick Wolfe contends, “was the collapse of time and space whereby ethnography recapitulated prehistory—to leave Europe was to travel back in time.”13 Ethnography’s raison d’être was to observe and document the savages before historical time worked its inexorable magic upon them, in an effort to generalize about the origins and social, cultural, and political evolution of the entire species.14 Ethnography thereby provided an intellectual foundation for white supremacy and ideologies justifying expansion of modern colonial empires. The altruistic mission civilisatrice and “white man’s burden,” which motivated thousands of Europeans and North Americans to abandon the comforts of home for unfamiliar frontiers and inhospitable climes, were nurtured by swelling tides of ethnographic data about peoples whose evolutionary growth had inexplicably stalled. The more “primitives” anthropologists discovered living in the islands, forests, or mountains, the more urgent seemed the need to bring civilization to them. This was ethnography’s principal contribution to empire.15

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However, rather than being univocally self-satisfied with metropolitan modernity, the colonial ethnographic gaze also betrayed more than a tinge of self-disgust and what might be called primordial nostalgia. The potency of the “noble savage” trope, for instance, derived from a strain of anti-modern sentiment permeating industrial societies and colonial powers, a “collective wish for the intense coursing of the blood imagined to characterize life without modern conveniences.”16 The colonial access to other peoples and their lifeways triggered a powerful, if quixotic, yearning for purportedly simpler, preindustrial, communal modes of existence, or, in Theodore Roosevelt’s memorable phrase, “barbarian virtues.”17 The vogue du primitivisme of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, encouraged by increased travel, immigration, imperial expansion, and the circulation of related imagery and narratives, enabled Europeans and North Americans to transcend bourgeois banality by interacting (either directly or vicariously) with “savage” peoples.18 Anthropology—whether of the armchair or academic variety—nourished this sentiment with reams of data about preindustrial peoples from colonized regions of Africa, Asia, Arabia, and Oceania. The very notion of “salvage anthropology” was predicated on a conviction that, as global empires integrated and thereby transformed the world and its peoples, something valuable might well be lost.19 What T. J. Jackson Lears has dubbed “anti-modern ambivalence” thus tempered somewhat the self-congratulatory aspects of ethnographic self-fashioning. The Japanese ethnographic gaze on colonial Korea was hardly immune from these contradictions; however, when viewed in comparative perspective, the geographical and cultural proximity of the colony made these ambiguities peculiarly acute. To an extent unimaginable in any other colonial setting, Japanese official propaganda touted a long-standing kinship between master and subjects. By the 1940s, the discursive emphasis on mutual racial characteristics and a common spiritual heritage (rooted in Confucianism, Buddhism, and animism) was intended to encompass practically all of Asia. But one key component of imperial ideology set Korea apart within the pan-Asian empire Japan was struggling to forge: the scientific consensus that Japanese and Koreans emerged from a common racial stock. This hypothesis, on which Japanese and Western ethnologists agreed, was readily adopted by colonial apologists to characterize the annexation of Korea as a “reunion” of two peoples whom history (and the Chinese) had artificially separated. According to this theory (in its more self-congratulatory form), Koreans were mired in self-destructive stagnation, while their Japanese cousins progressed triumphantly into the

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modern age. The sustained interest in documenting native customs, photographing Korean people, collecting artifacts, and locating and preserving historic sites was motivated as much by a desire to discover Japanese origins as to manage the colonial population. 20 Japanese thus envisaged Koreans as their “primitive selves.” Gazing upon them was theoretically like looking into a mirror through a time warp. The contrast with Western colonial discourses is significant. It is true that some British ethnologists characterized India as “a kind of living museum of the European past,” and that European and American anthropologists used Polynesian and Australasian societies to develop sweeping theories about the structural development of human polities, believing that “some societies reflect earlier moments in the histories of others, spatial variation reflecting temporal change.”21 But these associations were neither uncontested nor stable over time, and proved less compelling “on the ground” than evolutionary theories that privileged racial distinctions over universal patterns of human development. Scientific racism made it impossible and undesirable to posit too close a kinship between white colonial masters and colored colonial subjects, making the common ancestry theory an anomaly in colonial racial thought. No other imperial power (with the possible exceptions of British Ireland and French Algeria) could or did claim as close a racial bond with its subject population as Japanese did with Koreans. 22 Consequently, the ethnographic record reveals sharply divergent tendencies in Japanese characterizations of Korea and its cultural ties to the metropole. Difference and resemblance, self-congratulation and critical introspection were engaged in an awkward dance. Yet all were predicated on what Johannes Fabian has called a “denial of coevalness,” an assumption that Koreans and Japanese inhabited different temporal stages of development. 23 On the one hand, ethnographies emphasized the exotic specificity of Koreana, dramatizing Korean difference, and thereby enhancing the prestige of the Japanese empire. In stark contrast to the British empire, on which the sun reportedly never set, Japan’s was circumscribed and parochial. Possessing real live “primitives” within its borders could give the illusion of a more far-flung imperium, more directly comparable to the global claims staked out by Western powers. Korea could not convincingly be made to appear more geographically distant from the Japanese archipelago, but the more Koreans and their culture could be made to appear temporally distant from modern Japanese, the more impressive the empire appeared. What, after all, was an empire if it didn’t have savages to civilize?

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On the other hand, the persistent discursive emphasis on Northeast Asian kinship—which only intensified with the Japanese invasion of Manchuria in 1931—was reinforced in some ethnographies. The parallels were too obvious to deny or obscure convincingly: the historical infatuation with Chinese models; the linguistic similarities; the shared Buddhist heritage; the prevalence of patriarchal social structures; the resemblance between Korean shamanism (musok) and traditional Shintō; the iconic kisaeng and geisha (courtesan entertainers). Such proximity made it conceivable that a primordial “Japan” survived on the Korean peninsula, and could be rediscovered, perhaps even “salvaged,” through anthropological diligence. Depicting Koreans as “primitives” was of course problematic: in contrast to others placed in that category, they had been too literate, sophisticated, and bureaucratic for too long, and, importantly, wore too many clothes. On the scale of modernity articulated by Fukuzawa Yukichi, they represented, at worst, the “semi-civilized” (hankai) state of historical development. 24 Japanese had long appreciated Korea’s exalted status on the Chinese huà-yí continuum: Koreans knew the Way, meaning Confucian ethics and decorum, literacy, and the hegemony of China; and Japanese had benefited too much and too often from Korean learning to make rash assertions of its primitivity. Such characterizations could only be credible if the gaze was directed away from the Sinophiles who had long occupied Korea’s upper social strata, and toward the uncontaminated agrarian masses, whose illiteracy, folk religions (recast as “superstitions”), and material deprivation made them a better “fit” for the category of primitive. Happily, anthropological convention favored just such a gaze, and Japanese ethnographers conceptualized Korea as a society composed of two distinct layers, the lower of which monopolized their attention. The ethnographic texts and images that constitute the source base for this analysis appeared in a variety of print media—magazines, newspapers, travel guides, training manuals, scholarly and popular books and essays. They were produced by a diverse community of ethnographers (armchair folklorists and hobbyists, police informants, and professional academics with advanced degrees in anthropology, musicology, art history, and related fields) for a constituency of colonial administrators, law enforcement officials, academic peers, tourists, and general Koreaphiles. 25 Like any text or image, they were and remain open to multiple readings and interpretations. The readings presented here derive from contextualizing these sources within broader discourses on empire and modernity prevalent at the time of their production. I suspect few readers will have trouble detecting pretentious exoticism in these ethnographic sources, if only because the cruelty

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and arrogance of the colonial regime in Korea are so well established in the annals of history. More difficult to swallow, however, may be the argument that these same sources express a nostalgic envy for the primordial purity of Korean cultural life. Again, contextualization makes such conclusions plausible, for anti-modern, primitivist postures were key elements of colonial discourses, in Japan and elsewhere, and influenced what ethnographers deemed worthy of recording. Many mainstream intellectuals regarded modernity as a “disease” that had “sickened” and “distorted” Japan’s national spirit. 26 The theme of loss is therefore central to Japanese experiences of modernity, exemplified in the pensive fiction of Natsume Sōseki, the folk craft (mingei) revival of Yanagi Muneyoshi, and the wistful folkloric investigations of Yanagita Kunio. Seldom, however, does this theme intrude on imperial studies, where the self-satisfied arrogance of Japanese imperialism takes center stage. Re-examination of ethnographic imagery and accounts from colonial Korea thus provides an opportunity to integrate two abiding aspects of modern Japanese history: empire and the “epistemology of loss.”27 Though clearly functioning as a means for intelligence-gathering in service to empire and for demonstrating Korean difference, Japanese ethnographies also articulated anti-modern ambivalence, offering concrete images of premodern “others” with whom the modern “self” could be readily contrasted.

et h nogr a ph ic k now l e dge a s coloni a l p ow e r For the last several decades anthropology has been haunted by the ghosts of its imperial past, and has struggled to redeem itself through “postcolonial” reconsiderations of its disciplinary development. Historians of anthropology now read colonial-era ethnographies less for what they say about the peoples depicted therein than to deconstruct the “orientalist” epistemologies of their authors. From this new perspective, ethnographies themselves can be considered “ ‘artifacts’ of encounter,” which may be read as “narratives of the describer’s self, the Other operating as a cultural mirror.”28 In 1973, Talal Asad proposed a framework for scrutinizing these “artifacts”: We must begin from the fact that the basic reality which made pre-war social anthropology a feasible and effective enterprise was the power relationship between dominating (European) and dominated (non-European) cultures. We then need to ask ourselves how this relationship has affected the practical preconditions of social anthropology; the uses to which its knowledge was put; the theoretical treatment of particular topics; the mode of perceiving and objectifying alien societies; and the anthropologist’s claims of political neutrality. 29

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Ultimately, Asad’s Anthropology and the Colonial Encounter was hesitant to indict the discipline as a “handmaiden” of colonialism, instead characterizing anthropologists as “reluctant imperialists” and “frustrated radicals” who sought to protect the interests of colonized populations. 30 Under the influence of Michel Foucault’s theory of “knowledge-as-power,” in which surveillance and the gathering of information are interpreted as acts of domination, subsequent studies have been much more strident in viewing anthropologists and ethnomusicologists as colonial agents. 31 Whether or not they self-consciously served colonial purposes, they nonetheless produced scholarship that potentially had practical utility in the management of indigenes, and they exploited the opportunities offered by captive populations to develop professional careers within the academy. Some scholars have gone beyond this rather mundane conclusion to argue that the disciplines’ defining theoretical and methodological characteristics were shaped by the colonial contexts in which fieldwork and data analysis occurred and from which theory emanated. For instance, Nicholas Dirks insists, “The anthropological concept of culture might never have been invented without a colonial theater that both necessitated the knowledge of culture (for the purposes of control and regulation) and provided a colonized constituency that was particularly amenable to ‘culture.’ . . . Claims about nationality necessitated notions of culture that marked groups off from one another in essential ways, uniting language, race, geography, and history in a single concept.”32 The administrative utility of ethnographic description to empire is more often assumed than demonstrated. Empire may have contributed more to anthropology—by providing access to “ethnographic laboratories” in which research methods could be developed and theories tested “in the field”—than anthropology did to empire. Its value as intelligence-gathering depended entirely on how such information was used, if it was used at all. Assessing the contributions of anthropology to colonial administration in three European empires, Eric Wolf has argued that the “installation of indirect rule in British Africa owed little to inputs from anthropology, despite anthropologists’ repeated offers to assist in the process.” French military officers engaged in “political warfare” in Indochina, Madagascar, and North Africa did use ethnographic fieldwork to snoop out local conditions; by contrast, the German Colonial Service, after initially sponsoring ethnographic reports, found the “prevalent academic culture-historical diffusionism” too esoteric to be of much value and deleted their budget lines. Historical narratives of the disciplinary development of anthropology in Japan usually postulate a more hand-in-glove relationship to empire, with

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complementary trajectories of imperial expansion and disciplinary maturation, than that observed in other colonial settings. Katsumi Nakao states matter-of-factly that “anthropologists provided colonial administrators with information that facilitated the pacification and control of the diverse peoples within the growing empire.”33 Ethnographic reconnaissance missions investigating local law, land use, and general “customs” (fūzoku) were indeed among the earliest projects initiated by the Governments-General of Taiwan and Korea, though since formally trained anthropologists were rarely involved, some scholars dispute how “anthropological” these surveys were. 34 An even more systematic effort to synchronize ethnographic interests with imperial priorities began after the 1931 Manchurian invasion. Japanese anthropologists enjoyed a “boom time” until the end of World War II, with increased employment opportunities and “ample occasion for fieldwork overseas” in the formal colonies (Taiwan, Korea, Karafuto, and Micronesia) and in sites adjoining war zones opened by the Imperial Japanese Army in Manchuria, Republican China, Mongolia, and Southeast Asia. With heightened demand for ethnographic knowledge during the socalled Fifteen Years War (1931–45), amateur folklorists, academic anthropologists, and scholars from other disciplines produced volumes of translations, field guides, scholarly and mainstream articles, and official reports for the government. 35 So entwined were the fates of Japan’s empire and its ethnographic scholarship that the Japanese Society of Ethnology (Nihon minzoku gakkai) officially changed its name in 2004 to the Japanese Society of Cultural Anthropology (Nihon bunka jinrui gakkai), because its members increasingly objected to the “wartime nuances” of the term “ethnology” (minzokugaku). 36 Most scholars locate the birth of ethnographic science in Japan in the Meiji period (1868–1912), as a response to the Western gaze on Japan, although there had been a substantial, widely available corpus of ethnographic literature in the Edo period (1600–1868). Japan’s engagement in the expanding global trade networks of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, its attacks on Chosŏn Korea and Ming China in the 1590s, and its expansion into the northern and southern frontiers of Ezo and Ryūkyū led to an explosion of interest and information about alien peoples. What Mary Elizabeth Berry has called early modern Japan’s “library of public information” was rife with geographic and ethnographic observations of the Ezo (Ainu), Ryūkyūans, Koreans, Chinese, Europeans, Southeast Asians, and Africans. In the Edo period, carnivalesque “masking” in imitation of foreign attire became a standard feature of some village and town festivals. 37 In Ronald Toby’s estimation, early modern encounters with the world out-

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side of East Asia marked a significant moment in Japanese self-definition: “The age of encounter provoked cosmological tremors for many peoples around the world. . . . Japanese likewise had to reorder not only their cosmology, but their imaginings and imaging of the range of human variation that they encountered in the wake of Columbus. What emerged was a variety of new modes of imagining, and the visual imaging and representing of peoples—domestic and foreign—that apprehended and visualized a new, and newly-universal, category of ‘anthropos’ in Japanese discourse.”38 Needless to say, ethnographic data in locations like Ezo was collected by individuals who had no special training in fieldwork methods; rather they were merchants, local officials, constables, or garrison troops. Such people continued to be on the front lines of ethnographic investigation well into the twentieth century, with academically trained anthropologists not really involved in significant numbers until the 1920s and 1930s. The man regarded as Japan’s first professional academic anthropologist, Tokyo Imperial University’s Tsuboi Shōgorō (1863–1913), was a physical anthropologist rather than an ethnographer. It was left to his student Torii Ryūzō (1870–1953) to inaugurate “scientific” ethnographic fieldwork in the recently acquired colony of Taiwan, studying the island’s aboriginal peoples (whom he called “untamed barbarians”) on four trips between 1896 and 1900. The acquisition of Taiwan, the spoils of the 1894–95 SinoJapanese War, was a boon for Japanese anthropology. “As Western scholars had claims to almost all of the so-called ‘primitive’ societies in their colonial empires by the end of the nineteenth century,” Ka F. Wong notes, “Japanese anthropologists needed to find an ‘unexplored’ area in order to make a name for themselves. . . . The Taiwan aborigines, of which no Western scholars had yet written, naturally became the ideal topic of Japanese anthropologists, including Torii.”39 Ethnographic intelligence on land use, kinship, and customary law figured into the codification of a colonial legal system in Taiwan, and launched the careers of some Japan’s most prominent anthropologists. 40 However, colonial ethnography was but one of two main strains in Japanese anthropology; the other was obsessed with the origins of the Japanese people. 41 Its peculiar self-absorption set Japanese anthropology apart from the discipline as practiced elsewhere. Scholars credit Tsuboi for establishing this agenda for Japanese anthropology. Excited by zoologist Edward Morse’s discovery and excavation of the Ōmori shell mounds in Tokyo in 1884, Tsuboi embarked on a lifelong search for the ethnological origins of the Japanese people, based primarily on archeological and anthropometric evidence. 42 The tendency toward self-study was visible in other

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branches of anthropological science, most notably in the work of folklorist Yanagita Kunio (1875–1962). Yanagita offered a spirited defense of using ethnographic methods to better understand one’s own culture: “There has been a kind of psychological inhibition among academics in Europe about making their own culture the object of anthropological research. This is because ethnology, in fact, originated as a discipline investigating the lives of savages.” “In my view,” he added, “any place on earth can become an object of ethnological investigation.” Deeply committed to understanding and preserving intact the Japanese “spiritual essence” of the rural communities he studied, Yanagita inspired a generation of ethnographers working both in the metropole and the outlying empire to document the “deeper spiritual reality” behind material culture and social customs, before the deluge of modernity either diluted it or washed it away. 43 In Korea, like nowhere else, these two anthropological preoccupations— depicting the primitive “other” and defining the Japanese self—converged. The doctrine of nissen dōsoron ensured that the quest for Japanese origins subtly shaped ethnographic agendas in Korea, where study of the “other” provided clues to the “self.” The results of such investigations offered scientific validation for the colonial ideology of Northeast Asian kinship— staking what Prasenjit Duara has called an “anthropogenetic claim” to Korea—yet could also deepen the sense of loss pervading modern Japanese thought by presenting images of Korean life that accentuated its premodern, primordial qualities.

et h nogr a ph y as su rv eill a nce Before the establishment of the protectorate in 1905, a handful of Japanese had initiated explorations of Korean archaeological and historic sites, which had largely been left to rot by the Yi government. 44 With the establishment of the Residency-General under elder statesman Itō Hirobumi, such investigations became official business. In Japanese eyes, the Korean government’s indifference to historical preservation, like its purported inability to maintain internal order and handle diplomacy, was indicative of its general incompetence. In the second of its annual reports, the Residency-General announced its intentions to establish an imperial library and museum, stating that “Korean art, such as keramics [sic], sculpture, etc., would be lost beyond recovery unless some specimens were permanently preserved in a place of the nature of a museum.”45 The Japanese arrogation of this curatorial responsibility for Korea’s cultural and material heritage is the subject of the next chapter; of immediate

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concern here is the parallel effort to gather ethnographic information about Koreans through field surveys. The colonial administration initially delegated to the so-called Old Usage Investigation Bureau the task of researching customary law, succession, wills, and kinship networks, but abolished this bureau and reassigned its responsibilities to the Councilors’ Office (Sanjikanshitsu) in April 1912. In addition to researching old books and official documents, the “investigation of old usages” entailed “dispatching officials to local districts for personal inspection of actual conditions existing in those localities.”46 In its July 5, 1911 instructions to gendarmes and provincial police, the GGC recommended tolerance and latitude with regard to such “old usages.” There is much in the old manners and customs of the Korean people that requires remedy, but there also exist many good usages which should be retained. Should attempts be made to destroy them at one fell swoop, simply because they are different from usages in Japan, it would give rise to popular misunderstanding and cause much obstruction to administrative working. Accordingly, with the exception of those customs the evil of which cannot be overlooked, usages difficult of correction all at once should have applied to them measures calculated to improve them by degrees.47

The earliest issues of the Annual Report published by the ResidencyGeneral (1907–9) and the succeeding Government-General (after 1910) contain cursory descriptions of an unruly Korean populace prone to superstition, sloth, stubborn recalcitrance, and unsanitary squalor. “Even a certain class of peaceful people, instigated by reckless agitators, were led to think that Japanese appointed to revenue offices would carry away to Japan the money collected as taxes, and thus frequently they attempted to do injury to these officials.” Pestilence flourished, “owing to the ignorance and prejudice of the people and their disposition to conceal disease.”48 Gender relations remained rigid, resisting Japanese efforts at co-education: “The Oriental idea of respecting the education of boys and underrating the education of girls is still prevalent among Koreans. The education of girls has hitherto been wholly neglected in Korea, except in a few private female schools established by foreign missionaries or under their auspices.” Due to the “idea that men and women not sitting together who are above the age of seven,” Japanese authorities lamented, “co-education could not be maintained.”49 Official accounts of the “simple and somewhat crude” conditions in Korea blamed the monarchy and yangban aristocracy, which had been officially abolished with the August 29, 1910 annexation (Nikkan heigō). The yangban had become “accustomed to despise labour and indulge in idleness, whether they have property or not,” officials observed. “Insecurity

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of life and property hitherto caused by long-standing official extortion and abuses, naturally discouraged people from developing their occupations and improving their standard of living.”50 These initial ethnographic investigations served several important domestic and diplomatic purposes. The results of these surveys—which were published in the English editions of the GGC’s Annual Reports and distributed to overseas research libraries, “with the compliments of His Imperial Japanese Majesty’s Government-General”—sought to legitimize the seizure of Korea to the rest of the world, by providing evidence of Korean backwardness requiring colonial intervention. In taking stock of the “primitive” conditions in which Koreans lived and assigning blame to the indigenous ruling class, Japan could justify its overthrow and the imposition of an “enlightened administration” as redounding to the benefit of its new subjects. 51 And yet the effort put forth to gather ethnographic intelligence on established norms, and to concede the existence of some “good usages,” suggested an admirably tolerant and culturally sensitive administration. Ethnographic appraisals also provided intelligence for Japanese efforts to pacify the population and to suppress the Korean insurgents resisting the protectorate and annexation. Surely, Japanese officials surmised, this would be appreciated by other colonial powers engaged in similar campaigns to “uplift” savage populations and subdue insurgencies, such as in German Namibia, the Dutch East Indies, the American Philippines, and British South Africa. 52 If results were forthcoming, Japan’s colonial management would be the toast of the world. The GGC indeed boasted in its 1918 report, “Though the progress of material civilization is apt to induce moral relaxation, the public morality of the Koreans is in general steadily improving. It is especially noticeable that the people have awakened to the call of industry and have begun to respect labour, and even women are willing to engage in agriculture, handicrafts, factory works, and various kinds of other labour.”53 Ethnographic reconnaissance in the early days of the colony thus also provided a benchmark from which one could measure progress in material and cultural conditions. Among the gendarmes, police officers, and provincial administrators dispatched to reconnoiter Korean life and customs, a handful of investigators developed a special interest in Koreana that exceeded their mandated ethnographic agendas. They published the first anthologies and reference works on Korean folklore in the notorious first decade of direct colonial rule, described by Japanese as the era of “military rule” and by Koreans as the “dark period.” At a time when the Korean-language press was illegal, some Japanese were intent on collecting the vernacular culture of ordinary

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Koreans and making it available to a wider audience. In 1912, GGC officials, educators, and corporate executives jointly founded a Chosŏn Studies Association (Chōsen kenkyūkai), whose stated mission was to “study the Korean humanities, survey customary systems and old practices, and to provide the basis of enlightened leadership in keeping with the demands of these present times, to prepare and plan reform of society . . . to publish useful books on Korean history, contribute to research, and hold lectures.”54 The early output included a GGC-sponsored, multivolume anthology of provincial folksongs, tales, and humor; guidebooks for Japanese administrators, gendarmes, settlers, and tourists; a survey of Buddhist temple sites; a study of Korean currency; and a translation of Korean chronicles of the Imjin War. 55 Boudewijn Walraven observes that these “research results did not always need to be immediately applicable to practical administration,” which allowed Japanese investigators of Koreana “to follow their own interests to a certain extent.”56 Yet the compilers of these anthologies nevertheless seem to have felt it necessary to justify their research on Korean folklife and beliefs for readers dubious about its utility to colonial management. They typically prefaced their works with remarks on the importance of cultural understanding to good intercultural relations and enlightened governance. For instance, Imamura Tomo (1870–1943), one of the most devoted and prolific students of Koreana, reflected on the difficulties he encountered when first taking his post as a provincial constable in 1908, due to his lack of familiarity with Korean customs. His folkloric surveys were essential, he claimed, since “the execution of my duties required harmonious relations with the populace.” In his foreword to Naraki Suemi’s 1913 publication Korean Superstitions and Legends, Imamura acknowledged that the value of folkloric research was not universally accepted. Some regarded “prying into such boring matter” as a “frivolous” occupation for “men of leisure.” But “if studied in detail,” he insisted, “there is quite a lot of value in this boring matter. That is to say, through these legends one can detect the flavors of national character, such as the sense of logic, religious beliefs, and other social ideologies.”57 Though by his own admission he was more a collector than an analyzer of folklore, Imamura evinced a firm conviction throughout his career that good governance of the colony would be impossible without a solid grasp of the preexisting socio-cultural milieu. In virtually everything he wrote on Korean folklife, he reiterated the urgency of understanding Korean mindsets and the need to devote more resources and intellectual energy to folkloric research. Imamura delivered his own findings in public lectures and newspaper

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and magazine articles, which were eventually compiled in the majestically titled Anthology of Korean Customs (1915). In multiple reprinted editions, the book would remain a standard reference work throughout the colonial period, its frontispiece photograph of the author in traditional Korean scholars’ garb illustrating his enthusiasm for the subject. 58 In the harsh context of the martial law regime of the 1910s, it is not insignificant that the anthology’s first essay was “Beautiful Customs of the Koreans,” the very title of which was an urgent plea for acknowledgment of those admirable cultural traits that resonated with Japan’s own. Rebuking Japanese who spoke ill of Koreans and their habits, Imamura wrote, “Even though Koreans’ national character has many deficiencies, individually they also possess considerable good points.” Aside from high-level diplomatic and political intercourse between the Meiji and Chosŏn governments, “there has been almost no real social interaction between the people of these countries,” making it natural that “Japanese view the character of the average Korean in a poor light.” He attributed the negative stereotypes to a number of factors distorting the Japanese gaze on Korea: Koreans’ cultural arrogance; the fact that most Japanese observers and “writers introducing Korea to the world” usually visited only the “frivolous, popular cities such as Seoul, Pusan, and Inch’ŏn, never setting foot in the remote mountain villages with their simple and honest tendencies”; the fact that Japanese usually came into contact with “low-class types” who spoke garbled Japanese, rather than with “high-class yangban Confucians” who might make a better impression; and the fact that Koreans had not experienced a “great revolution” in their social and philosophical systems as had the Meiji-era Japanese, instead having mostly “preserved beautiful customs from antiquity.”59 Imamura’s subsequent discussion highlighted precisely these age-old “beautiful customs” (ryōfū bizoku) as the core of Korean virtues: filial piety; respect for authority and government laws; incest taboos; “proper conduct” (meaning chastity) of unmarried women; communal living; “detached tranquility” (tentan anjo, “philosophically more akin to Laozi than to Confucius”); and social courtesy. 60 Rather than ridiculing Koreans for being old-fashioned, Imamura bemoaned the corruption of morals taking place as the colony modernized: “Recently the old beautiful customs have fallen out of fashion, causing children to no longer obey their parents absolutely, women to go out indiscreetly, and so-called ‘new women’ have increased,” a phenomenon occurring in the metropole, as well. The author urged leaders to provide guidance to young people living in an age in which old mores were being discarded without a new moral order to

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replace them. Though Imamura was careful not to assign blame to the colonial regime for an increase in moral laxity, he was clearly alarmed by the disruption of the Korean moral order as Japanese sought to modernize the colony. By admonishing all Japanese, “whether officials or not,” to be more conscientious of the moral example they were setting for Koreans to follow, he was suggesting that Japanese, having already abandoned many of their own “beautiful customs” in the rush to modernize, should be more cautious about implementing social and cultural reforms in Korea. 61 Imamura’s essay can be read in two divergent, yet complementary, ways. On the one hand, his plea for cultural respect and leniency might strike us as remarkably liberal and enlightened, especially in light of the relative harshness of colonial cultural policy in the 1910s; on the other hand, we might regard his appeal for empathetic tolerance as merely a tactical suggestion for better colonial management, a strategy for more effective collection and utilization of ethnographic intelligence to facilitate the pacification of a sullen colony. These interpretations are not mutually exclusive. Exhortations for humane colonial administration, though sincere in their concern for the welfare of the subject populace, need not be refutations of colonial rule itself. With this essay, Imamura set a standard of ethnographic conduct that most of his successors would emulate: a posture of scholarly detachment, tinged with empathy—and even occasional expressions of admiration—for the observed Koreans; a sense of mission to be an advocate for Korean interests while still serving the empire with practical advice and a moral conscience; a conviction that an essential Korean national character (minzokusei) could be discovered through concentrated scrutiny of folk beliefs and expressive culture; and a presumption of both the inevitability and perpetuity of the Japanese colonial presence. As the most prolific of the early ethnographers of Korea, Imamura may be credited as well with establishing the research program for future researchers, by identifying those aspects of Korean folklife, belief systems, and material and expressive culture worthy of ethnographic notice. Later investigators may have delved deeper into the subject matter than Imamura, but they rarely diverged from a rather consistent, if still rich, agenda. Social stratification and kinship, weddings and funerals, festivals and ritual calendars (nenjū gyōji), religious beliefs and superstitions, shaman rites and folk entertainments (minzoku geinō), rural folklife and fashion, kisaeng and gender relations remained favored subjects until near the end of the colonial occupation. The importance the GGC attached to ethnographic reconnaissance in the 1910s only intensified in the following decade. Astonished and outraged

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by the nationwide revolt of March 1919, the regime redoubled its efforts to systematically probe the Korean psyche through folkloric research. A reconstituted Central Council (Chūsūin), “composed of prominent Korean gentlemen,” was assigned to oversee anthropological investigations and to advise the Governor-General “with regard to matters bearing on old Korean customs and manners.”62 In its formal announcements, the GGC stated that a firm understanding of Korean culture was fundamental to its vision of administrative reform. It is apparent that, in order to attain a full measure of success in cultural administration, it is imperative that it should stand on the basis of the manners and customs of the people for whom it is intended, and that policies adapted to their conditions should be pursued. For this reason, the Government-General has been conducting investigation into Korean usage, entrusting the work to the Central Council. It is now planned to expand the scope of the work, so that not only may Korean usage be studied, but old Korean institutions and popular ideas also, and material be obtained for effecting improvement in the administration. . . . Investigation of such subjects as the common stock of the Japanese and Korean peoples [a reference to nissen dōsoron], communications between them in early times, old Korean institutions and usages that can be of assistance in framing the administrative measures of the present day, and the conditions of Korean communities, is now being conducted by a committee appointed for that purpose in April, 1921. 63

Entrusted with this new mandate, the Central Council commissioned several regional ethnographic surveys in the 1920s. Six such reports (fukumeisho), handwritten on Central Council stationery, are preserved in the East Asian Library at the University of California, Berkeley. Two of these, authored by Councilor (sangi) Yi Hang-sik (1881-?), are concise, perfunctory descriptions of such diverse topics as ritual calendars (nenjū gyōji), inheritance and succession practices (including disputes about shoshi, “illegitimate” children), gender segregation for unmarried youngsters, and water use in Northern Chŏlla and Southern P’yŏngan provinces. 64 The others are considerably more expansive, though not quite uniform in their ethnographic subject matter. A 1924 report on Hwanghae-do, jointly authored under contract by a Japanese and a Korean, includes drawings of ritual objects and toys, diagrams of property succession, and the lyrics to several farm and sericulture songs (nōga and sanga). 65 A Japanese survey of Kangwŏn province from 1926 went into even more detail about local cuisine, costume, housing, weddings, midwifery, and festivals. 66 While it is noteworthy that individual contract ethnographers seem to have had a fair amount of latitude in determining what mundane aspects of Korean folklife were worth documenting, it is difficult to ascertain how useful such

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reports were to the regime’s stated aim of “effecting improvement in the administration” under the new mandate of “cultural rule.” Eventually the Central Council sponsored publications that made an ever-increasing amount of ethnographic data available to the wider public. Imamura continued his ethnographic work under contract with the Council, but new faces—both Japanese and Korean—joined him in the field. Many, but by no means all, of them had formal academic training in anthropology, sociology, folklore studies, or musicology, indicating a greater degree of professionalization, and less reliance on law enforcement, than in the first decade of ethnographic surveillance. Among the most prolific of the new observers was Tokyo University– trained sociologist Murayama Chijun (1891–1968), who was directly employed by the GGC’s Central Council for nearly two decades. Murayama used historical documents, local police surveys, native informants, and direct field observations to compile thick volumes of detailed reports on Korean shamanism, superstitions, feng shui geomancy, festivals, and folk rites. 67 Like Imamura, he was often self-effacing about the “scholarly” qualities of his work, leaving to others the task of analysis and grand interpretation; but Murayama was noticeably less restrained than his predecessor in making critical assessments about the “rationality” or hygienic defects of certain Korean practices, making him arguably the most overtly “ideological” of the Japanese ethnographers of Korea. Murayama was more likely than his colleagues to cease feigning scholarly detachment, to use ethnographic observation to make value judgments about Koreans’ cultural habits, and to suggest specific areas of cultural intervention and reform that advanced the priorities of the Government-General. Murayama’s Korean Clothing (1927) is one example of the ethnographer doubling as colonial reformer/cultural critic. Native adornment—or the lack thereof—had long been an object of obsessive ethnographic focus and of colonial “cultural reform” efforts, so Murayama’s devotion of an entire book to the subject was unremarkable. 68 From among the aspects of material culture—specifically, clothing, food, and housing (ishokujū)—the author singled out clothing as a “convenient” way to understand cultural attitudes, social characteristics, and personal identity, since it bore “probably every general characteristic of society, influencing its form and behavior, its coloration expressing aesthetic sensibilities, its differentiation proportionate to each social category.” Clothing should be utilized as source material for comprehending “ideas about sanitation, economics, as well as etiquette,” he added, a material object that “carries out the important mission of enunciating the ideals of social life.”69 Much of the book consisted

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of detailed descriptions and images of various types of women’s and men’s clothing and adornment, but in the concluding chapter Murayama let loose with a critical appraisal of just what he had learned about Koreans’ national character by scrutinizing their costume. In his “impartial” assessment of the practical utility of Korean clothing, based on sanitation, economics, and aesthetic and customary value, he drew conclusions that reinforced notions of Korean illogic and backwardness. Because it covered virtually all of the body below the neck, Korean costume was well-suited to keeping the body warm during winter—“unlike Japanese attire,” Murayama quipped—yet miserably uncomfortable in the hot summer. But it was the Korean affection for white clothing that Murayama deemed most impractical, and even detrimental to the health and prosperity of Koreans. Examining Korean costume with regard to [freedom of] movement, because there is no real fear of disturbing custom with audacious thrusts of the hands and legs, since Korean attire completely covers each part of the body, even seventeen-year-old girls [myōrei no joshi] can perform rigorous exercise such as swinging [buranko; kŭnettwigi] or see-sawing [itatobi; nŏlttwigi]. However, because most of that clothing is white, it is prone to getting easily soiled, and it is not uncommon [for Koreans] to refrain from both enjoyable games and exercise for fear of staining the clothes.70

Though far cheaper than Western or Japanese clothing, Murayama contended, assessments of the economical value of Korean clothing should take into consideration more than the relatively low cost of materials, but also include evaluations of resilience, ease of manufacture, and, most importantly, labor wasted in constant laundering. For Murayama, the stubborn attachment to white clothing explained a lot about Korea’s economic underdevelopment: “White is the main thing worn, so it is something that must be washed frequently and repeatedly. . . . This laundering is the thing that takes up most of the labor in Korean households, and the woman of the house unavoidably must spend much time and labor on this.” Noting that “Korean-style laundering involves not just washing the clothes, but also pounding the dirt out,” Murayama insisted that “washing just one item of clothing thus takes considerable time and trouble,” and moreover “weakened and damaged” the garment, shortening its wearable life.71 The Korean penchant for white, Murayama implied, wasted valuable time and human energy better exerted in other, more productive pursuits. Murayama was none too impressed by Korean costume from an aesthetic standpoint, either. There was little distinction between male and

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female attire, he fretted. “The sense of beauty provoked by Korean attire is cold rather than warm, simple rather than astringent, more flamboyant than dull, more linear than curvy, hard instead of soft, shadowy rather than vivacious, more composed than stingy, sad rather than lively, more severe than friendly, seeming to fortify an arrogant, aloof, noble elegance. In such attire, there are no fringes, no broad smiles, no laughter.” “If it progressed aesthetically and economically,” Murayama concluded, “with some refinement, it could become quite excellent clothing, something with value.”72 Thus Murayama’s description of Korean costume made precious little effort to understand or explain the cultural significance of white to Koreans, but rather critiqued this cultural preference from both a utilitarian standpoint that privileged industrial notions of productive time, and a subjective aesthetic sensibility that equated a lack of color with sullen morbidity. If clothing indeed reflected and expressed the essence of “national character,” as he maintained, then, Murayama concluded, Koreans were an impractical, irrational, and joyless lot. From the late 1920s until the late 1930s, Murayama oversaw the compilation of several tomes on various aspects of Korean folklife, some of which might appear at first glance to be esoteric, and others that had a rather overt intelligence value. Among these latter were surveys of folk beliefs, shamanic rites, and so-called “pseudo-religions” (ruiji shukyō)—a pejorative used to describe everything from minor cults to new religious movements such as Ch’ŏndogyo (Tendōkyō in Japanese).73 The Japanese regime was selective in granting recognition and legitimacy to religious groups in colonial Korea, sanctioning Christian and Buddhist missionary activity, and compelling the performance of emperor worship and State Shintō rites by Koreans, but otherwise regarding traditional shamanism and indigenous “new religions” with suspicion, as smokescreens for subversion and mischief.74 The GGC described such groups as “political parties” requiring “strict supervision on account of the dangerous nature of their teachings and their beguiling of the populace.”75 The Government-General summarized its attitude toward these religions in its 1932 Annual Report: There exist several religions of native origin though they are not recognized by the State as having the true marks of religion. Among them are the Tendo-kyo and the Jiten-kyo, each a mixture of Confucianism, Buddhism, and Taoism, the Taikyoku-kyo and the Jindo-kyo which worships Dankun [sic], commonly accepted as the originator of the Korean race, and other sects which are simply superstitious beliefs. In prosperity, the Tendo-kyo leads with a following of about 80,000. The rest are hardly worth mentioning. As in many countries, the vicious custom of mixing up religion and politics prevailed in Chosen. . . . The abuse is more clearly in evidence in the case of

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the Tendo-kyo, founded sixty years ago, for its founder was executed by the [Chosŏn] Government ‘for seducing the people by evil teaching,’ and his successor met the same fate on account of his participation in the Tonghak rebellion in 1894. These and other instances show that the entry of religion into statecraft was no rare occurrence in Chosen, so it is not surprising that the independence agitation in 1919 carried with it a religious colouring.76

With stricter enforcement of Korean participation in State Shintō rites in the 1930s, it is not surprising that the demand for ethnographic intelligence on indigenous religions and cults increased noticeably in that decade. Indeed, Murayama asserted that intensive investigation of folk religion was fundamental to an understanding of Korean national essence and (echoing Imamura) that such cultural understanding was crucial to good governance. Using an arboreal metaphor, Murayama likened the “high-class” aristocratic culture of Korea to the “leaves and flowers,” and the “lowclass” culture to the “trunk and roots.” “Much of what catches our eye in Korean lifestyles, culture, and thought are the metaphorical leaves and flowers. It is clear that to comprehend these leaves and flowers, to enable them to bloom bountifully, we must start with the study of the low-class thought and popular beliefs that constitute the trunk and roots.”77 The GGC clearly considered the so-called “pseudo-religions” a more serious threat than native shamanism, and Murayama’s survey of them— though appropriately sociological in tone—did little to alleviate the regime’s fears. He depicted these religious movements as “reflections” of social moods, “reactions” to historical events, and natural outcomes of the oppressive Chosŏn social structure.78 Their economic impact could be devastating: citing a survey conducted in August 1934, he contended that virtually anyone who joined a new religious group suffered economic privation, because monetary offerings were forcibly extracted from adherents.79 Though these religions’ spiritual aspirations might be sincere, their political influence was far more pronounced: as “political movements” in the guise of religions, groups such as Ch’ŏndogyo (with its “pretensions of leading a nationalist revolution”) were responsible for “inciting riots and agitating the populace,” “spreading lies and confusing people’s hearts,” and thwarting administrative initiatives at the local and national levels. 80 Having exacerbated “social aversion,” and exerted a “bad influence” on relations between landholders and small cultivators through agricultural boycotts, “pseudo-religions” threatened to destroy the socioeconomic basis of Korean society. 81 Their influence on Korean religious thought had been “retrogressive,” infusing it with “revolutionary ideas” and “nationalist consciousness,” confirming superstitions, “suffocating the work ethic,” and becoming “a tremendous

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obstacle to the spiritual development of Korean society.”82 Though such new religions may have been legitimate expressions of popular discontent with the previous Chosŏn regime, Murayama concluded, in modern times they preyed upon the “illiterate” rural masses and mountain folk and only prolonged Korea’s journey toward modernity and enlightenment. Within the immense ethnographic literature on Korea produced by Japanese observers, Murayama Chijun’s oeuvre stands out as the most potentially “useful” from an administrative perspective, and the least detached from colonial priorities. Though usually measured in his tone and sincere in his fascination with Koreana, Murayama nonetheless personified the ethnographer as colonial agent, focusing on those aspects of Korean folklife and beliefs so commonplace as to represent the greatest challenge to the Japanese regime’s civilizing mission. By following his tracks, we can discern what the Government-General found ethnographically interesting, but also detect the limits of its curiosity. Murayama’s reports are far richer in data, classification schemes, and surface description than in probing analysis of the indigenous meanings of folk beliefs and practices. Beyond an implicit “cultural evolutionism,” in which Koreans were temporally and developmentally disadvantaged, anthropological theory made little impact on his conclusions, a fact that Murayama himself readily and frequently acknowledged. If many post-Boas ethnographers aspired to a degree of empathy with their subjects, to an understanding of their cultural systems from the “inside,” Murayama was a throwback to an earlier mode of anthropological observation, in which the “ethnographic other” was described from the outside and critiqued by the cultural standards of the privileged observer. Considering the aims of his employer, it could hardly have been otherwise.

‘mus ok’: t h e m is si ng li nk As the “original religion” of Korea, and the ethnological “missing link” that held Northeast Asia together as a coherent unit in the Japanese colonial imagination, shamanism (fuzoku; musok) was somewhat more immune to suppression than the newer “pseudo-religions.”83 The consensus among Japanese ethnographers in the 1930s was that, despite centuries of sustained persecution by the Chosŏn elite, shamanism remained the vital core of Korean folklife. 84 Although some historians claim that the Japanese regime suppressed shamanism, it seems more accurate to describe the GovernmentGeneral’s attitude as one of resigned tolerance. 85 “The government considered Shamanistic practices a superstition that wasted the country’s economy

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on elaborate rituals,” Kang Wi Jo writes. “However, the practice was so widely spread in every walk of Korean life that the policy of the government toward Shamanism was almost one of toleration.”86 The GGC may have found its diffuse, unregulated nature, which made charlatanism likely, more threatening than any other aspect. “From time to time, the government tried to bring shamans into centrally controlled organizations,” Kang notes, “but these groups never lasted long enough to function.”87 Nonetheless, the vehemence of colonial policy toward unsanctioned religious activity colored ethnographic depictions of shamanism. Murayama Chijun seemed to share the Government-General’s view that shamanism had deleterious effects on Korean society: shamanism “ensnares [Koreans] in blind belief,” he charged, “and thereby leads to anti-social behavior and unsanitary acts, and incites an unproductive spirit of wastefulness, indolence, and dependence.” In shamanism one could observe “multiple aspects of the Korean people, the ignorance, the filth, the hardship, the deficiencies of popular amusement, vividly depicted.” Still, he insisted, “it goes without saying that it is invaluable for understanding the consciousness, philosophical tendencies, and spiritual lives of the Korean people,” and thus the regime’s energy and resources were better spent in ethnographic surveys of shamanism than in draconian eradication. 88 As a result, the earliest systematic studies of Korean shamanism, the first classificatory photographs of shaman rites (kut) and implements, and the first substantial collections of shaman songs (muga) were gathered by Japanese ethnographers and Koreans in their employ, within a context of colonial surveillance intent to squelch nationalist agitation masquerading as religion. So diffuse in its structure and so variable in its regional praxis, musok was not classified as a “religion” by the GGC, but rather treated as a distinct—and peculiarly Korean—social phenomenon. In his survey of spirit mediums (fugeki), Murayama noted that shamanism tended to be a hereditary occupation that functioned to alleviate specific social and psychological tensions. Koreans contracted mediums to cure illness and ward off calamities through supplication, to predict the future, or to perform sacred dances (kagura buyō), yet “unlike Japanese mediums, most shamans are not affiliated with shrines, instead living among the people and relying on them in order to practice divination.” “The considerable number of spirit mediums scattered throughout the Korean populace and making a living, [indicates] that even now the Korean people trust only shamans to perform supplications for prosperity and avoidance of disaster [josai shōfuku],” Murayama reported, “and that they welcome the musical invocations [tōgaku] or sacred dances performed by shamans as an important element

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of popular entertainment.”89 Only “social enlightenment, particularly the diffusion of scientific knowledge,” would diminish the power and influence that diviners and spirit mediums exerted in Korean society, he concluded.90 Although the GGC did sponsor and publish a considerable amount of research on shamanism, the most magisterial (and subsequently influential) study of shamanism did not appear under its auspices. In 1937– 38, Akiba Takashi (1888–1954), a professor at Keijō Imperial University, coauthored a massive, two-volume study, richly augmented with photographs and full song texts, that has been consulted repeatedly by scholars of Korean shamanism from around the world.91 Unlike his predecessors, Akiba had extensive postgraduate training with some of Europe’s leading social scientists (including Bronislaw Malinowski, Émile Durkheim, and A. R. Radcliffe-Brown), and held an academic post that enabled him to train Japanese and Korean students in folklore and anthropological theories and methods.92 As Ch’oe Kil-sŭng makes clear, Akiba, though not in the direct employ of the colonial regime, was no anti-colonial agitator, frequently delivering public lectures (sometimes for radio broadcast) in support of GGC assimilation initiatives. Still, Ch’oe adds, Korean scholars concede the enduring value of his research on shamanism and have translated his work into Korean.93 Akiba frequently receives credit for developing the “dual structure” theory of Korean society, a framework that still resonates not only in social scientific and historical research on Korea, but also in domestic political discourse within Korea.94 According to this perspective, Korean society consisted of two layers: a Sinified, patriarchal upper layer composed of the yangban aristocracy, so slavishly enamored of Chinese models as to be totally derivative and completely alienated from the second layer, the realm of the folk, where a primordial, matriarchal, “pure” Koreanness endured. Akiba summarized his theory in an essay published posthumously: Old Korea, before it was exposed to the floods of Western civilization, can be comprehended as a dual organization of the bearers of Shamanistic culture, represented for the most part by the female, and the upholders of Confucian culture championed by the male. Duplexity of organization is more plainly demonstrated by the family ceremonies of ancestor worship, modeled on the Confucian precepts of formality and ministered by the male members, and the rituals of chipsin (patron deity of the homestead) tended by the mistress of the family and her female supporting members or very often presided over by professional female Shamans. 95

However, I hesitate to endorse the view that Akiba is entirely responsible for this “dual organization” schema. For one thing, had previous genera-

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tions of Koreans not detected such a structure themselves, the aristocratic attachment to chinoiserie as a signifier of status would have been meaningless. Moreover, the pioneering Korean folklorists Ch’oe Nam-sŏn (1890– 1957), Yi Nŭng-hwa (1868–1945), and Im Sŏk-chae (1903–98) argued that shamanism provided the basis for the Korean polity before Sinification.96 Yet Akiba may have been original in his emphasis on shamanism’s “feminine” essence and its prominence as the defining element of Korean society’s un-Sinified lower layer. He likewise may be justly recognized for theorizing shamanism as the key aspect of a primordial Northeast Asian culture encompassing Japan, Korea, Manchuria, and Mongolia. “The practice in contemporary Korea of setting up posts carved with human figures or sometimes posts capped with bird figures at the entrances to the village is a very old one,” he argued, “and seems to be bound by a common cultural tie to folkways of the Northern Asiatics.” Comparing these ritual totems to Goldis, Orochon, Otochee, and Ostchak examples from Manchuria, Mongolia, and Siberia, Akiba found “close affinities among them in form, structure, and function, and I concluded that they, as cultures of the Ural-Altaic races, all belong to the same culture.” Moreover, he contended that the etymological origins of the Korean word mudang (female spirit medium) were in Mongolia, thus strengthening the case for a regional shamanic heritage that conveniently conformed with Japanese expansionist aspirations.97 Akiba thereby contributed to a new ethno-historical field in Japanese academia: Mansenshi, a term that combined the first ideograph of Manshū, and the second ideograph from Chōsen, to suggest a long-standing ethnological and geo-historical space that theoretically validated continued Japanese expansion from the Korean peninsula into the Northeast Asian hinterland. It was a territorial perspective that was not entirely unattractive to Koreans, if for different reasons: Sin Chae-ho, Andre Schmid contends, agitated for a “rediscovery of a Korean Manchuria [that] fundamentally challenged received notions of national space, claiming for Korea an expanse of land that dwarfed the peninsula.”98 For Sin and those persuaded by his vision, Mansenshi exemplified a glorious past, during which the Korean nation (minjok) had inhabited a vaster territory. (Indeed, this historical vision remains appealing to many, for I noted in my June 2003 visit to the War Memorial Museum [Chŏnjaeng kinyŏmgwan] in Seoul that, while frequent invasions of the Korean peninsula by Chinese, Mongols, Manchurians, and Japanese were consistently condemned, Korean incursions into Manchuria were depicted as heroic escapades). For Japanese, however, Mansenshi provided a pretext for future expansion, validated by

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primordial ethnological ties incomparable to—and thus implicitly more legitimate than—other modern empires.

‘fa n ta isi e pr i m i t i v e’ By all accounts Korea was one of the most intensively developed of all colonies, in terms of its industrial capacity; its transportation, finance, public health, and communications infrastructures; and its educational system. “There can be none of those who knew Chosen at the time of the amalgamation of Japan and Korea who are not struck by the tremendous transformation that has created the Chosen of today,” Vice Governor-General Imaida Kiyonori boasted in a 1935 report entitled Thriving Chosen. In the past quarter century the population has increased over fifty percent (seven million increase), eloquent testimony of the prosperity of the race. Production has risen six times in amount; import and export trade, seventeen times; bank deposits, twenty times; Local Credit Association deposits have actually attained to 2000 times. Railway Extension has jumped to four times the mileage, and the spiritual concord of the two peoples, Japanese and Korean, who had sprung from the same origin, has so deepened that their national consciousness is now united into one. . . . We have already passed through the first stages of the cultural work for the concrete development of Education, Industry, Economics, Communications, Civil Engineering, Preservation of Peace, Public Hygiene, and Social Welfare, and by these means Chosen has advanced further out of its backward state than any similar country during the same space of time. 99

Even allowing for some self-congratulatory hyperbole, there was arguably no better anthropological case study of “colonial modernity” available in the world at that time than Korea. In the 1920s and 1930s there was a visible increase in the urban population and tremendous dislocation of rural populations who were recruited or coerced for labor elsewhere on the peninsula, in Japan, or in the outlying empire. Carter J. Eckert has concluded that “colonial industrialization altered not only the physical appearance of the peninsula, but the social landscape as well,” by creating an indigenous bourgeoisie that enjoyed “official Japanese blessing,” and whose control of the means of mechanized production supplanted the power of the traditional landed elite.100 The consequent disruption and modernization of Korean life was quite tangible. Yet, by and large, this is not what Japanese ethnographers documented. Instead, what entranced them were the most conspicuous, and presumably static, emblems of Korean premodernity and difference from Japanese modernity. This should not be surprising, considering the conventions of

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anthropological description and iconography that prevailed in the early twentieth century. “In encountering countries that were being transformed through the impact of social change,” Iskander Mydin remarks, “the photographer paradoxically chose to focus on unchanging representations of peoples and culture. For it was the ‘exotic,’ the culturally different, which fascinated, in both scientific and popular terms.”101 The persistence of such iconographies of Koreana, despite the modernization of the landscape, is visible in the substantial thematic overlap between two pictorial collections published nearly two decades apart: Portfolio of Korean Customs (Chōsen fūzoku gafu, 1911), and Chosen of To-day Illustrated (1929). Though the first consists entirely of ink drawings and the latter of photographs, the subject matter is virtually the same: folk games, native costume, everyday implements, kimch’i preparation, performing arts, and the ever-popular kisaeng. Some Government-General publications, such as the aforementioned Thriving Chosen, insisted that “all the above-mentioned [indigenous] manners and customs are being changed now more or less by the progress of time,” and offered images of modern buildings, urban intersections with streetcar traffic, railroads, or factories as proof of conscientious development. But by and large the Korean people pictured in such publications are starkly out of place, continuing their cyclical, seasonal routines seemingly unperturbed by the radical transformation of their landscapes.102 Yet this may tell us more about the preoccupations of the Japanese gazers than about the developmental state of the Korean objects of the gaze. Viewed in the context of globally circulating ethnographic iconographies of the exotic primitive, Japanese anthropology’s fetish for primeval Koreana is unremarkable—but not insignificant. It highlights what Peter Duus and Robert Eskildsen have described as the “mimetic” aspects of Japan’s imperial project, the effort to enhance Japanese imperial prestige by replicating colonial relationships as played out in other contexts, and by emphasizing the exoticism of the empire’s subject peoples.103 It also represents the effort by Japanese ethnographers to conform to the standards of anthropological science at the time—professional conventions established primarily by Europeans working in colonial locations—which dictated that they turn their attentions and cameras toward rural folk, traditional rituals, and other signs of arrested development. The oft-repeated, monthby-month recitation of native festivals, rituals, and routine activities (nenjū gyōji) emphasized those cyclical aspects of Korean life that did not conform to modern notions of progressive time and productivity. The fact that these recitations still appeared in travel guides as late as the 1930s (by

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which time colonial interference had most certainly disrupted the rhythm of that routine) indicates that Japanese were reluctant to abandon established notions about Korean cultural life. While in this regard ethnographic knowledge directly served colonial interests, by perpetuating stereotypes of Korean backwardness, it also (unintentionally) subverted GGC propaganda about the “progress” occurring in Korea under Japanese rule. In a sense, for Japanese there were two Koreas: that of the administrator and entrepreneur, in which an aggressive, proactive modernization campaign was bearing fruit; and that of the anthropologist and folklorist, which remained pristinely premodern and largely untouched by the ravages of progress. This made it difficult to definitively assess Korea’s developmental stage in the trajectory of sociocultural evolution. Collusion between ethnographers and administrators was thus insufficient to convey a consistent temporal vision of Korea. But Japanese anthropology’s relentless focus on traditional, “primordial” Koreana to the exclusion of all else was more than just a manifestation of self-satisfied colonial hubris, or of prevailing anthropological epistemologies. It was also an expression of conflicted yearning for the uncontaminated lifestyles Koreans’ “backwardness” had enabled them to sustain. Anti-modern anthropology was not uniquely Japanese, of course. According to George Stocking, the “ethnographic sensibility” of AngloAmerican anthropology in the 1920s was suffused with a “romantic primitivism,” engendered by the “moral earthquake” of the First World War. Edward Sapir’s 1924 essay “Culture, Genuine and Spurious” was the antimodernist’s manifesto, the “foundation document” of ethnographic science devoted to “ ‘salvaging’ the (presumed) pristine human variety facing obliteration by the march of European civilization.” “Genuine culture,” for Sapir, was the “expression of a richly varied and yet somehow unified and consistent attitude toward life . . . ideally speaking, a culture in which nothing is spiritually meaningless.”104 In the anti-modernist mentalité, the purportedly unsophisticated, uncomplicated coherence of “primitive” cultures was a virtue, an inversion of conventional colonial values. For anthropologists, ethnographic fieldwork offered an escape from the relentless vacuity of modern life, an opportunity to experience the “authentic” and “genuine” as it tenuously endured in “primitive” societies. This anti-modern, “salvage” mentality explains why, when Japanese ethnographers did write about the modernization of Korea, their tone was usually anything but celebratory. Their own experience of rapid modernization made them keenly aware of modernity’s attendant challenges and disruptive effects: as early as 1915, Imamura was lamenting the weaken-

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ing grip of “old beautiful customs” on public morality in the colony.105 For these observers, the value of Koreana was precisely its timeless primordialism, which provided the basis for understanding modern societies in general and the roots of Japaneseness in particular. Writing about Korean festivals, Murayama claimed that “in their form and content, one can of course detect in ancient Koreana the cultures transmitted from neighboring contiguous territories such as Japan, China, and Manchuria, as well as possibly what it has in common with the region, or what they all have in common.”106 Some felt that the loss of this heritage was imminent. Takahashi Jun, a frequent contributor to the Government-General’s monthly magazine Chōsen, feared that due to urbanization the “regional varieties” of Korean folk songs were vanishing. “Since the invention of phonographs and broadcasting, the age of further disenchantment with folk songs has arrived,” he fretted. “Western folk song researchers curse urban civilization for this. In no matter which country, if we do not collect folk songs they will all perish.”107 Akiba contended that “primitive societies” (genshi shakai) were valuable for what they taught about the social and cultural evolution of humanity, and that preservation of their material cultures was essential to generating such an understanding.108 Pining for the “social solidarity” of rural communal living he saw in Korea, and lamenting the “profit-oriented” modern society he witnessed in Japan, Akiba hoped through “social education” to “overcome the contradictions between an old-fashioned communal society and a modern profit-oriented society.” He wanted it both ways, Ch’oe Kil-sŭng concludes: “He seemed to hope that Korea would develop, while simultaneously maintaining its traditional society and family system.” Ironically, Ch’oe adds, Akiba “seemed to believe that there was more hope for Korea than for Japan,” that Japan had already lost the vestiges of communal living, a loss made more poignant by observing the primordialism preserved in colonial Korea.109 Photography was a powerful medium for documenting these cultures, for expressing these conflicted Japanese views of Koreana, and for purveying visions of a primordial Northeast Asian fantasyscape. The corpus of Japanese ethnographic photography from the age of empire has yet to be fully examined, although its European and North American counterparts have received much attention in recent scholarship. Yet visual anthropology increasingly scrutinizes colonial-era ethnographic photography less for what it reveals about the peoples photographed than for what it tells us about the wielders of the cameras, a methodological stance that Takami Kuwayama describes as “ethnographic reading in reverse.”110 In the nineteenth century, anthropology aspired to the status of a “classificatory natu-

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ral science.” The privileging of “optical empiricism” at that time made the camera seem an ideal mechanism for recording “truth.” One of the most pervasive applications of photography in ethnography was in the subfield of “anthropometry,” the use of measurements (cranial, genital, etc.) to distinguish and categorize humans into objective “types.” Another use was to document “vanishing peoples” and their doomed customs. Since anthropological thought was evolutionary at root, “stressing as its object the living primal forms from which Western culture was assumed to have emerged,” photography was valued for documenting the various evolutionary stages of human development.111 And because they could be reproduced and circulated so widely, photographs enabled huge numbers of people to gaze on primeval worlds.112 Anthropologists now routinely question the perception of photography as a technology enabling “empirical accuracy, objectivity, and neutral reflection of reality.” Brent Harris concisely sums up criticisms of such a view: “This perception obscures the tripartite relationship between the photographer, the photographed and the audience in the production, circulation and consumption of public photographs as representations of reality. Indeed, it denies the representationality of photography, overlooking any mediation by the photographer or the photographed in this regard and simultaneously concealing the cultural analogy through which the audience, the consumers of photographs, read them.” Elizabeth Edwards adds that a photograph “contains and constrains within its own boundaries, excluding all else, a microcosmic analogue of the framing of space which is knowledge.” The “data” enshrined in an ethnographic photograph, then, is less useful for apprehending the “reality” of the anthropological object than for revealing the “cultural filters” and “preconceived ideas” that shaped or choreographed the photographic occasion itself.113 Scholars are also sensitive to the power dynamics at play when such occasions occurred in the field. In colonial anthropology, Edwards writes, “the unequal relationship was sustained through a controlling knowledge which appropriated the ‘reality’ of other cultures into ordered structure. Photography was in many ways symbolic of this relationship. It represented technological superiority harnessed to the delineation and control of the physical world, whether it be boundary surveys, engineering schemes to exploit natural resources, or the description and classification of the population.” Photographers in far-flung locales exploited the belief that photographs captured the spirits of their subjects. Mydin concludes that “only the sullen gaze or stare of some anthropological subject in these images hints at some element of autonomy retained by the subject in this encoun-

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ter.”114 The encounter itself is now of tremendous interest to visual anthropologists, who view the photographic collections in colonial archives with very different eyes than their predecessors. Japanese ethnographic images of Koreana were profoundly shaped by a worldwide flow of images and impressions about colonized populations, and became part of a global visual archive documenting “vanishing” peoples and their folklives. The photographic record therefore conforms to the conventions of a global iconography of primitive peoples. Drums, totems, native adornment and costume, rustic dwellings, ritual objects (fetishes), and shamanic rites—emblems of primitivity in visual depictions of American Indians, Polynesians, Australasians, and Africans—figure prominently in ethnographic images of colonial Korea, as visual cues connoting the primeval Korea of the Japanese colonial imagination. If we assume that many Japanese viewers of ethnographic images from Korea would also have seen similar pictures from other colonial locales, it seems plausible to suggest that their gaze would make associations that likened Koreans to so-called “savage” peoples who shared parallel iconic emblems of primitivity. One convention of ethnographic photography was the formal portrait intended to illustrate typical “native costume” and adornment. In such images, the object of the gaze is not so much the people depicted as their clothing—or lack thereof—and decorative accessories: the subjects’ function is rather like that of department store mannequins, deprived of individuality by the photograph’s implicit intention to categorize and typify cultural standards of dress. One image, frequently reprinted in Japanese travel guides and ethnographic reports in the 1920s and 1930s, shows an elderly couple standing rigid, staring expressionless into the camera, wearing what is presented as quintessentially typical Korean costume. It bears comparison to similar images that present gendered variations of native adornment through staged poses in faux habitats, such as a Russian picture entitled simply “Croat couple,” whose female subject’s blank stare is only marginally softened by the more casual, sideways stance of her partner. Another image draws attention to both the simple clothing and elaborate hairstyling of Ndonga women from colonial Namibia, but without providing a male counterpoint. The obvious staging of the pose, with the three subjects forming a rough triangle, facilitates a “3-D” perspective on their long braided hairstyles; the starkly white background accentuates the darkness of their skins. Heads bowed slightly, eyes closed, these women silently comply with the ethnographic gaze. All three images are choreographed in such a manner as to amplify their empirical and scientific validity, stripped of all distractions such as context or personality.

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f igu r e 1. “Danjo no fukusō” (men and women’s clothing). This image appears in several official GGC publications, including the Chōsen Sōtokufu (CSF) travel guides Chōsen no fūshū (1924) and Chōsen no shūzoku (1937); CSF, Saikin no Chōsen; and Government-General of Chōsen, Thriving Chosen.

Totems were also abundant in colonial-era ethnographic imagery. Ranging from skillfully carved images to unruly structures cobbled together from found objects, spirit totems (changsŭng) adorned village entrances and roadsides as protective deities throughout rural Korea. For Japanese observers, changsŭng must have called to mind similar ritual objects from the colonial visual archive of populations from Canada to Africa to Polynesia. Their prolificacy not only confirmed stereotypes of super-

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f igu r e 2 . A Croat couple from the valley of Serezan near Zagreb, Moscow Ethnographic Exhibition, 1867 (Royal Anthropological Institute 27139). Reprinted in Edwards, Anthropology and Photography.

stitious Koreans, but may also have reinforced a mental association of Koreans with primitive cultures elsewhere in the world. Folk religion as still practiced in many mountain communities of rural Japan at the time placed similar emphasis on protection by nature spirits and the utilization of ritual objects infused with spiritual power for healing, divination, and good fortune; but the staging and context of these photographs may have encouraged many Japanese viewers to see closer parallels between

f igu r e 3. Ndonga women photographed by C. H. L. Hahn (National Archives of Namibia 11838). Reprinted in Hartmann et al., Colonising Camera.

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f igu r e 4 . Korean children with changsŭng, from Imamura, Rekishi minzoku.

Koreans and Amerindians or Australasians than with the mountain folk in the metropole. The drum has been one of the most universally acknowledged icons of primitivity. Of course, all musical cultures have percussion instruments of some sort, but the relative centrality of the drum, vis-à-vis other more melodic or harmonic instruments, to musical performance has traditionally signified primitivism in modern consciousness. That is to say, musical cultures that emphasize the drum—either as the primary accompaniment to rituals and dances, or as a form of extra-musical communication—have typically been considered primeval in all other respects. Heavy percussion and layered polyrhythms in motion picture soundtracks have often announced the arrival of “Injuns” or “natives” onscreen. Ethnographic photography nurtured this cognitive association by repeatedly emphasizing the central role of the drum to native ritual life and folk diversions. By depicting the centrality of percussion in Korean shamanic music, Akiba and Akamatsu’s images created opportunities for viewers to make mental associations between Korea and other musical cultures focused on the drum.115 Another frequent subject of ethnographic photography was the “primitive dwelling,” the building materials and architectural simplicity of which stood in marked contrast to most homes in “civilized” settings. Panoramic views of rural villages, riddled with thatched-roof huts, served as picto-

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f igu r e 5. Korean changsŭng, from Akamatsu and Akiba, Chōsen fuzoku sankō zuroku.

rial evidence of the material paucity of undeveloped societies. The images presented here—the first of a North American Indian dwelling and the second of a blind shaman’s residence in rural Korea—further dramatize the exoticism of their subjects by posing the ethnographic observers, in their Western suits, alongside the ethnographic “others.” By juxtaposing these images from Korea with similar pictures from other colonial settings, I do not presume any direct influence or relationship between specific images. I have selected them as representative of recurring

f igu r e 6. Charm at the palace courtyard entrance, Kuba, ca. 1908–9 (Royal Anthropological Institute 26649). Reprinted in Edwards, Anthropology and Photography.

f igu r e 7. Haida totem at entrance of Chief Anetias’ house, Masset, British Columbia, from Public Archives of Canada. Reprinted in Edwards, Anthropology and Photography.

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f igu r e 8. Cabinet card by Hudson’s Gallery, Tama, Iowa (ca. 1880), from Haddon Collection (150/3), Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology, University of Cambridge. Reprinted in Edwards, Anthropology and Photography.

photographic themes, of a prevalent iconography of primitivity and ethnographic difference. In doing so, I am suggesting that Japanese ethnographers and the Korean fieldworkers in their employ selected their subject matter based on disciplinary conventions of the time, thereby implicitly categorizing Koreans alongside other observed peoples and, whether consciously or not, subtly guiding viewers of these images to perceive Koreans as a primordial people inhabiting another temporal dimension. While converging nicely with official colonial apologetics about Korean “stagnation,” such images also undercut the GGC’s triumphal assertions of progress in the colony, by dramatizing the resilience of Korean folk traditions despite years of planning, investment, and coercion by the regime. Yet this “denial of coevalness” could cut two ways. These images both attest to a persistent interest in Koreana that “fit” primitivist paradigms, and also suggest that the sense of loss so characteristic of Japanese modernity shaped the Japanese gaze on the outlying empire: Japan’s racial “kin” in Korea provided discomfiting evidence of the disfiguring consequences of progress. The sense of nostalgic longing that tinted the Japanese ethnographic gaze on its colonial subjects was not inconsistent with either aca-

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f igu r e 9. Changnimjip (“blind man’s house”), Osan, from Akamatsu and Akiba, Chōsen fuzoku sankō zuroku.

demic sensibilities or with popular affections for pristinely pastoral ways of living as expressed elsewhere. Indeed, Andreas Huyssen contends, such anti-modern sentiment is a defining element of modernity itself. One of modernity’s permanent laments concerns the loss of a better past, the memory of living in a securely circumscribed place, with a sense of stable boundaries and a place-bound culture with its regular flow of time and a core of permanent relations. Perhaps such days have always been a dream rather than a reality, a phantasmagoria of loss generated by modernity itself rather than its prehistory. But the dream does have staying power.116

If such nostalgic melancholia was a pervasive emotion in self-styled modern societies, there are still aspects peculiar to the Japanese case that require attention. For one thing, most Japanese thought of modernity as having been thrust upon them by the external pressures of late-nineteenthcentury Euro-American imperial encroachments in Asia. In other words, modernization for Japanese had been somewhat less “voluntary” and internally generated than it had been for, say, the British. While historians may debate whether or not this was in fact true, a consciousness of modernity as having been inflicted by inexorable forces outside of Japan proved resilient enough to inform wartime indignation about the “ABCD encirclement”

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and to premise the notorious 1942 symposium on “overcoming modernity.”117 From this perspective, Japanese modernity itself was a product of imperialist aggression, a reaction motivated by self-preservation, and therefore it could be alternately celebrated as an act of singularly heroic defiance in the face of Euro-American intimidation, or lamented as a tragic Faustian compromise whose consequences were at best ambivalent and at worst self-destructive. Colonial access to Korea and the proliferation of ethnographic images of Koreana provided fodder for both emotions: those viewers inclined to celebrate Japan’s progress could gaze with self-satisfaction on a way of life they had left behind, while others could arrive at the same conclusion with less delight.

nat i v e a n t h rop ology Koreans were not merely objects of the Japanese gaze. The climate of ethnographic curiosity about Koreana, actively fostered and funded by official agencies such as the GGC’s Central Council, encouraged indigenous scholarship on Korean folklife. Indeed, it has become conventional in Korean historiography to refer to the 1920s and 1930s as the era in which Koreans discovered (or constructed, depending on one’s theoretical stance) a “national self” through folkloric investigation.118 The first generation of native Korean folklorists—including such luminaries as Son Chin-t’ae (1900-?), Im Sŏk-chae, Yi Nŭng-hwa, and Song Sŏk-ha (1904–48)—earned their academic credentials and field experience in the employ of Japanese ethnographers or the GGC itself. Although some Japanese ethnographers had facility in Korean language, their fieldwork would have been impossible, or at least lacked the depth it achieved, had they not employed Korean informants and fieldworkers. More significantly, some of these native anthropologists published their work (in both Japanese and Korean) in Japanese academic journals, which gave them an opportunity either to confirm or to refute research results and ethnographic characterizations of Koreana.119 Rather than remaining voiceless, they could “talk back” to colonial anthropology.120 The acclaimed folklorist and poet Kim So-un (1907–81) was one such dissenter against the conventional ethnographic wisdom. Kim used his 1929 anthology of folk songs (translated into Japanese) as an opportunity to clear up what he considered to be mischaracterizations by previous observers. For instance, Shinobu Junpei, Takahama Kyoshi, and other Japanese had described the popular “Arirang” as the song of a “ruined country” (bōkokuteki), a reflection of an incorrigible and elemental Korean

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melancholy.121 Noting that there were too many regional variations of “Arirang” to generalize, Kim retorted that on the contrary many versions were “optimistic” and “lighthearted.” Regarding “Kangwŏn Arirang,” he wrote: “A piece with a completely different form from the Kyŏnggi and Sŏdo [western] types, this song brightly expresses a facetious side. If one comes here [Kangwŏn-do], Arirang would never be called the folk song of a ‘ruined country.’ ”122 Song Sŏk-ha’s 1932 essay on masked dance dramas (t’alch’um) may also be read as a corrective to conventional ethno-historical depictions. One of the most trite ideas in both scholarly and popular Japanese writing on Koreana dwelt on the concept of “serving the great,” which designated Korea’s historical “dependence” on and servility to China. For many Japanese observers, sadae provided a justifiable basis for a contemptuous attitude toward Korea: it stood for not only a humiliating, voluntary surrender of sovereignty by the Chosŏn monarch to the Chinese and Manchu Sons of Heaven—a concession no Japanese emperor ever made—but also a derivative and complacent culture, one that, for all its lack of originality and its conformity to Chinese philosophical models, was nevertheless inexplicably arrogant and self-satisfied. Within the context of this dependency discourse, Song’s interpretation of masked dance as an expression of grassroots anti-Confucian sentiment might then be read as a subtle assertion of the cultural independence of the Korean folk. Korean folk theater, Song argued, whether performed by puppets or masked actors, expressed “resentment and hatred toward the havoc caused by the [Buddhist] clergy,” and “antipathy toward the Confucians who oppressed and verbally abused the general populace, like the picking of young sprouts.” These dramatic genres thus delighted in directing sexually obscene insults toward authority figures. Without necessarily disputing the sadae mentality of the clerical and scholarly elites, Song implied that agrarian folk, hardly beholden to the derivative cultural ideals of their social betters, had created novel vernacular cultures that doubled as entertainment and viable social criticism.123 This pivotal distinction, which would eventually become a defining aspect of populist dissent in postcolonial South Korea, enabled Song to concur with prevailing Japanese opinion on the defunct Chosŏn regime, while nonetheless declaring the integrity, cultural autonomy, and dignity of the Korean folk. To be sure, Korean intellectuals who started digging into folk heritage did not always like what they found. Most Korean ethnographies tended to be every bit as matter-of-fact as the vast majority of Japanese

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accounts were, eschewing interpretation or political analysis in favor of pure description. Yet for some Korean observers, Korean folkways were not only a source of embarrassment, but moreover “explained” Korea’s loss of sovereignty to its more modern neighbor. Modern nationalists regarded native culture as superstitious, fatalistic, and unscientific, a stance not at all unlike that of opinionated government ethnographers such as Murayama Chijun.124 They, like Murayama, thus studied surviving folklife less from a desire to preserve it than to reform it. Their respective aspirations, of course, could not have been more divergent: Korean nationalist researchers intended to mine the folk repository for unifying symbols while also selectively eliminating those aspects that hindered the recovery of national sovereignty; whereas Murayama sought to identify and reform those beliefs and cultural practices that impaired the orderliness, security, and profitability of the colony. But the point is that we cannot assume that Korean ethnographers were necessarily less critical of Korean “backwardness” than their Japanese counterparts; their self-consciousness as the heirs to the Confucian yangban tradition of moral guidance and reform, added to their enthusiasm for modern science, ideas, and industry, did not endear them to the beliefs and lifestyles of their country cousins. Furthermore, the political failures, debilitating corruption, and lack of foresight demonstrated by the Chosŏn regime in its waning years, so painfully obvious to Korean modernizers, gave them little stomach for an all-out assault on the Japanese “stagnation” theory of Korean history. The revisions they made to Japanese historiographical presumptions usually related to a more distant past, as they attempted to emphasize the cultural debt ancient Japanese civilization owed to its peninsular neighbor.125 Whatever its accomplishments, they concluded, Chosŏn’s eventual fate spoke for itself. Such consensus reflected not only shared visions of historical change, modernity, good governance, and cultural value, but also a degree of scholarly collaboration that cannot be overlooked. Korean and Japanese ethnographers joined forces to establish a Korean Folklore Society (Chosŏn Minsok Hakhoe, Chōsen Minzoku Gakkai) that published a short-lived academic journal. The first two issues of Chosŏn minsok (published in January 1933 and May 1934) were bilingual, featuring articles in both languages; the long-delayed third—and final—issue in October 1940 was exclusively in Japanese, a result of the hardening stance on language in the late colonial period. In that last issue, the eminent Yanagita Kunio contributed a guest essay on the virtues of “international collaboration”

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(minzoku ketsugō) in scholarship. “Until now, we have been more or less absorbed with issues in the metropole,” Yanagita conceded. “But now we have already gradually reached a time when comparisons with the exterior [gaibu] must be considered.” Yet Yanagita’s preoccupation with Japanalia proved irresistible, for he implicitly articulated the importance of Korean folklore research only with reference to what it could teach about Japan.126 Though regular collaborators in ethnographic and folkloric investigation, Japanese and Korean researchers would remain at cross purposes as long as colonialism remained the basis for their relationship. Official campaigns and slogans such as “imperialization” and “one body of Japan and Korea” could not but have an inordinate impact on the framing of research questions and interpretive schema.

on e body As stated earlier, one of the most prominent ideas in Japanese imperial apologetics was the common racial ancestry of Koreans and Japanese. The common ancestry theory—though not lacking in scientific validity and thus still a widely accepted theory of ethnogenesis in Northeast Asia— became imbricated in colonial ideology as a justification for the gradual imprint of Japanese identity on Korean subjects, and the concomitant erasure of Koreanness. It validated the campaigns and their attendant slogans as a rectification of history: dōka (“assimilation”), kōminka (“imperialization”), and naisen ittai (“making one body of Japan and Korea”), rather than being cruel and historically groundless impositions of an alien identity on hapless Koreans, were rendered into racially and historically valid crusades to reunify an estranged family.127 History—and Korea’s slavish, obsessive Sinophilia—had introduced cultural variances, stagnation, and a developmental gap within the family, but naisen ittai promised to suture the wound. Koreaphilic ethnographers such as Akiba Takashi believed this reunion, though properly guided by Japanese, should be based on mutual respect, collaboration, and tolerance for Korean difference. Reams of Korean testimony prove that such high-minded ideals rarely translated into actual imperial practice. Indeed, Akiba apparently realized that the audience most in need of education in the science of common racial ancestry and the integration of colony and metropole was Japanese. Certainly Koreans needed to suck up their pride and submit to assimilation, but Japanese also needed to be persuaded that the empire’s prosperity would be advanced only through cultural understanding and paternalistic compassion, not

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through a steady stream of garlic-laced epithets at Koreans’ expense. In 1934 Akiba wrote: During the seven years since I came to Korea in 1927, I have had opportunities to interview many naichi-jin [native Japanese] residents here, and have found that some understandably have a deep understanding of and sympathy with the Koreans. However, it seems to me that most of the time they have spoken of the drawbacks of the people. I would very much like to hear about their merits—the virtue of the Koreans, what they like about the Koreans, what they applaud them for and what they respect about the Koreans—but few have given answers worthy of any special mention. I guess this is chiefly due to the present political relationship between our Home-Japan and Korea, but I have long wanted to know the real Korea from a relatively fair attitude. . . . Shouldn’t we, coming to Korea from Home-Japan, refrain from resorting to the Japanese Spirit [Yamato damashii] in the narrow sense of the word and a narrow-minded national consciousness? In a broader frame of mind, the Koreans are our brethren, of the same race and culture. I believe both peoples have a shared responsibility to accurately recognize this fundamental ground and make friends with each other.128

Archaeological, historical, ethnographic, and folkloric investigations were invaluable to this project insofar as they could scientifically demonstrate a fundamental kinship that trumped an awareness of difference. The common ancestry theory and the integration campaign therefore set implicit limits on the kinds of questions researchers would ask and the conclusions they drew. More nefarious than any state-mandated “party line,” however, this was a paradigmatic scientific consensus that conformed with imperial policy because it informed that policy. It is worth noting, therefore, how often Japanese ethnographies of Korea either inadvertently missed or deliberately dismissed opportunities to draw analogies to Japanese cultural practices and folk beliefs. Walraven argues that ethnology could “serve to detect similarities, which might facilitate assimilation,” yet few ethnographic accounts made these connections explicit, and some effaced them altogether.129 The quintessentially “Korean” kisaeng, possessed of an “exotic” and “ancient” charm, were practically never likened to Japanese geisha (though their presumed sexual availability made them as enticing to Japanese as geisha were to Western Japanophiles); and mudang only seemed analogous to the Japanese miko of a bygone era.130 Driving that point home, Akiba declared, “we find striking resemblances between contemporary Korean folkways and those of old Japan.”131 Yet another example of the “denial of coevalness,” reinforcing a sense of cultural alienation rather than familiarity, was the habitual mention of patriarchal gender relations and “strict segregation of the sexes” as exotic

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Korean traits.132 Images of Korean wives cloistered in the home, going out only with veils and headscarves, may have been reminiscent of European depictions of Muslim women in the Middle East, India, North Africa, and Southeast Asia, in which the customs of hijāb (“veiling,” e.g., chador or burqa) and cloistering (purdah or harim) were (and still are) presented as visual evidence of women’s subjugation.133 Given the homo-social tendencies still prevalent in imperial Japan, the lack of female voting rights, the legal proscription on women’s political involvement, the civil laws that subjected wives to their husbands’ authority, and other restrictions that prohibited unsupervised fraternization in public spaces such as cafés and dance halls, the oft-repeated reference to gender segregation as a “Korean custom” seems ironic, if not downright comical in its lack of self-awareness.134 On the other hand, it seems less strange if we consider that gender relations had long been both a pivotal measure of cultural distance between metropole and colony and a central “humanitarian” concern of colonial discourses. Colonial cliché assumed far greater gender equality in the metropole, and unrelenting, inflexible patriarchy in the colony, as key indicators of enlightened civilization and socio-cultural development.135 Japan engaged in none of the ham-fisted chivalry visible in British India, where a desire to “rescue” native women from the patriarchal tyranny of their own menfolk motivated colonial intervention. But by drawing attention to explicitly Confucian, hierarchical gender relations in the colony, with no qualifying remarks about similar ideas and practices in the metropole, Japanese observers employed a tried-and-true mimetic strategy for asserting cultural difference that implicitly justified the colonial presence. So there were limits to the intimacy of Japanese-Korean kinship broadcast in colonial rhetoric. The desire to assimilate Koreans fully as Japanese imperial subjects, however sincere for some, was from the beginning compromised by the more urgent wish to preserve Japanese stewardship and privilege. As Albert Memmi remarked with regard to French Algeria in 1957, “authentic assimilation undermines a colonial system built on hierarchy and thus can only lead to its end.” Presiding over a more homogeneous population than Algeria’s, where “Frenchness . . . was parceled out sparingly among indigenous and settler populations,” Japanese had more audacious aspirations to Japanize the entire Korean populace; but these objectives were nonetheless bedeviled by a similar ambivalence about the consequences of erasing difference entirely.136 Of course there was the dread of emasculating Japanese status and privilege, but there was another fear in assimilating Koreans “too well.” The salvage imperative and nostalgic tinge in much ethnographic imagery and writing on Koreana quietly

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f igu r e 10. Korean women with headscarves, from Imamura, Rekishi minzoku.

suggested that assimilation might ideally be re-construed as a two-way process: Korean difference, to the extent that it reflected an as-yet undefiled primordialism, might yet rescue Japan from its “profit-oriented” modern condition. If locales such as Manchuria represented a “blank slate” on which Japanese progressives could sketch out their dreams for a utopian future, Korea offered a vision of abandoned lifestyles and discarded ideals that many Japanese continued to cherish and yearn for, and that they might yet reclaim with the ascent of the imperial New Order.137

et h nogr a ph y as self- cr i t iqu e Generally speaking, Korean historians have characterized Japanese investigations of Korean folklore, history, arts, and archaeology as “distortions” of reality, so ideologically loaded with colonial preconceptions as to be virtually useless as legitimate scholarship. Much of the intellectual energy expended in the Korean humanities and social sciences in the first four decades after liberation was thus devoted to reappraisal and rectification of Korea’s history and heritage, resulting in scholarship that frequently, if not always, wore its nationalist indignation on its sleeve. In his essay on Japanese ethnology in Korea, Boudewijn Walraven writes against this

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grain, arguing that colonial ethnographers neither did much to facilitate the domination of Korea, nor to disseminate overtly prejudiced visions of Koreans. While conceding that “ethnology was subservient to the interests of the colonial power,” providing “intelligence that might be useful in governing the Korean peninsula and promoting the assimilation of Koreans,” Walraven concludes, “It would seem to be a simplification to say that the Japanese ethnographers systematically and purposely formulated a kind of ‘Orientalist’ distortion of Korean culture by a selective focus on superstitious and backward elements.” Japanese researchers evinced “complex” attitudes toward Koreans and their culture that should not be considered broadly complicit in a systematic campaign to disparage the whole lot.138 My own research in the Japanese ethnographic literature and imagery of colonial Korea confirms Walraven’s assertions that Japanese views of Koreana were much more complex than previous scholars have admitted. Nonetheless, although he is appropriately sensitive to the power dynamics at play in the collection of field data, I think Walraven understates the utility of ethnography to the colonial project, and misses some of the more subtle “orientalist” undercurrents of Japanese ethnographic information on Korea. Colonial anthropology in Korea may not have been in lockstep with official colonial policy, but the kinds of subject matter judged worthy of ethnographic scrutiny and the sorts of ethnographic images that circulated still legitimized colonial rule by perpetuating common assumptions about the backwardness and exoticism of Koreans and their culture. The ethnographic eye was obliged by professional convention to favor difference over similarity. But difference in this particular colonial relationship was predicated on time rather than race: cultural alienation between metropole and colony was based on a temporal lag, not immutable biological characteristics. The notion of racial kinship tugged at the Japanese colonial conscience, making it seem morally unacceptable to allow Koreans to wallow in the filth of their “old usages” (kyū kanshū). While the obvious, self-congratulatory connotations of pointing out Korean primitivity are both significant and undeniable, and no doubt girded Japanese resolve to pummel the colony into the modern age, reading Japanese ethnographies of Korea in the context of a widespread disaffection with modernity and cultural atrophy yields more ambivalence than imperial studies have heretofore conceded. It is my intention neither to claim that the existing historiography that dwells on Japanese arrogance, injustice, and brutality toward Koreans is mistaken, nor to efface the cultural havoc wrecked by Japanese imperialists through their policies on language, education, economic development, and religion. To some degree

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ethnographic knowledge directly served colonial interests, by providing practical knowledge about land ownership and use, local customs, and native perspectives, as well as perpetuating stereotypes of Korean primitives. Yet it also provided an alternative to official propaganda about the “progress” occurring in Korea under Japanese rule, providing concrete evidence of the resilience of Korean folkways despite the regime’s best efforts. There were voices, moreover, lamenting the consequences of colonial development, foreseeing a future Korea as contaminated by modernity as Japan itself had become. For some Japanese observers, Korea represented something enviably purer than the “hybrid” society bequeathed by the Meiji modernizers. Their own mixed experience of modernity led some Japanese Koreaphiles to advocate a selective approach to cultural reform efforts in the colony, a position that was not at all at odds with what many Korean nationalist intellectuals favored themselves. Ethnography, therefore, no less than literature or film, served as another medium by which Japanese could critique their recent history, conjure a vision of a lost past of communal living, social solidarity, and cultural integrity, and grieve for their more pristine primitive selves.

chapter 3

Curating Koreana The Management of Culture in Colonial Korea

In its 1935 retrospective, self-servingly entitled Thriving Chosen: A Survey of Twenty-five Years’ Administration, the Government-General of Chōsen boasted of several accomplishments and ongoing projects designed to secure the hitherto neglected cultural heritage of Korea for future generations. According to the report, Korea’s material legacy was in tatters until the GGC intervened. “Very ancient literature scattered all over Chosen, in records and books, were [sic] collected for the preservation of Korean culture and civilization,” and then assembled at Keijō Imperial University. Emphasizing the world-historical value of this effort, the document stated, “Here also may be seen the old Korean prints and movable types which are said to be two centuries older than the types invented by Gutenburg [sic] of Germany.” Korean history, which according to the report consisted entirely of self-aggrandizing dynastic chronicles, was “not sufficient for the accurate history of the country,” and little of it “would satisfy historians of to-day.” A committee of doctorate-holding Japanese historians had thus been employed “to select materials for writing the history from an entirely unbiased standpoint.”1 (Ironically, later Korean historians would indict this committee for “distorting” Korean history through the same tactic used by the discredited dynastic chronicles: emphasizing the administrative incompetence and moral decline of the preceding Chosŏn regime so as to legitimize its overthrow.) Moreover, the GGC had promulgated ordinances in 1916 and 1933 to catalog and preserve “Treasures, Historical Remains, Places of Scenic Beauty and National Mementos,” in order “to 102

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arouse in all the love of one’s native place and inspire in retrospect by the brilliant culture of their forefathers that they may be more diligent in their occupations.”2 Despite its singular reputation as a linguistically repressive regime mandating the use of Japanese as the “national language,” the GGC claimed credit not only for reviving the fortunes of the centuries-old yet moribund Korean script (ŏnmun), but also for propagating its wider use to foster popular literacy: The only written language used by Koreans in early times was the Chinese character, and scholars read the Chinese classics. There was a native script, called “eunmun,” but this was mostly left to the women for their use and there was little interest in its development, except on the part of a few foreigners within the last forty years. Therefore there was no dictionary worthy of mention. The Government-General began the compilation of a Korean dictionary in 1912, and efforts were put forth for gathering vocabularies, making adjustments and working out some kind of order.

Contending that the “grammar and the spelling of Korean ‘eunmun’ were greatly confused and their syntax was subject to local usage,” the GGC standardized the script through school textbooks, so that “the spread and development of ‘eunmun’ became very marked throughout Chosen.”3 Deeply interested in the spiritual health of its subjects, the GGC also took on the responsibility of reviving Confucianism and Buddhism. Reconstituted as the Meirin Gakuin, Confucian academies offered instruction in the Chinese classics and Confucian philosophy, “to instill in the mind of youth virtue and knowledge to make them useful citizens.” Likewise, a resuscitated Buddhism would contribute to the spiritual edification of Koreans. “It is of paramount importance that the people should be assisted in acquiring a firm outlook on life as a step forward to arouse the revival of agricultural and fishing villages,” the report maintained. Due to “abuses of its power,” the Chosŏn regime had very nearly dealt the religion a death blow: “The then Government in terror set oppressing hands on Buddhism, as a result of which, its influence declined until the spirit of the masses became completely decayed, and many quasi-religions of a superstitious nature endeavored to exercise a great and evil influence on the popular mind.” As a remedy, the GGC had mobilized a multi-sectarian task force of Buddhist clergy “for an exchange of ideas,” indicating that “a plan for the development of religious beliefs is now underway.”4 Thus the Thriving Chosen report attempted to persuade its readers that Korea’s cultural and material heritage was in the best of hands. Since liberation, however, most Korean scholars have systematically discredited the

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Government-General’s claims, insisting that Japanese curation served metropolitan interests exclusively, and even threatened to obliterate Korea’s cultural and material heritage, as part of an overall effort to “eliminate through assimilation any remnants of a distinctive Korean identity.”5 Only the heroic “salvage” efforts of indigenous scholars in the postcolonial age prevented such a fate. Braving the censure of this nationalist historiography, the archaeologist Hyung-il Pai has argued that Japanese scholars not only made significant and lasting contributions, but also were “genuinely dedicated, interested, and fascinated by Korea’s past.” Ironically, Pai contends, Korean nationalist scholars have continued to operate using both ideological premises and institutional models created by the Japanese scholarly community whose work they so disparage. “The whole notion of ‘prehistoric Korea’ was a colonial product originating with Japanese studies in the Korean peninsula. . . . Despite their vehemently anti-Japanese stance and their patriotic efforts to write a new racial history of Korea’s past, their theories continue to mirror the main tenets and methodology of Japanese colonial racial paradigms.”6 Pai’s withering indictment of national historiography has yet to dislodge nationalism from its prominence in Korean historical discourse, however, where the cultural violence of the Japanese regime remains a central preoccupation. The ever-present concern for maintaining order in the recalcitrant colony may well have compromised the Government-General’s curatorial ambitions, for the likelihood of vernacular defiance in village festivals, folk songs, religious rites, and folk theater seemed to merit a heavier hand. Korean historiography has indeed emphasized Japanese suppression of folk culture and performing arts, though evidence for this tends to be more anecdotal than document-based. The paper trail is evidently thin, yet scholars have insistently maintained that repression extended to every realm of popular expression from the urban mass media to the village festival. The Republic of Korea Cultural Properties Administration’s three-volume Korean Intangible Cultural Properties series offers a litany of performance genres, rites, games, and customs suppressed by the GGC. The Five Clowns (Ogwangdae) mask play from Kosŏng “was stopped by the Japanese authorities,” the Hahoe shaman rite (pyŏlsin kut) “declined after 1928,” and the General Han game (Hanjanggun nori) “was banned during the colonial period,” because “it concerned the defeat of Japanese pirates.” Furthermore, Korean musical traditions were “in danger of extinction during the Japanese colonial period and the Korean War,” the art of p’ansori “waned” under the Japanese regime, and “standing songs” (sŏnsori sant’aryŏng), performed by itinerant male entertainers with small frame drums, were “on the verge of flickering

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out during Japanese colonial rule.” Military music (taechwita) disappeared with the Chosŏn armed forces; the Dance of Victory (Sŭngjŏnmu), attributed to the sixteenth-century hero Admiral Yi Sun-sin and performed to commemorate his birthday as well as spring and autumn rites, was “nearly extinguished.” Agrarian percussion ensembles (p’ungmul) were belittled as “farmers’ music” (nong’ak) and “dissolved under Japanese wartime policy.” Even competitive sports such as the so-called “juggernaut battle” (ch’ajŏn nori) are said to have been “forbidden under the Japanese occupation of the country.”7 Whether through neglect or outright suppression, the argument goes, the Japanese regime thus threatened Korean folk culture with extinction. Yet whatever the excesses of the regime and its assimilation directives, there is ample evidence to suggest that the distinguishing feature of cultural policy in colonial Korea was its Janus-faced nature, a selective, situational impulse both to preserve and to suppress indications of Korean difference. The GGC assumed as one of its prerogatives the creation of an institutional infrastructure for the excavation of sites of archaeological importance, the compilation and publication of historical documents, the preservation and display of objets d’art, and the investigation of folkways. The curation of Koreana played an important ideological role in highlighting the defunct Chosŏn regime’s negligence, and in providing “evidence” (often spurious or even fabricated) of long-standing Japanese claims to the peninsula. Yet curatorial efforts were also motivated by less diabolical interests, as well, with some investigators advocating for the independent value of Korea’s material and cultural heritage and developing affective attachments to it. It would thus appear that cultural policy in colonial Korea was at cross purposes, exhibiting a perplexing blend of oppressive and curatorial propensities. By “curation,” I denote a wide array of practices that include collection, documentation, analysis, and preservation, as well as exhibition, presentation, and publication of materials and customs regarded as historically, aesthetically, or ethnographically significant. The objects of curation in colonial Korea were numerous and diverse, and methods of presentation to the public included everything from museum exhibits and published document collections to lectures and performances (sometimes broadcast on radio) and the development of sites for historical tourism. The result was that public consciousness of Korean antiquity and cultural accomplishments heightened during the colonial period, nurturing both moderate and radical strains of Korean nationalism that only made the Government-General’s pacification efforts more daunting.

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Curatorial initiatives by colonial powers were manifestations of what Nicholas Thomas calls “the restricted affirmation of authenticated difference constitutive of exoticism and primitivism.” Such activities result in “texts and images [that] often create differences that do not exist, which are maintained and exaggerated, and not disavowed or suppressed.” This “frequent tendency to set other places up as picturesque exhibits, as things to be seen rather than as locations in which action occurs, effects a displacement into the domain of the aesthetic and the ornamental.”8 The curation of Koreana, with its simultaneous if contradictory emphasis on difference and kinship between colony and metropole, rendered Korea itself into a virtual museum of primordial wonders and ethnographic exotica, in which Japanese self-(re)discovery could take place. As the Thriving Chosen report stated, however, the intended audience for this exhibit was not only Japanese: by raising Koreans’ awareness of the “brilliant culture of their forefathers,” the Government-General-as-curator hoped to motivate its subjects to be “more diligent in their occupations.” Korean pride of place was thus not entirely antithetical to broader Japanese imperial aims, if such pride could encourage greater exertions on behalf of the empire.

coll ec t ion by conqu e s t Whereas in premodern and early modern times it was arguably more common for expanding empires to pillage, desecrate, or demolish the physical remnants of peripheral polities in their paths, the use of archaeology, museology, and other curatorial practices to preserve native monuments and customs was widespread among modern empires. It is certainly true that the accumulation of treasures and precious antiquities from exotic locales was a form of “conspicuous consumption” that added luster and grandeur to empires and their builders, as Napoleon Bonaparte’s acquisitive forays into Egypt demonstrated. Yet such practices were also deployed to legitimate colonial rule itself. They might either be mustered to stake a “prior claim” to a contested territory—that is, to demonstrate a longstanding political, cultural, ethnic, or economic presence that made colonial conquests appear to be corrective actions to restore proper sovereignty. Or, an imperial power might assume caretaking responsibilities for monuments, which existing polities had allowed to go to ruin, on behalf of “all of humanity.” Such activities thereby fostered the emergence of the concept of “world heritage.” Operating under the presumption of common ancestry, Japanese curatorial projects attempted to pile on evidence not only for racial kinship

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but even for a prior Japanese political presence in antiquity. The closest contemporaneous analogy elsewhere in the colonial world might be French Algeria, a model that captivated Japanese colonial theorists because, like Korea, Algeria was considered to be an “internal” territory (département) absorbed into the metropole. Following the 1837 conquest of Constantine, the Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres sponsored extensive archaeological and geographical surveys to track down evidence of the Roman presence in North Africa. “Although the main focus of comparison, in the first two decades of French occupation, was to evaluate the extent of Roman colonization both spatially and administratively,” Patricia Lorcin contends, “the outcome of such studies would help determine the viability of French colonization.” Archaeological discoveries of Roman North Africa led to the racial notion of “Latin Africans” developed by Louis Bertrand (1866–1941), who effaced the Arab-Berber presence in Algerian history to establish a long-standing, and therefore “legitimate,” pretext for French colonization. Depicting “French Africa [as] a continuation of the Latin tradition,” Bertrand wrote with breathtaking candor, “I ignored all that was not Latin or French in order to exalt the traditions of my own race and to uncover, in this land invaded by the nomad and the barbarian, our illustrious history and that of its earliest inhabitants.” Note that in Bertrand’s view, the Arabs and Berbers were the “invaders,” and the Latins/French the original occupants. Therefore, Lorcin writes, “France had reclaimed a lost Latin province that, as heir to Rome, gave it precedence over Islam. Faced with the ‘usurping Arab,’ or even the subjugated original inhabitant (l’Indigène asservi), it was the French who held pride of place as ‘the true masters’ of the land. France represented the most revered and ancient Africa, whose symbolic monument was the triumphal arch, not the mosque.”9 Similar efforts to assert a prior presence were made in colonial Ireland, as well. Stephen Howe observes, “The dominant approach to governing Ireland was, almost throughout . . . one of asserting that rightful sovereignty there had previously been ceded to the English Crown—at some one among variously preferred, and more or less mythic, past times—rather than that there was no prior claim to sovereignty, as Lockeans asserted of America and as the terra nullius doctrine was later to proclaim for Australasia.” English claims of sovereignty over Ireland coexisted with an insistence on a distinct English identity and sense of superiority premised on Celtic (Irish, Scottish, and Welsh) inferiority: Celts were regarded as “uncultivated in manners, idle and unenterprising, prone to anarchic violence, pastoral and unfitted for urban life,” yet still more apt for

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Anglicization than indigenous Americans or Australasians.10 Such assertions of prior sovereignty and of a paradoxically familiar exotica were mirrored in Japanese colonial discourses regarding Korea. In more recent times, both the State of Israel and the People’s Republic of China have used archaeology, historiography, and museology to justify their respective claims to Palestine and Tibet. Nur Masalha notes that European Christians with colonial access initiated “biblical archaeology” at sites in Palestine, “to validate Western roots in the Holy Land and authenticate the historicity of the Hebrew Bible.” For the post-1948 Zionist state, “biblical archaeology became an obsession, firmly institutionalized as a cornerstone of Israel’s civic religion, testifying to exclusive Zionist claims to the land of Palestine.” The aim of this “retrospective colonizing of the past,” Masalha argues, was to “create a socially meaningful understanding” of ancient history by deploying archaeology “to foster Jewish nationalism and statebuilding and to legitimize the dispossession of the indigenous inhabitants of Palestine.”11 In China, a new museum devoted to Tibetology opened in the vicinity of the new National Stadium, in anticipation of the 2008 Beijing Olympics. Exhibits were designed to demonstrate long-standing Chinese imperial dominance of Tibet, dating back to the thirteenth-century Yuan Dynasty and continuing into the Qing. In this narrative, the PRC invasion of 1951 is portrayed as the reinstatement of Chinese suzerainty abandoned by the first Republic under Western imperial pressure in 1912. The Dalai Lama disappears from view after 1959. Maoist rhetoric may have denounced both imperialism and China’s “feudal” past, but was not prepared to abandon a geographical conception of the Chinese state that conformed with the outermost expanses of past empires, whether constructed by Han Chinese, Mongols, or Manchus. “The Communist Party clearly wants to counter what it regards as international misperceptions about Tibet’s status and has focused on history as an important arena to argue its case,” a New York Times report states. “The government has established more than 50 research institutions dedicated to Tibet and, by extension, to supporting the Chinese version of Tibetan history.”12 Colonial curation was not always as unapologetically self-interested in (re)establishing territorial sovereignty. French efforts to restore the Angkor complex in Cambodia, the Dutch-led multinational rehabilitation of Borobudur in Java, and even the British Museum’s ravenous accumulation (some would say “looting”) of Egyptian, South Asian, Grecian, Australasian, and other antiquities were frequently articulated as in the collective interest of all humanity. The founders of the Société d’Angkor pour la conservation des monuments anciens d’Indochine in Paris characterized Angkor as “one

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of the architectural wonders of the world,” on par with the Parthenon and the Taj Mahal, and contended that “France, the trustee of these treasures, has a duty to conserve them. . . . It will not be said that Angkor suffered more from the indifference of its new owners than from the wounds of time and past depredations.”13 Trustees of the British Museum likewise articulated their curatorial expeditions as being in the public interest, conceived in the broadest possible terms: The saving the Monuments of the distant past in ancient Assyria from destruction and bringing them out of their present concealment to the illustration which European knowledge may be able to throw upon their meaning and history, is an object to be . . . promoted by whatever agency. . . . Nor can any thing have a more direct tendency to teach the natives some respect for the remains of the great work of art . . . than the leading them to believe that the Europeans desire to possess these remains . . . because of their connections with ancient nations and languages, and of the hope which the study of these affords of contributing to the more extended cultivation of learning and taste, and the prevalence of those principles of justice and benevolence, by which only . . . the general concord and prosperity of the human race is to be attained.14

Thus was collection-by-conquest validated as a sort of national sacrifice of substantial resources for the edification of all humankind. Postcolonial scholars have argued that the post-Napoleonic “struggle for antiquities” became an essential element of imperial competition, an “increasingly urgent patriotic impulse felt by rival nation states to extend military conflict to a war by cultural means.”15 While colonial caretaking could dramatize the decline in the fortunes of subjected peoples since the glory days of antiquity, the curation of these monuments and sites was also pivotal in the formation of nascent ethnonational identities under colonial rule. Penny Edwards observes that the Siamese retrocession of Angkor in 1907 was a pivotal moment in both French and Khmer conceptions of Cambodia. “Displays of Angkorean artifacts in Metropolitan museums, cultural pavilions in colonial expositions, the circulation of images and ideas of Cambodge in news media and travel literature, and the interweaving of Angkorean tropes into Phnom Penh’s built environment gave the rubric of Cambodge a coherency, immediacy, and visibility that the first wave of explorers had not experienced.”16 Borobudur’s initial symbolic value to Indonesian nationalism was compromised by both its location in Java and concomitant insertion into intraIndies rivalries, and its Buddhist stature in a Muslim-majority country, but it has been incorporated as “state regalia” in a postcolonial state committed to “unity in diversity.”17 By curating and thereby drawing attention to

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glories past, colonial powers unwittingly created icons around which could rally the nationalist forces that sealed their doom.

glor i e s pa s t The curatorial aspect of colonialism was thus well established when the Japanese seizure of Korea was formalized in the first decade of the twentieth century. From their inceptions, both the Residency-General and Government-General of Chōsen articulated a curatorial interest in the colony’s material and cultural heritage. The Residency-General had hinted at plans for a museum in its second Annual Report, but these were not realized until December 1, 1915, when the GGC Museum opened its doors on the grounds of the Kyŏngbok royal palace.18 In ensuing years, the GGC created “branch” museums by taking custody of collections accumulated by Koreans in provincial areas, such as those in two former Paekche capitals, Puyŏ (1919) and Kongju (1934). On June 20, 1926, the GGC annexed an extant institution founded by locals in Kyŏngju in 1913. Ongoing excavations in the area yielded a wealth of artifacts associated with the Silla kingdom, including spectacular golden crowns and the mammoth copper bell commissioned by the eighth-century king Sŏngdŏk. The GovernmentGeneral noted in 1933 that the Kyŏngju (Keishū) museum welcomed over 25,000 visitors, “of whom 114 were foreigners.”19 In July 1916, the GGC promulgated its first heritage management laws and set up a Committee on the Investigation of Korean Antiquities to enforce them. Committee members were drawn from the GGC bureaucracy and from the Central Council (Chūsūin), which was also responsible for the investigation of “old usages” and folk customs described in the previous chapter. The 1916 laws (Koseki oyobi ibutsu hōzon kitei) required documentation of “all important historic remains and relics worthy of preservation in a register, discoverers of them to make report about their discovery, and sanction of the Government-General to be obtained for the removal, repair, disposal, etc., of them, and making provision for the proper preservation of those deemed of greatest interest.”20 The prominent role assigned to the colonial police in this registration process is striking (though commensurate with its ethnographic duties in the 1910s): all discoveries of tumuli, shell-mounds, monuments, religious relics, bells, and other artifacts, as well as all reports of damage or theft, were to be conveyed to the local police, who were required to keep detailed records on such matters. Apparently, destruction, looting, and trafficking of antiquities by locals was prevalent enough to warrant such oversight. 21

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Additional measures were deemed necessary in August 1933, which empowered the Governor-General to clarify and expand the definition of what qualified as treasures and resources, as well as “to restrict their exportation to Japan Proper or to foreign countries.” The purpose was to preserve anything found in Chosen useful as of historical interest or as models of art. Treasures in this ordinance mean buildings, books, calligraphies, paintings, sculptures, art manufactures and such; historical remains mean shell-mounds, ancient mausoleums and the ruins of temples, castles and porcelain kilns and similar remains. Places of scenic beauty mean all places of special historical interest as well as of scenic beauty; natural mementoes are special animals, plants, rocks, and minerals of historical interest or valuable as models of art or for scientific research.

Furthermore, private collectors were required, “by special order of the Governor-General,” to loan antiquities and artifacts for one year for exhibition at any government or public museum. 22 Government-sponsored field inspections, directed by architectural historian Sekino Tadashi (1867–1935) and literary scholar Tanii Seiichi, commenced in the last years of Yi rule, culminating in the publication of a set of fifteen massive volumes of photographs of artifacts, artistic treasures, dolmens, tumuli, temples, and prehistoric and historic sites (Chōsen koseki zufu, 1915–35). The elegance with which the volumes were prepared expressed the majesty and grandeur of the curatorial endeavor. Each volume is 43 cm in length, cord-bound, and covered in silk decorated with typical East Asian motifs. The plates on each gold-edged page are separated with tissue paper; some plates, usually those depicting tomb paintings, are in full color. Moreover, the pagination and numbering of the photographs is continuous throughout the fifteen volumes, and the contents are arranged in a resolute chronology, demonstrating the GGC’s long-term commitment to the project and its desire to provide a definitive and orderly presentation of Korean antiquities: Volume 1 (1915): Artifacts of Lelang and Daifang commanderies and Koguryŏ (P’yŏngyang vicinity) Volume 2 (1915): Relics from Koguryŏ and Zhangan castle Volume 3 (1916): Relics from Three Kingdoms period (Paekche, Mahan, Imna/Mimana, Old Silla, and possibly Wozu and Yemaek) and Unified Silla; special section on Buddhist icons of the Three Kingdoms Volume 4 (1916): Sites and relics of the Unified Silla

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Volume 5 (1917): No discernible theme; seemingly random cataloging of pre-Koryŏ stone statues, Buddhist icons, tile shards, etc. Volume 6 (1918): Koryŏ and “medieval” (chūsei) culture Volume 7 (1920): Koryŏ paintings and parchment manuscripts Volume 8 (1928): Koryŏ ceramics from various museum and private collections (some photos document pieces destroyed in the 1923 Kantō Earthquake) Volume 9 (1929): Koryŏ stone and metalwork, seals, mirrors Volume 10 (1930): Chosŏn palace architecture from Kyŏngbok, Ch’angdŏk, Kyŏnghŭi, and Ch’anggyŏng royal residences in Seoul Volume 11 (1931): Chosŏn architecture: regional castles, ceremonial platforms, ancestral shrines, Confucian academies and shrines (munmyo), guesthouses, genealogical archives (sako), libraries, yangban homes Volume 12 (1932): Chosŏn Buddhist architecture from P’yŏnganpukdo, Hwanghae-do, Kyŏnggi-do, Kangwŏn-do, Hamgyŏng-namdo, Kyŏngsang-pukdo, and Ch’ungch’ŏng-namdo Volume 13 (1933): Chosŏn Buddhist architecture from Kyŏngsangnamdo and Chŏlla; stone monuments and grave markers from throughout the peninsula Volume 14 (1934): Chosŏn paintings from the Yi dynastic and GGC museum collections Volume 15 (1935): Chosŏn ceramics from museum and private collections The books contain virtually no commentary (kaisetsu), aside from the matter-of-fact one-page introductions and the photo captions. In much the same manner that ethnographers such as Murayama Chijun characterized themselves as “collectors” of data for deeper thinkers, with Chōsen koseki zufu Sekino, Tanii, and their committee were satisfied either to present their discoveries for other scholars to scrutinize, or to pursue analysis themselves elsewhere. Sekino, for instance, contended in a separate publication that his surveys indicated a slow decline in Korean civilization since the Three Kingdoms period. 23 This conclusion implied that the Tang-backed Silla unification of the 660s c.e., and the concomitant withdrawal of Yamato Japanese influence from the peninsula in the wake of Paekche’s demise, signaled the death knell of a gloriously independent Korean civilization.

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f igu r e 11. Three police officers at Hanwangmyo (royal burial site), from Chōsen Sōtokufu, Chōsen koseki zufu, Vol. 2 (plate #450).

In later volumes of the Chōsen koseki zufu, pictures of individual artworks or architectural landmarks predominate, but the earlier volumes offer more landscape images—usually focused on tumuli, obelisks, grave markers, and dolmens—as well as a photographic record of the excavations and the excavators. It is difficult to suppress a wry smile when viewing these, since they expose the colonial hierarchy so baldly. Like all good supervisors, the Japanese surveyors credited in the opening pages of each volume are dressed in clean three-piece suits and hats, with their hands either in their pockets or behind their backs. Sometimes they are jotting notes. The men wielding shovels and hauling away pots of dirt are all Korean, distinguished by their soiled white garments and head wraps. 24 A third distinctive group is omnipresent in these images: the gendarmerie. Presumably, the police presence discouraged the pilfering of artifacts by the labor force. Since guerilla resistance to Japanese rule was at its height at the time of the excavations (the years immediately preceding and following formal annexation), it is perhaps rather difficult to imagine archaeological sites as being of such high priority to the gendarmes. The fact that gendarmes were nevertheless present at such sites indicates both the seriousness of the threat of pillaging and the strength of the GGC’s resolve

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to preserve and control Korea’s material heritage. It is also illustrative of the wide range of responsibilities assigned to colonial police forces in the Japanese empire. Few tasks fell outside their jurisdiction. 25 The Japanese were not content merely to discover, document, and restore existent sites; they also erected monuments to commemorate milestones in the centuries-old relationship between Koreans and themselves. One such memorial (dating from around 1910) is on display in the central courtyard of the Independence Hall of Korea in Ch’ŏnan. A massive stone bearing an inscription in Chinese, it memorialized an alleged Japanese colonial outpost (Mimana Nihonfu) within the Kaya federation of walled citystates (45–562 c.e.), which was eventually overwhelmed by the expansion of Silla. 26 The plaque reads: i m na ta e k aya s ton e mon u m e n t Relocated here from its original location in Koryŏng-ŭp, Koryŏnggŭn, Kyŏngsangbuk-do, this stone monument is a positive proof that Korean history was willfully distorted by the Japanese imperialists. In order to justify their aggression against Korea as well as to support their false claim that Koreans were an inferior people, they fabricated a Japanese colony called Imna [Mimana]. To substantiate this theory, the Japanese erected this stone monument in Koryŏng, the ancient capital of Tae Kaya.

The monument was part of a broader campaign to justify colonial rule by establishing historical precedent for a Japanese imperial presence that had supposedly endured for two centuries. Ancient accounts of Empress Jingū’s conquest of Silla and Paekche were widely accepted as historical orthodoxy among scholars and the general populace, in Japan, Korea, and the West. According to the Japanese narrative, the most enduring legacy of this expedition was Mimana Nihonfu, a Japanese colony created to enforce the continual subjugation of the Korean kings to Japanese imperial authority. 27 In his two-volume history Japanese Expansion on the Asiatic Continent (1937), Yoshi S. Kuno (1865–1941), professor of Oriental Languages at the University of California Berkeley, articulated a historiographical perspective that posited a logical continuity from antiquity to modern times: The power of Japan to rule in Korea began with the creation of the State of Mimana as her protectorate so that Shinra [Silla] could not invade it. Japan’s power in Korea began to decline with the destruction of her governmentgeneral in Mimana by Shinra, and finally, when the allied armies of China and Shinra, in 663, annihilated her military force in Korea, Japan was forced to abandon all her claims there. She did not regain authority in Korea until after the Russo-Japanese War.

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f igu r e 12 . Imna Tae Kaya Stone Monument, Independence Hall of Korea, Ch’ŏnan, Republic of Korea, June 2003. Photograph by the author.

The date of the founding of Mimana is therefore essential to a determination of the period of suzerainty that Japan exercised over Korea prior to 1905. This date is not only a much mooted question but also a puzzling one. According to the historical records of Japan, Tsunaga Arashito, the ruler of Kaya, whose kingdom was continuously threatened by a powerful neighboring state, learned of the rise of a great emperor in Japan and decided to place his kingdom under the suzerainty of Japan in order to maintain its safe existence [emphasis added].

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Notice Kuno’s choice of words in this passage, which employs then-current imperial terms (e.g., protectorate, government-general, emperor) anachronistically to describe political arrangements from antiquity. The statement that the Kaya king sought Japanese “suzerainty” of his own volition likewise mirrors the Japanese insistence that Emperor Kojong voluntarily signed the protectorate agreement in 1905. Kuno recounted that the Japanese emperor Suinin sent a “strong military force” to garrison in Kaya as “the imperial representative of Japan in Korea.” “Thus did 28 b.c. prove to be an important year in the history of Japan,” Kuno declared. “In that year, through the establishment of a protectorate over Mimana in Korea, Japan extended her authority as a nation beyond the waters to the Asiatic continent.” 28 Likeminded Japanese seem to have presumed that Mimana Nihonfu not only legitimated but mystically foreordained an eventual conquest of the entire peninsula. The location, expanse, and Japaneseness of Imna/Mimana remain among the most disputed issues in East Asian historiography. Japanese scholars have long pointed to multiple entries in the Nihon shoki imperial chronicles (720 c.e.) that verify its existence. As Hong Wŏn-tak points out, they have also tended to use the name Mimana to refer to the entire Kaya federation (in some accounts, Jingū is credited as the founder of Tae Kaya).29 This is indeed how the Chōsen koseki zufu treats it in Volume 3: Imna/Mimana is singled out among all the Kaya city-states for inclusion, with no justification assumed necessary; and while the sources of some sites and artifacts (possibly the leavings of Wozu and Yemaek) are questioned, there are no doubts expressed that certain remains are from Imna/Mimana. However, Korean scholars have disputed the “colonial” status of Imna/ Mimana, arguing that it functioned primarily as a port of trade, in which the presence and movement of Yamato agents were permitted yet circumscribed by the king of the Kaya federation. “Because of the natural, intimate relationship that had been maintained with Paekche,” Hong writes, “the successive Yamato rulers apparently tried to maintain a port facility at the southern tip of the Kaya crossing route ‘to serve as a station in going and returning’ (see Nihongi NI: 250). These efforts by Yamato rulers to maintain a port facility seem to have been exaggerated out of proportion in Japan in the late 19th century by those Japanese who wanted to justify the invasion of Korea by promoting a story of Japanese colonization of the southern part of Korea for more than two centuries.”30Archaeologist Pak Ch’ŏn-su states emphatically, “There was no Mimana Nihonfu,” and argues that the archaeological record suggests Kaya functioned as an intermediary between Wa (Japan) and Paekche. Indeed, Pak asserts, ties

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between Kaya from the third century to the fifth century predate the more well known interactions between Wa and Paekche that began in the sixth century, but there is no evidence that these ties were based on a Japanese conquest. 31 Clear scholarly benefits have accrued from the Government-General’s methodical efforts to curate Korean heritage, but because the curatorial endeavor was used to shore up spurious justifications for colonial rule, those benefits were largely obscured by a postcolonial backlash. Determined to project a modern conception of Korean identity back into antiquity, scholars after liberation attempted to assert the independent, indigenous development of Korean civilization. 32 In the last two decades, however, scholars have (sometimes unwittingly) revived the historical paradigm of ancient Northeast Asian relations, in which borders were porous and identities unstable, while still rejecting the notion of a Japanese conquest of the peninsula. 33 Distasteful as it is for some, much of the archaeological and historical evidence for this emerging consensus was indeed collected and compiled under the auspices of the Government-General, as part of its ceaseless efforts to depict the 1910 annexation as a family reunion. History, Andre Schmid remarks, “always remained central to the legitimization of Japan’s presence.”34 Yet aside from assertions of a Japanese colonial presence in Imna/Kaya— based wholly on the self-aggrandizing eighth-century imperial chronicles—Japanese scholars were less guilty of mischaracterizing early historical exchanges between the peninsula and the archipelago than of presuming that those exchanges justified modern colonial rule. They were likewise accountable for “reading into” the archaeological and historical record evidence of a decline in Korean civilization, for which, in their minds, Japanese colonial intervention provided the only remedy.

gua r di a n of t h e dh a r m a In addition to the ordinances designed to protect material heritage, a separate body of laws dating from September 1911 was devoted to oversight of Buddhist temple administration and to surveying, cataloging, and preserving Buddhist sites and sacred relics, which the late-Chosŏn elite had allowed to “fall into ruin.”35 Here the goal transcended an interest in material heritage to include facilitating the spiritual rejuvenation of the Korean people through the promotion of Buddhism. In its Annual Report for 1922–23, the GGC depicted itself as the savior of a great religious tradition hitherto neglected by the indigenous populace.

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Many Buddhist temples are under the care of the Government, as the culture of Chosen owed its development to the influence of Buddhism, and its most flourishing period was marked by the erection of fine buildings and by the production of beautiful works of art. The old temples still standing are precious material for the study of Korean history and the progress of the fine arts in the Far East, but the decline of Buddhism and the scanty endowments remaining to these temples have resulted in their falling into a state of greater or less ruin, so the Government-General has taken steps for their preservation and repair by granting subsidies to the priests serving them . . . [Buddhism] was greatly patronized by successive dynasties up to the rise of the Yi Dynasty, when the building of temples was prohibited, the number of priests limited, and people of good family forbidden to become priests. The religion consequently fell into disrepute and lost its hold on the people, its priests came to be regarded as mere mendicants, and its temples were left to fall into ruin and decay. This state of affairs was brought to an end after the annexation, and in September, 1911, new regulations were promulgated, removing former restrictions, giving freedom of propagation, protection to temples, and raising the status of priests, and at present there are 30 head and 1,200 branch temples with 7,500 priests and nuns and 167,000 adherents. 36

Unsurprisingly, this account neglects to mention that several prominent Korean Buddhist temples, such as the UNESCO World Heritage Site Pulguksa in North Kyŏngsang province, were razed by invading Japanese forces in the 1590s, and restored and expanded under Chosŏn rule. Nor is the early-Meiji-era suppression of Buddhism in Japan acknowledged. 37 While the GGC officially tolerated Christian missionary activity, it adopted a more proactive stance with regard to Buddhism, providing state patronage that it hoped would revive the religion’s fortunes in Korea. It encouraged exchanges between Japanese and Korean clergy, emphasized the faith’s contributions to Korean culture and history, and sought to elevate Buddhism’s prominence in the everyday life of the colony. 38 A 1914 report asserted that due to the 1911 ordinance, “Korean Buddhist priests were placed on an equal footing with Japanese priests, so that they might contribute their share in the religious uplifting of the Korean people.” In the interest of stabilizing the administration and finances of Buddhist institutions, and thereby purportedly addressing popular distrust of the clerical class, the government strictly monitored the Buddhist clergy (sŭngga, Korean for the Pāli term sangha). Among other things it was provided by the [1911] ordinance that in using buildings and grounds of monasteries and temples for other purposes than preaching, propagation, holding of religious services and residence of priests and nuns permission should first be obtained from the Provincial Governor and that regulations defining the office of priests of various classes, ceremonials and rites and

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other matters should be instituted and enforced after obtaining the approval of the Government-General. New rules were also provided for the selection and appointment of the chief priest of a temple and great strictness was required to be observed in the management of property belonging to it, so as to prevent it and its inmates from falling into financial difficulty. . . . Provisions were also included in the ordinance for reviving Buddhism and its propagation. 39

With characteristic deliberation, the GGC centralized control of the clergy, pared down the number of temples, nunneries, and monasteries, and imposed an ecumenical ethos to soothe sectarian conflicts. It likewise sought collaborators among the sŭngga and encouraged “unions” of Korean sects with their doctrinal counterparts in Japan. Many Korean priests objected, understandably perceiving this as an attempt to subordinate them to Japanese sects. When Yi Hoe-kwang (1862–1933), abbot of Haeinsa and Grand Patriarch of Won-jong (an earlier, Korean-initiated effort to unify the Kyo and Sŏn practices), signed an agreement in October 1910 that consented to the absorption of Won-jong into the Japanese Soto Zen sect, a faction of Korean priests rebelled by founding the Imje-jong.40 Like so many other constituencies in colonial Korean society, the clergy would remain divided over issues of collaboration and resistance to the regime; while some clergy clearly saw advantages in working with the GGC to revive Korean Buddhism, others insisted that pursuing such an agenda under colonial supervision was detrimental both to the nation and to the dharma itself. Promotion of Buddhism in Korea served the GGC’s strategic and ideological interests in a number of potential ways. There was certainly ample precedent in both Korea and Japan for government patronage of Buddhism for the purposes of “national protection” (hoguk pulgyo; gokoku bukkyō); historically, such investments conferred political and spiritual legitimacy on the state. Although intent on portraying itself as a modern, enlightened, secular state committed to religious tolerance, the GGC recognized that it could ill afford to ignore any potential strategy of legitimization, whether religious or otherwise. Besides, patronizing Buddhism was justified in terms that were not at all inimical to the goals of modern secular states: public order, moral discipline, administrative rationalization, and heritage preservation. Another likely motivation was the perceived threat to public order posed by Christian missionaries. The Government-General, acknowledging the “remarkable” spread of Christianity in Korea when compared to China and Japan, attributed this partly to “the feeble influence possessed by the beliefs previously existing in Chosen.”41 In the wake of the March 1 uprisings, in which Christian churches played prominent roles as places for nationalist

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agitation and refuge from Japanese reprisals, outgoing Governor-General Hasegawa Yoshimichi wrote in a personal report to his successor, Admiral Saitō Makoto, evangelization by American missionaries receives strong backing from their home country, and their methods of evangelization are also very skillful. The rising power and prestige of America in recent years is congenial to the Korean tendency to align themselves with the strong. Thus we can expect that the influence of these religious groups will continue to expand in the future. Among the American missionaries there are those who use the call for freedom and friendship with America as a proselytizing device. There is thus ample cause for worry that this will cause problems for governance in the future. In any case, it is extremely dangerous to allow foreigners to grasp authority over religion. If Christianity is something that Koreans find congenial, it is necessary to see those in a position of religious authority are Japanese or Korean.

Hasegawa went on to lament that Korean Buddhist sects “have become completely out of touch with society. From the time of the establishment of the new government we have instituted measures to preserve Buddhism and encourage it to prosper, but long-entrenched attitudes make it difficult for the Buddhist sects to respond to the aspirations of society. Prospects for them to have any positive impact on society are remote. It is most regrettable that there are not Japanese Buddhist organizations active in the religious education of Koreans.”42 Hasegawa thus implied that foreign Christians were staking claims to the spiritual lives of Koreans, and that despite his regime’s best efforts, in their current state Buddhist sects were hardly able to compete. Another likely impetus for state support of Korean Buddhism was to reinforce the claims of longstanding cultural and racial kinship on which Japanese colonial rule of Korea rested. As the introduction of Buddhism to the Japanese imperial court by the Paekche kingdom in 552 was chronicled in the canonical Nihon shoki (720), the GGC had no choice but to acknowledge the cultural debt Japanese owed to Koreans. Restoring Buddhism to its former prominence in Korea was a way of returning the favor. Official accounts emphasized the defining role Buddhism had played in Korean cultural life: “Korean literature, science, and arts all developed with Buddhism at their centre. Indeed, in the palmy days of Korean Buddhism various styles of architecture came into being, and not a few of them are now found very valuable as material for the study of ancient oriental arts.”43 By focusing on the Buddhist heyday of the Unified Silla (668–935) and Koryŏ (918– 1392) periods as the era of Korean cultural accomplishment (predating Chosŏn’s partiality for Neo-Confucianism), the GGC and colonial schol-

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ars may have hoped to de-center Chinese civilization from Korean history. This is not to suggest that Japanese wished to efface Confucianism from Korean life, for they clearly recognized the utility of its emphasis on selfless duty, filial piety, and social hierarchy to administering the colony. 44 But to the extent that Confucianism perpetuated a “servile” Sino-centric worldview among Koreans, it served Japanese purposes better to resuscitate Buddhism, which enjoyed a mass following in Japan. “Buddhism is strong among the [Korean] lower classes, but not so much as in Japan,” the GGC conceded. 45 To remedy this situation, Japanese clergy from the Jōdo, Nichiren, and Jōdo Shinshū sects trickled into the peninsula, ministering principally to Japanese residents but reportedly also reaching out to Koreans.46 Finally, given its oft-stated concern for the spiritual hygiene of the Korean people, the Government-General no doubt hoped a Buddhist revival would provide a familiar and stable spiritual foundation for the populace that would encourage complacency and preempt dissent. The regime refused to acknowledge “[c]ertain religions of native origin”—such as Ch’ŏndogyo, Sich’ŏngyo, and Taejonggyo—as proper religions, dismissing them as “simply primitive and superstitious beliefs.”47 More ominously, from the GGC’s perspective these groups exploited the ignorance, fear, and gullibility of the Korean people and promoted nationalist resistance. Ch’ŏndogyo and Shich’ŏngyo (Tendōkyo and Jitenkyō, respectively, in Japanese) were both derivations from the nineteenth-century Tonghak religious upheaval that had so destabilized late Chosŏn and catalyzed the 1894–95 Sino-Japanese War. Unconvinced by the efforts of patriarch Son Pyŏnghŭi (1861–1922) to reform and depoliticize the faith, the GGC remained hostile to Ch’ŏndogyo throughout the colonial period. Adherents of the more “overtly nationalistic” Taejonggyo (Taishūkyō) venerated Tan’gun, the mythical founder of Korea. In its modern form, as promoted by Na Ch’ŏl (1863–1916), it stressed the antiquity and independence of Korean civilization from 2333 b.c.e., antedating by far the mythical foundation of Japan in 660 b.c.e. by Emperor Jinmu. It did not help Taejonggyo’s reputation among colonial officials that Na Ch’ŏl masterminded the plot to assassinate the five Chosŏn officials who signed the 1905 Protectorate Treaty, and that other prominent members—such as nationalist historians Sin Chae-ho (1880–1936) and Pak Ŭn-sik (1859–1925) and anarchist Kim Chwa-jin (1889–1930)—instigated a variety of strategies for resisting Japanese rule, ranging from moderate intellectual activity to militant guerilla action. 48 Since the GGC likewise refused to regard shamanism (musok) as a legitimate religion, Buddhism was the only serious contender

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for an “indigenous” religion with a manageable institutional structure that Koreans were likely to accept. This should imply neither that the Korean priesthood as a whole was complacent about the status of Buddhism in Korea, nor that it was entirely acquiescent under Japanese supervision. A number of Korean-initiated reform efforts sprouted throughout the peninsula, in defiance of the officially recognized “Thirty Main Mountains” confederation, to propagate the dharma, to assert the autonomy of Korean sects, to promote social reform and education, and even to agitate for political independence. A handful of monks—notably Sŏn masters Manhae (Han Yong-un, 1879– 1944, a signatory to the 1919 declaration of independence) and Yongsŏng (Paek Sang-gyu, 1864–1940)—are considered patriotic heroes for creating educational institutions and propagating teachings that were easily construed as encouraging Korean independence. 49 Yet there was no more consensus among the sŭngga about how to respond to the GovernmentGeneral’s patronage than there was over such issues as dietary restrictions and clerical celibacy. After enduring centuries of Chosŏn’s hostility, the Buddhist clergy and laity had opportunities to restore the worldly fortunes of their faith under Japanese rule, but not without practical and spiritual compromises. Like the political nationalists, the Korean Buddhist clergy greeted liberation divided into mutually hostile factions.

ggc a s ‘m écè n e’ In addition to its self-appointed roles as custodian of Korean heritage and protector of the dharma, the Government-General also acted as patron of the arts. As in the metropole, where the most prestigious art show was the state-sponsored Imperial Art Exhibition (Teikoku bijutsu tenrankai, or Teiten), an official Korean Art Exhibition (Chosŏn misul chŏllamhoe, or Sŏnjŏn) became the principal venue for visual artists in the colony (many of whom were Japanese settlers) from 1922 to 1944. This annual exhibit, which art historian Kim Hyeshin calls the “jewel in the crown of the Cultural Policy,” was one of the most conspicuous assertions of GGC authority over cultural life, an effort to divert attention from independence efforts, to oversee the content of publicly viewed art, and to reward compliant artists whose work resonated with colonial prerogatives. Its intent also was to compete with the Korean-initiated exhibits (hyŏpchŏn) sponsored by the Calligraphy and Painting Association (Sŏhwa hyŏphoe) between 1921 and 1936. 50 Kim Hyeshin detects a “noticeable thematic cohesion” in Sŏnjŏn paint-

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ings, which “tended to show the colonial landscape as lonely and impoverished,” filled with “submissive figures in traditional dress,” a quality not unlike the ethnographic photographs analyzed in Chapter 2.51 Stylistically, however, Sŏnjŏn was a testament to the modernizing influence of Japan on Korean culture, for many of the works displayed were by Korean artists who were newly trained in the European, post-Impressionist styles taught at art schools in Japan. 52 Sŏnjŏn thus served as a yearly barometer of cultural progress under Japanese stewardship, under which curation involved not just the preservation of the old, but the encouragement of the new in the cultural realm. Official accounts of the exhibition made this clear, while also taking further jabs at the previous regime: “Korean arts, though they made a brilliant advance in the Koryo Era, began to decline in later years on account of the corrupt administration, and toward the end of the Yi Era they fell into a most miserable condition. In recent years, however, signs of revival have presented themselves along with the march of civilization in the peninsula.” Sŏnjŏn was the Government-General’s way of “encouraging this revival.” Subsequent editions of the GGC’s Annual Report reported numbers of entries, participants, and “art lovers” attending the exhibition, the last category reportedly reaching a peak of 22,000 in 1930. “Each time medals or certificates of merit were awarded to those works showing special skill,” but after liberation having won an award at Sŏnjŏn did not necessarily confer professional advantages to Korean artists. 53 Japanese interest in the so-called fine arts of Korea—the realm of expression among yangban elites—was matched by a fascination with the folk arts and crafts of anonymous, illiterate commoners. Admiration for Korean ceramics, specifically, had long been apparent in Japan, at least as early as the Momoyama (1573–1615) era, when the formative age of the tea ceremony (chadō) coincided with intensifying foreign trade and the military invasions of Chosŏn. In the wake of the Imjin War (1592–98), many Korean potters, who were either enticed or kidnapped by Japanese warlords, set up kilns in Japan. The products of their labor “revolutionized the Japanese ceramic industry”; in fact, many Japanese, conceding that nothing else had really been gained by the assault on Korea, have referred to the conflict as the “pottery war” (yakimono sensō). After peaceful relations between Chosŏn and Japan’s Tokugawa regime were restored, Korean ceramicists opened kilns in Pusan for the express purpose of manufacturing tea wares for export to the shōgun. 54 Throughout much of the Edo period, Korean ceramics retained a brand-name cachet among the warrior elites. But esteem for Korean products declined during the Meiji period, no doubt in tandem with the Chosŏn regime’s sinking fortunes.

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Colonization seems to have rekindled the ardor. One of the most prominent men in imperial Japan’s art world, Yanagi Muneyoshi, found not only aesthetic sublimity, but also bitter truths, in the folk crafts of Korea. Regarded as the spiritual founder of the folk craft (mingei) movement in Japan, Yanagi has also been eulogized fondly in Korea for his lavish praise of Korean folk arts and his efforts to establish a folk art museum in Seoul. What Yanagi prized most in Korean arts and crafts was their ostensible Zen-like artlessness, that elusive wabi quality of which Japanese manufactures now seemed bereft: Our common sense is of no use for Koreans at all. They live in a world of ‘thusness,’ not of ‘must or must not.’ Their way of making things is so natural that any man-made rule becomes meaningless. They have neither attachment to the perfect piece nor to the imperfect. . . . I came to understand for the first time the mystery of the asymmetrical nature of Korean lathe work. Since they use green wood, the wares inevitably deform in drying. So this asymmetry is but a natural outcome of their state of mind, not the result of conscious choice.

“They are quite free from the conflict between the beautiful and the ugly,” Yanagi concluded. “Here, deeply buried, is the mystery of the endless beauty of Korean wares. They just make what they make without any pretension.”55 This lack of pretence, artifice, or aesthetic self-awareness was precisely what made Korean art not only so charming, but also reproachfully instructive to modern Japanese who, in thrall to European art, had long ago abandoned such praiseworthy lack of sophistication. The anti-modernist melancholy that vexed the mingei circle found perhaps no more anguished expression than in “Tsubo” (“Jar”), schoolteacher Asakawa Noritaka’s (1884–1964) ode to a Korean urn, published in the September 1922 issue of the literary journal Shirakaba [White Birch]: Japanese pottery of old is quite good, Shadows of old Chōsen reside vividly therein. But when we try to be clever by doing this or that, We render something tasteless, A large lump and line, Something small and incoherent. This is most dreadful: The tendency to be pleased by forcibly adding coarseness [dekoboko], The tendency to be pleased with indiscriminate smoothing. Koreans Know nothing of intent. Rather than self-conscious or reflective, They are straight-from-the gut and instinctively simple. They create with the pure heart of a child drawing a picture,

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Continuing until the singular feeling ends. Art in which a charming warmth triumphs over reason, Art that cannot be created twice, A child’s product made by adults. When viewing these children’s drawings, my head drops, Amazed and ashamed of my own impurity. 56

Asakawa’s poem likens the primordial lack of self-consciousness among Koreans to the innocence of childhood, and the modern perspicacity of Japanese to the corruption of adulthood. It asserts both Korean infantilism and Japanese contamination, providing a metaphor for the evolutionist mindset that “explained” the domination of one people by another, while laying bare the ambivalence of colonial modernity. The exertions of Yanagi Muneyoshi, the Asakawa brothers Noritaka and Takumi (1891–1931), and other folk craft enthusiasts led to the opening of a Korean National Art Museum (Chōsen minzoku bijutsukan) in Seoul on April 9, 1924. Yanagi raised funds, delivered lectures, and met personally with Governor-General Saitō to persuade him of the value of such an institution to cultural understanding in the wake of the March  1, 1919, uprisings. Unlike the GGC Museum (with which it shared the Kyŏngbok Palace grounds), the new institution’s exhibits drew attention to the work of anonymous craftsmen and the aesthetic beauty of everyday objects. 57 Japanese interest in ceramic heritage did not necessarily redound to the economic benefit of practicing Korean potters. “Paradoxically, Korean ceramics stagnated at this time,” art historian Jane Portal observes, “as the Japanese occupation resulted in a great deal of good kaolin-rich Korean clay being exported to Japan for use there in the mass production of Japanese porcelain. Although in 1916 the largest Japanese porcelain company, the Nippon Koshitsu Toki Kaisha, opened a branch factory in Pusan, Korea was gradually swamped with low-cost Japanese porcelain, resulting in a near collapse of the local industry.”58 Colonial curation fetishized and thus preserved the old for future generations, but the structures and demands of the colonial economy virtually extinguished any possibility that those generations would produce masterworks of their own.

a rch i v e s of s ou n d A similarly ambiguous outcome is detectable in the world of music, where a genuine curatorial interest in the traditional music of Korean elites and commoners coincided with the introduction and propagation of Western music, via both foreign missionaries and the Japanese school curriculum.

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More than any other single factor, those who lament the decline of traditional Korean musical styles attribute it to the promotion of Western instruments, repertory, tonality, theory, and musical practices by the Japanese imperialists. 59 It was one thing for Japanese policymakers and educators of the Meiji generation to renounce their own musical traditions in favor of Western standards; it was quite another for them to impose these standards on another people under colonial domination. Yet what endured in Korean musical traditions did so in part because of prodigious Japanese scholarship. Like other fields of study, colonial musicology was premised on Chosŏn’s presumed negligence to properly document and preserve Korean musical heritage. One of the most significant fruits of curatorial musicology was the publication in 1933 of a facsimile of Chosŏn’s principal musical treatise, Akhak kwebŏm (Model for the Study of Music), compiled by Sŏng Hyŏn (1439–1504). 60 Commissioned by King Sŏngjong (r. 1457–94) and completed in 1493, its purpose was “to update and consolidate existing musical materials, knowledge, and practices into a single, easy-to-use source.”61 In meticulous detail, Akhak kwebŏm describes, classifies, and canonizes instruments, genres, costumes and ceremonial accessories, dances, and repertory. Sŏng Hyŏn’s introduction is also arguably the most comprehensive and fully articulated expression of Neo-Confucian musical theory in East Asian tradition. Though written mostly in classical Chinese (hanmun, with some chapters mixing in the vernacular ŏnmun), and containing numerous quotations from Chinese sources, Akhak kwebŏm is “essentially Korean” in content and presentation, Robert Provine insists, indicative of a progressively more independent musical culture. 62 Original copies of the work were stolen or destroyed during the Imjin War. The 1933 reprint (from a 1610 manuscript) was thus a significant curatorial enterprise, for it provided not only insight into the musical life of the fifteenth-century Chosŏn elite, but also an extended apologia for the philosophical value and social utility of music that was not altogether outmoded, despite its antiquity. Indeed, much of the content of Akhak kwebŏm resonated beautifully with emerging notions of a new, pan-Asian cultural order. Ehichung Chung observes that Sŏng regarded music (yuè in Chinese, ak in Korean, gaku in Japanese) as crucial to proficient governance, for it was not merely a combination of sounds or an aesthetic commodity, but rather a means by which listeners could get in touch with their innate morality and experience “oneness with the unchanging universal principles that govern the universe of change.” As the connective tissue between heaven, humanity, and civic education, “music is not some thing

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outside of one’s self to be listened to, but instead a discovery and an affirmation of one’s own roots and nature ‘at home’ in the universe of principle and material force.” Yuè so conceived was accessible to anyone, not specific to “any particular musical repertory in isolation but in people’s internalization of Heaven’s principle,” making it a potent vehicle for the promotion of upright conduct and social harmony. 63 Wartime Japan was no less insistent that the aesthetic elevate public morality and harmony than were any of the East Asian polities of times past; indeed, pan-Asianist rhetoric characterized the ideals of innate spirituality and harmony as uniquely Asian virtues. Akhak kwebŏm could thus be presented not only as evidence of Japan’s curatorial diligence, but also as a historical basis for validating the aesthetic and cultural values of the New Order that imperial Japan aspired to construct in the late 1930s. The publication of Akhak kwebŏm made available to a wider public what had once been privileged musical knowledge among Chosŏn’s elites. As suggested earlier, curation facilitated the dissemination of cultural commodities among a broader range of the social spectrum. Recordings of Korean music issued by Japanese corporations were thus even more important to this aspect of the curatorial mission. The first recordings of Korean music were made in 1907 for Germany’s Polydor label. By 1921 one musicologist reported buying “several” records of Korean music from the branch office of Nippon Recording Company in Seoul. 64 In the 1930s the major Japanese labels had active studios in Korea, releasing 78-RPM records of several types of traditional music, as well as new Koreanlanguage pop songs. Recording companies are seldom considered curators in the way that publicly funded, not-for-profit museums, archives, and heritage sites are. Financed with private capital (often from Europe and the United States) and beholden to popular tastes and political realities, the Japanese recording industry had quite different interests from archaeologists, government officials, scholars, and folk craft enthusiasts. But by recording, packaging, and selling Korean music of various types on the mass market, these corporations created an aural archive of performance genres that had traditionally been transmitted orally within relatively circumscribed social circles, and thus played an important role in preserving and raising awareness of cultural heritage. Genres and regional styles previously inaccessible to some because of geographical or social distance were now available to wider audiences, facilitating a transcendent sense of national identity enshrined in sound. 65 Several Japanese with various degrees of expertise were involved in what could be called “salvage musicology,” among them the eminent Tanabe

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f igu r e 13. Ethnomusicologist Tanabe Hisao, frontispiece for the 1943 Festschrift Tōa ongaku ronsō.

Hisao (1883–1984). As Hosokawa Shūhei has argued, Tanabe was more than merely the Japanese pioneer in what was then still an emerging discipline, ethnomusicology; he was also a pivotal figure in the effort to identify, define, and articulate a pan-Asian essence through a comparative musicology that eschewed Western prejudices and presumptions to universality. “What Tanabe was seeking in the study of East Asian music was ‘neither scale, harmony, nor compositional methodology, but moral virtue,’ ” Hosokawa observes. “His Daitōa Ongakugaku [Great East Asian Musicology] project dealt specifically with the absolute superiority of Greater East Asian music over Western music because of the presence in the former of moral virtue, the essence of Confucianism.” He criticized Western rationalism for its insensitivity to the “Asiatic soul,” its frivolous attention to formal

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surface aspects of Asian music, at the expense of its spiritual and moral intent. Tanabe regarded the role of musicology as more than recuperative or analytical, but constructive, as well. Tanabe proposed a “mono-genetic theory” of Asian music, hypothesizing “the existence of a proto-music that generated all the musics of East Asia” and embodied the spiritual unity of the region. By identifying these essential attributes, musicology could thus assist in the construction of a new musical culture exemplifying and facilitating pan-Asian unity. 66 Tanabe’s grandiloquent hypothesis, fully articulated by the time of the Pacific War, was initially inspired by his trip to Korea in 1921 to study court music (aak; gagaku, “elegant music”). 67 The impetus for Tanabe’s visit was the Yi court orchestra’s desperate plea for assistance from its counterpart in the Japanese imperial court. Although the GGC paid the Yi royal house an allowance commensurate with its dignity, it regarded much of the Korean royals’ ritual life and displays of majesty as extravagant, wasteful, and frivolous. 68 With the closure of ancestral shrines and the “abolition of numerous court ceremonies,” ritual court music—and the musicians who played it—suffered accordingly. 69 In 1895 the number of musicians employed by the Office of Musical Administration (Changakkwa) was 772; in 1908 this was reduced from 305 to 270; and by 1910 there were only 189 part-time musicians (aaktae) employed at court. In 1913 the office was rechristened the Yi Royal Music Institute (Yiwangjik Aakpu), and opened a conservatory in 1919. Nevertheless, the Institute retained the services of only forty musicians in 1922.70 Threatened by both the indifference of the GGC and the influx of Western music, in 1918 the Institute appealed to the gagaku ensemble of the Japanese imperial court in Tokyo for financial and moral support. Headmaster Ue Sanemichi (1851–1937) was stunned by the condition of the Yi court orchestra; when he asked why it had deteriorated so, GGC officials replied that the royals’ stipend was not sufficient to support both the orchestra and a zoological garden. Since the zoo was more “beneficial to the people,” the ensemble was left to die a slow death. Its elderly headmaster Min Wŏn-p’yŏk, assisted by six more musicians of comparable age, compiled their repertoire into a manuscript that amounted to a final bequest, Outline of Korean Music (Chosŏn ak kaeyo).71 Enter Tanabe Hisao on a white horse. In a visit that coincided with the implementation of “cultural rule,” Tanabe spent two weeks of April 1921 in Korea, observing and filming specially arranged performances of court music and dance in Seoul, with a two-day side trip to the P’yŏngyang Kisŏng Kwŏnbŏn Yepu, the prestigious academy at which the most elite

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kisaeng were trained and licensed. His public lecture on the relationship between Korean aak and Japanese gagaku was big enough news to merit serialization for five days on the front page of the Keijō nippō newspaper, which co-sponsored his visit. As a result of his research, he developed classificatory criteria for instrumentation, intonation, and repertoire. He also remonstrated with the Japanese officials and business elites whom he met on the importance of preserving the Korean musical tradition. Tanabe insisted that the Yi court’s music was “a precious art in the history of world culture,” and that it was the “Japanese government’s great responsibility” to provide adequate funding to preserve it. In his view, the Yi household should be relieved of the orchestra’s management and the GGC should itself take charge.72 In later years, his admirers would say that Tanabe Hisao’s “greatest accomplishment” was to reestablish a firm institutional foundation for aak, so that it could be passed to posterity.73 Yet Tanabe’s gaze, Hosokawa contends, transformed “the classic culture now under colonial inspection [into] a thing that should be included in the inventory of Japanese national culture.”74 Tanabe regarded Japan as the repository of Asian musics that had all but perished in their native soils. In contrast to Chinese music, which he dismissed as “extremely monotonous” and moldering in “an incipient stage of development,” in Japan “music has a history of constant progress for the past two thousand years. In it have been poured and put together all elements of the ancient civilization of Asia, and thus the national music of Japan has come to be a multifarious whole.”75 Curation of Korean music, then, became yet another path toward Japanese self-discovery. This detracts neither from Tanabe’s sincere aesthetic appreciation for Korean music, nor from his earnest desire to restore its fortunes. Nonetheless, he was complicit in a drama all too common in colonial settings, acting as the savior of a cultural resource his own countrymen had enfeebled. With no sovereign royal court to serve and an aggressively truncated ritual calendar to observe, the endangered state of aak was unsurprising. Some Japanese observers and government officials noted the art’s decline and gave more diligent attention to other genres of Korean music, which arguably fared better as a result. The GGC monthly Chōsen regularly published feature articles on all kinds of Korean music; such studies consisted of historical and stylistic overviews, basic organology, reproductions of classic scores, transcriptions of folk song melodies, and translations of lyrics. An early example of these Chōsen features, authored by government interpreter Tanaka Tokutarō in 1921, manifests a clear preservationist impulse. Following a summary history of Chinese-derived

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Korean music, Tanaka detailed the sharp decline in the number of practicing musicians and apprentices since annexation, as well as the stylistic contamination wrought by Western and Japanese music and dance. He detected the “regrettable” decay of Korean music not only in the court but also among kisaeng, only a heroic few of whom forfeited “popularity” to remain observant of tradition. Subsequent ethnomusicological surveys were premised on a similar curatorial apprehension that the “flow of time” itself endangered Korean music.76 Japanese ethnomusicology appropriated prior Korean aesthetic terminology distinguishing elite from “vulgar” styles (sokkok) and redeployed it as an aesthetically neutral system of scientific classification. The music of the royal court since 1907 had been privileged as Korea’s “national music” (kugak), but Japanese arguably found the music of common people more fascinating.77 According to Ishikawa Giichi, a teacher at the Keijō Normal High School for Girls, what made Korean folk music unique was its total disengagement from elite forms. “In every country, whatever is labeled national music always has a close relationship to the music of the populace, that is, folk songs,” Ishikawa contended. “And yet in Korea, strangely enough, aak, the so-called national music, and sokkok are mutually estranged, and have developed in parallel and complete independence of one another, a rare phenomenon indeed. There is not the slightest Indian or Chinese musical tinge in Korean sokkok; if anything, it has a sort of Arabic flavor.” Ishikawa insisted that Korean folk melodies were more akin to Egyptian music than to aak, and that they employed scales found in Arabic, Afghan, Central Asian, and Mongolian musics. He ascribed this estrangement simply to the chasm between elites and non-elites in precolonial Chosŏn.78 Other oft-noted traits of Korean folk music included its regional diversity, improvisational dynamism, and ubiquity in Korean folklife and religious practice. “Songs from the south are usually up-tempo,” Ishikawa wrote, “while those in the north are gentle.” Even songs whose names were known throughout the peninsula were subject to radical variations in lyrical content, melody, and meter: “ ‘Arirang’ is sung in each region of Korea, but in each region there are many rhythmic and lyrical differences.” Ishikawa depicted sokkok as an ever-evolving body of music. “Since they are sung by everyone, not only in native theaters or by kisaeng, they have not become fossils like aak has.” Folk music was a living art in Korea, which made its proper documentation essential to “cultural rule.”79 In a later essay Ishikawa advocated that folk songs (minyo) be not only thoroughly researched but also “properly guided” to better facilitate the “culti-

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vation” of society. Yet he did not necessarily mean fiddling with the content of folk songs, so much as encouraging their proliferation and performance so that they could best promote aesthetic education and social harmony in the colony. 80 Clearly smitten with Korean folk songs, Ishikawa put enough thought and imagination into his research to speculate that, when transcribed, their melodic contours resembled the curvatures of local mountain ranges (sanmyaku no kyokusen). 81 The only insight such research may have produced was that Koreans were preternaturally in sync with their environment. Or the GGC officials who contracted Ishikawa’s musicology may just have rolled their eyes. The prominence of music and dance in Korean folk religion was striking to the prolific ethnographer Murayama Chijun. For him, the peculiar reliance of Koreans on these performance arts to communicate with spirits was indicative of a primitive culture resistant to the passage of historical time. “The reason there is such emphasis on dance and music [bugaku] in shamanism,” Murayama explained, “is none other than that Korean shamanism has passed ceaselessly through several centuries without evolving even a little, and moreover without being influenced by other ideas, preserved and inherited as it was in the past as a form of primitive belief. That is to say, it follows precisely the simple method by which the inspired priest materializes and senses communication with the spirits through the pulse of sonic movement.” For Murayama, it was natural that a religion whose source “emanated from nature” would use music and dance in place of formalized scripture to invoke the spirits. 82 Koreans’ implied incapacity to separate music from the rhythms of life, to make it a purely aesthetic, nonfunctional object, was further evidence of their primordial lack of sophistication. As we have seen, this was a quality about which the Japanese gaze was ambivalent. In contrast to shamanic song and dance, some genres of folk performance were more easily detached from everyday life and repackaged as “pure” aesthetic commodities, among them p’ansori (solo narrative singing) and its theatrical offshoot ch’anggŭk (“singing drama”). The imposition of Japanese colonial rule coincided roughly with major artistic transitions in p’ansori, such as the first fully cast operatic adaptations of the p’ansori classics Song of Ch’unhyang and Song of Sim Ch’ŏng at the government-operated Hŭidae Theater (later known as Wŏn’gaksa) in 1903 and 1904, respectively. Although p’ansori as performed by a lone singer (kwangdae) and drummer (kosu) remained a viable art during the colonial period, it was increasingly upstaged by ch’anggŭk, which captivated audiences with mimetic acting, props, and mixed casts of male

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and female performers (most of whom were established kwangdae and kisaeng). Originally performed in the open-air markets and public spaces (madang) of the stigmatized southwestern Chŏlla provinces, by the twentieth century p’ansori was increasingly performed for parties at private homes, courtyards, and salons (as well as recording and radio studios) in the capital and elsewhere. Ch’anggŭk, on the other hand, attracted larger audiences of more varied backgrounds. 83 From 1903 to 1912, and again in 1935–39, it thrived as a popular form of vernacular entertainment, in both urban theaters and provincial tent-shows. If p’ansori indeed “waned” under the Japanese regime, it may have been due more to competition from ch’anggŭk and other newer entertainments than from overt government suppression. Prominent historians of the art have typically declared that ch’anggŭk constituted a defiant assertion of national identity by Korean performers and a creative response to Japanese suppression of indigenous expressive culture. 84 Andrew Killick has provocatively argued to the contrary, that ch’anggŭk emerged not in spite of but rather because of the Japanese imperial presence in Korea. “Japanese influence lay behind the very creation of the genre and continued to sustain it throughout the colonial period and beyond,” Killick writes, noting that pro-Japanese writer Yi In-jik (1862–1916) produced the proto-ch’anggŭk operetta Silver World (Ŭnsegye, 1908) with the specific aim of guiding Korean performing arts in the direction of Japanese shinpa and Western-influenced dramatic styles. Promoted as “reformed” versions of bawdy traditional arts, these “new dramas” (sinyŏn’gŭk, not labeled ch’anggŭk until the 1930s) advocated “social reform under Japanese tutelage” rather than Korean cultural independence. Reading contemporary news coverage from the time of the Residency-General, Killick observes: There was little sense that these traditional arts, especially those of humble social origins like p’ansori, needed to be protected from change, or could have a special ‘traditional’ appeal in opposition to some more modern alternative. On the contrary, the indigenous arts were regarded as in need of reform and improvement, and this first ch’anggŭk production [Ŭnsegye], like the experiments in ‘dialogue singing’ [taehwa ch’ang] at the private commercial theatres, set out explicitly to achieve this. The terms by which these performances were known, shinyŏn’gŭk (new drama) and yŏn’gŭk kaeryang (drama reform) are enough to indicate that they based their appeal, not on tradition, but on novelty. Within a few years, this would change. 85

The Residency-General’s first real effort to regulate or censor ch’anggŭk performances (in March 1910) was motivated less by fears of “political

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subversion” than by concerns about indecency. Killick suggests that such apprehensions were hardly far-fetched: “Korea, it should be remembered, already possessed a form of drama in which a naked man with grotesquely large genitals appeared and urinated on the other characters, albeit only in the form of a puppet play.” Without explicitly saying so, he implies that government censorship facilitated ch’anggŭk’s ascent from the sewer to the stage, echoing the late Donald Shively’s assertion that seventeenth-century sumptuary edicts by the Tokugawa regime helped kabuki shed its links to prostitution and become Art. 86 P’ansori had been more or less “cleaned up” in the preceding century, through the efforts of master kwangdae eager for aristocratic approval, as well as the active patronage of Sin Chae-hyo (1812–84), who is usually credited (or blamed) for canonizing the five narratives (madang) that best exemplified Confucian virtues. 87 Sin Chae-hyo was the art’s most ardent “curator,” consolidating and transcribing existing libretti, training kwangdae (including the first female p’ansori singer, Chin Ch’ae-sŏn, 1847– 1901), and codifying a p’ansori aesthetic. The regent Taewŏn’gun’s passion for p’ansori (and for Chin) guaranteed official patronage for the art, so that by the end of the Yi dynasty it was not uncommon for traditionally despised kwangdae to mill about the palace entertaining Chosŏn’s royals. Kwangdae relished their roles as Confucian pedagogues and the resultant celebrity and prosperity. 88 The transition to the ch’anggŭk form brought this newly respectable entertainment to a broader plebian audience, who— it was surely hoped—would reap from it more moral benefit than peeing puppets could offer. Compared to court music and folk songs, Japanese appear to have shown relatively little scholarly interest in either p’ansori or ch’anggŭk. Nor did ch’anggŭk receive the sort of official support that the Sŏnjŏn exhibitions did; however, as a deliberately refined version of traditional performance art, like Sŏnjŏn it may well have denoted for some observers cultural progress under Japanese stewardship. Nonetheless, the performers themselves took the initiative to reform their art and make it more “wholesome.” In November 1930 performers organized to revive the “old style” of p’ansori performance, purified of “lewd gestures.” In 1933 they renamed their organization the Korean Vocal Music Research Society (Chosŏn Sŏng’ak Yŏn’guhoe), intending not only to promote old-school p’ansori and modernized ch’anggŭk performances, but scholarly research as well. 89 In this case, the artists themselves took on new roles as curators. Yet a highly publicized event in 1938 threatened to steal the spotlight: a

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Japanese production of the iconic Ch’unhyang story, entitled The Legend of the Peninsula—The Tale of Ch’unhyang (Hantō no densetsu—Shunkō den).90 Self-described Koreaphile (Chōsen suki no watashi) Konishi Saburō enthused over the “revue-style” production and its possibilities for promoting the integration (naisen ittai) campaign and by extension the New Order in East Asia (tōa shinjōsei). The sad grace and elegant poeticism that flows at the bottom of this story, in which the beautiful young girl Ch’unhyang struggles with her own undue fate and finally achieves good fortune, is peculiar to Koreans [hantōjin], yet speaks to the emotions of Japanese [naichijin], as well. I saw that everyone in the audience identified with Koreans and embraced a feeling of pity for Ch’unhyang, or savored an ardent sympathy and emotion for their own Japanese classics. Afterwards, each time I heard about the general esteem for The Tale of Ch’unhyang, I felt deeply that this was something that could actualize naisen ittai even better than any complicated theory. 91

For Konishi, the political and economic goals of the integration campaign could only be realized if Japanese and Koreans acknowledged and embraced the aesthetic and affective affinities that bound their respective literary and cultural traditions together. A Japanese production of a Korean tale valorizing loyalty, feminine virtue, self-sacrifice, and superhuman fortitude could thus provide cultural depth to the spiritual mobilization of both peoples. Nayoung Aimee Kwon characterizes this collaboration between the bilingual Korean writer Chang Hyŏkchu (1905–97) and the Japanese playwright/producer Murayama Tomoyoshi (1901–77) as an attempt to satiate parallel yet inconsonant nostalgic desires. For Koreans, the production furthered the cultural nationalist agenda that sought to resuscitate and promote “national tradition” within the cultural realm, which by the late 1930s “took on added symbolic import as a metonym of the absent nation.” For Japanese, Kwon argues, the production was “colonial kitsch,” an expression of the “seemingly insatiable consumer fetishism arising from an imperialist nostalgia for exotic objects of its colonies.”92 Korean leftists were mortified by this “impure,” modernized adaptation, penned by a “traitorous” countryman, but Japanese praised it as exemplary of the sorts of pan-Asian collaborations that would become routine under the New Order. Murayama, ambitious to stage the first Korean drama with a Japanese cast, relied on Chang and other “native informants” to provide “raw ethnic data” for his production, but certainly did not allow a fetish for authentic Koreana to hinder his experimental proclivities. As Kwon points out, the content was quintessentially Korean, but the style

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was a self-conscious brew of kabuki and modern experimental theatrical techniques. Murayama certainly had curatorial aspirations (“I had wanted to introduce Korean arts and culture to Japan for a long time”), but his knowledge of Korea and its customs was superficial at best; the Korean “flavor” of the production was detectable only through stylized affectations, “bodily expulsions such as coughing and sighs and simple words easily recognizable as Korean even to those who do not know the language.”93 Like most would-be curators of Koreana, Murayama believed that the Korean cultural essence could be identified, packaged, and presented in a manner that satisfied Koreans and enticed Japanese, and thereby promoted the broader interests of Japan and its imperial subjects.

t h e rod of cor r ec t ion Official Japanese attentiveness to the expressive culture of Koreans did not always manifest curatorial benevolence. Yet there is still more anecdotal than documentary evidence for the outright suppression of selected arts, rituals, festivals, and customs. I am certainly not one to discount the value of personal testimony as a historical source, but as a practitioner and teacher of oral history, I am also cognizant that its proper object is less a real past than a remembered one. This is to suggest neither that Koreans have wholly contrived their narratives of cultural suppression, nor that Japanese attitudes and policies toward Korean expressive culture were not oppressive, either in intention or outcome. Still, it is important to use whatever documentary record exists, in conjunction with remembered anecdotes, to understand what must have been an exceedingly complex “politics of culture.” As an example of the kinds of historical statements that are typically made with no supporting citations, here is an excerpt from a recent book on masked dance by the eminent folklorist Cho Dong-il: The Japanese colonial government, which adopted an oppressive policy against Korean culture and popular arts, issued a decree in 1911 that those who sang and danced at night without permission would be punished by summary court. Mask dance could not be performed under such circumstances. In the 1920s, the Japanese switched to the so-called cultural rule, allowing holiday events and folk arts performances on a limited scale but only with prior approval. Still the mask dance could not be resuscitated. The colonial government permitted some mask dance performances as there was a growing interest in the study and promotion of Korean folklore among some Japanese scholars. The Bongsan mask dance was performed in 1936 amidst growing nationwide interest, but soon the dark years of war put an end to any attempts to revive the traditions.94

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Unlike most other accounts, Cho’s concedes that masked dance itself was not specifically targeted by the GGC, but rather suffered as a (perhaps) unintended consequence of a more general directive to maintain public order. Cho also acknowledges that Japanese scholarly interest in and “promotion” of Koreana fostered a provisional revival of masked dance during the colonial period. Nevertheless, he undermines these nuances by describing a generally “oppressive policy against Korean culture and popular arts,” a statement that is far too sweeping to characterize adequately a continuously evolving, reactive, and self-contradictory set of mandates over four decades of colonial rule. As we have seen, Japanese observers—official or otherwise—regarded some aspects of Korean folklife and expressive culture as aesthetically captivating, historically valuable, ethnographically illuminating, or at least harmlessly quaint. Some celebrations of Korean heritage were not only permissible but were established on Japan’s watch: a case in point is Kyŏngju’s Silla Festival, featuring lantern processions, archery, sport competitions, and dance, which began in 1934.95 The regime condemned other activities, however, as pointless, wasteful, extravagant, or ridiculous. Intriguingly, some Korean intellectuals considered the Japanese to have been too lenient in this regard: writing in 1962, Sukmyŏng University professor Hong I-sŏp maintained that “certain aspects of the Japanese colonial policy endeavored to retain, as far as possible, the feudalistic elements of Korean society as a means of arresting the process of Korean modernization. At the same time they did not interrupt the sentimental and decadent side of Korean culture.”96 In fact, the GGC not only had little patience with so-called “superstitions,” but in some instances went out of its way to offend deeply ingrained Korean sensibilities. This was most clearly evident in the geomantic mutilation of the landscape itself. Geomancy (fengshui in Chinese, p’ungsu in Korean, fūsui in Japanese) refers to the “highly systematized ancient Chinese art of selecting auspicious sites and arranging harmonious structures such as graves, houses, and cities on them by evaluating the surrounding landscape and cosmological directions.” Hong-Key Yoon contends that p’ungsu “has been one of the most important elements in regulating the cultural behavior of Koreans.” 97 The intensified development of railway lines, roads, communication and electricity infrastructure, factories, and other modern amenities aroused geomantic anxieties among Koreans, as Japanese projects rode roughshod over ancestral gravesites and other auspicious locations. The GGC’s efforts to mollify its subjects in this regard were a frequent topic in the Annual Reports of the 1910s. The 1917–18 edition

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implied that the broader public interest was best served by deemphasizing geomancy: Among the Koreans there has been a time-honoured superstition regarding the burial-ground. In fact, the credulous folks seduced by the augur’s counsel would even take to a barbarous manner of interment. As a result, many evils followed, such as desolation of the land, injury to the public health, ruinous contention over burial-grounds, etc. Already the new regulations controlling cemeteries and cremation have been made effective, and all the people now show a tendency to make use of the public cemeteries provided.

Nonetheless, the Report alludes to compromises that allowed “high-class” families to maintain private burial sites and granted “more freedom . . . to the people in general,” so that the “fine custom of ancestor-worship [might be] encouraged.”98 Well attuned to the cultural importance of geomancy in Korea, the Japanese regime made the very landscape of Seoul a site of “iconographic warfare” during the early colonial period. Such “obvious symbolic violence” sickened liberal-minded Japanese like Yanagi Muneyoshi and architect Kon Wajirō (1888–1973). When deciding where to build its monumental headquarters, the GGC wittingly snubbed sizable plots in the downtown area, instead choosing to partially demolish the auspiciously located Kyŏngbok palace complex and erect its own building in front of what was left. Yoon alleges that this was a deliberate effort to sever the “geomantic vein to the main building of the palace” and thereby “nullify [its] geomantic benefits.” When it opened on October 1, 1926, the GGC’s domed, granite edifice stood in stark contrast to the dilapidated, “imperfectly erased” wooden palace, signifying no less than the end of Korean sovereignty. The geomantic massacre did not end there: the Governor-General’s personal residence was built on the “geomantic vein” north of the palace, on the slope of Mt. Pukhan, putting Kyŏngbok palace in a vice-like grip between the two new structures; auspicious sites throughout Korea were occupied or replaced with Shintō shrines or colonial office buildings; and the Changgyŏng palace ground was requisitioned as a zoo.99 Japanese authorities committed other, perhaps less deliberate, desecrations of Korean sensibilities out of curatorial zeal. P’ansori scholar/ performer Chan E. Park recounts an incident (originally reported in the December 8, 1929 edition of Maeil sinbo) in which the GGC, apprised of an impending masked dance ritual in Yangju (Kyŏnggi province), dispatched officials to purchase the masks before they were burned by the celebrants, as was the custom at the rite’s conclusion. These ritually “contaminated” masks were then worn by thirty hired dancers who were filmed perform-

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f igu r e 1 4 . Construction of the GGC administrative building, ca. 1916–17, from Global Korean Network of Los Angeles, http://www.gkn-la.org and http://www.japanfocus.org/ -Anne-Booth/2418.

ing the dance at the GGC Museum in Seoul. “From a materialistic point of view,” Park remarks, “ ‘saving’ the masks may be considered respectful of Korean tradition, but from a spiritual point of view, this was desecration of the spiritual order by a capitalistic transaction and intellectual curiosity imposed through colonial intimidation.” This, Park contends, was an early example of the regime’s misappropriation of Korean folk performance as “local color artistries” (kyōdo geijutsu; hyangt’o yesul) within the expanding Japanese empire.100 The phrase “unity in diversity” may sound laughably unsuitable for describing the pan-Asian ideology of a fascistic imperial power, and not without good reason. As the Japanese empire expanded, it imposed “unity” on its own terms, and tolerated “diversity” within severely circumscribed limits. Still, it is clear that Japanese imperial idealists believed it possible

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not only to include but even to celebrate the varieties of ways a unitary “Asian essence” could be expressed. As suggested earlier, the inclusion of innocuous customs and quaint exotica made what was a relatively parochial empire seem more empire-like. The viability of a unified-yet-diverse pan-Asian union was nowhere better tested than in Korea, the most closely related yet most intractable colony in Japan’s clutches. Despite its frequent complaints about native superstition, hygiene, and indolence, the regime was not averse to the idea that something of value animated Korean folk culture. One of wartime Japan’s most excruciating tasks was to sort out those aspects of extant culture—its own as well as Korea’s—that best promoted and exemplified the envisioned New Order. This involved a painstaking selection of traditions to be fortified, extinguished, or reimagined and reinvented. It required respect for heritage and a solid command of current conditions, but also the will to innovate. The curation of Koreana helped to focus such efforts. As one of his final projects under contract to the GGC, Murayama Chijun submitted the encyclopedic Local Amusements of Korea (1941). Divided by region and subdivided by rural communities, the report included descriptions of dances, games, costumes, and festivals, as well as song lyrics, play scenarios, and folk tales, culled primarily through reports solicited from elementary schools starting in 1936. The double-edged purpose of the venture is apparent in the report’s preface, written by a government official responsible for the “total mobilization” of the populace. It goes without saying that these amusements are traditions that are entwined in local life, that provide peace, harmony, and comfort to the dry lifestyle of farming, mountain, and fishing villages, the food for the soul that raises the people’s spirits, and relieves the daily fatigue with the promise of tomorrow’s activities. Therefore, in this time of emergency, when it is necessary to understand the lived culture of Korean localities, as well as to double our activities to promote total mobilization, I believe this book should be a reference at least for contemplating the healthy amusements that encourage concord and for ensuring the longevity of those activities.101

Reference to “healthy amusements” implied the existence of “unhealthy” ones. Yet one looks in vain for disparaging remarks or editorializing in Local Amusements, which is remarkable considering Murayama’s penchant for pointing out Koreans’ cultural deficiencies. Entries are thorough—noting for instance the origins and presentation of specific amusements, as well as the age, gender, and status of participants—yet tersely descriptive. Explanations of the social utility or purpose of particular entertainments

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invariably characterize them as escapist diversions for alleviating the exhaustion and tedium of an elemental agrarian lifestyle. This tactic, of course, trivialized these activities and effaced undercurrents of vernacular defiance and satire. One way to suppress rebellious expressions was to ignore them, to leave no written record of their existence. This was the approach Murayama seems to have adopted in an extended essay on the Pongsan masked dance that appeared in the January 1937 issue of Chōsen. Seeking to explain the centuries-old appeal of this theatrical tradition from the northwestern province of Hwanghae, the ethnographer insistently and repeatedly referred to it as “popular entertainment” (minshū goraku) with no greater social function than to provide temporary respite and diversion to the agrarian masses. He acknowledged the ironic satire of the play’s content, which ridiculed corrupt, hypocritical authority figures—a Buddhist priest, a Confucian scholar, and a spirit medium—as “betrayers of the people’s trust and expectations.” But, Murayama maintained, “It is not sufficient to view this t’al as something that dramatizes the dark side of the carriers of Buddhism, Confucianism, and shamanism.” Rather, the people needed their appetites whetted for such heavy fare by the “dramatic interest” of the formal elements that made up the theatrical experience: setting, action, lyrics, and music. These appealed directly to the “five senses” and thus were more pertinent to explaining Pongsan t’alch’um’s popularity than “abstract, indirect” parody. Most viewers were oblivious to that, reveling instead in the “release” (kaihō) that the theatrical experience gave them (it helped, Murayama added, that this Tano seasonal event required no admission fee). What did vex Murayama about the content was less its subversive potential than its spirit-crushing pessimism. So, as it is, this t’al delivers all the entertaining elements that provide solace to the people. However, does this mean it is unnecessary to bother considering its didactic aspects [kyōka jōken]? The content, not the theatrical form, emphasizes depictions of the underside more than the surface of life, and the dark rather than the bright side. If we posit that this tendency for gloomy portrayal is detectable not just in this t’al, but also in most Korean literature, music, folk songs, and other arts, it is deemed a color produced by centuries of Korean life, and thus a strongly rooted tradition; but that is not to say that it should be allowed to carry on as it is, if we consider the people’s lives in the future. . . . Is it not necessary to make the content strong and vibrant, acknowledging the brightness in one’s life and creating yearning for it, in the way that giving positive solace moves one with joy and excitement, rather than negative comfort as is satisfied with underlying irony and righteous indignation? Reviving the old does not change the form, it endows fresh life and rebirth to the substance.102

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While blithely dismissing the possibility that Pongsan masked dance might incite vernacular defiance to Japanese rule, Murayama nonetheless proposed that its narrative promoted an unhealthy cynicism among a population already inclined to moroseness. As was his custom, Murayama Chijun hinted that it need not always be so. Other rites and pastimes that would surely have inspired Japanese ire are omitted entirely from Murayama’s Local Amusements, which otherwise appears to be a meticulous work. The volume’s geographical schema makes it easy to do targeted searches for specific regional rites, festivals, and performances that later historians have identified as suppressed. Intriguingly, the Hahoe pyŏlsin kut, a rite combining exorcism with satirical masked drama and dance (t’alnori) to appease local tutelary spirits, does not appear in the entry on Andong. Most sources claim that the t’alnori was last staged in 1928, with some claiming its demise was due to its “patriotic undertones,” and others that the Japanese found ridicule of provincial elites inappropriate.103 Nor does the Kosŏng entry make mention of the Five Clowns dance that is said to have been “stopped by the Japanese authorities.”104 Murayama’s book likewise overlooks two dances that would easily have offended Japanese authorities: the General Han festival in Chainmyŏn, Kyŏngsan city (North Kyŏngsang province); and the Dance of Victory in T’ongyŏng (South Kyŏngsang province). The first commemorated the legendary defeat of Japanese pirates who periodically marauded coastal Korean villages in medieval times. Dressed as a dancing girl, General Han lured the invaders away from the village so that his soldiers, disguised as farmer-musicians, could encircle and ambush them. The festival, traditionally celebrated in the Tano season, included a shamanic rite as well as a dance (Yŏwonmu) reenacting the rout of the pirates.105 The Dance of Victory, comprised of drum and sword dances dating back to Koryŏ times, became associated with Yi Sun-sin when he encouraged his soldiers to perform it in preparation for the naval engagement with invading Japanese forces at Hansan island (August 14, 1592). As performed in T’ongyŏng (Yi’s headquarters during the first phase of the Imjin War), the Dance of Victory unambiguously identified the enemy as Japanese and therefore was “disrupted by Japanese rule,” according to standard accounts.106 These festive performances and their regional variants—many of which dated back to the first half of the Chosŏn era—constituted a poke in the eye to both the invading Japanese and the feckless Korean political elites who failed to protect the homeland from them. They celebrated a triumphal populism, in which Korean commoners achieved what their leaders could not: defeat of the bloodthirsty Japanese pirates, not through con-

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ventional military means, but rather through the spirit-power of performance art. Chronicles of the Imjin War left little doubt that commoner militias (ŭibyŏng) offered more effectual resistance to invading Japanese than the Chosŏn army could muster, and that clever tricks played on the Japanese by kisaeng and other lowly people helped hasten their eventual retreat.107 Masking and dancing thus signified the ingenuity and power of the common people (whom postcolonial Korean nationalists would later christen minjung) to subvert and humiliate their oppressors, both domestic and foreign. The prominence of women in these acts of resistance is noteworthy, as well, further disgracing the macho samurai: Yi Sun-sin is said to have ordered the girls of Chindo (South Chŏlla) to perform the circle dance of the Harvest Moon (kanggang sulrae) around bonfires so as to fool Japanese invaders into thinking their target was well-defended.108 It is easy to romanticize such “people power” excessively, as minjung historiography surely has.109 Nonetheless, the symbolic import of such spectacles—in which cross-dressing, dancing peasant-soldiers and little girls trounced or outwitted battle-hardened samurai—could not have been lost on either the dancers themselves or those who gazed upon them. Master p’ungmul drummers interviewed by ethnomusicologist Nathan Hesselink have testified that it was precisely this “people power,” expressed and unleashed through their performances, that frightened the Japanese. “P’ungmul’s real purpose,” Cho Myŏng-ja insists, “is to bind people together as a collective power [kyŏlsŏngnyŏk].” Yi Sang-baek explains that p’ungmul had once been an integral part of work and ritual life throughout rural Korea, but its social and religious functions were diminished when it was artificially detached from community life as “music” (ŭmak) performed by farmers (nong’ak) for increasingly restricted occasions. In his view, “by narrowing its scope and degrading it as an activity, the Japanese, as well as Korean scholars sympathetic to them, were able to undermine its strength and role as a collective power behind social insurrection.” As Hesselink notes, many p’ungmul performers and enthusiasts regard drumming as inherently an act of collective resistance by the minjung. Pak Yong-t’aek, citing fellow drummer Kim Hyŏng-sun, claimed that “in the past, out on the battlefield, the Japanese thought people were gathering in large numbers to fight whenever they heard Koreans playing p’ungmul. So they took all the instruments away to keep the Koreans from playing. The Japanese thought they heard many people out in the fields, even if it was only two or three people playing. The Japanese ended up taking all of our instruments away.”110 However, the Japanese may have had other, less abstruse, reasons for

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doing so. With the onset of hostilities in China and the Pacific, the Japanese seized as many metal implements as they could—in Japan as well as in Korea—to use as scrap for building war materiel. According to Kim Hyŏngsun, “the Japanese took all kinds of things, even musical instruments, for their war efforts in other parts of the world. They took spoons and anything made out of metal, and completely demolished things like instruments. Small gongs [soe/kkwaenggwari], large gongs [ching], anything made of metal they took away. Because they took the spoons that households used for eating rice, we would eat rice with wooden spoons.”111 The regime took alternative approaches toward other forms of Korean expressive culture during the war years: rather than disable or forbid them altogether, it marshaled them to facilitate the “spiritual mobilization” of the Korean populace. Ch’anggŭk, which, as noted earlier, was revitalized as a fully theatrical dramatic form in the 1930s, proved to be an attractive vehicle for both wartime propaganda and for conducting crash courses in the “national language,” Japanese. As linguistic policy hardened in all realms of life in the late 1930s and early 1940s, spoken portions (aniri) of old p’ansori tales were delivered, and new plays written and performed, in Japanese (though badly, according to one theatergoing official).112 “The colonizers saw both merit and harm in the verbal artistry of p’ansori and ch’anggŭk,” Chan E. Park surmises. “It offered effective deliverance of their political messages to the masses, on the one hand, but a dangerous vehicle of rebellion, if ‘misapplied,’ on the other.” The nadir for ch’anggŭk was the October 1944 staging of a two-part play—featuring the eminent kwangdae Yi Tong-baek (1866– 1947)—that depicted an Anglo-American imperialist assault on Asia, to which “enlightened” Koreans responded by pledging loyalty to the Japanese emperor and going to war on his behalf. But by and large, by retreating to noncontroversial, traditional repertoire instead of mounting new productions, ch’anggŭk fared better than the more politicized Western-style realist “new dramas” (singŭk), so to characterize the art as “suppressed” is somewhat an overstatement.113 Although ch’anggŭk was itself a modern creation, its roots in the p’ansori tradition conferred an aura of cultural legitimacy that may well have been its saving grace during wartime.

t h e p oli t ics of cu r at ion In her study of the Japanese folk craft movement, Kim Brandt argues that Koreaphilia by no means implied an anti-colonialist stance: “the meanings and values successfully attached to Korean objects were also instrumental in the reproduction of Japanese colonial power. . . . [Mingei activists

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and collectors] praised Yi dynasty wares and the culture and people that produced them in terms that made Korea’s status as a colonial possession of Japan seem both natural and inevitable.” Likewise, Hosokawa wryly characterizes Tanabe Hisao’s Greater East Asian musicology as “the handmaiden of imperial science.” Although colonization itself had endangered Korean music, “by acting to secure this cultural heritage . . . Japan was able to cast itself as the preserver of a long-term relationship between ‘neighbors.’ ”114 Japanese authorities and Korean cultural nationalists alike responded warmly to the advocacy of such prominent intellectuals because it was supposedly shorn of “politics,” which both groups narrowly conceived as explicit agitation for the restoration of Korean sovereignty. In their collective mentalité, curation and cultural promotion were not necessarily “political” actions. With the benefit of hindsight and a broader definition of “politics,” however, a different picture emerges. Colonial curation served the political interests of the GGC by preempting both internal and external criticism of its cultural insensitivity, thereby embellishing the image of benevolent paternalism and discerning stewardship it wished to project to domestic and international observers. In keeping with precedents established in other colonial empires, curatorial activism highlighted the competence and cultural acuity of the colonial state, as well as the moral bankruptcy and inefficacy of the previous indigenous regime. Curation intended to instill within both metropolitan and colonial subjects a notion of kinship and mutual heritage, which made the preservation of past exotica into a reclamation of a historically more authentic self that transcended linguistic and cultural differences. Conversely, the curatorial project also aimed to silence nationalists’ accusations that the regime had no regard for indigenous culture by providing resources and expertise (both of varying quality) for heritage preservation that the native population could scarcely muster. Moreover, such preemptive initiatives could deprive nationalist movements of unifying symbols, for all such possibilities would be tainted by official sponsorship. Paradoxically, however, the curatorial coterie—consisting of government officials, scholars, enthusiasts, and practitioners (Korean and Japanese)—created a veritable catalog of artifacts, monuments, symbols, performance practices, ritual behaviors, and artistic treasures that both postcolonial Korean states have utilized to define, assert, and celebrate Korean cultural independence and identity. Nonetheless, these emblems of national culture bear the marks of the sifting and cleansing processes to which their curators subjected them. Irreversibly altered by the effort exerted to preserve and present idiomatic Koreana to posterity, what once

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had been dynamic was ossified, what once had been coarse and lewd was refined and sanitized, and what once was prosaic was made monumental. With the opening of museums and the promulgation of heritage management laws in the mid-1910s, the Japanese colonial state became the final arbiter of what was worthy of preservation and what was not, a mandate it inadvertently bequeathed to its successor states after liberation. Certainly the GGC was most intent to curate whatever best served its ideological purposes, but this was not always as intellectually arbitrary or calculating a decision as it may sound (nor is it so different from the way cultural heritage has been determined in postcolonial Korea, or elsewhere, for that matter). Much Japanese curatorial activity was motivated by the earnest affective attachments the curators themselves developed for Koreana, rather than by any overarching ideological agenda. True enough, as self-appointed curators sought public and private resource support for their ventures, they articulated these attachments in terms that were consonant with the emerging pan-Asian discourse with which Japanese justified their imperial expansion. Yet so powerful were these attachments in some instances—particularly within the mingei circle—that they devolved into a form of self-reproach, nurturing a highly traumatic sense of loss and contamination. It seems safe to say that curation was indeed a form of political activity at its inception, though its political consequences were neither immediately evident, nor always detrimental to the nationalist aspirations of Koreans.

chapter 4

The First K-Wave Koreaphilia in Imperial Japanese Popular Culture

On November 25, 2004, Korean actor Pae Yong-jun stepped off a plane at Tokyo’s Haneda Airport, into the collective arms of some five thousand screaming Japanese female fans. The male lead in the television serial Winter Sonata (Kyŏul yŏnga; Fuyu no sonata), a smash hit in Japan, Pae’s hunky sensitivity placed him at the crest of the so-called Korea Wave (Hallyu; Kanryū) that swept Japanese popular culture in the first decade of the twenty-first century. In hopes of landing a Korean “Seoul-mate,” thousands of Japanese consumers started taking Korean language classes, signing up for dating services that promised to introduce them to Koreans, buying K-pop CDs in unprecedented quantities, watching Korean television dramas, traveling to Korea, and reading fanzines devoted to Korean celebrities. A decade or so earlier, some Korean commentators had feared “re-colonization” by Japanese cultural products surreptitiously evading official bans via satellite broadcasts and underground fan networks; little could they imagine the opposite scenario, in which Japan, the 2000s’ “empire of cool,” would be so enamored of everything Korean.1 Numerous structural and institutional factors account for the increased availability and visibility of Korean cultural products in early-twenty-firstcentury Japan: the gradual relaxation by President Kim Tae-jung of South Korean policies prohibiting Japanese films, music, comics, and other print media; the unprecedented “joint host” arrangement for the 2002 FIFA World Cup (which both nations initially considered an insulting slight by the football establishment); the sense of mutual threat resulting from 147

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North Korean dictator Kim Jong-il’s belligerence and nuclear aspirations; and increased trade ties and economic cooperation. Perhaps less obvious are the reasons for the Japanese consumer’s seemingly sudden passion for Koreana. Some of the fan testimony reported in the press suggests an appeal not unlike that which constitutes the core theme of this book: a nostalgic longing for a purer self that has been lost, yet can be retrieved through the consumption of Koreana. To the extent that Alain de Botton is correct in suggesting that personal taste results from a deep-seated psychological sense of “lack,” one could argue that, Pae Yong-jun’s manly attributes aside, he and other Korean entertainers who enjoy a Japanese following owe their popularity to a dissatisfaction and perception of loss permeating Japanese society.2 “I realized that Korean music has qualities that Japanese music doesn’t,” producer Sumimura Yukitoshi remarked. “They are not afraid to use traditional folk melodies in hip-hop for example, something you don’t get in Japan.”3 Once again, the purported tenacity of Koreans’ ties to cultural heritage appears as a positive virtue, implicitly contrasted with Japan’s own increasing detachment from cultural roots. Neither the K-Wave itself nor the reasons for it are without precedent. The last third of the colonial era witnessed an infusion into the metropole of cultural products and influences whose marketability was premised on their Koreanness. If colonial administrators in the 1930s and 1940s regarded expressions of a resilient, distinctive Korean identity as evidence of either excessive Japanese lenience or Korean recalcitrance, Japanese consumers in the naichi clearly found Koreana to be exotic and charming. I do not wish to imply an even-handed cultural exchange: colonial Korea was saturated with Japanese entertainment, and even vernacular diversions were usually financed and produced by Japanese capital, to ends that did little to weaken Japanese hegemonic aspirations. Nonetheless, there are enough prominent examples of Koreana (even if in faux forms) in imperial Japanese mass culture to suggest that Korea was a marketable brand. The capacity of such Korea-themed entertainments to mediate the colonial relationship, to generate empathy and understanding, to create or confirm stereotypes and misconceptions, and to comment on the shared conditions of colonial modernity constitutes the theme of this chapter. V. I. Lenin’s famous analysis of imperialism stated, “ ‘General’ enthusiasm over the prospects of imperialism, furious defense of it and painting it in the brightest colors—such are the signs of the times. Imperialist ideology also penetrates the working class. No Chinese Wall separates it from the other classes.”4 Print and broadcast media were crucial to “painting it in the brightest colors” and mobilizing the otherwise uninvolved masses to back

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imperial projects. The emergence of mass consumer culture, rather than being peripheral to empire building, was both nurtured by and essential to the new imperialism of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Absent the mass media, it would have been more daunting for capitalists who had direct financial interests in imperial endeavors to persuade the working classes that empires were worth paying and dying for. It helped matters that empires were endlessly beguiling. Empires-as-entertainment proved lucrative enough in the media landscape not to require overt state guidance. The explosive growth of mass media in imperial Japan in the first three decades of the twentieth century was mirrored in its two most prominent colonies, Taiwan and Korea, which constituted “frontier” markets for the publishing, film, theater, and recording industries. The export of Japanese media products to the colonies represented one of the most synergistic of ventures between private capital and the imperial state: the state provided a relatively stable, captive market with an expanding urban middle class, while the culture industry provided products that facilitated the proliferation of Japanese as the national language and the creation of affective attachments and “communities of taste” binding metropole and colony together through consumption. Michael Robinson has written extensively on the nascent mass culture of colonial Korea, emphasizing both its ties to Japanese imperial interests and its potential for resistance to colonial aspirations. The urban consumer culture of colonial Korea was indeed a complex mélange of European, American, Japanese, and native elements, giving Korean modernity a cosmopolitan sheen: “The bilingual nature of emerging popular culture, [and] the influence of Japanese and Western popular culture,” disseminated via migrant laborers and new communications technologies, “militated against a simple dichotomy between a national and an Other identity.”5 The cultural impact of Koreana on imperial Japan, however, is much less readily acknowledged. By examining specific examples of Koreana that were genuinely popular in Japan—folk songs such as “Arirang” and “The Bellflower Song” (Toraji t’aryŏng), the widespread iconography of Korean courtesan-entertainers (kisaeng), and the choreography of danseuse Ch’oe Sŭng-hŭi (1911–1975?)—we can arrive at a more balanced perspective on imperial Japanese views of Korea than the historiography usually allows. Extolled as “whispering flowers” (haeŏhwa; kaigoso hana), kisaeng were durable emblems of a refined “exotic erotic,” whose popularity as an object of Japanese fascination remained steady throughout the colonial period. The first Japanese version of “Arirang” hit the

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charts in 1931, the same year as the Manchurian Incident, an event that would lead to Korea’s rapid transformation into a “military depot” for further Japanese action on the Asian continent. Perhaps the most surprising concurrence of events was the rise of Ch’oe’s celebrity precisely when the Japanese regime was implementing its most insidious programs for assimilation. During the Pacific War, when Korean language and expressive culture in the peninsula were under threat, her folkloric dance productions were hailed as landmark contributions to the New Order in East Asia. The timing of the 1930s’ K-Wave is all the more curious because it swept Japan during a historical moment conventionally condemned for its intolerance and cultural violence. The performance of an exotic Koreanness became most popular and profitable in Japan as colonial efforts to obliterate Korean identity intensified.

s ongs of e m pi r e October 1, 1926, was a momentous day in colonial Korea. As related in the preceding chapter, it was the day on which the Government-General opened its new administrative building, a neoclassical European-style structure placed, obnoxiously, in front of the Kyŏngbok palace, so as to obstruct Seoul’s view of its royal heritage and break any residual geomantic connections between the monarchy and the populace. Until its longdebated and controversial demolition in 1995, the granite building would be an imposing physical reminder of Japan’s colonial presence, etched into the landscape of Seoul. 6 On the same day as the grand opening of the GGC’s new headquarters, in the same city yet seemingly a world away, Korean moviegoers attended the premiere of actor/director Na Un-gyu’s Arirang at the famous Tansŏngsa theater. A fable of insanity and murder, the melodrama made Na (1902–37) into Korea’s first major film star. In retrospect the film (all prints of which are now presumed lost) has been characterized as both Korea’s first cinematic masterpiece and an allegorical expression of nationalistic fury at the psychological trauma inflicted by the Japanese regime. 7 However, the Tong-a ilbo movie review comments mainly on the charisma of the cast, the beauty of the female lead Sin Hong-ryŏn, and Na’s praiseworthy resemblance to American actors. 8 Film scholar Kim Ryŏ-sil has raised plausible doubts about the nationalistic intentions of Arirang, using the novelization, Na’s own recollections, and the testimony of silent film narrator (p’yŏnsa) Sŏng Tong-ho to conclude that Arirang acquired a reputation as an “anti-Japan national film” only because individual p’yŏnsa

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would occasionally insert nationalist commentary when Japanese police were not present.9 Whether or not its nationalist credentials can be validated, the film was clearly a hit, and its theme song would go on to become arguably the most familiar piece of popular music in the Japanese empire. Arirang arirang arariyo I go over the Arirang hills. There are no stars in the clear sky, In my breast are many thoughts. Arirang arirang arariyo The one who abandoned me Will be footsore before s/he goes ten li. Arirang arirang arariyo There are many stars in the clear sky, And many griefs in life in this world.10

Na reportedly overheard the “Arirang” song performed in the mid-1920s by students imprisoned by the Japanese. Reworking its original semach’i rhythmic structure (measures of 3, 3, and 4 beats, sometimes rendered as 9/8 time) as a simple waltz, he modernized and popularized a song that already possessed a substantial folkloric pedigree. Musicologists and folklorists seem never to tire of tracking its origins. There is an extensive literature on “Arirang” in several languages, most of which either delves for the folkloric and etymological origins of the nonsensical “Arirang arirang arariyo” refrain, or valorizes the song as a vehicle for Korean nationalist expression.11 Though some scholars insist its roots date as far back as the Unified Silla period (668–935), most detect the more immediate precursors of “Arirang” in folk ballads and work songs from the mid- to late-Chosŏn period (1392–1910), making it a quintessentially modern song that addresses the specific travails Koreans have experienced in the last two centuries. One of the scores of “Arirang” theories suggests that the song began to circulate in a recognizable form among rural laborers from northern Kyŏnggi-do province, who had been drafted by the government to rebuild the Kyŏngbok royal palace in Seoul (Kyŏngsŏng) in 1868. Others, however, resist such blatant Seoul-centrism, insisting rather that the staggering regional diversity of “Arirang” songs is evidence enough of the cultural autonomy of the peripheral provinces and their contributions to national heritage.12 Scholarly and popular discourses on “Arirang” seek to demonstrate either its antiquity or its modernity, its regional flavors or its national character, its conscious militancy or its self-absorbed, emotional banality. Such debate seems pointless, however, when confronting the sheer

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variety of “Arirangs”: how can one know the specific origins or character of a song that is not even a single song? To demonstrate this diversity, a recent CD (jointly produced by Japan’s King Records and South Korea’s Synnara Music) compiles fourteen “Arirangs,” seven each from the northern and southern regions. The cover notes state, “It is said that ‘Arirang’ will become the national anthem if the Korean peninsula can become one nation.”13 But that begs the question: which “Arirang”? For political reasons, it is difficult to imagine the DPRK and the ROK ever agreeing on a national “Arirang” for a future unified peninsular state, but aside from that there are significant folkloric variations that Korean nationalist aspirations cannot wish away. We should not assume that all “Arirangs” have been duly recorded, but by some estimates there are fifty known melodies, and more than two thousand different lyrics.14 Japanese ethnomusicologist Kusano Taeko argues that regional “Arirangs” assume the melodic, rhythmic, and linguistic characteristics of other local folk songs. She recounts an epiphany during her fieldwork in Kyŏngju, when some Korean farmers burst into laughter when describing the ways that people in other regions sing “Arirang.” Likening their reaction to that of Ōsakans when they hear Tokyo actors on television trying to emulate Kansai dialect, she concludes that regional “Arirangs” sound strange to other Koreans because differences in dialect, local sensibility, and rhythmic sense are so conspicuous to them, if not to non-Koreans.15 With such fundamental differences between versions, it thus seems better to think of “Arirang” less as a song than as a skeletal framework for musical and poetic expression. To qualify as an “Arirang,” a composition requires little more than the refrain, “Arirang arirang arariyo,” and maybe a nod to the most familiar contours of the melody. But neither the refrain itself nor its placement within the lyric are uniform from version to version. What sparked laughter in Kusano’s informants was the alternative refrain “Ari arirang, sŭri sŭri rang,” from “Chindo Arirang” (other refrains include “Aryŏng aryŏng arariyo,” and “Ari arirang, ari arirang”). Aside from the refrain, lyrics and melodic embellishments may be freely improvised in a call-and-response structure, which persuades some scholars that “Arirang” originated as a work song.16 With the mass distribution of recordings and printed music, as well as migrations of laborers within the peninsula in the first half of the twentieth century, different versions came to be known outside of their original locales, and some versions became more widely known than others. Nevertheless, it seems that “Arirang” exhausted neither its malleability nor its efficacy as folk expression. In other words, the existence of “standard”

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versions (ponjo Arirang) in recorded or print media (most of them based on Na Un-gyu’s movie theme) did not suppress regional or individual deviations. “Arirang” thus easily accommodated changes in mood or sensibility, historical context or social conditions. “Most scholars say the melody to this folk song is not that old,” Kusano remarks. “But lyrics were made for the solo part that reflected the convulsive times of the late nineteenth to early twentieth centuries.”17 In this respect it bears comparison with the African American folk ballad “Stag-o-lee,” the only obligatory line of which seems to be “Stag-o-lee shot Billy.” Beyond that, each version enhances Stag’s badness in its own way. Sometimes Billy Lyons’s murder occurs at the beginning of the song, sometimes at the end, with varying amounts of grisly detail. Sometimes we witness Stag’s execution (“Twelve o’clock they hung him/Half past one he died”), or his escape. And at other times we even get to follow “that ba-ad man” into Hell, where he tests the limits of Satan’s hospitality.18 It is the embellishment that counts here, more than the core story itself: we already know Stag-o-lee is a bad man, but how can this account make him seem even badder? “Arirang” is even more open-ended, in that the tale or emotions expressed in each version can stand alone, without reference to any particular narrative or conditions. “Arirangs” have articulated the sorrow of lovers parting, the injustices of life for common people, the nostalgia felt for one’s hometown, the disorientation experienced during periods of dramatic change, or the resolve to persevere and conquer oppression. Introducing the song to Western readers in the missionary gazette The Korean Repository, Homer B. Hulbert (1863–1949) described it as “that popular ditty of seven hundred and eighty-two verses, more or less, which goes under the euphonious title of A-ra-rŭng. . . . this tune is made to do duty for countless improvisations in which the Korean is an adept.” Once asked during a visit to the United States what the refrain meant, Hulbert deftly replied that it approximated the immortal English lyrics “Hei diddle diddle.”19 Indeed, though folklorists have speculated for generations that the refrain refers to anything from a geographical location to a woman’s name to a topographical landmark, it may represent nothing more profound than the absurdity of life, especially for common working people. Korean revolutionary Kim San (Chang Chi-rak, 1905–39?) explicitly linked the “Arirangs” he sang while fighting the Japanese to an ancient, precolonial heritage of artistic resistance to injustice and oppression: “In Korea we have a folk song, a beautiful ancient song which was created out of the living heart of a suffering people. It is sad, as all deep-felt beauty is sad. It is tragic,

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as Korea has for so long been tragic. Because it is beautiful and tragic it has been the favorite song of all Koreans for three hundred years.”20 Yet, as we have seen, “Arirang” was but one example of such songs. Well before the imposition of Japanese rule, the performance art of Korean commoners had developed seditious and bitterly satirical qualities. It is thus not surprising that Koreans would turn those “weapons of the weak” on the Japanese regime, which had usurped the yangban’s role as the Korean commoner’s primary oppressor. Seemingly innocuous ditties and ballads obliquely and metaphorically castigated the colonial presence: Yang Sŏngdŏk, an electrical engineer, recalled that even newly composed, Westernstyle songs like “Pongsŏnhwa” (“The Balsam Flower Song”) resonated nationalist indignation. ‘Neath the hedge row, you balsams bloom, Yet now you look so full of gloom! Through long days in dreamy summer When you bloomed in dewy glimmer, Lovely maidens in costumes now, Gave you welcome and played round you. Alas! Summer days are quickly past, Autumn winds come cold and fast; The fairest blossoms then must fall, Scattered cruelly are they all. With their falling, beauty fades away And you sadly dream of summer gay. Though in snowdrifts, by cold winds blown, Your bright petals will soon have flown, Your charming smile will still be near, Your sweet memory I’ll cherish dear. In balmy spring when soft winds blow, Your fresh bloom will once more glow. 21

Though visions of changing seasons and withered foliage were hardly alien to either Korean or Japanese poetic tradition, in the context of national humiliation and loss of sovereignty, layers of meaning accrued to these bitter images. Korean songs were not always so subtle, however; a number of “antiJapan Arirangs” (hang’il Arirang; kōnichi Ariran) were considerably more explicit. The existence of these versions has led some to exaggerate the nationalist undertones of “Arirang.” Kim Shi-ŏp insists the song was no mere ode to lost love, but rather an “underground broadcast beloved by our people,” suffused with “anti-Japanese critical spirit.” “If we regard Arirang

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as an ordinary popular song for amusement expressing love and parting, we are apt to overlook its national and people-based nature.” Noting that the song emerged at a time “of an increasingly shared sense of crisis vis-à-vis the impingement of outside forces,” David McCann likewise argues that “Arirang” “directly confront[ed] the Japanese and castigate[d] them for the damage” they inflicted on Korea. 22 Koreans are said to have sung “Arirang” when they rose up in March 1919 to protest Japan’s military rule. 23 Kim San’s memoir opens with one example of a nationalistic hang’il Arirang: Many stars in the deep sky— Many crimes in the life of man . . . Ariran is the mountain of sorrow And the path to Ariran has no returning . . . Oh, twenty million countrymen—where are you now? Alive are only three thousand li of mountains and rivers . . . Now I am an exile crossing the Yalu River And the mountains and rivers of three thousand li are also lost. Ariran, Ariran, Arari O! Crossing the hills of Ariran.

Yet another admonished: Arirang, arirang, arariyo. Friends, wake up from your shallow dream. The crimson sun is rising over Arirang Hill, With two arms stretched wide. 24

Korea’s Righteous Armies (ŭibyŏng) prepared themselves for guerilla warfare against the Japanese by composing and singing their own militant variations: If my parents are looking for me, Tell them I went to the Kwangbok Army. Ari arirang sŭri sŭrirang, let’s sing the Kwangbok Army Arirang. A violent wind blows, a violent wind blows. It blows in the breasts of thirty million Koreans. (refrain) Softly on the sea, a floating ship, It’s the ship coming to carry the Kwangbok Army. (refrain) A drum pounds on Arirang Hill. The T’aegŭk flag flutters in the middle of Seoul. 25

Kim Jon and Yamakawa Tsutomo regard such martial “Arirangs” as “the artistic manifestation of the height of the people’s emotions at the time of

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the armed struggle against Japan.” The lyrics not only urge valor in the guerrillas, but also in those left behind: Don’t deter those who go, When they return you will be happier. Arirang arirang, don’t you cry. On the Arirang hill the flag blazes. 26

For obvious reasons, most of the hang’il Arirang excerpted here were collected and published by Korean folklorists in the years immediately following liberation. 27 “Many of these versions are banned in Korea,” Kim San claimed in the late 1930s. “The Japanese are almost as afraid of ‘dangerous songs’ as of ‘dangerous thoughts.’ In 1921 a Communist intellectual wrote a ‘dangerous’ version as he was about to die, and someone else wrote another secret revolutionary version called ‘Moving the Hills of Ariran.’ Middleschool students have been given six months in prison for singing these. I knew one who received this in Seoul in 1925.” “New words were added to Arirang so often,” Kim Shi-ŏp writes, “that the Japanese used to mention ‘seditious thought’ whenever their ears caught the word Arirang.”28 But Koreans were not the only ones adding “new words” to “Arirang.” In what he characterizes as essentially a struggle between authentic and bogus “Arirangs,” Kim Shi-ŏp distinguishes between Japanese propagandistic “Arirangs” composed to deepen colonial hegemony, and subaltern Korean versions retaining both the song’s integrity and its defiant spirit. Referring to “Pisangshi [Emergency] Arirang” (published in May 1930), Kim writes, “The Japanese bound all our folk songs with the shackles of feudal ethics represented by ‘loyalty and filial piety’ in order to promote their imperialist expansion and strengthen their Fascist colonial rule. . . . It goes without saying that this is by no means an Arirang. It was nothing but a fabrication aimed at obliterating Arirang itself.” Exploiting the song’s familiarity, the Japanese moreover debased “Arirang” by promoting its more “decadent” aspects: “In addition to encouraging the publication of vulgar songs, Japanese propagated decadent trends and the Japanese way of life and songs. . . . They attempted to degrade the whole Korean race” and “thoroughly prohibited songs and folk songs that contained the Korean national identity.”29 Does this then make those Korean singers who recorded popular “Arirangs” for Japanese companies opportunistic traitors rather than conservators of national heritage? And does it make Japanese pop songwriters participants in a grand conspiracy to corrupt hapless Koreans? While acknowledging the potential of “Arirang” for expressing vernacular nation-

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alism, we must also recognize its parallel life as a mass cultural commodity shared by colony and metropole, for during the colonial period it was Japanese-influenced versions of “Arirang” that were most conspicuous and most efficacious for creating a cultural space to which both Koreans and Japanese could contribute. If the song’s malleability made it effective as a subaltern expression of nationalist indignation, that very quality also made it ideal for the kinds of artistic interactions that ensued. As well as it suited the purposes of Koreans for describing any number of emotions, “Arirang” also provided an attractive and malleable framework for musical expression by non-Koreans—particularly those nonKoreans whom some “Arirangs” directly assailed, the hated Japanese. The sheer variety of Korean “Arirangs” makes it difficult to accuse the Japanese of somehow distorting the song, though many have done precisely that. To the extent that Korean “Arirang” discourse acknowledges the existence of Japanese renditions at all, most condemn these as outrageous attempts to distort the “original,” as mass-manufactured mutations of a purely national song. More often than not, as described below, Japanese “Arirangs” describe the sorrow of lovers parting, sometimes against an “exotic” Korean backdrop. But there was no shortage of similarly sentimental (and non-political) Korean versions of the separation theme— though these might have had additional layers of meaning for Koreans, since it was not uncommon for the exigencies of Japanese imperialism to be the cause of separation. Yet to argue, as some have, that the essence of “Arirang” is an inherent anti-Japanese nationalism is to conceal the song’s polysemic versatility, the very quality that made it a form of cultural expression that resonated throughout Japan’s Northeast Asian empire, and the very quality that required suppression in order for “Arirang” to serve the purposes of Korean nationalism. 30 In fact, “Arirang” captured the imaginations of some of interwar Japan’s most prominent composers, lyricists, and arrangers, including Koga Masao (1904–78), Hattori Ryōichi (1907–93), Saijō Yaso (1892–1970), Raymond Hattori, and Sano Tasuku (1908–96), most of whom revisited the song several times. Some of Japan’s most beloved pop singers—Sugawara Tsuzuko, Awaya Noriko (1907–99), Yokota Ryōichi, and Takamine Mieko—waxed their own versions of “Arirang,” ensuring its status within the repertoire of Japanese pops (kayōkyoku or ryūkōka). Recordings, broadcasts, and live performances—in both Japanese and Korean—saturated the markets, stages, and airwaves of both countries throughout the 1930s. “Arirang” inhabited the nexus of three important trends in earlytwentieth-century Japanese popular music. Within the category of pop

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songs (kayōkyoku), it was a prominent example of a “new folk song” (shin min’yō), a term designating both songs with an identifiable composer done in a “folkish” style, and public domain folk songs adapted for popular consumption and arranged for Western instrumentation. “Arirang” also presaged the “continental melodies” (tairiku merodi) boom of 1938–41, which produced abundant recordings related to China and Manchuria. 31 Finally, it demonstrated the truly cosmopolitan nature of interwar Japan’s musical environment. Japanese consumers could pick from a rich assortment ranging from opera (Italian or Beijing), French chansons, Argentine tango, and American jazz, to Hawai’ian hula, Cuban rumba, naniwa bushi (Ōsaka narrative ballads), and Russian ballads (indeed, many consider “Katusha’s Song,” from a 1915 production of Tolstoi’s Resurrection, to be Japan’s first pop hit). Folk, classical, and popular styles from around the world poured into Japan, and among these “Arirang” was easily one of the most familiar and most frequently recorded. Furthermore, Japanese composers and arrangers used all the musical means at their disposal from this global smorgasbord to refashion “Arirang” in an astonishing variety of ways. The first Japanese “Arirang” (Nippon Victor 51819B, attributed to Saijō Yaso) hit the stores in the summer of 1931, and bears strong melodic resemblance to the popular theme from Na Un-gyu’s 1926 movie. For her debut recording, singer Kobayashi Chiyoko used a pseudonym—Kin’iro Kamen (“yellow mask”)—bestowed upon her at the session by Nippon Victor’s A&R man. Saijō claimed that the name was inspired by a popular American singer dubbed “The Golden Mask,” but there may be additional layers of significance to the pseudonym. 32 There is, of course, the racial connotation of “yellow mask”; since many Japanese believed their destiny was to unify the “yellow race” (ōshoku jinshu) in preparation for an apocalyptic showdown with the “white race” (haku jinshu), this may have been meaningful for some. Less cryptically, the Chinese ideographs for the pseudonym used the character for Kim, the most common Korean surname. Many consumers, knowing nothing of the American “Golden Mask,” might have presumed from this punning alias that the singer was Korean, which contributed to the exotic allure and authenticity of the recording. Nonetheless, there is little else that could be described as “Korean” about the recording. It is arranged for Western orchestral instruments, with the opening melodic statement played on the glockenspiel. Singing with an affected (and irritating) nasal quality (bisei), Kobayashi’s vocal timbre may constitute an aural caricature of Korean singing styles. Nippon Columbia cashed in with another version (Nippon Columbia 27066A) the following year, composed by Koga Masao and Satō Sōnosuke,

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and performed by Awaya Noriko and Che Kyu-yŏp (using the pseudonym Hasegawa Ichirō), accompanied by the Meiji University Mandolin Orchestra. Both the Victor and Columbia renditions were strongly derivative of the movie theme so beloved in Korea, as a lyrical comparison demonstrates: s a i jō ya s o’s “a r i r a ng” (1931) Arirang arirang arariyo My heart goes over the Arirang hills. Bloom, flowers, in the hills Where my tears fell. (refrain) Who can know my heart, This heart that travels alone. (refrain) The sky is blue, the clouds white, Home, where the birds sing. (refrain) Why go over alone, Everyone is sad for love. ko ga m a s ao a n d s atō s ōnos u k e’s “s ong of a r i r a ng” (1932) Arirang arirang arariyo, I go over the Arirang hills. Flowers in bloom soaked with tears, The sky where I leave you. (refrain) Endless worries in my breast, Knowing not the number of stars. (refrain) The grass also weeps in the evening wind, We also weep in the evening mist. (refrain) Tomorrow where will I go alone? I will dream of you my beloved.

One might argue that the Japanese renditions are more focused on lost love, while the Korean versions express a more abstract despair, open to nationalist reinterpretation. Yet there is actually considerable overlap in lyrical structure, mood, and imagery. Basically the same melodically, all four likewise interpret the semach’i rhythmic structure as a waltz. We have no reliable sales figures for Japanese and Korean records in the early twentieth century, but we can presume that if “Arirang” had not sold well, producers and musicians would not have revived it so often. 33 Future efforts sometimes departed dramatically from the canonical melody,

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mood, and structure, or made only passing—yet nonetheless obligatory— reference to the familiar refrain. One thing is indisputable: at the beginning of their respective careers, Saijō and Koga, two of Japan’s preeminent composers, took inspiration from “Arirang” and made it a marketable brand name in the metropole. And since the Japanese recording industry and radio network dominated the Korean market, made-in-Japan “Arirangs” were readily available in the colony. Until the imposition of strict Japaneseonly language policies in 1943, “Arirangs” in both languages cohabited music stores and broadcast airwaves throughout the empire. Apparently neither the colonial entertainment industry nor consumers ever tired of so-called shin min’yō of Korean origin. Movies and theatrical revues adopted the “Arirang” moniker, such as the 1940 Shōchiku production billed as a “pure peninsular revue” (jun hantō revyū) and starring “three Korean flowers” (hantō no sanmei hana, Yi Rŭng-hwa, Kim An-ra, and Yi Ok-ran). 34 There was even a singing group known as the Arirang Boys. Japanese travelers to the colony sought “Arirang” souvenir recordings, postcards, and curios. 35 Orthodox “Arirangs” appeared on the market until near the end of the colonial period, but songwriters and singers from both countries also took such creative liberties that their final products often bore little more than the name “Arirang” to suggest a link to the Korean folkloric tradition. “In the world of popular music,” Miyatsuka observes wryly, “‘Arirang’ was little more than a symbol of [lovers] parting.” Archetypical imagery from Japanese pop songs—namely, taverns (sakaba), hearts (kokoro), tears (namida), and girls (musume)—appeared even in “Arirangs” composed and sung by Koreans, indicating the influence Japanese pop formulae exerted on Korean reinterpretations of the venerable “Arirang” motif. 36 In a way, the popular music industry was merely continuing the folkloric penchant for improvising new “Arirangs” that spoke to the concerns of the moment (though, of course, the industry did it for money). Because there was such a diversity of musical raw materials available in imperial Japan, artists and producers used “Arirangs” to concoct novel musical fusions: “Arirang Blues” (Columbia 100001A, 1940), “Arirang Kouta” (Columbia 29073B, 1936), “Arirang Bushi” (Rumonde Records 3077A, 1935). Nippon Columbia released versions arranged for guitar and bamboo flute (shakuhachi), harmonica band, and jazz orchestra. In 1942, arranger Sano Tasuku hinted at the song’s global stature by inserting “Arirang” into his epic jazz suite of folk melodies from China, Italy, the United States, Hawai’i, Germany, and Japan. Even after Japan’s defeat and withdrawal from Korea, variations continued to pour out of Japanese recording studios, including “Arirang Rumba” (Columbia, 1948), Sugawara

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Tsuzuko’s rendition (in which a Hawai’ian slide guitar states the melody, Teichiku C-3119, 1950), “Arirang Beguine” (Victor, early 1950s), “Arirang Lullaby” (Columbia A2232, 1955), and “Arirang Mambo” (Victor V41303).37 In some instances, these late-colonial “Arirangs” took on the characteristics of “continental melodies,” using a Korean backdrop to convey an aura of exoticism. Edgar Pope defines continental melodies as musical “evocations of continental Asia” (principally China), produced and consumed to create a sense of “exoticism” or “pleasure in the foreign.” Pope does not regard “Arirang” as a continental melody, because “ideologically, Korea was not ‘foreign,’ having been annexed by Japan in 1910.”38 Then again, among the plentiful Korea-themed pop songs of the late 1930s and early 1940s, there were a handful of “Arirangs” that do indeed portray Korea as “exotic” and “foreign.”39 Pope notes that sheet music of continental melodies typically featured exotic scenes and peoples on their covers, a characterization that describes the score for Saijō’s “Arirang.” Here a Korean woman wearing traditional costume (hanbok) gazes on a Seoul landscape, identified by what are likely the Namdaemun (Great South Gate) pagoda and Pukhansan mountain. Furthermore, several late-colonial “Arirangs” have more in common musically and lyrically with songs like “China Tango” and “China Nights” than with folkloric “Arirangs.” “Arirang Blues” (composed by Saijō Yaso and Hattori Ryōichi) is a case in point. Hattori, the most revered composer of jazz songs, “Japanese blues,” and continental melodies, never stayed away from the “Arirang” theme too long: by my count, he composed and/or arranged some five renditions between 1932 and 1948, and may have done more under a pseudonym. According to one account, he was moved to compose a bluesy “Arirang” after doing research for an extended “light music” suite of old Korean melodies, a three-record set that was popular among Koreans. Saijō is said to have found poetic inspiration in the photo album and stories of Yi Chakyŏng, the daughter of a Korean millionaire who was studying in Japan and was “a big Saijō fan,” but he had also visited Seoul and P’yŏngyang to collect material for new releases on Victor Records. 40 “Arirang Blues” shares attributes with the “scenery song” (fūkei mono) type of continental melody, which typically evoked “images expressed by noun phrases, rather than complete sentences” to “create loose symbolic frames within which the foreign can be imagined, liminoid spaces where the listener can play with exotic images and sensations.” Clothing, famous landscapes or buildings, “ethnic” implements or transportation (e.g., Chinese “junks”), hairstyles, smells, sounds, tastes—all were potential signifiers of difference in such songs. 41 Like so many other continental melodies, Saijō’s lyrics drop

f igu r e 15. Sheet music for Saijō Yaso’s rendition of “Arirang” (ca. 1932).

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references to quintessential Koreana such as Korean topcoats (chŏgori) and the Ch’anggyŏng-wŏn royal garden to evoke a Korean atmosphere. “Arirang Blues” is a classic Hattori musical mishmash—sauntering twobeat “covered wagon” rhythm (straight out of American cowboy films), violin mimicking the Chinese bowed lute (huqin; J: kokyū), and delicate celeste—the whole aspiring to be both a blues and an “Arirang.”42 Another example of a continental melody “Arirang” is “Kangnam Arirang,” composed by Ko Ma-bu and Hyŏng Sŏk-ki, and performed by Yun Kŏn-yŏng for a June 1934 Polydor release. The song rhapsodizes Jiangnan in eastern China, which, Pak Ch’an-ho writes, “for Koreans seems at all seasons like a warm, blossoming utopia”: “They say it is like another world, where flowers bloom and birds warble/Arirang arirang arariyo/ Arirang, when can I go to Kangnam? . . . /They say the stars happily greet you.”43 Penned by Koreans, “Kangnam Arirang” retains the yearning redolent in folkloric “Arirangs” for what lies beyond the Arirang hill. That yearning was even more poignant at a time when colonial oppression in Korea was intensifying rapidly, as Koreans were being mobilized for more Japanese imperial adventures in Asia. And yet we see here as well the way that “Arirang” itself bore the markings of the colonial encounter. It belongs as much to a song genre—continental melodies—that expressed Japanese imperialist fantasies as it does to a Korean folkloric heritage. “Kangnam Arirang” is at once an expression of colonial desire for China—Japanese imperialist aspirations conveyed in a “Korean” guise—and a supplication for emancipation from Japan’s tightening colonial grip on Korea. Perhaps unintentionally, it exposes the plight of Koreans who, though themselves victims of colonial oppression, were now complicit, in various capacities, in the colonial subjugation of China and the rest of Asia.44 “Arirang” was the most prominent, but not the only, example of musical Koreana that enjoyed popularity in imperial Japan. Japanese songsmiths revisited another well-known Korean folk melody, “Toraji T’aryŏng” (known simply as “Toraji” in Japanese), multiple times in the 1930s and 1940s. The song is from the point of view of a winsome maiden harvesting bellflower root in the mountains: Doraji! Doraji! Doraji! Deep, deep mountains, white doraji! Though one or two roots only I pull Slowly and surely my bamboo basket grows full. (refrain) Eheya! Eheya! Eheya! Eyora nanda! Jihwaja jota! Under your spell my heart surely will melt away.

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Doraji! Doraji! Doraji! Do not tease me so, white doraji! Hanging down, to my stretching hands so nigh—Why must you grow between rocks too high? (refrain) Doraji! Doraji! Doraji! O’er mountains and valleys, white doraji! Blue kirtle, red kirtle fluttering— My doraji I go a-digging.45

The version by Sugawara Tsuzuko (Teichiku C-3119, the B-side of her Hawai’ianized “Arirang”), with lyrics by Ōhashi Hisao, gives particular emphasis to the innocent young girlhood of the protagonist: Toraji, toraji, to-raji. I am sweet sixteen, white toraji. Flower skin of white bellflower [kikyō], To whom shall I give this heart? Eiheiyo, eiheiyo, eiheiyo! If you come to meet [me], cross seven hills, Chinkara chinkara, come by carriage. Eiheiyo, eiheiyo, eiheiyo! Toraji, toraji, to-raji. I am of the age [watashi ya toshigoro], toraji flower, When I want to try lipstick, Faintly red like the evening sun. Eiheiyo, eiheiyo, eiheiyo! If you come to meet [me], in the moonlight on the seventh night, Chinkara chinkara, come by carriage. Eiheiyo, eiheiyo, eiheiyo! Toraji, toraji, to-raji. I am but a girl, toraji of love. My breast, wrapped in my blue chŏgori, Burns this disconsolately. Eiheiyo, eiheiyo, eiheiyo! If you come to meet [me], come loaded with seven dreams, Chinkara chinkara, by carriage. Eiheiyo, eiheiyo, eiheiyo!

The label on this record classifies both “Arirang” and “Toraji” as a “popular song” (ryūkōka) rather than as “Korean folk song” (Chōsen min’yō), perhaps indicating the depth of the roots both songs had sunk within the Japanese musical consciousness. Nevertheless, the reference to chŏgori explicitly marks the girl as Korean, while the melancholia expressed in the third verse also signifies what many imperial Japanese observers came

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to regard as a peculiarly Korean trait: irrepressible gloom. Though this version was released after colonial rule ended, it still depicts a pastoral serenity in keeping with colonial-era imaginings of Korea, expressed via a girlish (if unmistakably sexualized) naïveté that implicitly critiques “modern womanhood.” It may be argued that songs like “Arirang” and “Toraji T’aryŏng” created an affective bond between Japanese and Koreans (no doubt felt more strongly by the former than by the latter), but they likewise expressed romanticized notions of a primeval Korean idyll, frequently feminized as chaste, unspoiled, and unworldly. Rendered as “new folk songs,” these ballads came to represent Korea for Japanese listeners.

musica l i n t ellige nce The prolific appropriation of musical material from the colony had broader, extra-musical significance, in that some Japanese came to understand (or misunderstand), imagine, and even admire Korea through its music. The iconic composer Koga Masao is a prominent example of a public figure who both paid homage to Korea’s musical heritage and insisted that profound mysteries of the Korean psyche could be extrapolated from music. It has been said that Koga’s signature melodic style was directly inspired by Korean folk songs; the songwriter himself is quoted as saying that he was “influenced by the reverberations of the Korean zither [kayagŭm].”46 This is not surprising, since he grew up in Inch’ŏn, where his widowed mother relocated the family in 1912 to escape the grinding poverty of northeastern Japan. Entranced by a circus performance he witnessed in Taech’ŏn, Koga devoted himself to mastering “melodies filled with living emotions, sung by living people.” “I became a composer,” Koga wrote in his autobiography, “but that does not mean I went to music school. Therefore, the basis for my melodies are things that amateurs from Chikugo enjoyed singing.”47 “Arirang” must have struck him as having similar qualities. Shortly after his version became a hit, he wrote an appreciation of the song for the intellectual journal Kaizō. Claiming Korea as his “second home,” Koga confessed that “the reason I got into music and became interested in composing is because of the utterly unforgettable beauty of Korean folk melodies.” For Koga, “an eerie, overarching pathos” was the defining characteristic of Korean folk songs. Smoke rising from the ondol [Korean floor heating] of the houses at twilight, when the air is veiled as if a thick fog had descended; tiny insects chased by the smoke singing in one’s ears—one often hears of such settings in the lyrics of disconsolate folk songs. Farmers at rest croon these, with a woeful bovine voice

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[mono urei ushi no koe], with an earthly odor—from such [conditions] beloved songs are born and sung. 48

Omitting all mention of the Na Un-gyu film that sparked the “Arirang” craze in Korea, Koga instead offered a lengthy account of the song’s mythic origins, then remarked on the essential differences between Korean and Japanese folk songs. In his estimation, Korean folk songs are superior to Japanese folk songs as musical art. . . . The technique of Japanese folk songs, and the aspects of Korean folk songs born from an extremely free soil, express the national characteristics of both countries. In Japanese folk songs, there is the great influence of the shamisen as an accompanying instrument. . . . In Chōsen there are few instruments, and aside from pounding on stones in ancient times, or using the harp and drum, [Koreans] do not usually accompany singing. Because of this, the peasants sing when they meet for work, they sing when they are sad, and they sing if happy. It is through songs that they express and console themselves.49

Koga’s words and imagery echo those of others who, though they admired Korean cultural accomplishments, nonetheless viewed Koreans through the lens of colonial privilege. Koga’s depiction of a simple, emotionally direct rural populace singing unaffected songs from their guts recalls similar comments Yanagi Muneyoshi published about Korean ceramics a decade earlier. In his 1932 meditation on “Arirang,” Koga adopted a curatorial stance not unlike that of Yanagi’s mingei circle and other Koreaphiles described in the preceding chapters. He spoke from a position of presumed authority about Korean musical culture (based on both his musical expertise and his experience living in Korea), attempting to explain to a broad audience not just the music but the psycho-social context for its creation. The essay likewise expressed the ambivalence toward modernity that underlay other curatorial endeavors: it appeared in print at a time when capitalist technologies of mass reproduction and marketing had fundamentally transformed the experience of producing and consuming music. Though he was himself a pioneer and beneficiary of the industrial production of music, Koga’s idyllic depiction of “Arirang” as an authentic folk ballad, reflecting without affectation or artifice the spontaneous emotions and lived experiences of common people, evinced a tinge of self-loathing: whatever the technical accomplishments of Japanese music, he declared, the Korean’s was more aesthetically compelling precisely because of its pure and uncontrived simplicity. Koga would make the creation of similarly sincere and plainspoken music his aesthetic ideal and his life’s work.

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Another point of convergence between Koga’s “Arirang” thesis and mingei colonial discourse is what Kim Brandt calls the “idea of melancholy as a central aesthetic principle of Korean culture.” Yanagi and his colleagues contended that the prevalence of white in Chosŏn ceramics and Korean clothing was evidence of a national despondency, which they aestheticized as “sorrowful beauty” (hiai no bi) and “the beauty of that which perishes” (hirobite yukitsutsu aru mono no utsukushisa). “The people, by wearing white clothing, are mourning for eternity,” Yanagi wrote in 1922. “Is not the paucity of color true proof of the absence of pleasure in life?”50 Koga similarly characterized all Korean folk songs as suffused with an uncanny pathos that was the very essence of the national character. Kitahara Shiroaki, writing in the preface for Kim So-un’s 1929 anthology of Korean folk songs, adopted a slightly different, but no less broad, tack: “For several reasons having to do with national conditions and national character, Korean folk songs are blessed with a bitter irony and sardonic wit, more so than Japanese folk songs.”51 If Koga’s Koreans were sad sacks, Kitahara’s were sarcastic jokers, both characterizations that nourished the stereotype of Korean malcontents (futei senjin). Such depictions, however unwittingly, served colonial purposes by implying that melancholy as a national attribute preceded the imposition of Japanese rule, that Koreans were just basically an inconsolable bunch, and that colonial occupation itself was not to blame. It is, of course, not uncommon for Koreans to describe themselves as being a peculiarly sad people, by evoking indignant sorrow (han) as a national characteristic, but they do not hesitate to assign responsibility for their collective misery to Japan and other outside powers that interfered in their affairs over the course of centuries. 52 So, while on the surface it seemed to be little more than another pop ditty from overseas, “Arirang” proved its utility as an ethnographic lens whereby Japanese could peer into the Korean psyche. These Japanese observers detected in “Arirang” and other Korean folk songs what they deemed key aspects of Korean national character: primordial simplicity, relentless melancholy, and mordacious wit. In the context of colonial rule, these were not trivial or useless insights. Increasingly aware of the satirical proclivities of Korean vernacular and performing arts, the GGC carefully monitored the content of recordings and performances, eventually prohibiting the use of Korean in song and on stage, screen, and airwaves. Concerned about “bad thoughts,” “disturbance of customs,” and “injuries to public order” emanating from phonograph records, on May 15, 1933, the GGC created a multi-step process

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through which manufacturers and importers were to obtain approval for all sound recordings before they went to market in the colony, and a system of fines punishing companies, performers, and their families for noncompliance. 53 These regulations were only haphazardly enforced before 1937, allowing for the development of a vibrant market for the consumption of vernacular popular music (yŭhaengga) and a modest freedom of musical expression. By the end of the decade, however, official tolerance of the sentimental fare that sold best had waned considerably. The inexorable sorrow of Korean music even became an issue for colonial cultural policy: Until now it appears that some 2500 records in Korean have been published, and pop songs [ryūkōka] tinged with pathos outnumber [all others] by a hundred to one. Even now seventy-eight are published each month, but in these days of the Great Pacific War, it is imperative for both the manufacturers and the censors to fully consider which kinds of records are necessary. . . . At any rate, while courageous military songs cause the hearts of children to dance, it is no praiseworthy sight to see young men eligible for conscription standing around in groups, listening to melancholy songs flowing out onto the streets from the loudspeakers of record stores. 54

Most Japanese commentators agreed that decisive action on the “national language issue” (kokugo mondai) was vital to bringing the Korean performing arts in line with national policy. After 1943, when Korean folk songs were allowed at all, they were to be sung in the “national language,” Japanese. 55 However, musical Koreana remained both marketable and prevalent: a 1941 review of radio programs remarks on the “great success” of a broadcast of Korean folk songs sung by kisaeng; and even as late as 1943, Teichiku released a medley of “classic” Korean folk songs (“Min’yō kessaku shū,” T-3455): “Toraji t’aryŏng,” “Arirang,” and “Paektusan” (the last song referring to the famous volcano straddling the China-Korea border, where ancient legend says Tan’gun founded the first Korean kingdom). 56 Here again we detect “tensions of empire”—the conflict between assertions of Japanese superiority, expressed in draconian demands for the linguistic and cultural submission of colonial subjects, and more liberalminded acceptance of cultural diversity as not only a fact but a desirable attribute of the empire, to which even the colony could make positive contributions. It is perhaps poetic that this delicate dance was best embodied by a danseuse, Ch’oe Sŭng-hŭi, whose productions some Japanese extolled as the epitome of the pan-Asian cultural ideals to which their New Order aspired.

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i m pe r i a l da nce s In 1942 Ch’oe Sŭng-hŭi embarked on a series of performances to entertain Japanese troops in Northeast Asia and occupied China. Having publicly expressed her desire to promote “a communitarian notion of PanAsianism,” her repertoire consisted of newly choreographed interpretations of folkloric dances that simultaneously represented the rich cultural diversity and the essential spiritual unity of an Asia under the Japanese aegis. Hailed as “a dancer of the world” and “the pride of the yellow race,” Ch’oe also earned formal commendation from the Chōsen League for the People’s Collective Energy for creating “national dances” (kokumin buyō) that represented the cultural ideals of the pan-Asian ethos. 57 Writing for the GGC’s official monthly Chōsen, Karashima Takeshi made special note of the worthy contributions this Korean woman’s productions made to those ideals. Those who found it difficult to envision what the culture of the New Order would look like needed look no further than the folkloric dances of Ch’oe Sŭng-hŭi. 58 Ch’oe (known as Sai Shōki in Japanese) was easily one of the most recognized celebrities in imperial Japan; her rise to stardom coincided with the imposition and confirmation of Japanese colonial rule of Korea.59 Born to a yangban family in 1911, a year after formal colonial rule began, she was among the first generation of Korean girls to receive a public school education. She credited her “progressive, intellectual” elder brother Sŭng-il for introducing her to the world of letters and ideas, as well as for encouraging her to attend her first dance recital, a performance by the Japanese modern dance pioneer Ishii Baku (1886–1962). For people of her family’s genteel background, she admitted, “dance was something low and crude,” performed by lowly kisaeng at drinking parties. But Ch’oe responded to Ishii’s recital as if she had “discovered a bright new poetic world.” The “linear rhythm of beautiful bodies flowing like water, the ring of the music, like a delightful dream” captivated her. Dance also offered an escape from her family’s declining economic fortunes: in her reminiscences she characterized her determination to leave home as motivated by filial love, so as not to be a burden to her parents. In March 1926, at the age of fifteen, with Sŭng-il’s support but against her parents’ wishes, she embarked for Tokyo. 60 For the next eight years, Ch’oe studied off and on with Ishii, performed in Japan and Korea, and even took a stab at running her own dance studio in Seoul. Through the grueling training, she was motivated by rumors

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circulating in Seoul that she had been sold as a kisaeng to alleviate the family’s financial distress. Her mother wrote her, “By all means, respond to these rumors by becoming an exceptional person.” But Ch’oe felt a “big responsibility” to her Korean homeland, as well. “I thought to myself: there is no one else of Korean birth intending to dance, so I must represent Korea, and create dances from the traditions of my homeland.” Noting that Koreans had been “unable even to preserve the legacies of [their] brilliant past,” she lamented the fact that “ancient dances have become almost extinct, maintained only by kisaeng serving at drinking parties.” So in August 1929 she left Ishii’s academy and returned to Seoul, where for three years she managed her own dance studio. She married literary activist An Mak and performed nine recitals of new dances (one while seven months pregnant!), with which she hoped to attract “people with little knowledge or interest in dance.” Though heartened by the response—“Dance enthusiasts showed up in numbers no less than general movie and theater fans,” Ch’oe recalled—she was unable to make a living from student fees, so in March 1933 she closed her studio and rejoined Ishii’s fold in Tokyo. 61 Ch’oe Sŭng-hŭi’s return to Japan coincided with the rising popularity of Koreana in Japanese popular music, noted earlier. Most accounts suggest that her decision to perform “Korean” dances was influenced by her elder brother Sŭng-il, her mentors Ishii Baku and dancer/drummer Han Sŏng-jun (1875–1941), or her own sense of national pride. 62 Though philosophically in agreement with Ishii’s determination to create dances that promoted social awareness and critiqued injustice, as a Korean (and one married to a member of the Korea Artista Proleta Federatio, KAPF) Ch’oe could ill afford to draw attention to herself by choreographing overtly political dances, especially as tolerance of liberal or radical ideas withered in the early 1930s. Without discounting any of those likely motivations, it is also possible to imagine her choosing to perform Korean dances because of a cultural climate in which Koreana was increasingly popular and marketable. It did indeed prove to be an astute career move, for though her early recitals after her return to Japan featured a variety of classical European, modern, and Asian dances, her work based on Korean court and folk dances earned the most praise from Japanese reviewers and audiences. 63 For them, the “dancing princess of the peninsula” (hantō no maihime) represented the cultural essence of the exotic-yet-familiar colony. 64 Having won acclaim for including the dance Eheya Noara in her first recital in May 1934, Ch’oe liberally inserted more Korean material into the repertoire for her next performance on October 22 of that year: Dance of

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the King (Ō no Mai), based on the ancient, “lost” Dance of the Silla King; Koreanesque (Chōsenfū) Duet, a new piece based on techniques from folk dances; Masked Dance (Kamen no Odori), derived from folkloric t’alch’um; Priest’s Dance (Sū no Mai), performed to an “ancient Korean melody” (Chōsen kokyoku); and Three Korean Melodies, representing ancient (reizan [sacred mountain] chō), medieval (jinyō chō), and modern (min’yō [folk song] chō) Korean sentiments. 65 Though often preoccupied with Ch’oe’s beauty and “pleasing continental physique,” reviewers praised her program for its “special orientalism” and its representation of a charming Korean national essence. No less a figure than literary giant and future Nobel laureate Kawabata Yasunari (1899–1972) applauded Ch’oe’s efforts to revitalize Korean dance, for “strengthening what has become weak and reviving what has become extinct.” Japanese students of modern dance could learn from Ch’oe, Kawabata insisted, “that basing one’s dance on one’s ethnic roots produces strength.”66 On the strength of such acclaim, Ch’oe Sŭng-hŭi became one of the Japanese empire’s biggest stars and one of its most important cultural emissaries. Starring in a film loosely based on her own life story (Hantō no maihime, 1936), and endorsing a variety of consumer products, she was embraced by the Japanese public as the “exotic familiar,” different enough to be entertaining yet also the very embodiment of the ethno-cultural kinship on which Japan’s colonial claims to Korea were premised. 67 As Sang-mi Park has described, Ch’oe’s late-1930s tours of the United States and Europe were even used to celebrate and promote Japanese imperial culture abroad, in a vain attempt to deflect attention from Japan’s brutal expansion into China. 68 For specialists, it may seem cliché to compare Ch’oe Sŭng-hŭi to her contemporary, the African American danseuse Josephine Baker (1906–75), but nonetheless I have found it analytically useful to examine in tandem the rhetoric of primevalism that both artists inspired and the variegated imagery they projected. Their respective backgrounds were, of course, significantly different: Baker grew up in impoverished circumstances at the height of the Jim Crow era, while Ch’oe was born into a privileged family in a newly colonized country. Ch’oe’s move to Tokyo followed closely on the heels of Baker’s debut performance of the danse sauvage in La Revue nègre in Paris, and her first major professional successes in the mid-1930s coincided with the end of Baker’s initial heyday as a “primal” performer. Bennetta Jules-Rosette’s semiography of “La Bakaire” detects multiple, often contradictory, images generated over the course of Josephine Baker’s career, ranging from the primal, erotic Fatou and Black Venus to the

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humanitarian Madonna and French national hero. 69 Ch’oe Sŭng-hŭi’s symbolic versatility seems less extensive by comparison. Yet the parallels remain compelling. Both women left their respective homelands at tender ages to pursue performance careers elsewhere; both choreographed and/or performed new dances that borrowed from and thus purportedly represented “authentic” primitive dances from their respective racial/ethnic heritages. Though emblematic of the new “modern woman,” both simultaneously tapped into pervasive anti-modern anomie and “atavistic fantasies repressed by modernism’s mechanical rationality.”70 As expatriate racial “others” performing mainly in imperial countries, Baker and Ch’oe likewise eventually became icons of ethno-national pride, as well as sources of shame and objects of derision, among black folks and Koreans, French and Japanese. Moreover, they and their handlers crafted identities that transcended racial or ethnic specificity to represent an ambiguous, multicultural “otherness” that was both marketable and meaningful to audiences in imperial France and Japan. Had their paths crossed they might have easily commiserated. As émigré artists, Baker and Ch’oe were obliged to play up (and with) their exoticism in order to cultivate a degree of artistic and economic autonomy atypical of women with their respective backgrounds. To slake modern audiences’ thirst for ethnic novelty and colonial fantasy, they created performance styles that seemed inimitable, daringly modernist and avant-garde, yet rooted in timeless “folk” traditions. “La Bakaire” thrived in a Paris rife with Africana, crafting images and performances that meshed with primitivist tendencies in the visual arts, while Ch’oe catered to a Japanese audience increasingly cognizant of its imperial status and thus eager to partake of the exotica offered by empire. It hurt the popularity of neither artist that each was willing to “show some skin” in the process: though Baker’s performances in little more than a banana skirt make Ch’oe’s look relatively tame, the Korean dancer’s Bodhisattva costume was sufficiently revealing to titillate the Japanese gaze and offend Korean sensibilities. Willingness to reveal the body was recognized at the time as an aggressive assault on standards of female propriety in France, Japan, and Korea, at a time when the public roles and visibility of women were contentious social issues. Baker and Ch’oe also donned male attire to perform as a bandleader in La Joie de Paris and as a “Young Korean Bridegroom,” respectively, an action little less scandalous than baring their bodies. “Both cross-dressing and nudity challenge conventional restrictions on the autonomy and comportment of women in bourgeois society,” Jules-Rosette remarks. “Removing clothing and dressing as a male were sources of feminine empowerment that carried a shock value.”71

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Despite the alleged primitivity of their performances, these assertions of sexuality and creative autonomy marked Baker and Ch’oe as quintessential “modern girls” (moga), whose very existence rattled the cages of patriarchy. Yet even these subversive stances served the imperial selfimages of their host countries. Baker was exemplary of the French colonial ideal of assimilation: the French could congratulate themselves for “assimilating” a woman of African descent fleeing the racial intolerance of Jim Crow America, and for “allowing” her to build a successful career expressing black female sexuality in ways unthinkable in American public culture. Japanese, on the other hand, could point to Ch’oe Sŭng-hŭi as the beneficiary of compulsory education for girls and other colonial policies that purportedly liberated Korean women from the tyranny of a stifling Confucian patriarchy. Public eroticism, though threatening to the gendered order of metropolitan society, could also indicate the success of France and Japan’s respective “civilizing missions” in the colonies. The dancers’ erotic allure was rendered all the more potent by their ethnic “otherness,” which made their sexual availability a more conceivable fantasy to metropolitan audiences. But neither Baker nor Ch’oe were marked as simply black or Korean: both represented broader categories of ethnic difference, as “colored,” if you will. Though Ch’oe’s initial professional success in Japan was due to her singular Koreanness, by the late 1930s she was regarded as the very incarnation of a pan-Asian culture. Dances like Bodhisattva represented the cultural unity of the Asian continent, which art historian Okakura Kakuzō (1863–1913) had touted in the early twentieth century, and which inspired the rhetoric of Asian brotherhood that imperial ideologues promoted in the Greater East Asia Declaration of 1943.72 Her reputation as the “pride of the yellow race” thus transcended the specificity of her Korean origins. Likewise, Baker’s film and stage roles were not limited to characters of African heritage: in the early 1930s she played the Vietnamese consort of a French colonial official in a production entitled La Petite Tonkinoise. Jules-Rosette’s characterization of Baker’s “racial transcoding” could apply equally well to Ch’oe’s wartime promotion of pan-Asianism: “Baker transformed race into a series of costume changes that foreshadowed the desire to be postmodern.”73 By standing in for all racial “others,” Baker and Ch’oe thus testified to the ethnic diversity and geographical breadth of the French and Japanese empires, as well as to the integrative capacities of each empire to embrace and incorporate, yet still tame or civilize, racial difference. As assimilated émigrés, Baker and Ch’oe became exemplary patriots who lent their celebrity to national service, implicitly shaming native

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French or Japanese whose patriotic exertions were less forthcoming. Baker’s signature chanson, “J’ai deux amours” (1930), suggested she felt torn between “mon pays et Paris” (“my country and Paris”). But her disillusionment with racism in the United States, her eventual fluency in the French language, and her naturalization as a French citizen in 1937 all indicated where her loyalties lay: by the mid-1930s she had altered the song’s refrain to “mon pays c’est Paris” (“my country is Paris”). Earning the Medal of Resistance in 1946 for her work as a courier and counterintelligence agent during the wartime occupation of France, and being made a Chevalier de la Légion d’Honneur in 1961, Baker was praised by many observers as “more French than the French.” However, her continued involvement in the U.S. civil rights movement—including a speech at the March on Washington on August 28, 1963—demonstrated the resilience of her African American identity and her pioneering role in the fight for racial equality.74 On the other hand, Japanese media sometimes referred to Ch’oe as “made in Japan” (wa seihin, or kokusan). When she toured the United States and Europe from 1937 to 1940, she was often characterized in the foreign press as Japanese rather than Korean, and used the Japanese name Sai Shōki. As the China quagmire deepened, and expansion into Southeast Asia and war with the United States, Britain, and the Netherlands became imminent, Ch’oe was recognized as “one of the most influential colonial architects in forging a great culture of Asia.” Returning from her three-year sojourn overseas to a country embroiled in total war, she announced that she was “severing ties with foreign dance” and refocusing her efforts on developing “pure Japanese dance” by immersing herself in folkloric “local dances” (kyōdo buyō).75 According to Park, Ch’oe “did not make any divisions in culture between Japan and Korea, or any of the other Asian countries within the Japanese Empire,” a stance that earned her wide praise among Japanese observers. Her dance tours of continental Asia to comfort Japanese troops earned her official accolades, though her dances retained a “mystic quality” and seem never to have resorted to the sorts of militaristic excesses common in wartime entertainment.76 After the war, when she and An Mak settled in North Korea, she reprised her role as patriotic “cultural architect,” spearheading the creation of socialist dance, and earning a medal from the DPRK government. This, of course, cast a pall on her reputation in South Korea, but even there she has been revered for not only preserving Korean cultural identity at the nadir of the colonial occupation, but also for proudly promoting Korean cultural accomplishments in Japan and abroad. Émigré novelist Kim Tal-su (1919–97) reflected, “Although I

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have never seen her performances, her existence itself represented hope for us. This was the most important thing. The mere fact that she existed made the world appear different.”77 Though their allegiances were hardly unambiguous, both Josephine Baker and Ch’oe Sŭng-hŭi were lauded as heroines and role models for their respective races, nations, and empires. Their multifaceted careers and images make them emblematic of the “tensions of empire,” for they simultaneously reinforced and subverted the imperial desire for exotic (and erotic) spectacle, and likewise both paid dearly for and profited from building careers in such a manner. Their cultural influence on metropolitan audiences is undeniable yet ambiguous in its effects. Empowered by their artistic talents and their physical beauty, they attained positions from which they could potentially shape or guide metropolitan gazes toward more favorable assessments of colonial human and cultural dignity. Their successes and failures in this regard were ultimately as multitudinous as their audiences.

‘k is a e ng’ cr a zy If Ch’oe Sŭng-hŭi represented a modern, avant-garde sensibility rooted in ostensibly “traditional” forms of expression, and did so with erotic aplomb, another icon signified for Japanese a timeless, graceful—yet erotically intoxicating—Korean femininity: the courtesan-entertainers known generically outside of Korea as kisaeng or kinyŏ. Like Japanese geisha, these women were trained as instrumental musicians, singers, poets, calligraphers, and dancers; yet they constituted a diverse population, to whom professional rank, artistic talents, class background, regional identity, employment circumstances, and sexual accessibility to particular categories of men were of utmost importance. Kisaeng were every bit as statusconscious as any other constituency in Korea and the idea of being conflated with other practitioners possessed of different skill sets, ranks, and functions would have been repugnant to them. The highest ranking among them, known as “government courtesans” (kwangi), provided entertainment to Chosŏn court officials in Seoul; they were recruited, trained, and employed by the government, whereas geisha were privately or selfemployed. Provincial administrations also retained kisaeng (hyanggi) to perform for regional officials and local bureaucrats. Those of the lowest status (samp’ae and the itinerant sadangp’ae) had middling training in the arts and were privately employed to entertain the middle classes, the sexual facet of their work more overt and readily accessed.78

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Nonetheless, Japanese rarely made such fine distinctions themselves and tended to overlook the kisaeng’s artistry in favor of her presumed sexual prowess and availability, much as Western admirers of geisha did.79 The British in India were likewise mostly oblivious to the artistic accomplishments of Muslim court entertainers (tawaif or “nautsch girls”) and Hindu temple dancers (devadasis), preferring to dwell at length on the sexual aspects of their work. “The English word ‘courtesan’ fails to capture the diversity of this community in South Asia,” Amelia Maciszewski insists. “[British officials’] frequent insensitivity to these women’s performance traditions, led them to impose the Victorian label ‘prostitute’ on female members of the community (and, whenever possible, to interact with them in this way).”80 In both India and Korea, the colonialists’ attitudes toward courtesan-entertainers spread among the native populations and survived liberation intact, so that tawaif in Urdu and kisaeng in Korean retain pejorative meanings, a stigma against which practitioners struggle to this day. Ambivalence and controversy about their status and profession seem to have discouraged scholarship on kisaeng, and thwarted interpretive consensus on how best to portray them. The disruption of Japanese rule only exacerbated matters, as status distinctions evaporated and kisaeng were redefined and reemployed to service a modern mass media culture under colonialism. Were they slaves exploited by an unrelentingly patriarchal society, or emancipated women who enjoyed degrees of professional esteem, creative opportunity, and personal autonomy denied to other female Koreans? Should they be regarded primarily as artists or as prostitutes, and in what ways did each aspect of their occupation enhance the other? Are they bearers of the sublime elegance of traditional Korean culture, or a source of national shame? Did Japanese colonial rule defile what may once have been a praiseworthy profession, anticipating the postwar Asian sex trade?81 Answering these questions is beyond my scope and talents, but I present them here to illustrate how an array of feminist, nationalist, and aesthetic ideological positions complicate efforts to delineate the kisaeng’s function and status. Under Japanese rule, women generically—if imprecisely—called kisaeng played variegated roles as transmitters of Korean musical and dance traditions, as celebrity performers of modern (Western and Japanese) entertainments on stage, screen, and radio, and as licensed sex workers.82 They were also objects of seemingly endless fascination, their images appearing without fail in travel literature consulted by Japanese tourists. Postcards, guidebooks, fiction, radio broadcasts and sound recordings, theatrical productions, and promotional materials made kisaeng exemplary of the

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f igu r e 16. Kisaeng at Ŭmil Pavilion in P’yŏngyang, from Chōsen Sōtokufu, Saikin no Chōsen.

charms of “our Korea” (waga hantō). 83 A perusal of Seoul’s Japanese daily Keijō nippō reveals that kisaeng and so-called “singing courtesans” (shōgi) frequently made headlines, as the presumed corruptors of youth and instigators of disturbances requiring police intervention. Enchantment with the kisaeng‘s charm and artistry was thus offset by a degree of moral panic, an ambivalence which was neither new nor peculiarly Japanese. 84 Despite its proclaimed concerns about public morality, the Japanese regime and resident community only magnified the problem by eroticizing kisaeng in two key ways: by incorporating them and their institutions into Japan’s well-developed system of officially licensed sexual commerce; and by actively propagating imagery and lore about kisaeng to draw tourists and new immigrants from Japan. Yet what sounds to us ironic and hypocritical was perfectly rational to Japanese administrators, who had long regarded official licensing and regulation of sexual commerce as promoting public morality rather than undermining it: better, the logic went, to distribute a limited number of licenses and facilitate police oversight of erotic recreation than to outlaw it altogether. In any case, the effects of Japanese colonial “regulation” of kisaeng were the proliferation of commercial prostitution in Korea, increased demand for female sexual

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labor, and the hyper-sexualization of a profession that had once enjoyed a modicum of respectability. At the time of annexation, kwangi had been nominally released from government servitude as a result of the Kabo Reforms (1894–96); some had remained at court, while others sought private employment as entertainers in the new theaters such as Wŏn’gaksa. The GGC apparently considered such fluidity to be unacceptable, however, and ordered the creation of “licensing academies” (kenban; kwŏnbŏn) to train and confer credentials to future kisaeng. Furthermore, by subjecting kisaeng to regular health inspections in order to control the spread of venereal diseases, the GGC effectively categorized them as sex workers and eliminated any meaningful legal or social distinction between kisaeng and ordinary prostitutes. 85 Once classified as sex workers, kisaeng were subject to the sort of publicity at which Japan’s sex industry had long excelled. One of the most notorious examples is the 1918 guidebook Treasury of Korean Beauties (Chosŏn miin bogam; Chōsen bijin hōkan), published by the Keijō nippō (the same newspaper so fond of reporting kisaeng-related scandals). Kawamura Minato situates this volume within the well-established Japanese tradition of guides (hyōbanki or saiken) to urban theater districts and pleasure quarters, which meticulously profiled and ranked individual actors, courtesans, and entertainers. The Treasury provided photographic portraits and personal data (names, ages, kwŏnbŏn affiliations, and special artistic aptitudes) and critiques (hyōban) for 605 kisaeng and apprentices (dōgi)— ages nine to thirty-three—from throughout the peninsula. Curiously, the entries are written in both Chinese and Korean script, but not in Japanese, even though the Treasury was published by a Japanese-language newspaper, at a time when printed materials in Korean were generally verboten. Add to this the fact that its publication preceded the GGC’s salary incentives for administrators and police officials who learned Korean, and it seems unwise to presume that the intended audience was resident Japanese and tourists. 86 Even so, in the Korean context, where the hyōbanki convention did not exist, it appears to have been an unprecedented effort to publicize broadly the attributes and availability of courtesan-entertainers, an effort initiated by a Japanese enterprise. The government-initiated kwŏnbŏn system, with its revised training regimen requiring aspiring kisaeng to master enough Japanese repertory to entertain a Japanese clientele, compelled the kisaeng to “modernize” their practice, but not all Japanese were sanguine about such changes. In his chatty compendium of kisaeng ephemera, Tales of the Kisaeng (Kiisan monogatari, 1933), Yoshikawa Buntarō included a transcribed conver-

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sation between three men and two women at a P’yŏngyang teahouse, in which the modernization of kisaeng and their arts was debated. It is unclear if the male participants (A, a former governor of P’yŏngnam; M, the head of the P’yŏngyang chamber of commerce; and F, a P’yŏngnam councilor) are Japanese or Korean, though some of their testimony suggests a familiarity with the metropole that Koreans were unlikely to have. The women are identified as K, director of a kisaeng training school, and O, who as proprietor of the teahouse was likely a retired kisaeng. The preface to the discussion rhapsodizes: Kisaeng! They are surely a fine example of Korea’s famous products [meibutsu]. Just as people overseas [achira no hito] commonly imagine Fuji-yama and cherry blossoms are the pride of the land of the Mikado, [yet] won’t omit the Yoshiwara or geisha girls from their Japanese tour schedules, Japanese [naichijin] have a greater interest in kisaeng than in Mt. Kŭmgang or the Taedong River. . . . the average person might be as indifferent to a Korea without kisaeng as to an agricultural fair or an exhibit of Southern Song [Chinese] painting. 87

Although most of the ensuing desultory banter (mandan) focuses on the incomparable beauty and style (hinkaku) of P’yŏngyang kisaeng, some attention is paid to their artistry, particularly to recent changes therein. “It is the age of kisaeng who, by singing ‘Tokyo March’ and ‘Girl in the Red Room’ from phonograph records instead of the sad, lonesome old Korean songs, won’t concede defeat to Japanese modern girls. Kisaeng who compose poetry or commune with paintings have utterly disappeared.” This prompt elicits the following exchange: A: When kisaeng sing only Japanese pop songs, the Korean emotionalism utterly ruins them. My friends often come from Japan to play, and as agreed upon we plan a banquet and try to call a kisaeng; well, that kisaeng sings Japanese pop songs and “Yasugi Bushi,” but won’t sing old Korean songs unless she wants to. K: That is frustrating on my end, as well. I don’t teach any Japanese songs but nagauta [songs sung by geisha]. O: You can see a lot of young Korean customers at my place, but for whatever reason they nag kisaeng [with requests] for pop songs. Speaking of Japanese guests, they request these and find them more entertaining than Korean songs whose meaning and melodies they don’t understand. In other words, for kisaeng it’s like the seats are empty if they don’t learn some popular songs. M: In general, it’s not right for Japanese to make them sing Japanese songs out of curiosity, and if kisaeng don’t focus on Korean songs. . . . Moderator: There’s anxiety that if things keep going this way, in the near future we will no longer be able to hear classic Korean songs from the mouths of kisaeng. 88

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There is a complex tension on display here: as a businesswoman, O is more interested in keeping her customers happy than in preserving cultural heritage; K is willing to make some concessions to Japanese expectations by teaching her students nagauta, but draws the line at pop songs; the Japanese participants are chagrined that kisaeng are conceding to boorish Japanese demands that they sing something other than the traditional repertory. In Yoshikawa’s recounting, these self-styled connoisseurs (tsūjin) of the kisaeng’s arts feared that modern culture would decimate a venerable tradition. Their gaze remained resolutely fixated on an ageless, erotic elegance that the colonial state itself had helped destroy. 89 Kwŏnbŏn indeed proved to be a mixed blessing for kisaeng. For the most part, they were self-governing enterprises run by the women themselves, and enthusiastically endorsed by kisaeng of lower rank as a leveling mechanism that fractured the hierarchical structure and mentality that had long characterized the profession. Several former kwangi used kwŏnbŏn as vehicles for transmitting the traditional performing arts to a new generation of Korean women and thus reclaiming some degree of repute, an effort that was modestly successful.90 Nonetheless, kwŏnbŏn curricula changed to suit evolving popular tastes and marketplace realities, which meant that many kisaeng were better trained as pop chanteuses than as masters of traditional arts.91 Like so much else in colonial Korea, kisaeng were utterly transformed by colonial modernity, but that does not mean that Japanese perceptions and media portrayals evolved in tandem. Recent inquiries demonstrate that some kisaeng took full advantage of their relative freedom from patriarchal family structures to promote a modern consciousness and female autonomy; such studies maintain that kisaeng were among the vanguard of the Korean feminist movement. Kisaeng exploited new mass media technologies and entertainment venues to earn their livelihoods and preserve their independence: they took their arts out of bars and teahouses, playing music on radio broadcasts and recordings, and even performing dances in large theaters in Japan.92 In January 1927, seventeen kisaeng joined forces to launch a new magazine entitled Changhan (Long Suffering) to share information and dispel negative stereotypes about themselves. “We need to unite to survive in this society,” contributor Pak Nok-chu declared in the first edition. “Henceforth, this magazine, covering the kisaeng community, is now finally raising its voice. This magazine is a mouthpiece through which we can publicize our lives, opinions, sorrows and joys unreservedly.”93 This feminist manifesto echoed similar statements made by Japan’s “new women” in the journal Bluestocking (Seitō, 1911–16) and likeminded Korean publications New

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Woman (Sin yŏja, 1920-?) and New Womanhood (Sin yŏsŏng, 1923–34), while retaining an identity as the voice of a distinctive professional class. 94 Notably elided from most Japanese discourse on kisaeng was acknowledgment of their resemblance to geisha. That is to say, Japanese interest in kisaeng seems not to have sparked any extended comparative ruminations on erotic recreation, licensed prostitution, human trafficking, or the status of women generally in each society, nor was the kisaeng/geisha dyad used to assert and promote the ideology of cultural kinship between Korea and Japan. In the conversation quoted earlier, A remarks on the disparity: “One thing different from [Japanese] geigi is that kisaeng are totally self-supporting. So their consciousness as capable businesswomen is strong, and they have self-awareness and self-esteem. . . . [T]hey have a grit with which geigi can’t compare. The heads of the kwŏnbŏn and associations [kumiai] are men, but all the other officials are kisaeng, pure and simple self-governance.”95 Both geisha and kisaeng were present in Korea (the latter at lower cost), so customers were able to select between the two (though I have not located any sources that shed light on how they made such decisions). Kisaeng were expected to learn some Japanese songs and geisha repertory so as to be more versatile for their customers, but geisha appear not to have been required to learn Korean songs, although some may have out of personal interest. Though both were legally classified as (a special class of) sexual labor, in terms of training, employment conditions, institutional affiliations, and clientele, kisaeng and geisha were explicitly distinct from one another. Kawamura’s book contains a rare juxtaposition of these icons, a picture postcard (e-hagaki) for which a standing kisaeng and a seated geisha posed together. Even in this image, however, the differences are more conspicuous than the similarities. The Korean woman’s clothing is plain—a wrap-around ch’ima skirt and blue chŏgori jacket with a modest design— and her hair is simply styled in the fashion of a mature woman (tchŏkjin mŏri, parted in the middle, braided and curled up behind). By contrast, the Japanese woman wears a brightly colored green kimono with a golden leaf motif and pink obi, and sports the elaborate Shimada mage hairstyle (or wig). The disparity in extravagance is dramatized by not posing the kisaeng in the elaborate robes and thickly braided ŏnjŭn mŏri hair wrap she would have worn while working. Whether or not the relative simplicity of the kisaeng compared to her Japanese counterpart was to her aesthetic advantage would depend on the eye of the beholder; as we have seen, some Japanese certainly found Korean rusticity captivating. Two captions appear on the postcard: “Smiling Flower(s)” (hohoemu

f igu r e 17. Postcard featuring kisaeng and geisha. Reprinted in Kawamura, Kiisen (plate #10).

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hana) at the top left, and “Korean courtesan” (Chōsen no kisaeng) at the bottom. Unfortunately, because the Japanese language relies on context rather than syntactical mechanisms to differentiate singular from plural, it is impossible to know in this case if hohoemu hana (possibly a variant of the Korean euphemism haeŏhwa) refers to one or both women. If both, it would suggest a shared vocation. But the bottom caption seems to remove any doubt as to who is the object of interest here. The written language itself conveys an implicit distinction between the two women. The preMeiji term for geisha, geigi, had included the same Chinese ideograph for prostitute (jì) used in the Sino-Korean word kisaeng, but the 1872 licensing regime changed the term to geisha, “one who is artistic,” nominally to distinguish erotic artistes from regular prostitutes. So the presence of that ideograph on the postcard to describe the Korean subject accentuates the erotic nature of her profession, whereas its absence in Japanese effaces that facet visually (if not from memory). The postcard’s short commentary (kaisetsu) does not even mention the geisha, let alone insinuate a common avocation. It seems intent on seducing its reader with the charms of Koreana as embodied in the kisaeng: “The [ideograph unintelligible] figure of the kisaeng one sees in front of a splendid old temple, in a blooming field of flowers, or on a quiet Korean street, possesses a natural beauty that harmonizes seamlessly with all the scenery.” The kisaeng is thus made part of the landscape, a complement to the visual spectacle, or at best the perfect companion for sightseeing in Korea (Chōsen kankō). The Japanese promotion of the kisaeng as an icon of Korea was not only based on her exotic charm and erotic possibilities: it was also part of a conventional imperial strategy to rhetorically and symbolically feminize— and thereby emasculate—the colonial subject. Scholars of empire have become increasingly attuned to this gendered dimension of the colonial relationship, which replicated masculine privilege and reenacted patriarchal gender dynamics within the context of political and cultural domination. When depicted as female (or effeminate), the colonial subject was rendered acquiescent, attractive, bereft of agency, in need of succor, and less menacing. By implied contrast, the imperial power was gendered masculine: proactive, rational, protective, and resolute. Moreover, as women in nineteenth-century Europe were presumed to be guardians of “tradition” and the “moral lynchpin that held civilized society together,” women in the colonies came to embody national traditions that were still in discursive development.96 The refined, charming, and demure kisaeng, whose purpose in life was to gratify her patrons, made for a much more palatable representation of Korea for Japanese than the most plausible male

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archetypes, the impassive yangban egghead or the intractable nationalist insurgent. So, just as geisha were “deployed as figures of cultural authenticity in imperial Japan,” the kisaeng represented for Japanese the Korea that most enchanted them, the authentic Korea as yet unblemished by modernity. 97 Japanese media celebrated kisaeng like Kim Wŏl-p’a as exemplars of filial sacrifice on behalf of parents and proper deference to Japan’s authority. Kisaeng “comfort troupes” (kiisen iantai) who visited injured soldiers in military hospitals modeled patriotic conduct for all imperial subjects.98 In visual culture, the kisaeng lent her elegance and erotic glamour to enhance any setting; in aural culture, she preserved and vocalized the songs that expressed the lamentations of countless generations of Koreans; in literature, she embodied the “mournful beauty” (hiai no bi) Japanese detected at the heart of the Korean aesthetic.99 In essence, she represented everything many Japanese wished their Korean subjects to be.

e n t e rta i ni ng e m pi r e s In her critique of the historiography of Japanese colonialism, Jennifer Robertson takes particular exception to Marius Jansen’s assertion that “[t]here were no Japanese Kiplings, there was little popular mystique about Japanese overlordship and relatively little national self-congratulation.” Robertson and other scholars have dismantled “the mainstream historiographical consensus . . . that ‘imperialism never became a very important part of the [Japanese] national consciousness,’ ” through studies that describe the deep involvement of Japan’s burgeoning entertainment industry in the construction and promotion of the empire. Robertson’s term “technology of imperialism,” which she applies to the gender-bending Takarazuka theatrical troupe, could easily be used to describe popular music, cinema, radio programs, stage comedies, poetry, advertising, and the visual arts.100 Most of this scholarship has described the popularity of content focused on China (including Manchuria), the South Pacific islands, and Southeast Asia, with relatively little attention paid to Korea. Likewise, most studies tend to focus on racist depictions of Chinese, Polynesians, and Southeast Asians as self-destructive, ne’er-do-well bandits or grass-skirted, darkskinned savages in need of a good dose of Japanese civilization.101 The general presumption in such studies is that Asian “others” were depicted in a pejorative manner that exposes the hypocrisy of Japan’s grandiose pronouncements of pan-Asian brotherhood. The popular examples of Koreana scrutinized in this chapter, however,  

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suggest variant interpretations. For one thing, Korea was arguably the earliest colonial “brand name” to make a major splash in imperial Japanese popular culture. Beginning with the voluminous photographic collections and travel guides that appeared in the 1910s and 1920s, and continuing with the popularity of “new folk songs” based on Korean folk songs and the success of Ch’oe Sŭng-hŭi’s folkloric dances in the 1930s, Korea was a hot property among Japanese consumers. Its relative popularity vis-à-vis China and Southeast Asia waned as the empire expanded into those territories, yet its potential contributions to the culture of the New Order were extolled by Japanese commentators, particularly those who championed Ch’oe’s artistry. It is also important to note that popular depictions of Koreans and their culture were not always derogatory. The consumption of Koreana was motivated largely by the pleasure of the exotic—an exotic that was still strangely familiar, given the ideology of common racial ancestry—but also contributed to the ongoing self-critique of modernity in which Japanese intellectuals tirelessly engaged.102 Negative images of Korean malcontents coexisted with more ambivalent, even admiring depictions of a people as yet uncontaminated by modernity, clinging tenaciously to a primordial purity and an artless aesthetic Japan had long since forsaken. It was even possible for a Korean woman to become a cultural hero of sorts, one who demonstrated the tangibility of pan-Asian cultural aspirations. Nicholas Thomas admonishes that “colonialism is not a unitary project but a fractured one, riddled with contradictions and exhausted as much by its own internal debates as by the resistance of the colonized.”103 These contradictions are most apparent in the Japan-Korea imperial relationship when we include mass-mediated popular culture in our historical vision. Directives requiring that Koreans pray at Shintō shrines and change their names to Japanese pronunciations may have aimed at cultural “integration” (or, some would say, annihilation) in the colony, but in the metropole the preservation of Korean difference—as an integral part of a new imperial culture—was not at all unthinkable. As Michael Robinson argues, even if Japanese investment in print, cinema, and broadcast technologies in the colony was intended to serve imperial aims, the effects were more complex than a mere imposition of thought control. Radio, in particular, by providing a venue for performing arts, language standardization, and lectures on cultural heritage, “could and did serve a positive function of maintaining and creating Korean cultural traditions.”104 That does not mean that Koreans were uniformly pleased with the quality of radio programming. Some listeners were scandalized that kisaeng

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were permitted to perform on the air. Regional rivalries manifested themselves as well when certain genres were either slighted or presented as representative of “national” culture. Novelist Ch’ae Man-sik’s (1903–50) black comedy Peace Under Heaven (T’aep’yŏng ch’ŏngha, 1938) illustrates this through his slimeball protagonist Master Yun Tu-sŏp. A native of Chŏlla, Yun sates his interminable craving for “southern songs” (namdo minyo) by regularly attending the Festival of Great Singers and keeping a radio by his bed. “There was no law guaranteeing a constant supply of southern music, no matter how much you manipulated the dial,” so Yun puts his long-suffering servant Taebok on the case. “For some time the radio station had been receiving letters, dozens of them, all beseeching that southern music be broadcast every day. These anguished letters were dispatched by Taebok, who composed them in tears, literally, after bearing the full brunt of Master Yun’s undue recriminations.”105 Although irreconcilable differences in taste emerged, the Japanese-sponsored media did provide important infrastructure for the maintenance and proliferation of Korean cultural heritage, in some cases providing the first national exposure of regional performance styles.106 As Koreans and Japanese alike partook of the increasingly audible and visible presence of Koreana in media culture, the potential for affective attachments based on shared tastes was real, if compromised by the intensifying brutality of wartime policies in the colony. Mass-mediated Korean performing arts might well have facilitated the union of metropole and colony better than any of the draconian schemes Japanese colonial administrators implemented in the empire’s twilight days.

Epilogue Postcolonial Valorizations

On July 9, 1987, on Seoul’s City Hall Plaza, a Korean shaman performed the “bridge rite” (tari kut) for the souls of two students killed in scuffles with police. The souls of Yi Han-yŏl and Pak Chong-ch’ŏl trod a bridge of white cloth (siwang tari)—the passage through Buddhist hell—which was then rent to prevent their return to torment the living. Thus pacified, they could now safely serve as martyrs to the cause of true democracy in the Republic of Korea.1 Student groups and sympathetic activists staged other rites and funereal dances during Korea’s hot summer of 1987, to exorcise the demons of militarist dictatorship, foreign imperialism, and national partition. 2 Having presumptuously named his own successor, Seoul’s last autocrat, Chŏn Tu-hwan (Chun Doo-hwan, 1931-) now faced the rage of a defiant citizenry and the gods they invoked. Though insisting that “the one person in the country who has been deprived [of] this valuable commodity, personal liberty, is the president,” Chŏn went into internal exile for fifteen months in the Paekdamsa Buddhist temple (Kangwŏn province). The spirits had toppled him; now he turned to them for solace and penitence. 3 The bridge rite was one of several public rituals staged by agrarian populists, labor unions, student radicals, and political dissidents since the mid-1960s to protest against the South Korean dictatorship and its principal patron, the United States. Such political theater intended to critique the government’s brutal authoritarianism, human rights abuses, and intransigence toward its rival state to the north. However, it also represented a 187

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struggle to possess and utilize the emblems of Korean folk performance for the purposes of national self-definition. Starting in the early 1960s the ROK government had created a system for designating so-called “intangible national treasures,” identifying the foremost practitioners of various folk performance genres, and aggressively applying for UNESCO World Heritage status for significant sites and artifacts. Conversely, political dissidents and student organizations claimed these cultural assets—including folk dances and songs, masked plays, experimental theater, p’ungmul drumming, and folk games—as the rightful property of the oppressed, laboring masses (minjung). The state hoped to use folk performance to foster national unity and allegiance at home and to promote Korean cultural identity abroad; but the opposition deployed it to raise class consciousness, destabilize state control, and ridicule the governing elite and the various external patrons (Chinese, Japanese, and American) on whom it relied to stay in power. State support shielded traditional performing arts from the vicissitudes of the modern entertainment marketplace, inevitably ossifying them as canonical styles defined by a handful of select, stipendiary “living national treasures.”4 But in the hands—and feet and voices—of the minjung activists, folk performance retained its dynamism, malleability, participatory ethos, contrariness, and relevance. Even if academic folklorists deemed the forms and styles they used inauthentic, minjung activists insisted, the spirit of vernacular defiance made their performances more genuine than anything the state sponsored. The struggle over cultural assets in postcolonial Korea was an intensified continuation of the contest to excavate and curate Koreana that had occurred in the colonial period. Although minjung ideology disparaged the “passive culturalism” of colonial-era intellectuals like Yi Kwang-su, its roots are clearly there, for it was the cultural nationalists of the early twentieth century who identified a matriarchal shamanic foundation for Koreana, and who valorized the minjung as the carriers of Korean heritage uncontaminated by Chinese influence. 5 Moreover, like the minjung movement, cultural nationalists sometimes competed with and sometimes cooperated with a sophisticated state apparatus that marshaled the authority of law, police power, and academic expertise to monopolize access to cultural assets and determine their value. Hyung-il Pai remarks that the single most important legacy bequeathed by the GGC to the postcolonial Korean states was the idea of centralized state control of cultural heritage. 6 Whatever the benefits of such an arrangement—and there surely are some—this prerogative has not gone uncontested. The intellectual leaders of the minjung movement radicalized the struggle and broadened its base, enlisting farm

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and factory workers to reclaim the forms of rebellious expression their ancestors had created. As repressive as the ROK state was, the minjung movement managed to seize the public sphere (madang) and make more noise than their intellectual forebears of the colonial period had been able to muster. Their objectives diverged, but both official and oppositional conservationist streams originated in the experience of being the objects of Japan’s colonial gaze. It was only under such scrutiny that Koreans—elites especially, yet lowborn as well—came to imbue their quotidian amusements, rituals, and customs with the gravitas of self-identification. Once despised and often suppressed by the precolonial state, in postcolonial Korea the performing arts of common folk have become authorized objects of and sites for remembrance of the colonial period and for “releasing” the han accumulated therein. If Koreans’ expressive culture signified their difference from a colonial master intent upon assimilating them, it also demonstrated the ultimate failure of that endeavor. On January 10, 1962, the Republic of Korea issued the Cultural Properties Protection Act No. 961. Wholly revised in 1982 and amended thirteen times over the next twenty years, the Act’s purpose was “to strive for the cultural improvement of the people . . . by inheriting the native culture through the preservation of properties so as to ensure their utilization.”7 Intangible cultural properties (muhyŏng munhwajae) were defined specifically as “drama, music, dance, or craft technique, carrying the great historic, artistic or academic values.” The Act also made provisions for “folklore materials,” meaning “manners and customs” and material culture related to daily life. The state-appointed Cultural Properties Administration (CPA), authorized to carry out the Act’s provisions, made its primary mission the identification of individual or collective “holders” of important intangible cultural properties, while selecting them according to “the basic principle of maintaining their original forms” (Article 2–2). The CPA was to deliver a “written designation” to such holders and was authorized to pay them for providing “initiation training of skills and arts” to students, who were eligible for CPA scholarships to support their apprenticeships (Article 24). In acknowledgment of persistent tensions on the divided peninsula, supplementary provisions empowered the CPA administrators and the designated holders “to move the said cultural properties to the safe area, bury, or take other necessary measures,” or to “carry the cultural properties out of the country” in the event of “war, incident, or emergency equivalent thereto” (Article 71). 8

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By using the phrase “maintaining original forms,” the Act explicitly articulated an idealized concept of intangible cultural properties as immune from historical change. Recognized holders of cultural resources were selected not for artistic innovation but for fidelity to traditions, usually defined by the academic specialists and folklorists constituting the CPA. The government’s stated mandate for “preservation” made stylistic development itself the enemy to be overcome; its structure rewarded those individuals who represented a generic regional or national mode of performance, rather than those who viewed traditions as evolving, improvised, or susceptible to manipulation in service to personal aesthetic visions. I do not want to overstate this point, because one of the perks of being named a “living national treasure” was a degree of authority and creative license within the bounds of tradition. Nonetheless, the entire system of cultural properties management is premised on a notion of tradition as stasis in a perfect form.9 It both obscures and discourages the self-conscious modifications performers have made to their arts to accommodate changing conditions. For instance, despite its p’ansori roots, a too-recent provenance and a well-documented history of adaptation (or, critics say, pandering) have handicapped efforts to recognize ch’anggŭk as an intangible cultural property. Ch’anggŭk had constantly evolved throughout the colonial period, not achieving stylistic stability until the late 1960s. As Killick points out, ch’anggŭk performers and enthusiasts deliberately cultivated a “traditionesque” aura to make ch’anggŭk seem more “traditional” than it really was, hoping to see it ranked alongside other performing arts as a cultural asset threatened by modernity and requiring government patronage. The state-subsidized National Ch’anggŭk Company (resident at the National Theater of Korea) commissions new productions “that can be enjoyed by a wider audience,” but maintains that its primary mandate is “preservation and standardization” of stylistic conventions and repertoire. Still, despite its p’ansori elements and preservationist rhetoric, ch’anggŭk as yet has failed to meet CPA standards for canonization as an intangible cultural property.10 The ROK government had a variety of motives for instituting the CPA system. First and foremost was the constant duel with its rival state north of the 38th parallel to demonstrate which regime was the more authentically “Korean.” Both states have repeatedly turned to folk performance, recent history, and even archaeology and ancient history to claim the mantle of the mythical Tan’gun. With the DPRK encouraging “national form with socialist content,” the South could not afford to allow the North to monopolize cultural heritage without endangering its own legitimacy as a

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“Korean” polity.11 Moreover, the audience for performances of Koreanness was cosmopolitan: as the “world heritage” preservation movement gained support (thanks in large part to other former colonies eager to establish ties to antiquity, garner cultural recognition, and attract tourists), the ROK could build a case for its stewardship of Korea’s cultural assets in the international arena, in a way that the increasingly isolated North could not. The CPA regime also helped legitimate the governing elites of South Korea, many of whom were tainted as “collaborators” during the colonial period. It was well known that Pak Chŏng-hŭi (Park Chung-hee, 1917–79), who led the military coup to topple the democratically elected government in 1961, had been an officer in the Imperial Japanese Army. Promoting cultural preservation was a way for Pak not only to distance himself from the Japanese who had purportedly “suppressed” Korean culture, but also to distinguish his dictatorship from that of Yi Sŭng-man, during which time (1948–60) heritage conservation was hardly a priority.12 Patronage of the traditional performing arts helped soften Pak’s image; one could say it was bunka seiji redux. Another incentive was the dislocation of live performance of traditional arts by film, recorded music, and other mass media, which accompanied the U.S. military occupation in the late 1940s and only intensified during and after the Korean War. Although the Pak and Chŏn regimes maintained protectionist policies to limit the importation of foreign media and thereby nurture domestic entertainment industries, the ROK’s ambitious state-guided, export-driven economic development policies were somewhat at odds with the preservation of traditional culture.13 Nor did it help matters that so many of Korea’s folk dances, songs, dramas, and musical compositions had strong roots in shamanic practices and worldviews, having originated as essential elements of various rites. The Pak and Chŏn regimes officially condemned folk religion as superstition, charlatanism, and a hindrance to the modernization of Korean society and mindsets.14 Discouragement and even active suppression of shamanism meant extinguishing performance modes and styles as vital elements of Korean religious life; detaching these from shamanic ritual praxis and moving them to museums and concert stages, however valuable from a “preservationist” perspective, made their irrelevance, or even extinction, all the more likely. The imperatives of modernization as envisaged by the ROK government imperiled the viability of native performance art as a thriving aspect of Korean daily life. In collective memory, Japanese colonialism had actively suppressed Korean expressive culture, so it is somewhat ironic that so many of the

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CPA’s standards, structures, and procedures are derivative of Japanese models. Several scholars have observed that the heritage management and intangible cultural properties systems of postcolonial Korea are either slightly modified extensions of systems created by the GGC, or wholesale imitations of Japan’s own Law for the Protection of Cultural Properties (enacted August 29, 1950).15 Notwithstanding such bureaucratic inertia and mimicry, the ROK government explicitly invoked the cultural violence of the colonial period as a rationale for its preservation initiatives. The 1964 Korea Annual stated: no colonial administration by any nation could have been more cruel and oppressive than that of the Japanese in Korea during the first half of the 20th century, when the Japanese attempted to extinguish the Korean language and letter [sic]. Throughout the period, Japanese was the only language permitted and the use of Korean was strictly forbidden even in private. No Korean literature could prosper, and even in the field of fine arts and music, expressions in any form of native traditions and sentiments were ruthlessly suppressed. Korean cultural activities, as such, remained at a complete standstill throughout the period. . . . . The native music of Korea, with its melodious lilt and mysterious tonality, is one of the traditional cultural assets which has been retrieved upon liberation from the Japanese rule.16

With Japanese ethnographic and curatorial activities effaced entirely, this narrative claims that cultural preservation commenced with liberation, for which the ROK government claimed full credit. The minjung begged to differ. Revolutionary populists resisted the state’s efforts to define and monopolize the performing arts of the Korean folk, determined not to allow official intervention to co-opt folk culture and sap its seditious vitality. If the minjung of old had danced, sang, and joked away their frustrations with yangban hegemony and Japanese imperialism, their spiritual descendants aspired to do the same to alleviate the misery of authoritarianism, militarism, corruption, and national partition. Theirs was an “alternative to the nationalism endorsed by the Korean government,” Chungmoo Choi explains, which proposed that “cultural unity should precede national unity and, indeed, that the spiritual realm of national unity cannot be achieved without it.”17 Like the ROK state, the minjung opposition drew on narratives of Japanese colonial suppression of Korean expressive culture. However, rather than allowing this collective memory to be incorporated into an official account that heroicized and legitimized the state, those who spoke on behalf of the minjung retorted that U.S.-backed dictatorships had merely replaced the GGC as tyrants, and that the popular arts would continue to speak, dance, and sing truth to power.

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Coincident with the government’s preservation initiatives in the 1960s and 1970s, grassroots efforts to revive and revitalize the rebellious spirit of traditional popular culture emerged in communities and college campuses throughout South Korea. In the mid-1960s, student protesters staged kut and a “funeral for national democracy” to oppose the refusal of Pak Chŏng-hŭi’s junta to relinquish power, and to express outrage at the 1965 treaty normalizing relations with Japan.18 Activists also formed a group to research and perform folk theater (nonghwa): named after the cheeky slavehero of the Pongsan masked dance who “profanes the sacrosanct Confucian morality” of his social betters, the so-called Malttugi Association aspired to a carnivalesque “inversion of the power hierarchy, the triumph of subordinated people over the dominant and oppressive rulers.” Masked dance troupes were ubiquitous on college campuses by the 1970s, intent not only on reclaiming the art for the minjung, but also on restoring its original purpose: sticking it to The Man.19 The ongoing canonization of specific plays, songs, stories, and rituals by the CPA provided a kind of “cover” for dissident groups, who could always claim that their activities were inspired by a common interest in cultural preservation. The surge in minjung performing arts also revealed the futility of the state’s efforts to politically neutralize traditional expressive culture. In its descriptions of specific arts, the CPA could admit that in a prior age the minjung used dance, theater, and song to lambaste the yangban elite and Japanese imperialists; it could not comfortably concede, though, that the current government was now the proper object of popular ridicule. During this period, the venerable art of p’ansori found its satirical voice again in the work of poet/playwright Kim Chi-ha (1941-). By 1970, when he wrote the acerbic p’ansori opera Five Bandits (Ojŏk), the CPA had already (in 1964) designated p’ansori as Important Intangible Cultural Property #5. But the five canonical p’ansori narratives were those “Confucianized” in the nineteenth century by Sin Chae-hyo (see Chapter 3), and what satirical sass remained in them targeted an obsolete aristocracy. Kim Chi-ha resuscitated the genre’s mouthy audacity to take shots at the “five bandits” (an epithet alluding to the five Taehan ministers who signed the 1905 protectorate treaty), whom he blamed for the collective misery of the minjung. Towering high above the decrepit shacks scattered far below like pockmarks, inside the arrogant, jarring, great gates at Changch’ung-dong and Yaksu-dong, are five stately flowery palaces, glittering, sparkling, shooting up into the sky without restraint, filled day and night with music and the sounds of feasting. These are the dens of the five bandits, who are unsurpassed in craftiness and brutality, with bloated livers the size of South Mountain, and necks as tough as

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Tung Cho’s umbilical cord. They are called the Tycoon, the Assemblyman, the Government Official, the General, and the Minister.

Kim invoked the specter of the Japanese occupation and mocked the 1965 treaty in his caricature of the sycophantic Cabinet Minister: Now the last bandit and his cronies step out: ministers and vice ministers, who waddle from obesity, sediment seeping from every pore. With shifty mucus-lined eyes, they command the national defense with golf clubs in their left hands, while fondling the tits of their mistresses with their right. . . . Let’s export even though we starve, let’s increase production even though products go unsold. Let’s construct a bridge across the Strait of Korea with the bones of those who have starved to death, so we can worship the god of Japan!

In the best p’ansori tradition, Kim did not skimp on scatology: “It’s the best story you’ve ever seen with your navel or heard with your anus since the country was formed under Mount Paektu on the third of October long, long ago.” Using an expressive form the state had claimed as a national cultural asset to jeer at that state only richened the satire. Kim knew well the price of his impudence: “It’s been a long time since I was last beaten up for writing with an unruly pen. My body is itching to be beaten” (it would get its wish). 20 Protestors’ deployment of shamanic rituals in their street demonstrations was also richly significant. Shamanism represented for them the essence of pure, pre-Sinophilic Koreana, and therefore seemed the most appropriate vehicle for ousting Chŏn, a man whom they regarded as an American flunky, for suturing the incision separating themselves from their kinsfolk to the north, and for placating the hungry ghosts of those who lost their lives fighting imperialism, civil war, and autocracy. For the activists, shamanic rites constituted “a uniquely Korean commentary on suffering, life, and death,” the “essential work” of which was cathartic release of their han, “the unrequited grievances of a historically oppressed people.” Used as “protest theater,” such ceremonies provided a means by which “sympathetic shamans or self-styled shamanic performers invoke[d] and comfort[ed] the souls of students and workers who . . . died in the cause of social justice.”21 Aside from their value as eye-catching political spectacles, shamanic rites constituted a self-conscious attempt by pro-democracy minjung activists to narrate themselves into an ostensible history of folk religion’s incitement to popular revolt. They claimed forebears such as the early-eighteenth-century rebel monk Yŏhwan and his shaman wife Wŏnhyang, who called herself “Chŏng the Sage”; charged with “deluding the ignorant peasantry with their

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weird beliefs,” the couple had conspired to attack the royal palace. There was also the “bewitching shaman,” Yŏngmu, who in 1758 “proclaimed herself an incarnation of Maitreya [Metteya, the return of the Buddha],” and gathered a cult following that spread from Hwanghae to Kyŏnggi and Kangwŏn.22 Then, of course, there was Tonghak, the “purely Korean” synthesis of East Asian cosmology and class consciousness, whose “street cred” among rebellious student activists was nonpareil.23 Identification with this constructed lineage of politico-religious populism historically grounded and therefore validated student unrest. In her comprehensive study of the minjung movement, Namhee Lee argues that activists and intellectuals appropriated folk performance art in the creation of a “counterpublic sphere.” “Claiming to be the voice of conscience and the true representatives of the minjung, what I call the ‘discourse of moral privilege,’ they restructured the ‘public agenda,’ thereby defining the grounds and conditions of social and political discourse in South Korea in the 1980s. Their efforts were responsible for bringing parliamentary democracy to South Korea in the late 1980s.” By staging masked dance dramas, kut, and more experimental “public theater” (madanggŭk) performances, dissenters denied the ROK state the prerogative to possess, classify, and ossify folk traditions. “Working against the state’s attempt to promote folk culture as a part of its intense, didactic modernizing efforts,” Lee writes, “the university students and intellectuals reappropriated and reinvented folk culture as a counternarrative of Korean modernity and capitalist development.” Minjung activists positively embraced the anti-rational, subaltern status of the matriarchal shamanic culture, in direct contradistinction to the state’s elitist, technocratic patriarchy. 24 The respective visions of the official CPA and the dissident minjung movement could not have been more at odds with regard to “cultural preservation”: the former envisioned a museological stasis determined by experts, the latter a subversive vibrancy and populist outrage living in the streets and villages where the minjung dwelled. Anthropologist Nancy Abelmann, who witnessed a number of protest sessions involving dance and drumming while doing ethnographic fieldwork with the Koch’ang Tenant Farmers Movement in 1987, reports that “many farmers and students took the time to remind me not to misunderstand the seeming gaiety of song and dance.”25 They wanted the han that guided their steps and strokes to be taken seriously. When I entered Exhibit Hall #6, the Hall of Social and Cultural Resistance Movements, at the Independence Hall of Korea (IHK) on June 13, 2003, I noticed dancing lights in a partially enclosed room to my right.26 I walked

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in to find a small theater, empty except for me, the lone weigukin (foreigner). What I can only describe as an animated impressionist painting was projected on the wall: A little girl appears, carelessly chasing butterflies in a meadow. Suddenly, a tornado with red eyes roars across the field, the domed GGC building and a train decorated with Japanese flags borne on its powerful winds. Fleeing, the girl passes a pile of skulls and recoils in horror from a car full of bodies writhing in agony. With the trappings of modernity come agony and death. The little girl is rechristened: her name is now Akko. Her face disappears. Swept away in the violent storm are material artifacts of her identity: celadon ceramics, a Buddha statue. . . . She studies in a school hidden in a cave. The T’aegŭkki hangs on the wall, reminding her who she is. Eventually she and her classmates emerge cheering, “Manse!” and waving small Korean flags. They morph into flower petals and are scattered by the gentling breeze. In case the message of this film is too subtle, captions on the exhibits make it clear: “Japanese policy of crushing Korean tradition and heritage was so brutal that no imperialist nation’s colonial rule could match.” In the Korean popular imagination, folk culture was suppressed under colonial rule yet remained a potent vehicle for anti-colonial resistance. This makes folk performance an ideal medium for memorializing colonial resistance and for celebrating the March 1 and August 15 holidays. 27 Many Koreans cherish these songs, dances, plays, and stories for awakening them to the value of their heritage and nationhood, and for dooming Japan’s assimilation policies to failure. What this means, in the long sweep of Korean history, is that the colonial experience forced Koreans to reevaluate the social and aesthetic value of their own cultural forms and to exalt them as emblems of a holistic Korean identity. In postcolonial Korea, where folk arts such as shamanic rituals and p’ansori operas enjoy an official favor unimaginable a century ago, the colonial past resonates in every dance step, “worried” note, or strike of a gong. After the democratization of the Republic of Korea in the late 1980s, folk performance seemed to become less of a political football between two competing constituencies and more of a unifying site for consensus. This was perhaps exemplified most acutely in the popular response to Im Kwŏnt’aek’s beautiful yet disturbing 1993 film, Sŏp’yŏnje. The film’s astounding box office success has been attributed to Im’s ability to tap a nationalist nostalgia among Korean audiences who perceive their media culture as thoroughly contaminated by global influences.

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Sŏp’yŏnje is set in the bewildering era of liberation and civil war. As American popular culture becomes increasingly prominent, the kwangdae Yu-bong wanders the country with his adopted son Tong-ho and daughter Song-hwa, struggling not only to find gigs but also to preserve and transmit the art of p’ansori to his children. Uncompromisingly “old school,” Yu-bong makes no concession to modern tastes, and insists that the orphans he has adopted must suffer in order to perfect their p’ansori and adequately project han. Tong-ho, trained as the accompanying drummer (kosu), chafes at Yu-bong’s severity and abandons the family. Yu-bong thus focuses his ambitions on Song-hwa, whom he frequently upbraids for insufficient pathos in her singing. To compensate for the orphaned girl’s han deficiency, he gives her an herbal drink that blinds her. P’ansori is all that remains for her; she coarsens her voice by singing to the mountains, trying to match nature’s din, until her vocal chords bleed. Later, when Yu-bong confesses his crime to her, Song-hwa admits that she had suspected all along, but was grateful to him for helping her refine her p’ansori, which had earned her acclaim throughout the Chŏlla provinces. Under another pretext, Tong-ho searches for and eventually finds his sister, and accompanies her on the ch’anggo for old times’ sake. Apart from Sŏp’yŏnje’s narrative arc and aesthetic charms, the story captures the fragility of livelihoods devoted to traditional native arts at a time when Korea was being deluged with modern media culture from abroad. Im depicts a historical moment when p’ansori (standing in here for other traditional arts and “provincial aesthetics”) had yet to enjoy government patronage as an intangible cultural asset, having instead been abandoned to the wolves of the capricious market for amusements. The film documents the “transition from an organic popular culture to an inorganic commodity,” Chungmoo Choi writes, “from use value to exchange value.” Moreover, Choi adds, Sŏp’yŏnje articulates Koreans’ incommensurable experience of post-coloniality.  The film attempts to sublimate the national han by recuperating a precolonial, aesthetic means of communication, p’ansori, as it highlights the han of a victimized woman who bears the burden of reclaiming national identity. In other words, the victimized woman is given the role of the redeemer of the nation. 28

While Im makes no obvious call for state intervention to preserve p’ansori, he does valorize the heroic artist single-mindedly committed to her art despite widespread apathy among trend-chasing Koreans. In effect, he renders Song-hwa as an unofficial “living national treasure” (although I suspect he has a parallel interest in promoting the uniqueness of Chŏlla

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regional culture). Her artistic heroism clearly moved thousands of Korean moviegoers, among whom the movie sparked new interest in the songs of their forebears. It has been suggested that this perceived Korean devotion to cultural tradition is one aspect that many consumers throughout East and Southeast Asia find charming in Korean cultural products.29 The television dramas, pop songs, and movies borne overseas by the K-Wave supposedly reflect a modern yet still wholesome Asian-ness, a contemporary embodiment of the formulae articulated by nineteenth-century reformers Wei Yuan (1794– 1856) and Zhang Zhidong (1837–1909) of China, and Sakuma Shōzan (1811–64) and Yoshikawa Tadayasu (1824–84) of Japan. Wei and Zhang recommended “Chinese learning for fundamental principles, Western learning for practical application” (Zhōngxué wéi tıˇ, xīxué wéi yòng, abbreviated as tĭ-yòng), while Sakuma and Yoshikawa advocated “Japanese ethics, Western technology” (tōyō no dōtoku seiyō no gakugei) and “Japanese spirit, Western techniques” (wakon yōsai), respectively; all four believed modern technology could be imported into East Asia without disrupting its fundamental values and virtues. Their prescience remains debatable. However, at least some K-Wavers seem to think the Koreans have figured it out. A final word. Some former Asian colonies adorn their public spaces with nostalgic mementos of colonialism. City planners in Jakarta have embraced the “neocolonial” Indies style, a slight modification of the architectural styles of Dutch Batavia. Abidin Kusno identifies two objectives of this neocolonization of Indonesian architecture: to efface memories of the May 1998 massacre and sexual violence against Chinese Indonesians; and to attract tourists seeking the elegant ambience of the colonial era. 30 In their pursuit of the latter agenda, urban planners no doubt drew inspiration from nearby Singapore, where public reminders of British colonial rule and effigies of Sir Thomas Stamford Raffles are ubiquitous. Tourists learn that elegance and quaint refinement, not tyranny or nationalist indignation, were the hallmarks of British Singapore. Despite having resisted Dutch rule vigorously, Indonesians may have hoped to cash in on colonial nostalgia. Or, after the tumult since 1998, perhaps Indonesians have started to yearn for the order colonialism practically guaranteed. The overthrow of Suharto, the atrocities committed against ethnic Chinese, the genocidal orgy in East Timor, the Aceh separatist movement, the bombings of the Bali nightclub and the Jakarta Marriott, and the increasingly alarming activities of Muslim terrorists aligned with al Qaeda may have cast colonial history in a brighter light.

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f igu r e 18. Cap from the dome of the former Government-General headquarters, Independence Hall of Korea, Ch’ŏnan, Republic of Korea, June 2003. Photograph by the author.

Such a renaissance of “colonial elegance” as expressed in spatial and architectural design would be unthinkable in either Korean state. The granite GGC headquarters stood in Seoul for fifty years after liberation only because its utility as office and museum space was indisputable in an impoverished former colony. The building’s eventual expendability was indicative of a change of fortunes. As demolition began in 1995, the spire was lopped off its mighty dome in a metaphorical decapitation. Recalling the grisly customs of ancestral warriors, the Koreans hauled the building’s remnants to the IHK grounds in Ch’ŏnan, where they scattered its “bones” and put its once proud “head” on display. In East Asian military tradition, taking heads in battle and displaying them in public were meaningful rituals for humiliating the dead and keeping their spirits in turbulent limbo, as well as impressing upon witnesses the perils and costs of unwise ventures.

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Notes

i n t roduc t ion 1. Nikkan yūjōnen, http://www.jkcf.or.jp. 2. Indigenous People’s Issues Today, http://indigenousissuestoday.blogspot.com/ 2009/01/cultural-genocide-call-for-papers-for.html. David Brudnoy expresses this viewpoint: “Japan did not regard Koreans as the Nazis regarded Jews, as a people to be destroyed root and branch. It was not genocide that Japan attempted. Rather, she wanted to eradicate Korean culture, the complex of distinctive attainments, beliefs and traditions, the character or essence of the ethnic family that is Korea. After their culture, their ‘Koreanness,’ had been expunged, they would be reborn on a higher plane, as Japanese. . . . ” (“Japan’s Experiment,” 193). 3. Jordan Sand uses this phrase in his review of Stefan Tanaka’s New Times in Modern Japan in Journal of Japanese Studies 32.1 (Winter 2006): 155–59. 4. Tamara L. Hunt, “Introduction,” in Hunt and Lessard, Women, 3. 5. Thomas, Colonialism’s Culture, 2–3, 5, 15, 17, 26. 6. Schmid, “Colonialism,” 951–53, 958; cf. Cohn, Colonialism, 4. 7. Communications to the Editor, Journal of Asian Studies 60.3 (Aug. 2001): 813–16. 8. See the video Pongsan Masked Dance Drama from Korea, and Cultural Properties Administration, Korean Intangible Cultural Properties, vol. 1, 30–33. Pongsan t’alch’um is designated as Important Intangible Cultural Property #17 by the ROK government. 9. Cho, “General Nature,” 20; Pihl, Korean Singer, 6. Im Kwŏn-T’aek earned rave reviews for his 2000 movie version of Chunhyang, which is narrated by a p’ansori kwangdae (New Yorker Video: A1–21256). See also Purcell and Atkins, “Korean P’ansori and the Blues” for a comparative musicological and literary analysis of how these two art forms communicated and soothed lamentation.

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10. Shin, Peasant Protest, 137; cf. Scott, Weapons of the Weak, xvi. 11. Cho Dong-il, “Oral Literature and the Growth of Popular Consciousness,” in Chun, Folk Culture, 43–57; and Nahm, “Themes.” See Atkins, “Dual Career,” for a fuller treatment of the rebellious aspects of “Arirang.” 12. Translated in Cho, “Oral Literature,” 49. 13. Nahm, “Themes,” 226. 14. See Duus, Abacus, 25. Schmid begs to differ (“Colonialism,” 960–77).

chapter 1 1. Chicago Daily Tribune (hereafter CDT) Aug. 22, 1910: 5; CDT Aug. 25, 1910: 2; New York Times (hereafter NYT) Aug. 22, 1910: 3; CDT, Aug. 27, 1910: 1; NYT, Aug. 23, 1910: 4. Alexis Dudden opens her book with an equally dramatic statement: “In the summer of 1907, the world declared Korea illegal.” Referring to the shunning of Korean delegates to the Second International Conference on Peace at The Hague, she writes, “The Koreans’ attempt to protest—to tell their story— interfered with the world order that the delegates sought to legitimate” (Japan’s Colonization, 7–8). 2. NYT Aug. 22, 1910: 3. 3. “Japan and Korea,” NYT Aug. 26, 1910: 6. 4. “Declares Koreans are Fighting Japan,” NYT Aug. 26, 1910: 4. 5. See for instance Bang, “Japan’s Colonial Education,” 62; Kang, Nihon ni yoru Chōsen shihai, 18; Pratt, Everlasting Flower, 213. 6. Chamberlain, Kojiki (XCVIII), 281–83; Aston, Nihongi, vol. 1 (IX.12), 232. See also Schmid, Korea, 147–48. 7. Aston, Nihongi, vol. 2 (XIX.42–61), 72–89. 8. Toyotomi Hideyoshi, letter to Chosŏn king Sŏnjo, Dec. 3, 1590, translated in de Bary et al., Sources, vol. 1, 466–67. 9. See Kim, Women, 104–07; Hawley, Imjin, 564–65; Lee, Record, 37–54. 10. See Toby, State, 44, 56, 64–83, and “Carnival,” 415, 421–23; Hawley, Imjin, 573–76. 11. Robinson, Korea’s Twentieth-Century, 14–15. 12. Saigō Takamori, letter to Itagaki Taisuke, Aug. 17, 1873, translated in de Bary et al., Sources, vol. 2, pt. 2, 19–20; Ravina, Last Samurai, 184–85; Duus, Abacus, 31–43. 13. Duus, Abacus, 43–49. 14. Anonymous [presumed to be Fukuzawa Yukichi], “Datsu-a ron,” Jiji shinpō March 16, 1885, translated and reprinted in Lu, Japan, 351–53. 15. On Fukuzawa’s involvement, see Cook, Korea’s 1884 Incident, 47–48, 125– 26, 224; Hwang, Korean Reform, 88–90, 99–141. 16. Fukuda Hideko, Warawa no hanshōgai (1904), translated in Hane, Reflections, 37. Lone, Japan’s First, 16, argues that the Li-Hō agreement was the pretext for Japan to “foment war” with China. 17. Mark Peattie, “Introduction,” in Myers and Peattie, Japanese Colonial Empire, 15; see also Matsushita, Meiji no guntai, 81. The phrase in Japanese: “Chōsen hantō wa Nihon rettō no wakibara ni tsuki tsukerareta dagā (tantō) dearu.” For more on Meckel’s influence on the Japanese military, see Miyake

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Setsurei, Ijin no ato (Tokyo: Heigo Shuppansha, 1910), 48–51; Shukuri, Mekkeru shōsa; and Presseisen, Before Aggression, esp. 106–25, 135–37. 18. Duus, Abacus, 86–87. 19. See Ch’oe et al., Sources, 262–72; Lone, Japan’s First, 25–26. 20. For the Kabo reform agenda, see Ch’oe et al., Sources, 272–76. For the SinoJapanese war, see Lone, Japan’s First, 28, 49, 130–35; and Paine, Sino-Japanese War, 3–11, 295–99. 21. This account is based on a Japanese consular report recently discovered by Seoul National University historian Yi T’ae-jin, which states that Myŏngsŏng was not murdered in her chambers but outside in public view. Yoo Seok-jae, “Japanese Document Sheds Light on Korean Queen’s Murder,” Digital Chosun ilbo Jan. 12, 2005, http://english.chosun.com/w21data/html/news/200501/200501120024.html. Some accounts state that Myŏngsŏng was stripped naked and sexually assaulted before she was killed, but this remains unconfirmed. 22. “Chōsen Keijō no dai henran,” Yomiuri shinbun (hereafter YS) Oct. 9, 1895: 5; “Fukō naru hantō,” YS Oct. 10, 1895: 2; “Anti-Reform Rioters in Corea,” NYT Oct. 9, 1895: 1; “Murder of Corea’s Queen,” NYT, Oct. 13, 1895: 1; “Japan’s Minister Arrested,” NYT Oct. 27, 1895: 1. See also Duus, Abacus, 108–12; and Schmid, Korea, 28. Dr. Kawano Tatsumi, the grandson of the lead assassin, traveled to South Korea in May 2005 to offer tearful apologies for the queen’s murder. 23. Schmid, Korea, 72–78; Duus, Abacus, 128. The name “Great Han” evoked the Samhan confederacies (Mahan, Pyŏnhan, and Chinhan, 108–57 b.c.e.) that emerged after the fall of the northern Kochosŏn kingdom. It was customary for states to legitimate themselves by taking the names of prior polities; in this case, it made sense for Great Han to succeed Chosŏn, as the Samhan had followed Old Chosŏn. 24. “Japan Disturbs Russia,” NYT April 21, 1895: 3; “Protests Against Japan: Russia, France, and Germany Object to Cession of Territory,” NYT April 25, 1895: 5; “The Powers and Japan,” NYT April 25, 1895: 4; “Japan Yields to Russia,” NYT May 7, 1895: 1; “Why Japan Has Yielded,” NYT May 14, 1895: 5. See also Lone, Japan’s First, 175–77; Duus, Abacus, 101–03; Paine, Sino-Japanese War, 288–90. 25. See for example Steinberg et al., Russo-Japanese War, esp. chapters by Steven Marks and Paul Rodell; Gandhi, Essential Gandhi, 70–71, 105; and Michael Laffan, “The Mustafa and the Mikado: A Francophile Egyptian’s Turn to Meiji Japan,” Japanese Studies 19.3 (Dec. 1999): 269–86. 26. “The Pity of It,” NYT May 31, 1905: 8. 27. The Treaty of Portsmouth, http://www.portsmouthpeacetreaty.com/. 28. “Will Ask Roosevelt to Protect Koreans,” NYT Aug. 4, 1905: 2; “Koreans See the President,” NYT Aug. 5, 1905: 2; “The Koreans’ Appeal,” NYT Aug. 18, 1905: 2; 29. “Text of the Treaty Signed by the Emperor of Japan and the Czar of Russia,” NYT Oct. 17, 1905: 6; “Roosevelt Backed Korea Annexation,” NYT Feb. 21, 1932: 9. Kim Ki-Jung contends that the protectorate treaty (Ŭlsa choyak) “was a legally invalid agreement, since the Korean emperor never officially authorized the proceedings of the negotiation. Moreover, there was no ratification process in the diplomatic settlement” (“Road,” 61–62). 30. “Agreement Between Japan and Korea, signed November 17, 1905, by which

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Japan Assumed Charge of the Foreign Relations of Korea,” Appendix E, RGC, Annual Report (1907), 107–08. Kim, “Characteristics,” 28–32, describes the legal responsibilities and authority of the Resident-General. 31. RGC, Annual Report (1907), 1–4. 32. “Declaration of the Japanese Government, November 22, 1905,” Appendix F, RGC, Annual Report (1907), 109. 33. Chang Chiyŏn, “We Wail Today,” Hwangsŏng sinmum Nov. 20, 1905, translated in Ch’oe et al., Sources, 312–13. 34. Schmid, “Colonialism,” 969–70. Chang’s relatively moderate, “selfstrengthening” approach is evident in his April 2, 1906 manifesto, translated in Ch’oe et al., Sources, 306. 35. GGC, Annual Report (1910–11), 10; Duus, Abacus, 235–37. 36. RGC, Annual Report (1908–09), 1. 37. “Korea Makes Protest,” NYT June 30, 1907: C4. 38. “Korean Emperor May Go,” NYT July 6, 1907: 2; “The Emperor of Korea,” NYT July 20, 1907, 6; Duus, Abacus, 207–11; Cumings, Korea’s Place, 142–45; and Dudden, Japan’s Colonization, 7–13 . Missionary Homer Hulbert, an American advocate for Korea at The Hague, described Sunjong as “a man of good education and a disposition to be fair and honest for the material well-being of his people, but somewhat lacking in qualifications of resoluteness and executive ability” (“Has No Friends in Europe: Deposed Ruler Well Meaning, but Weak—New Ruler No Improvement,” NYT July 20, 1907: 2). 39. Kim, “Politics and Pageantry,” 837, 850; GGC, Annual Report (1910–11), 9–11. Yi Wan-yong (1858–1926) has been vilified as one of the five Ŭlsa Traitors who signed the Protectorate Treaty despite Kojong’s objections; he also signed the Annexation treaty in defiance of Sunjong. On the legality of the annexation, see Dudden, Japan’s Colonization, 3–4, 120. 40. YS, Aug. 23, 1910: 2; GGC, Annual Report (1910–11), 1; Rhee, Doomed Empire, 40–41. 41. Conroy, Japanese Seizure, 8, 492–96; Brudnoy, “Japan’s Experiment,” 161– 64; Duus, Abacus, 3, 49, 241, 425; Kim, “Road,” 63–65. 42. Peattie, “Introduction,” in Myers and Peattie, Japanese Colonial Empire, 18; Robinson, Korea’s Twentieth-Century, 34. 43. Peattie, “Introduction,” in Myers and Peattie, Japanese Colonial Empire, 26–27; Lee, Japan and Korea, 5; Kim, “Characteristics,” 33–44; Robinson, Korea’s Twentieth-Century, 37–38. See also Michael Robinson, “Colonial Publication Policy and the Korean Nationalist Movement,” in Myers and Peattie, Japanese Colonial Empire, 323. 44. GGC, Results, 10. 45. GGC, Results, 64–65. 46. Quoted in Kang, Black Umbrella, 9–11. See also Brudnoy, “Japan’s Experiment,” 166. 47. GGC, Annual Report (1916–17), xii–xiii. 48. E. S. Bisbee, “Korea Appeals to Wilson for Freedom,” NYT Jan. 26, 1919: 70; President Wilson’s Message to Congress, January 8, 1918, Records of the United States Senate, Record Group 46, http://www.ourdocuments.gov/doc.php?doc=62 &page=transcript. See Manela, Wilsonian Moment, Chapters 6 and 10. Frank

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Baldwin’s 1969 dissertation, “March First Movement,” remains the most in-depth and oft-cited English-language study of this pivotal historical moment. 49. “Korea Asks Big Four for Full Sovereignty,” NYT May 13, 1919: 3; Korean Congress in the U.S., “An Appeal to America,” April 14–16, 1919, in Ch’oe et al., Sources, 341–43; Henry Chung, Treaties and Conventions Between Corea and Other Powers (New York: H. S. Nichols, 1919); “Japanese Arrest Americans in Korea,” NYT April 14, 1919: 1. 50. “Ishii Looks to End Race Prejudice,” NYT March 15, 1919: 8; Charles A. Selden, “Makino Says Japan will Keep Promises,” NYT May 1, 1919: 1–2. See Burkman, Japan and the League, 80–86. 51. See for instance Kim, Chōsen bunka, 236, 242; McKenzie, Korea’s Fight, 251–52. 52. Ku Dae-yeol states that there were six demonstrations on March 1, twentyone on March 6, and an average of fifteen a day until the end of the month. By March 12, most demonstrations in the capital had ended (Korea, 72). 53. “Missionary Charges Cruelty in Korea,” NYT March 19, 1919: 3; see also “Uncensored Account of Korea’s Revolt,” NYT April 23, 1919: 21. 54. Son Pyŏnghŭi and others, “Declaration of Independence,” in Ch’oe et al., Sources, 336–39; “Koreans Declare for Independence,” NYT March 13, 1919: 3; McKenzie, Korea’s Fight, 5; and Osgood, Koreans, 286. “My ambition is no less than to convert the British people through non-violence,” Gandhi wrote, “and thus make them see the wrong they have done to India.” “The world is weary of hate. . . . Let it be the privilege of India to turn a new leaf and set a lesson to the world” (quoted in Gandhi Essential, 226, 169). 55. “Japanese Troops Rushing to Korea,” NYT April 12, 1919: 2; Ku, Korea, 77. 56. Lee, New History, 344; Robinson, Korea’s Twentieth-Century, 48; Kang, Christ and Caesar, 53–54; Kang, Black Umbrella, 17, Pak quoted on 21. 57. Kim, Women, 260–61. 58. Exhibit Hall #3, Japanese Aggression, IHK, June 13, 2003. 59. “Says Korea Needs Japan: Missionary Finds People Unfit for SelfGovernment,” NYT March 20, 1919: 12. 60. Adolph Klauber, “Japan’s Rule in Korea,” NYT Saturday Review of Books, Aug. 8, 1908: BR433. 61. McKenzie, Korea’s Fight, 247–48. 62. Chūō kōron June 1926, quoted in Kang, Nihon ni yoru Chōsen shihai, 78; and Townsend, Yanaihara, 5, 136–37. 63. Yanagi Muneyoshi, “Chōsenjin o omou,” YS May 20–24, 1919: 7; reprinted in Nihon Mingei Kyōkai, Yanagi Muneyoshi senshū IV, 1–17 (quotes from 14–15, 2–4, 16, 12–13). An abridged version appeared in English translation in The Japan Advertiser Aug. 31, 1919, and in Korean in Tong’a ilbo April 12–15, 1920. See also Brandt, Kingdom, 21–22; and Kang, Nihon ni yoru Chōsen shihai, 80–83. 64. Quoted in McKenzie, Korea’s Fight, 263. 65. Translated in Devine, “Japanese Rule,” 529–30, 536–37, 538. 66. “Koreans Hurl Bomb at New Governor,” NYT Sept. 4, 1919: 6. 67. GGC, New Administration, 3; see also GGC, Annual Report (1918–21), i, 6. 68. GGC, New Administration, 6–8, 12, 19–30, 55–58, 67, 69–70; GGC, Manual, 73–122.

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69. Lee, New History, 346; Cumings, Korea’s Place, 147; Brudnoy, “Japan’s Experiment,” 168, 174, 179; Kang, Religion, 74. 70. Robinson, Korea’s Twentieth-Century, 49–52. See also Brudnoy, “Japan’s Experiment,” 172–74; Ku, Korea, 83; Osgood, Koreans, 293–94; and Robinson, “Colonial Publication,” in Myers and Peattie, Japanese Colonial Empire, 313–14, 331–32. 71. See Robinson, Cultural Nationalism, esp. Chapter 3, and Korea’s TwentiethCentury, 61–68; Ch’oe et al., Sources, Chapter 33; and Wells, “Devil and the Deep.” 72. Morris-Suzuki, “Invention,” 762. 73. Morris-Suzuki, “Invention,” 763; Silverberg, Erotic, 139; Sand, House and Home, 194–98, 203, 410 n1; and Harootunian, Overcome, 15–16, 57–58, 98–99. Harootunian’s quote is cited in Sand, House and Home, 204, from a paper entitled “Overcome by Modernity,” presented at Georgetown University, April 3, 2000. Chapters 6, 7, 9, and 10 of Sand’s book go into great detail about bunka seikatsu as a “narrowly bourgeois” concept. 74. Quoted in “Saito Promises Reforms in Korea,” NYT Sept. 5, 1919: 3. 75. The Central Council was constituted soon after annexation, but its size and advisory role were modestly expanded after 1920. 76. See Schmid, Korea, esp. Chapters 2, 4, and 5; Robinson, Korea’s TwentiethCentury, 26–32, 61–62 77. Robinson, Korea’s Twentieth-Century, 43. 78. “Kanpei shiki kankō no robo ni senjin bakudan o nagezu,” YS Jan. 8, 1932: 1; “Hirohito Will Thank Gods for His Escape,” NYT Jan. 13, 1932: 18; “Killings Frequent in Japan in 2 Years,” NYT May 16, 1932: 3. Shirakawa was in command of the Shanghai Expeditionary Army during the brief war between Republican Chinese and Imperial Japanese forces (January 28-March 3, 1932). Admiral Nomura Kichisaburō (1877–1964, ambassador to the United States at the time of the Pearl Harbor attack), lost his right eye, and Japan’s minister in Shanghai Shigemitsu Mamoru (1881–1957, who would sign the treaty of surrender aboard the U.S.S. Missouri on September 2, 1945), lost his left leg in Yun’s assault. 79. Duara, Sovereignty, 51–53, 78–79, 246–47. See also Young, Japan’s Total Empire, Chapter 2; and Burkman, Japan and the League, Chapter 7. 80. GGC, Annual Report (1935–36), 174; Annual Report (1936–37), 177. 81. Kamishibai refers to a form of illustrated storytelling for children that was popular in Japan at the time. Usually it was performed by a narrator who rode a bicycle with a wooden box on the back. S/he would stop at street corners, show a set of pictures framed in the box, read the story text on the back sides of the pictures, and sell candy to her/his audience. The use of kamishibai for wartime propaganda was by no means limited to Korea. For my undergraduate honors thesis at the University of Arkansas (1989), I analyzed several sets of kamishibai from the 1940s (archived at the International Institute for Children’s Literature in Ōsaka) that told stories about mothers sending their only sons off to war, or Burmese children assisting Japanese soldiers in their fight against the British. Some sets prepared children for civil defense duties, showing them how to build bomb shelters and put out fires ignited by Allied air raids. Nihon Kyōiku Kamishibai Kyōkai, Bōkū shidō gageki 1: shōidan (Tokyo: Dai Nihon Gageki Kabushiki Kaisha, 1941);

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Dai Nihon Bōkū Kyōkai, Bōkūgo (Dai Nihon Gageki Kabushiki Kaisha, n.d.); Kitajima Eisaku and Koyano Hanji, Amakudaru shinpei (Tokyo: Nihon Kyōiku Gageki Kabushiki Kaisha, 1944); Yanai Takao, Takei Shōhei, and Koyano Hanji, Aiki minami e tobu (Tokyo: Nihon Kyōiku Gageki Kabushiki Kaisha, 1944); and Nihon Kyōiku Kamishibai Kyōkai, Biruma shōnen to sensha (Tokyo: Dai Nihon Gageki Kabushiki Kaisha, 1944). 82. Furuta Sai, “Chōsen ni okeru kamishibai no jissai,” Chōsen 276 (May 1938): 94–99. 83. Eckert et al., Korea, 322–23. 84. Tanaka, Japan’s Comfort Women, 37–44; Jager, Narratives, 69. There is broad disagreement on the total numbers of women involved in the military sex system, with figures in the range of 50,000–300,000, but most scholars agree that Koreans made up the majority (50–80 percent) of “comfort women.” 85. The offending picture appears in Tong-a ilbo Aug. 13, 1936: 2. See Leni Riefenstahl’s Olympia for footage of Son’s victory and the medal ceremony (“Part 1: Festival of the Nations,” 1:40:19–1:52:41). Shutdown of the Tong-a ilbo was reported in “Kyō teirei kakugi,” YS Sept. 5, 1936: 1. 86. GGC, Annual Report (1936–37), 177; “Olympics’ High Point,” NYT Aug. 16, 1936: E8; “Japanese Smashes Olympic Marathon Record,” CDT Aug. 10, 1936: 19– 20. Both runners attended colleges in Japan. Son, however, always signed his name in Korean and referred to his country of origin as Korea. For profiles see http://www .olympic.org/en/content/Olympic-Athletes/. 87. “Naichi shiki no shi o nanoru,” Keijō nippō Nov. 9, 1939: 1; Mizuno, Sōshi kaimei, 28–35, 45–46, 50–51, 104; Chou, “The Kōminka Movement in Taiwan and Korea: Comparisons and Interpretations,” in Duus et al., Japanese Wartime Empire, 58–59; and Robinson, Korea’s Twentieth-Century, 95–96. 88. Pak and Kim quoted in Kang, Black Umbrella, 117–119. Kang also provides a table showing common names that Koreans adopted that enabled them to keep some sense of heritage (120–22). Richard Kim’s semi-autobiographical novel Lost Names: Scenes from a Korean Boyhood (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998) expresses the trauma of changing one’s clan name in a Confucian society, in which the single most important filial duty is to perpetuate the lineage. See also Lee, Japan and Korea, 9; Kang, Nihon ni yoru Chōsen shihai, 149. 89. Mizuno, Sōshi kaimei, 116, 131. 90. GGC, Annual Report (1934–35), 98–99; Hardacre, Shintō, 37–39, 95–96; Lee, Japan and Korea, 10; and Kang, Christ and Caesar, 62–69. 91. Kang, Nihon ni yoru Chōsen shihai, 147; Chou, “Kōminka Movement,” 42–43; Lee, Japan and Korea, 8; Kang, Black Umbrella, 115. 92. Otto D. Tolischus, “Japanese Applying Terror as Policy,” NYT Aug. 12, 1942: 4; Lee, Japan and Korea, 8–9; Robinson, Korea’s Twentieth-Century, 95. 93. Kwang Roi-sok, “Kokugo fukyū no shin dankai,” Chōsen Oct. 1942: 36–43. 94. Robinson, “Broadcasting,” in Shin and Robinson, Colonial Modernity, 389n6; see also Kim, Women, 243–66; and Yoo, Politics of Gender, 3–4, 58–94. 95. Stueck, Korean War, 46, and Rethinking, 1. 96. Quoted in Kang, Black Umbrella, 143. 97. See Cumings, Origins, vol. 1, esp. Chapters 1–3; Armstrong, North Korean, esp. Chapters 2 and 3; Stueck, Rethinking, Chapter 1; and Lee, Partition, esp. Part 2.

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98. See Ch’oe, “Outline,” 16–20, 22–24. 99. For thoroughgoing critiques of minjok sahak, see the introduction to Shin and Robinson, Colonial Modernity; Pai, Constructing, esp. Chapters 1 and 7; and Lee, Making of Minjung, Chapters 1 and 2. 100. See for instance: Eckert, Offspring; Shin, Peasant Protest; McNamara, Colonial Origins; Shin and Robinson, Colonial Modernity; Matsumoto, Chōsen nōson; Mizuno, Sōshi kaimei; and Yoo, Politics of Gender. 101. One example of such work is by the Japan-Korea Women’s Committee on Compiling Teaching Materials for Collaborative History (Nikkan “josei” kyōdō rekishi kyōzai hensan iinkai), Jendā no shiten kara miru Nikkan kindaishi (Tokyo: Nashinokisha, 2005). 102. Chōsenshi Henshūkai, Chōsenshi (Keijō CSF, 1932–40). 103. Gi-Wook Shin and Do-Hyun Han, “Colonial Corporatism: The Rural Revitalization Campaign, 1932–1940,” in Shin and Robinson, Colonial Modernity, 71, 77, 87–88. 104. James Sheehan, “How History Can Be a Moral Science,” Perspectives October 2005, http://www.historians.org/Perspectives/Issues/2005/0510/0510pre1 .cfm.

chapter 2 1. Clifford, Predicament, 112. 2. Rives, “Introduction,” in Tacitus, Germania, 11–21, 51. 3. Tacitus, Germania, 83, 85. See also Caesar, Conquest, 29–38. 4. Sima Qian, Shiji, 110, “The Account of the Xiongnu,” in Records, 129–30. 5. Thackston, Baburnama, 350–52. 6. Young, Postcolonialism, 75. 7. Las Casas, Short Account, 6; Kamen, Empire, 97, 126–26. 8. Comaroff and Comaroff, Of Revelation and Revolution, 22. 9. Frederick Cooper and Ann Laura Stoler, “Between Metropole and Colony: Rethinking a Research Agenda,” in Cooper and Stoler, Tensions, 1. 10. Hunt and Lessard, Women, 1. 11. Kearney, Reconceptualizing, 4. See also Morris-Suzuki, Re-inventing Japan, 28–34. 12. Service, Century, 299; Carneiro, Evolutionism, 3, 287. See also Thomas, Out of Time, 7. 13. Patrick Wolfe, “White Man’s Flour: The Politics and Poetics of Anthropological Discovery,” in Pels and Salemink, Colonial Subjects, 226; cf. Fabian, Time, 17, 25. 14. Edward Evan Evans-Pritchard’s text Social Anthropology (London: Cohen & West, 1951) asserted unequivocally that the “social anthropologist studies primitive societies directly” (11). See also Asad, Anthropology, 11–12; Fabian, Time, 1, 149; Lutz and Collins, Reading, 89–90; Wolfe, “White Man’s Flour,” 227; and Kearney, Reconceptualizing, 4. 15. Fabian, Time, 17. 16. Jacobson, Barbarian Virtues, 3–4. 17. Jacobson, Barbarian Virtues, 106, 140. See also Berkhofer, White Man’s

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Indian, 72, 76; Lears, No Place, 4–5; George W. Stocking, Jr., “The Ethnographic Sensibility of the 1920s and the Dualism of the Anthropological Tradition,” in Stocking, Romantic Motives, 214; and Kurasawa, Ethnological, ix-xi. 18. See Barkan and Bush, Prehistories, 7; Bernardin et al., Trading Gazes, 2; and Julia E. Liss, “Patterns of Strangeness: Franz Boas, Modernism, and the Origins of Anthropology,” in Barkan and Bush, Prehistories, 130. 19. James Clifford, “On Ethnographic Allegory,” in Clifford and Marcus, Writing Culture, 112–13; Stocking, “Ethnographic Sensibility,” in Stocking, Romantic Motives, 210, 217. 20. It is probably imprudent to credit one person with formulating nissen dōsoron, but it is usually associated with ethno-historian Shiratori Kurakichi (1865–1942), who outlined its tenets in his preface to Tsuda, Chōsen rekishi chiri, 1–6. See also Hatada, Nihonjin, 36–40; Ch’oe, “Outline,” 17–18; Pai, Constructing, 28, 39; Ryang, “Japanese Travelers’ Accounts,” 138; Shim, “New Understanding,” 271; and Pai, “Shokuminchi Chōsen,” 97–98. Ethnological typographies of the “five races of Manchukuo” usually lumped Japanese and Koreans together as one racial unit (DuBois, “Local Religion,” 63n). Duara argues that study of the Oroqen peoples of Manchuria was motivated by similar desires for self-discovery: “The Oroqen were no longer primitive in the manner of an anachronism to be done away with; rather, they represented a valued part of our lost selves, to be protected and preserved. The technique grants us the sovereign’s charge to protect and preserve” (Sovereignty, 187–88). 21. Cohn, Colonialism, 78; Thomas, Out of Time, 37, 49; and Gouda, Dutch Culture, 119–25. 22. Indeed, Hyung Il Pai argues, ethnologists have yet to propose a scientifically validated alternative to the basic premises of nissen dōsoron, despite withering attacks from Korean nationalist historians and assertions of Korean racial homogeneity (tan’il minjok) (Pai, Constructing, 7, 41, 55). 23. Fabian, Time, 25. 24. Fukuzawa Yukichi, Bunmei ron no gairyaku (Tokyo: n.p., 1875), 21 (digital version accessed at http://kindai.ndl.go.jp/). 25. Japanese ethnographies of Korea were not entirely generated from direct fieldwork experiences, since they frequently cited European and American accounts of Korea, as well. 26. See Harootunian, Overcome, esp. Chapters 2 and 5. 27. Jordan Sand uses this phrase in his review of Stefan Tanaka’s New Times in Modern Japan in Journal of Japanese Studies 32.1 (Winter 2006): 155–59. 28. Jaarsma and Rohat, Ethnographic Artifacts, 3–4; and Kuwayama, Native Anthropology, 113. See also Said, Orientalism, 3, 40; Clifford, Predicament, 112; Aunger, Reflexive, 2–3. 29. Asad, Anthropology, 17. 30. Asad, Anthropology, 18; Wendy James, “The Anthropologist as Reluctant Imperialist,” in Asad, Anthropology, 41–69. 31. Foucault, Discipline. 32. Dirks, Colonialism and Culture, 3. The colonial histories of both anthropology and ethnomusicology are vibrant fields. See for instance Clifford, Predicament; Farrell, Indian Music; Valdés, “Musical Ethnography”; Gooding, “‘We Come

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to You as the Dead’ ”; Pels and Salemink, Colonial Subjects; Van Bremen and Shimizu, Anthropology; and Agawu, Representing African Music. 33. Wolf, Pathways, 70; Nakao, “Imperial Past,” 20. 34. Akitoshi Shimizu, “Colonialism and the Development of Modern Anthropology in Japan,” in van Bremen and Shimizu, Anthropology, 134. 35. Shimizu and van Bremen, Wartime 2. 36. Nakao, “Imperial Past,” 19–20; Japanese Society of Cultural Anthropology home page, http://wwwsoc.nii.ac.jp/jasca/. 37. See Berry, Japan in Print, 15; Toby, “Carnival,” 445–56; Toby, “Gaikō”; Walker, Conquest, 39–40; and Smits, Visions, 16–20. 38. Toby, “Imagining,” 19. 39. Wong, “Entanglements,” 286, 287; Nakao, “Imperial,” 21. 40. Nakao, “Imperial,” 22. 41. Hudson, Ruins, 35; Shimizu, “Colonialism,” 126, 129; Wong, “Entanglements,” 285. 42. Hudson, Ruins, 36–37. 43. Quoted in Kawada, Origin, 113; See also Harootunian, Overcome, 293; Akitoshi Shimizu, “Anthropology and the Wartime Situation of the 1930s and 1940s: Masao Oka, Yoshitarō Hirano, Eiichirō Ishida and Their Negotiations with the Situation,” in Shimizu and van Bremen, Wartime, 97; Duara, Sovereignty, 211– 13; and DuBois, “Local Religion,” 58–59. 44. Pai, “Politics,” 28–29. 45. H.I.J.M’s Residency General of Chōsen (hereafter RGC), The Second Annual Report on Reforms and Progress in Korea (1908–9) (Seoul, Dec. 1909), 35–36. 46. GGC, Annual Report (Dec. 1914), 19. One of the first of these reports was CSF, Kanshū chōsa hōkokusho (1912), which contained data on customary, commercial, and family law accumulated by the Residency-General from May 1908 to September 1910. 47. “Instruction to Commanders of Gendarmerie Corps and Chiefs of Provincial Police Departments,” July 5, 1911, reprinted in GGC, Results, 53. 48. GGC, Annual Report (Dec. 1910), 2, 137. 49. RGC, Annual Report, (Dec. 1909), 176–77. 50. GGC, Annual Report (Dec. 1911), 59. 51. GGC, Annual Report (Dec. 1914), 1. 52. Korean guerilla resistance to Japanese suzerainty was roughly contemporaneous with other major colonial conflicts: the Herero and Nama Wars in Namibia (1904–08); the Philippine-American War (1899–1902); the Anglo-Boer War (1899– 1902); and the Balinese puputan (“fight to the finish”) against Dutch forces (1906–08). 53. GGC, Annual Report (July 1918), xii. 54. “Chōsen kenkyūkai sōsetsu shushisho,” in Aoyanagi, Senjin, back matter. 55. See Chōsen Chūsetsu Kenpeitai Shireibu, Chōsen shakai kō; Knez and Swanson, Selected, 22, 34, 37, 46, 61, 62, 73, 77; Sakurai, Chōsen kenkyū bunken, 356–61; Janelli, “Origins,” 28–29; Walraven, “Natives,” 222–23; and Aoyangi, Senjin. The Imjin War refers to Toyotomi Hideyoshi’s invasions of Korea (1592–98). 56. Walraven, “Natives,” 221–22. 57. Imamura Tomo, “Jo,” in Naraki, Chōsen no meishin, 2–3.

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58. Imamura, Chōsen fūzoku shū, 5. Sakurai, Chōsen kenkyū bunken, 357, provides an annotation for Imamura’s book. 59. Imamura, Chōsen fūzoku shū, 1–3. 60. Imamura, Chōsen fūzoku shū, 4–16. 61. Imamura, Chōsen fūzoku shū, 16–17. 62. GGC, New Administration, 17–18. Grajdanzev, Modern Korea, insisted that “the Central Council was consulted mainly on matters of customs and beliefs, and no measures of importance were referred to it” (47). 63. GGC, New Administration, 70 (emphasis added). Pak, “Chosŏn ch’ŏngdokpu,” provides an overview of the Central Council’s survey program. 64. Yi, Kyū kanshū chōsa: Zenhoku kannai, and Kyū kanshū chōsa: Heinan chihō. 65. Terasawa and Hyun, Kanshū chōsa: Kōkaidō chihō. 66. Katsuragi, Kanshū chōsa: Kōgen chihō. 67. See Walraven, “Natives,” 224; and Knez and Swanson, Selected, 56–59. With financial support from the Korea Foundation and Keiō University, Nomura Shin’ichi has posted several of Murayama’s ethnographic photographs in an internet gallery, with commentary in Japanese and Korean: http://www.flet.keio.ac.jp/ ~shnomura/mura/index.htm. 68. See Cohn, Colonialism, 129–43; Lutz and Collins, Reading, 92–93; GrahamBrowne, Images, 118–43; and Tarlo, Clothing Matters, 2–3. 69. Murayama, Chōsen no fukusō, 2–3. 70. Murayama, Chōsen no fukusō, 139. 71. Murayama, Chōsen no fukusō, 141–43. 72. Murayama, Chōsen no fukusō, 144–46. 73. Murayama, Chōsen no fugeki, and Chōsen no ruiji shūkyō. 74. For the sanction of missionary activity, see GGC, New Administration, 66–67; and GGC, Thriving Chosen, 36. For compelled worship see GGC, Annual Report (Dec. 1935), 98–99. 75. GGC, Annual Report (Dec. 1911), 51; and GGC, Annual Report (Dec. 1921), 86. Kang, Religion, 69–74, discusses the Government-General’s attitudes toward indigenous religious movements. 76. GGC, Annual Report (Dec. 1932), 84. See also Kondō, Chōsen kindai shiryō, Vol. 1, 13. 77. Murayama, Chōsen no kishin, 3–4. 78. Murayama, Chōsen no ruiji shūkyō, 2–3. 79. Murayama, Chōsen no ruiji shūkyō, 838–40. 80. Murayama, Chōsen no ruiji shūkyō, 845–46. 81. Murayama, Chōsen no ruiji shukyō, 849–50. 82. Murayama, Chōsen no ruiji shukyō, 852–53. 83. Murayama, Chōsen no senboku to yogen, 2. 84. Walraven contends that “centuries of protest against shamanism apparently had but little effect,” in part because Confucian officials shared common beliefs with mudang and their patrons: “[I]f we review the attitude Confucians displayed towards shamanism, we note that they often rejected superficial aspects and social implications of mudang rituals rather than the fundamental assumptions of the shamanistic world view” (“Confucians and Shamans,” 38–39).

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85. See for instance, Covell, Folk Art, 128; and Hogarth, Korean Shamanism, 201, 326, 341. 86. Kang, Religion, 72. 87. Kang, Religion, 72. 88. Murayama, Chōsen no fugeki, 1, 2. 89. Murayama, Chōsen no fugeki, 1–2. 90. Murayama, Chōsen no senboku to yogen, 3. See also Murayama Chijun, “Fugeki shinkō no eikyō,” Chōsen 207 (Aug. 1932): 57–67. 91. Akamatsu and Akiba, Chōsen fuzoku kenkyū. 92. Walraven, “Natives,” 226; Ch’oe Kilsŭng, “War and Ethnology/Folklore in Colonial Korea: The Case of Akiba Takashi,” in Shimizu and van Bremen, Wartime, 170. 93. Ch’oe, “War,” in Shimizu and van Bremen, Wartime, 174, 181. 94. See Yoda, Chōsen minzoku bunka, 258–63; Kendall, Shamans, 26–27; Shimizu, “Colonialism,” 137, and Im Suk-Jae and Kim Yul-Kyu, “Korean Folk Culture: A Dialogue,” in Chun, Folk Culture, 131. 95. Akiba, “Study,” 7. 96. See Janelli, “Origins,” 31–34; Allen, “Northeast Asia,” 795; and Yang, Cultural Protection, 16, 26–28. 97. Akiba, “Study,” 15–16; Akamatsu and Akiba, Chōsen fuzoku kenkyū, 27. In another article, Akiba argued that the main challenge in conscientious musok research was the balance between detecting the features of Korean shamanism that linked it to a pan-Northeast Asian shaman culture, while simultaneously acknowledging the diversity of regional shamanic practices within the peninsula, as well. See his “Chōsen fuzoku bunkaken,” Chōsen 239 (April 1935): 39–50. 98. Schmid, “Rediscovering Manchuria,” 27, 43, and Korea, 226–33. On the Japanese uses of Mansenshi, see for instance Hatada, Nihonjin, 40–41; Janelli, “Origins,” 31–33; Pai, “Politics,” 29; and Tanaka, Japan’s Orient, 247–53. 99. GGC, Thriving Chosen, 1, 2. 100. Eckert, Offspring, 253, 6. See also Eckert et al., Korea, 306–14; Bruce Cumings, “The Legacy of Japanese Colonialism in Korea,” in Myers and Peattie, Japanese Colonial Empire, 480–82, 487–90; Shin and Robinson, Colonial Modernity (esp. chapters by Soon-Won Park, and Gi-Wook Shin and Do-Hyun Han). 101. Iskander Myden, “Historical Images—Changing Audiences,” in Edwards, Anthropology & Photography, 249. See also Lutz and Collins, Reading, 89–90. 102. Nakamura, Chōsen fūzoku gafu; Kiriyama, Chosen of To-day, 12; and GGC, Thriving Chosen, especially pictures facing pages 6 and 8. In 2004, Seoul National University Museum sponsored an exhibition of ethnographic photographs taken by Akiba Takashi and Akamatsu Chijo, entitled “Scenes from Early Modern Korea: Through the Looking Glass.” See Todd Thacker, “Korea Through the Looking Glass,” OhmyNews April 21, 2004, http://english.ohmynews.com/ articleview/article_view.asp?menu=c10400&no=163679&rel_no=1. 103. See Duus, Abacus, 11–15; and Eskildsen, “Of Civilization and Savages,” 389, 417. 104. Sapir, “Culture,” 410; Stocking, “Ethnographic Sensibility,” in Stocking, Romantic Motives, 210, 214, 217. 105. Imamura, Chōsen fūzoku shū, 17.

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106. Murayama, Chōsen no kyōdo shinji 2, 380, 383. 107. Takahashi, Jun, “Chōsen no min’yō,” Chōsen 201 (February 1932): 17. 108. Akiba Takashi, “Chōsen minzoku no kenkyū ni tsuite,” Chōsen 154 (March 1928): 25–26 109. Ch’oe, “War,” in Shimizu and van Bremen, Wartime, 176–79, quoting Akiba Takashi, “Gendai shakai no ryūdōsei,” radio lecture, Feb. 9, 1938, Keijō, MA12 in Guillemoz collection of Akiba’s manuscripts (Guillemoz, “Manuscrits,” 142–43). 110. Kuwayama, Native Anthropology, 113. 111. Hartmann, Silvester, and Hayes, “Photography, History and Memory,” in Colonising Camera, 5; Roslyn Poignant, “Surveying the Field of View: The Making of the RAI Photographic Collection,” in Edwards, Anthropology and Photography, 42; and Mydin, “Historical Images,” in Edwards, Anthropology & Photography, 249. 112. See Lutz and Collins, Reading, xii-xiii, 110–11; and Graham-Browne, Images, 39–47. 113. Brent Harris, “Photography in Colonial Discourse: The Making of ‘the Other’ in Southern Africa, c. 1850–1950,” in Hartmann et al., Colonising Camera, 20, 24; Elizabeth Edwards, “Introduction,” in Edwards, Anthropology & Photography, 7; and Hartmann et al., “Photography, History and Memory,” 4. See also Prochaska, “Every Picture.” 114. Edwards, “Introduction,” 6; and Mydin, “Historical Images,” 249–50. 115. See for instance the photographs of Efundula drummers, Ovamboland, ca. 1930 (National Archives of Namibia, NAN 13811), reprinted in Hartmann et al., Colonising Camera, 76, and of Korean drums (changgo), P’yŏngyang, from Akamatsu and Akiba, Chōsen fuzoku sankō zuroku, 86, and reprinted in Akiba, Chōsen fuzoku no genchi kenkyū, 10. 116. Huyssen, “Present Pasts,” 34. 117. See Kawakami and Takeuchi, Kindai no chōkoku; Hiromatsu, Kindai no chōkoku; Minamoto, “Symposium”; and Harootunian, Overcome, 34–94. 118. See for instance Lee, New History, 369–70; Janelli, “Origins,” 29–31; and Robinson, Cultural Nationalism, 35, 79–81. 119. For instance, in 1933 Son Chin-t’ae published seven articles in volume 5 of Yanagita Kunio’s high-profile journal Minzokugaku (Ethnology). Nonetheless, Minzokugaku published surprisingly little research on Korea, instead focusing on Japanese folklore, Ainu studies, and other ethnic groups outside of the Japanese empire. 120. Janelli, “Origins,” 29. 121. Shinobu, Kan hantō, 106; and Miyatsuka, Ariran, 131. 122. Kim et al., Chōsen min’yō shū, 273. A similar plea for recognition of Koreans’ wit was published at the height of the Pacific War: Yu Chin-o, “Chōsenjin to yūmoa,” Chōsen 333 (Feb. 1943): 63–66, insisted that Koreans’ humor was deeply engrained in their history and everyday lives, and attempted to explain expressions and situations that Koreans found amusing. 123. Song Sŏk-ha, “Chōsen no minzoku geki,” Minzokugaku 4.8 (Aug. 1932): 9–23; and Song Sŏk-ha, “O kwŏngdae sogo,” Chosŏn minsok 1 (January 1933): 20–30.

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124. Robinson, Cultural Nationalism, 35; Schmid, Korea, 128–29. 125. See Ch’oe, “Outline,” 19. 126. Yanagita Kunio, “Gakumon to minzoku ketsugō,” Chōsen minzoku 3 (Oct. 1940): 3–5. The English table of contents for this issue translates minzoku ketsugō as “racial collaboration.” Most scholars, however, contend that “nation” is a better translation of minzoku or minjok than “race.” 127. The preface of the 1924 CSF travel guide Chōsen no fūshū is one example of this line of argument, insisting that the annexation had enabled a “return to nature” (shizen ni kaereru mono, tōzen ni kaeshita mono). 128. Akiba Takashi, “Chōsen no hito no heiwana kimochi,” Heiwa no min (1934):102–03, 112–13, IM11 in Alexandre Guillemoz collection of Akiba Takashi’s manuscripts, translated and quoted in Ch’oe, “War,” 174 (Ch’oe’s italics), and Guillemoz, “Manuscrits,” 121. 129. Walraven, “Natives Next Door,” 237. 130. CSF, Saikin no Chōsen, 8. 131. Akiba, “Study,” 16 (emphasis added). 132. See for instance RGC, Annual Report (1908–09), 177; Chōsen Chūsetsu Kenpeitai Shireibu, Chōsen shakai kō, 48–49; CSF, Chōsen no shūzoku, 16–19; Kiriyama, Chosen of To-day, 10; Hori, Naisen fūshū, 21–22; and Akiba, “Study,” 18–32. Certainly many Koreans concurred that rigid patriarchy was a cultural characteristic in need of reform: see Chang Ung-jin “Chōsen fujin mondai ni taisuru kanken,” Chōsen 256 (Oct. 1936): 12–26. Akamatsu and Akiba found a surprising exception to male dominance in the homes of Korean shamans, where they were allowed to speak directly to the women, who behaved as heads of the household (Chōsen no fuzoku, vol. 2, 266–67). 133. Pictures of Korean women with veils and headscarves appear in Nakamura, Chōsen fūzoku gafu, 85, and Imamura, Rekishi minzoku, second page of photographs before contents. On European depictions of Muslim women during the modern colonial era, see Alloula, Colonial Harem; and Graham-Browne, Images, 6, 9–14, 70–85. 134. From the late 1920s until 1940, Japanese dance halls hired female dance partners for paying male customers, but municipal ordinances required that couples separate and go to opposite walls of the room when not actually dancing (Atkins, Blue Nippon, 69–70). 135. See for instance Mohanty, Feminism, 40–42; Graham-Browne, Images, 20–23; Thomas, Colonialism’s Culture, 102; Ramusack and Sievers, Women, 41– 42; Midgley, “Female,” 113; Levine, Gender and Empire, 6; and Catherine Hall, “Of Gender and Empire: Reflections on the Nineteenth Century,” in Levine, Gender and Empire, 50–51, 52. 136. For Frenchness in colonial Algeria, see Gosnell, Politics, 4; cf. Albert Memmi, Portrait du colonisé : précédé du Portrait du colonisateur (Paris: Buchet, Chastel, Corrêa, 1957); published in English as The Colonizer and the Colonized (Boston: Beacon Press, 1991). 137. Young, Japan’s Total Empire, esp. Part III; and Duara, Sovereignty, 61–65, 73–76. 138. Walraven, “Natives,” 236–39.

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chapter 3 1. GGC, Thriving Chosen, 15. 2. GGC, Thriving Chosen, 25–26. 3. GGC, Thriving Chosen, 14–15. The term ŏnmun was a pejorative for the vernacular syllabary promulgated by King Sejong in 1446, reflecting the defiant preference of literate Korean men for Chinese characters (hanja) until the end of the Yi dynasty. South Korea now refers to the writing system as han’gŭl, while the DPRK uses the terms Chosŏn gŭlja and urigŭl, to avoid the character han that is part the official name of the ROK (Taehan min’guk). 4. GGC, Thriving Chosen, 17, 36. 5. Shin, Essays, 446–49. Pai, “Creation of National Treasures,” 76, states that the Republic of Korea’s Office of Cultural Properties (Munhwajae Kwalliguk) has frequently condemned the GGC “for indiscriminately plundering Korean cultural relics as part of an elaborate conspiracy to deprive Koreans of their national heritage and, thus, racial identity.” 6. Pai, Constructing, 3, 4, 286, 251, 260–61; and Pai, “Creation of National Treasures,” 77, 84, 86, 89. 7. Cultural Properties Administration (ROK), Korean Intangible Cultural Properties, vol. 1, 23, 55, 112, and vol. 3, 11, 21, 39–40, 99; Pratt et al., Korea, 371; Hesselink, P’ungmul, 15, 34–35, 102–03, 105, 134; Lee, Korean Culture, 99; and Suh, Encyclopedia, 466. Killick, “Invention,” 87, 197–98, remarks on the lack of documentary evidence for cultural suppression policies. Cursory references to Japanese suppression of individual expressive genres also appear in Van Zile, Perspectives, 70; Chŏng Byŏng-ho, “Dance: Ancient—1945,” in Yang, Korean Performing Arts, 95; Lee, Contemporary Korean Cinema, 22–23; Kim, Korean Drama, 12; Yang, Cultural Protection Policy, 24, 30, 31; and Shin, Essays, 36, 41, 45. 8. Thomas, Colonialism’s Culture, 53. 9. Lorcin, “Rome and France,” 304, 323, 318–19. 10. Howe, Ireland and Empire, 25, 16, cf. Steven G. Ellis, “Writing Irish History: Revisionism, Colonialism, and the British Isles,” Irish Review 19 (1996): 8. 11. Masalha, Bible & Zionism, 240–41, 262. 12. Jim Yardley, “New Museum Offers the Official Line on Tibet,” New York Times April 17, 2008, www.nytimes.com. 13. “Programme of Society of Angkor,” Bulletin de l’École française d’Extrême Orient 7 (1907): 210, quoted in Edwards, Cambodge, 137; see also Dagens, Angkor, 84–88. French interest in Angkor coincided exactly with the Netherlands government’s official support for structural and aesthetic restoration of Borobudur, described by Soekmono, Chandi Borobudur, 4–6, 42–46. Dagens, Angkor, 174, maintains that French engineers borrowed the restorative technique of anastylosis from Dutch practices used at Borobudur in 1907–11. 14. British Library, “Memorandum for the Consideration and Use of Mr. Layard,” Sept. 21, 1846, quoted in Hoock, “British State,” 67. 15. Hoock, “British State,” 51–55; see also Anderson, Imagined Communities, 179–85. 16. Edwards, Cambodge, 147. 17. Gouda, Dutch Culture, 63.

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18. RGC, Annual Report (1909), 35–36; Komiya Mihomatsu, “Keijō rondan: Chōsen kobijutsu kan,” Keijō nippō July 2, 1916: 1. 19. “Hakubutsukan Keishū bunkan kaikan shiki kyokō,” Keijō nippō, evening ed., June 22, 1926: 1; GGC, Annual Report (1933–34), 84; Ministry of Culture and Sports, Museums, 179; and Korean National Heritage Online, http://www .heritage.go.kr/eng/mus/nat_lis.jsp. 20. “Koseki oyobi ibutsu hozon kisoku ni tsuite,” Keijō nippō July 8, 1916: 2; GGC, Annual Report (1918–21), 197–98. 21. Pai, “Creation of National Treasures,” 76, 81–82. 22. “Hantō no hokori o eikyū ni hōbutsu, koseki, meishō, tennen kinen butsu hozon rei no happu,” Keijō nippō, evening ed., Aug. 11, 1933: 1; GGC, Annual Report (1933–34), 83. 23. Pai, “Shokuminchi Chōsen,” 96, citing Sekino Tadashi, Kankoku kenchiku chōsa hōkoku, Tokyo Teikoku Daigaku Kōkadaigaku Gakujutsu Hōkoku 6 (Tokyo: Tokyo Teikoku Daigaku, 1904). See also Kim, “Nihon shokuminchi shihai to Chōsen bungaku no hatten,” 99. 24. Excavation in P’yŏngnam, from Chōsen koseki zufu, vol. 1, 24 (plate #80). 25. See Ching-chih Chen, “Police and Community Control Systems in the Empire,” in Myers and Peattie, Japanese Colonial Empire, 213–39. 26. I am indebted to Miji Lee, Kate Hudson, Gari Ledyard, John Bentley, and Vladimir Tikhonov for responding to my query posted to H-Japan and H-Asia in March 2008 about the stone monument. Their emails clarified the origins of the monument and its purpose, and provided important contextual information about the historicity of Imna/Mimana. 27. Pak, Kaya to Wa, 8–9; Lee and De Vos, Koreans in Japan, 10–11; Schmid, Korea, 151–52, 170. Barnes summarizes the current scholarly consensus on the “Mimana problem” in State Formation, 38–39. 28. Kuno, Japanese Expansion, vol. 1, 193–94. 29. Hong, Paekche, 211; Schmid, Korea Between Empires, 152–53; Pak, Kaya to Wa, 24. 30. Hong, Paekche, 217. See also Pak, Kaya to Wa, 9–10; Barnes, State Formation, 38–39; Schmid, Korea, 149–50; and Korean History Project, http://www .koreanhistoryproject.org/Ket/C02/E0205.htm. 31. Pak, Kaya to Wa, 19, 25, 71, 166–68. 32. Barnes, State Formation, 6. 33. Examples include Batten, To the Ends; and Pak, Kaya to Wa. 34. Schmid, Korea, 159–60. 35. Pai, “Creation of National Treasures,” 77–78, 84. Photographs of prominent Buddhist temples, such as Haeinsa and Pulguksa, from the first decades of the 1900s demonstrate the degree of disrepair (see Kim, 1900–1999 Han’guk pulgyo, 54–55, and CSF, Chōsen koseki zufu, vol. 4, 453, plate #1553). 36. GGC, Annual Report (1922–23), 93–94. 37. See Ketelaar, Of Heretics and Martyrs. 38. Kang, Religion, 82. 39. GGC, Results, 60–61. 40. Won and Lim, History, 70–71; Mok Jeong-bae, “Buddhism in Modern Korea,” in Korean Buddhist Research Institute, History and Culture, 224–28; Yom

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Mu-woong, “The Life and Thought of Han Yong-woon,” in Chun, Buddhist Culture, 106. 41. GGC, Annual Report (1922–23), 97. 42. Translated in Devine, “Japanese Rule,” 538–39. 43. GGC, Annual Report (1922–23), 221. 44. See for instance GGC, Results, 57, and Thriving Chosen, 17. See also Wi Jo Kang, “Japanese Rule and Korean Confucianism,” in Nahm, Korea, 67–74; and Rhee, Doomed Empire, 65–69. 45. Kiriyama, Chosen of To-day, 14. 46. GGC, Annual Report (1922–23), 94–95, and (1930–32), 85. Japanese Buddhist priests had actually begun missionary activities in Korea as early as the 1876 Treaty of Kangwha. Mok, “Buddhism,” in Korean Buddhist Research Institute, History and Culture, 223, contends this was an early effort “to psychologically subordinate the Korean people to Japan through Buddhism.” 47. GGC, Annual Report (1922–23), 94. 48. Don Baker, “The Korean God is Not the Christian God: Taejonggyo’s Challenge to Foreign Religions,” in Buswell, Religions, 464; Park, “Na,” 225–26; and Schmid, Korea, 192–98. 49. See for instance Han Yon-gun, “On Revitalizing Korean Buddhism,” in Ch’oe et al., Sources, 329–31. 50. Kim, “Images of Women,” 143–44; Portal, Korea, 170; Pratt et al., Korea, 432. 51. Kim, “Images of Women,” 146. 52. Portal, Korea, 169–70. 53. GGC, Annual Report (1922–23), 92, and (1929–30), 79; Kim, “Images of Women,” 142. 54. Hawley, Imjin War, 496, 563; Covell, “Japanese Deification,” 23–25; Covell and Covell, Korean Impact, 105–9. 55. Yanagi, Unknown Craftsman, 122–23. See also Nakami, Yanagi, 103–10; Kang, Nihon ni yoru Chōsen shihai, 80–83; Covell and Covell, Korean Impact, 109; Chŏng Kwi-mun, “Nihon no mingeibi to Richō,” in Chōsen Bunkasha, Nihon bunka to Chōsen, vol. 1, 64–75; and Kim, “Images of Women,” 150. 56. Asakawa Noritaka, “Tsubo,” Shirakaba, Sept. 1922: 56–61 (quoted verses from 58–59). Brandt, Kingdom, 34, offers a different translation of the last stanza. Asakawa is said to have introduced Yanagi Muneyoshi to the charms of Chosŏn ceramics (Nakami, Yanagi, 101; Brandt, Kingdom, 7). He and his brother Takumi, a forest engineer, published several treatises on Korean folk crafts and furnishings. 57. Brandt, Kingdom, 230n2, argues that use of the term minzoku was significant, for it implied a distinct ethno-national identity at odds with the colonial discourses of ethnic kinship and political annexation. She is correct if the Chinese compound for minzoku (ethnos, nation, minjok in Korean) was used; however, I have run across other references in which the homophonous compound minzoku (folk, minsok in Korean) is used in the title. This latter term would have been better suited to Yanagi’s aesthetic philosophy and goals. I have searched the Keijō nippō, Yomiuri, Asahi, and both Korean dailies Chosŏn ilbo and Tong-a ilbo to confirm the formal name of the museum, but thus far have not turned up any evidence to settle the question.

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58. Portal, Korea, 186–87. 59. See for instance Song, Korean Music, 35–37, 96–97. 60. Sŏng Hyŏn, Akhak kwebŏm (Keijō: Koten Kankōkai, 1933). A copy of the 1493 original exists in the Hōsa Bunkō in Nagoya, which contains the library of the Owari Tokugawa house (http://housa.city.nagoya.jp/). Later editions were printed in 1655 and 1743 (Chung, “Sŏng Hyŏn’s Model,” 117). 61. Chung, “Sŏng Hyŏn’s Model,” 113. 62. Song, Korean Music, 161–62; Tanabe, Chūgoku Chōsen, 71; Provine, “Introduction,” 141–42; and Chung, “Sŏng Hyŏn’s Model,” 1–3, 14. 63. Chung, “Sŏng Hyŏn’s Model,” 2, 13, 185, 183. 64. Atkins, “Dual Career,” 682; Tanabe, Chūgoku Chōsen, 54. The 1907 recordings (including Kim Un-sŏn’s rendition of “Kujo Arirang” with kayagŭm accompaniment) were the first made on Korean soil; however, six Edison wax cylinders of Korean songs were recorded in the United States on July 24, 1896. Under the direction of the Society for Korean Discography, these have been re-mastered and issued on the CD Chŏng Ch’ang-kwan kugak hogŭmjip (CKJCD-010, 2007). See Robert C. Provine, “Alice Fletcher’s Notes on the Earliest Recordings of Korean Music,” http://www.aks.ac.kr/Home08/upload/News/Fletcher%20prelim inary%20article.pdf. 65. Robinson, “Broadcasting,” 63–68. Nitchiku Records, in particular, announced its intentions to record all kinds of Korean music to “introduce Korean arts” to Japanese (“Chōsen no ongaku zenbu o rekōdo ni fukikomu,” Keijō nippō, evening ed., June 21, 1926: 2). Chan E. Park contends that “recording technology helped stimulate the dwindling appetite for p’ansori and other traditional sounds, on the one hand, but catalyzed their separation from the synthetic p’an as ‘music’ on the other” (Voices, 98–99). 66. Hosokawa, “In Search,” 16–17. In his preface to a 1943 festschrift for Tanabe, Tanaka Masahiro claimed that the time had come to proclaim the “unity of East Asian music” and the “construction of new music,” and extolled Tanabe’s thirty-five-year effort in pursuit of both goals (Tanabe-sensei Kanreki Kinen, Tōa ongaku ronsō, 3). 67. Robert C. Provine notes that unlike the Chinese yayue and Japanese gagaku, aak “is not a collective term for a number of court music genres,” but a specific genre of ritual music performed for the twice-yearly Sŏkchŏn Confucian rite (“Korean Courtyard,” 91). It is thus distinct from other elite ritual genres, such as hyangak (“village music”) and tangak (“Tang music”), as well as from aristocratic chamber music (chŏngak, “proper music”). Aak musicians tended to be from the elite classes, while performers of hyangak and tangak were recruited from commoners. Japanese musicologists appear to have used aak in the more generic sense to include all of these types of elite ceremonial music. They likewise used chŏngak as an umbrella term for all elite music, in contrast to folk songs (minyo) and popular music (sokkok). 68. In its Annual Report for 1908–09, the Residency-General reported that official ceremonies at court had been reduced from 792 per year to 201. An imperial rescript (attributed to Emperor Kojong yet clearly instigated by the Japanese) required that “no ceremony should be performed as a mere formality, but in true sincerity” (35).

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69. GGC, Annual Report (1910–11), 17–18. 70. Tanaka Tokutarō, “Chōsen no ongaku,” Chōsen 78 (Aug. 1921): 90; Song, Korean Music, 31–34; Howard, Preserving, 1; and Hosokawa, “In Search,” 6. Chung, “Sŏng Hyŏn’s Model“ contends that, as a result of political intrigues at court and the invasions by Japanese and Manchus (in 1627 and 1636), the Chosŏn court was never able to recover its musical life. Its resources were inadequate to replace or restore orchestral instruments and retain musicians in adequate numbers, let alone to patronize music scholarship as it had in the fifteenth century (189–97). See also Song, Korean Music, 27. 71. Tanabe, Chūgoku Chōsen, 28–29. At age 81, Min Wŏn-p’yŏk was profiled in an extended feature article on the history, repertoire, and instrumentation of aak in Chōsen 94 (Jan. 1923): 144–60. 72. “Ongaku kōenkai,” Keijō nippō April 6, 1921: 5; Tanabe Hisao, “Ongaku jō ni okeru naisen no kankei,” Keijō nippō April 8–10, 12, and 13, 1921; and Tanabe, Chūgoku Chōsen, 29. The diary of his sojourn is reprinted in Chūgoku Chōsen, 30–63. See also Chūgoku Chōsen, 187–89, and his later essay “Ongaku kara mita kodai Nihon to Chōsen,” in Chōsen Bunkasha, Nihon bunka to Chōsen, vol. 1, 182–92. Tanabe filmed three reels, which he managed to save despite the Tokyo air raids. After the war he loaned them to a Korean from the DPRK, expecting to get them back, but they were possibly lost during the Korean War (59). 73. Nakamura Seiji, “Jo,” in Tanabe-sensei Kanreki Kinen, Tōa ongaku ronsō, 1. 74. Hosokawa, “In Search,” 6–7. 75. Tanabe, Japanese Music, 6. 76. Tanaka Tokutarō, “Chōsen no ongaku,” Chōsen 78 (Aug. 1921): 91. 77. Ishikawa Giichi, “Chōsen zokkyoku,” Chōsen 79 (Sept. 1921): 146; Song, Korean Music, 31–32. Ishikawa was a Nisei born in Hawai’i. With a letter of introduction from Tanabe Hisao, he spent most of the 1920s transcribing and organizing all the scores in the Yi court orchestra’s repertoire (Tanabe, Chūgoku Chōsen, 60). 78. Ishikawa, “Chōsen zokkyoku,” 147, 148. Subsequent scholarship suggests that from the early seventeenth century there was more engagement between elite and popular forms of musical expression than Ishikawa acknowledged. The genres of kagok, sijo, and p’ansori, for instance, drew heavily from literary and musical traditions of the Sinophilic Korean elite (see Chung, “Sŏng Hyŏn’s Model,” 186–89). 79. Ishikawa, “Chōsen zokkyoku,” 148, 149, 152. In a survey of folk songs on Cheju island, Ishikawa observed noticeable differences from peninsular minyo. Not only were there three types of songs not sung by mainlanders—for instance, those of the island’s celebrated women divers (haenyŏ or ama in Japanese)—but Cheju islanders’ voices were not as pleasing to Ishikawa’s ear as those of mainland Koreans. See “Saishūtō [Cheju-do] oyobi Utsuryōtō [Ullŭngdo] min’yō chōsa ni tsuite,” Chōsen 101 (Sept. 1923): 108–116. 80. Ishikawa Giichi, “Shakai kyōka to min’yō,” Chōsen 83 (Jan. 1922): 83–84. 81. Ishikawa Giichi, “Chōsen ongaku to sanmyaku no kyokusen no kankei,” Chōsen 100 (July 1923): 135–37. 82. Murayama Chijun, “Chōsen fu no saishin bugaku ni tsuite,” Chōsen 200 (Jan. 1932): 58–59, 61. 83. Pihl, Korean Singer, 4, 46–48.

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84. For instance Pak Hwang’s books Ch’anggŭk sa yŏn’gu (Seoul: Paengnok Ch’ulp’ansa, 1976) and P’ansori ibaengnyŏn sa (Seoul: Sasang Sahoe Yŏn’guso, 1987). 85. Killick, “Invention,” 45, 50, 60–61, 66, 77, citing several reports in the Korean-language newspaper Taehan maeil shinpo from 1908–09. Pihl notes that Silver World was an adaptation of Ballad of Ch’oe Pyŏng-do, based on the reallife story of a man unjustly flogged to death by the governor of Kangwŏn (Korean Singer, 67). See also Park, Voices, 92–96. 86. Killick, “Invention,” 85; cf. Donald Shively, “Bakufu versus Kabuki,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 18.3/4 (Dec. 1955): 326–56. 87. The five madang in the current repertory exalt the “three bonds and five human relationships” (samgang oryun). They are: Ch’unhyang-ka (female chastity and wifely virtue); Simch’ŏng-ka (filial piety); Hŭngbo-ka (respect for elder siblings); Sunggung-ka (Song of the Water Palace, loyalty to the monarch); and Chŏkpyŏk-ka (Song of the Red Cliff, friendship and chivalry). See Pihl, Korean Singer, 66; and Park, Voices, 6, 72, 76–78. 88. Pihl, Korean Singer, 35, 48–49; Park, Voices, 60, 71–72. Both cite the oral testimonies of kwangdae collected in Chŏng, Chosŏn ch’anggŭksa. 89. Park, Voices, 100–01, citing reports in the Maeil shinbo (Nov. 28, 1930) and Tong’a ilbo (April 12, 1932); Killick, “Invention,” 136–38, citing reports in the Chosŏn ilbo (Nov. 17, 1930) and Tong’a ilbo (March 29, 1931); and Song, Korean Music, 35. For a fuller account of the Chosŏn Sŏngak Yŏn’guhoe’s development, see Killick, “Invention,” 150–85. The singers’ collective (referred to as the Korean Music Research Institute) is mentioned in Ch’ae, Peace, 12, 15, as sponsoring a Festival of Great Singers that traveled the country offering p’ansori performances. 90. See ad in YS March 27, 1938: 4. 91. Konishi Saburō, “Geijutsu kara no naisen ittai,” Chōsen 284 (Jan. 1939): 24–25. 92. Kwon, “Ambivalent Nostalgia,” 1–5. 93. Kwon, “Ambivalent Nostalgia,” 12, 19, 21–24. Kwon quotes Murayama from “Shunkōden no Chikuji jōen ni tsuite,” Chōsen oyobi Manshū 364 (March 1938): 60. 94. Cho, Korean Mask Dance, 55–6. 95. Murayama, Chōsen no kyōdo goraku, 179–80. After a hiatus, the Silla Festival was revived as an annual event in 1962. “By revisiting the culture of the Silla Dynasty,” the official Korea Tour guide (http://english.visitkorea.or.kr/) explains, “this festival aims to promote and preserve Korean traditions and to encourage pride in our unique national heritage.” There is no mention of the colonial origins of the festival. 96. Hong I-sŏp, “Between ROK and Japan: A Thought on Cultural Exchange,” Korea Journal 2.4 (April 1962): 6. 97. Yoon, Culture of Fengshui, 3–4. 98. GGC, Annual Report (1917–18), 137. 99. Yoon, Culture of Fengshui, 11, 278, 287, 289–93; Nakami, Yanagi, 101; and Tsurumi, Yanagi, 197–99. Yanagi protested the destruction of Kwanghwa Gate in his essay “Ushinawaren to suru ichi Chōsen kenchiku no tame ni,” Kaizō Sept. 1922: 22–29.

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100. Park, Voices, 99–100. It is also possible that the Yangju dancers were interested enough in the money offered to risk ritual “contamination.” Some observers might presume that this, too, indicates Japanese capitalism’s “corruption” of peasant dancers, who casually discarded their spiritual injunctions for a quick yen. 101. Nobuhara Satoru, “Jo,” in Murayama, Chōsen no kyōdo goraku, n.p. 102. Murayama Chijun, “Minshū goraku toshite no Hōsan [Pongsan] kamen geki,” Chōsen 261 (Jan. 1937): 4–7, 9–10, 17–18. Murayama actually used the word “Shintō” in the first quote, but from the context it is clear that he was talking about native spirit mediums, so I have translated “Shintō” as “shamanism” in this case. Colonial rule did force the relocation of the performance site in 1915, from Kyŏngsu-dae in old Pongsan to the base of Mt. Kyŏng’an in Sariwŏn, “when the county office and administration was moved there and when it became a railroad station on the Seoul-Sinŭiji railway line” (Korean National Commission for UNESCO, Traditional Performing Arts, 53). 103. Cultural Properties Administration (ROK), Korean Intangible Cultural Properties, vol. 1, 54–57; Howard, Preserving Korean Music, 33; UNESCO World Heritage: Hahoe Folk Village in Andong, http://whc.unesco.org/en/tentativelists/ 1106/; “A Case Study on Hahoe Village in Andong, Korea,” Korean National Commission for UNESCO, http://www.unescobkk.org/fileadmin/user_upload/culture/ Tourism/korea-2.pdf; Hahoe Dong Mask Museum, http://www.maskmuseum .com/coding/english/sub05.asp; and Han Yang-Myeong, “The Transmission Pattern and Festivity of Hahoe-Byeolsingut,” IMACO—International Mask Arts & Culture Organization, http://www.worldmask.org. The Andong entry, with no reference to the Hahoe pyŏlsin kut, is in Murayama, Chōsen no kyōdo goraku, 173–74. 104. See entry on Kosŏng in Murayama, Chōsen no kyōdo goraku, 213–14; Cultural Properties Administration (ROK), Korean Intangible Cultural Properties, vol. 1, 23. 105. See entry on Kyŏngsan in Murayama, Chōsen no kyōdo goraku, 181–82; Cultural Properties Administration (ROK), Korean Intangible Cultural Properties, vol. 1, 111–14; Daegu National Museum, http://daegu.museum.go.kr/english/ body_02/body02_3_03b.htm. 106. See entry on T’ongyŏng in Murayama, Chōsen no kyōdo goraku, 211– 13; Victory Dance, http://english.cha.go.kr; and Korean National Commission for UNESCO, Traditional Performing Arts, 13, 99. 107. See for instance Lee, Record, 21, 22–23, 34–35, 74–78; Kim, Women, 106, 141; and Hawley, Imjin War, 362–63. After the fall of Chinju in July 1593, the young kisaeng Non’gae lured a drunken samurai into her embrace, then leaped into the Nam River, killing them both. Another kisaeng, Kye Wŏl-hyang, is credited with assisting in the assassination of a Japanese commander (identified only as Chosŏp in the Imjin nok) in occupied P’yŏngyang. Her story was dramatized in Yi T’ae-hwan’s 1962 movie P’yŏngyang kisaeng Kye Wŏl-hyang and Im Kwŏn-t’aek’s 1977 film Kye Wŏl-hyang, Flower of the Imjin War (Imjinran kwa Kye Wŏl-hyang), and a monument to her is a popular tourist attraction in P’yŏngyang. 108. Suh, Encyclopedia, 465; Korean National Commission for UNESCO, Traditional Performing Arts, 13, 99. 109. See Lee, Making of Minjung, 37–44, 55–69.

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110. Hesselink, P’ungmul, 206, 134, 105, 214. Because they use the word “battlefield,” it has occurred to me to wonder whether Kim and Pak are referring to the colonial period or to the peasant insurgencies of the 1590s’ Imjin War. It is possible that they were purposely telescoping time and speaking of both. 111. Quoted in Hesselink, P’ungmul, 36. 112. Teramoto Kiichi, Counselor of the Chōsen National Mobilization League, griped that Koreans had made much better progress in Japanizing their clothing and residences than their speech. “Bunka no naisen ittai (ifuku, jūtaku, kokugo),” Chōsen 344 (Jan. 1944): 65–68. 113. Park, Voices, 103; Kim, Korean Drama, 15–17; and Killick, “Invention,” 176. Killick coins the term “traditionesque” to characterize ch’anggŭk as an art that “bases its appeal on tradition while possessing no recognized or respected tradition of its own,” and which lacks “any mechanism for protecting it from change” (15). This distinguishes it from “tradition,” which Killick defines as that which is “valued (by someone) sufficiently to inspire efforts at ensuring its continuation and protection from change” (12–14). 114. Brandt, Kingdom, 10, 25–26; Hosokawa, “In Search,” 17, 7.

chapter 4 1. See Anthony Faiola, “Japanese Women Catch the ‘Korean Wave,’ ” Washington Post Aug. 31, 2006, and “Japan’s Empire of Cool,” Washington Post Dec. 26, 2003; Paul Wiseman, “Korea’s romantic hero holds Japan in thrall,” USA Today Dec. 10, 2004: 13A; and Huat and Iwabuchi, East Asian. On fears of the “re-colonization” of culture, see Kang, Media Culture, 118–27. Hayashi and Lee, “Potential of Fandom,” provide a comparative analysis of Japanese and Korean media coverage of the Winter Sonata phenomenon, arguing that Japanese media tended to deride it as a fad among frenzied middle-aged women, while Korean media portrayed it as a national triumph. 2. Alain de Botton, “The Psychology of Taste, and Choice,” All Things Considered, National Public Radio, Nov. 9, 2006, http://www.npr.org/templates/story/ story.php?storyId=6463387. 3. “K-pop booms in Japan,” Shanghai Star May 30, 2002, http://app1.china daily.com.cn/star/2002/0530/sp32–1.html. 4. V. I. Lenin, Imperialism, the Highest Stage of Capitalism: A Popular Outline (1916), accessed at Lenin Internet Archive, http://www.marxists.org/archive/ lenin/works/1916/imp-hsc/index.htm. 5. Jones, Yellow Music, 9; and Robinson, “Mass Media,” 59. 6. “Tōyō ichi no dai dendō keu rakusei shiki o agu,” Keijō nippō October 2, 1926: 1. See Yoon, Culture of Fengshui, 11–12, 277–78, 287–94; and Pratt, Everlasting Flower, 214–25. 7. See Ahn, “Na Un-gyu’s Film Arirang”; Kim, Chōsen bunka shōshi, 263; Lee and Choe, History of Korean Cinema, 43–53; and Lee, Contemporary Korean Cinema, 25. Film collector Abe Yoshishige—the son of a colonial policeman stationed in Korea—claimed to have the only extant copy of the nine reels of Arirang, in addition to several other Korean and Japanese silent films. When Abe died February 9, 2005, without a will, his films passed to the Japan Foundation and the

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National Film Center. Both Korean governments have demanded that Japan return the film if found, but as of this writing it seems not to have been located among the 50,000 films in Abe’s collection. See Chung, “Waiting,” 544; Choi Heup, “Collector’s Death May Free Long-Lost Korean Classic Film,” Digital Chosun ilbo Feb. 11, 2005, http://english.chosun.com/w21data/html/news/200502/200502110014.html; and Korean Film News 2005, http://koreanfilm.org/news2005.html. 8. Kim Ŭl-[??], “ ‘Arirang’ yuk hang—Chosŏn kinema chak,” Tong-a ilbo October 7, 1926: 3. I am grateful to Tae-jin Kim for translating this review for me. 9. Kim, “Ariran to wa nani deatta ka?,” 18, 20, 21–22; see also Miyatsuka, Ariran, 41–42, 119–29. The thirteen-minute recording (spanning four sides of two 78 RPM records) from 1929, of Sŏng Tong-ho (a professional p’yŏnsa or silent film narrator, equivalent to the Japanese benshi) narrating scenes from the film, affirms Kim’s argument: it is not at all obvious that the villainous O Kiho is a stand-in for Japanese imperialists, or that the hero Yŏng-jin was driven to madness by torture following his participation in the March 1, 1919, demonstrations. The narrative emphasis is rather on filial affection, failed romance, and Yŏng-jin’s inconsistent lucidity. A transcription and translation of Sŏng’s narration appears in the sleeve notes of the CD Kita to minami no Ariran densetsu—Ariran no rūtsu o tazunete (Korean title: Puk, nam Arirang ŭi chŏnsŏl) (King/Synnara: KKCC 3005, 2003). Na made two sequels—Arirang kŭhu iyagi (A Story of the Day After Arirang, 1930) and Arirang sampyŏn (Arirang 3, 1936)—in which Yŏng-jin is released from prison only to witness his family’s financial distress and his sister’s rape, and thus relapse into madness. The existence of sequels casts more doubt on the original film’s nationalist intentions and censorship by the Japanese regime. 10. Na Un-gyu’s lyrics come from the 1929 recording mentioned in the previous note (Nippon Columbia 40002–40003). Kang Sŏ-gyŏn sings the theme song interspersed with Sŏng Tong-ho’s narration (Kita to minami no Ariran densetsu, track 15). 11. Tributes to the defiant spirit of “Arirang” appear in McCann, “Arirang”; Kim, “Arirang”; Kim and Yamakawa, “Nikkan gappei”; and Keith Howard, “Korean Folk Songs for a Contemporary World,” in Hesselink, ed., Contemporary Directions. Origin theories are summarized in Pak, Kankoku kayōshi, 18–19; Miyatsuka, Ariran no tanjō, 188–222; Howard, “Minyo in Korea,” 8–9; and Kim, “Origin of Arirang,” 21–25. 12. See for instance Kim, Chōsen min’yō shū, 266; Kusano, Ariran no uta, 38–40; and Miyatsuka, Ariran no tanjō, 57–61. Using musicological evidence, Yi Po-Hyŏng disputes the Kyŏnggi/Seoul origins of “Arirang,” positing instead that the song’s “original source” comes from Kangwŏn-do (“Musical Study,” 43–46). 13. Sleeve note to Kita to minami no Ariran densetsu. 14. Kusano, Ariran no uta, 35; Yi, “Musical Study,” 36; Pak, Kankoku kayōshi, 20; Miyatsuka, Ariran no tanjō, 57; and Robert C. Provine, “Folk Song in Korea,” in Provine et al., Garland Encyclopedia of World Music, vol. 7, 880–83. Scores for seven regional varieties are printed in the special “all-Arirang” edition of Korea Journal 28.7 (July 1988): 52–58. 15. Kusano, Ariran no uta, 57–60. See also Kim, Chōsen min’yō shū, 267–68. 16. Kusano, Ariran no uta, 38–39; Miyatsuka, Ariran no tanjō, 58–59. 17. Kusano, Ariran no uta, 36.

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18. Lyrics from Dr. John, “Stakalee,” N’Awlinz Dis Dat or D’udda (Blue Note: 78602, 2004); and Cephas & Wiggins, “Stack and the Devil,” Somebody Told the Truth (Alligator: 4888, 2002). Cecil Brown, Stagolee Shot Billy (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2003), describes the rich oral tradition that developed from the real-life murder of William Lyons by St. Louis pimp “Stag” Lee Shelton in December 1895. 19. Homer B. Hulbert, “Korean Vocal Music,” The Korean Repository Feb. 1896: 49–51. See entries on “Arirang” and Hulbert in Pratt et al., Korea, 17, 171– 72. Hulbert’s transcription was the basis for the first “Arirangs” printed in Japanese and Korean: Shinobu Junpei, Kan hantō (Tokyo: Tokyodō Shoten, 1901), 106–107; and Yi Sang-jun, Chosŏn sokkok chip (1914). 20. Kim and Wales, Song of Ariran, 6–7. Kim San was apparently executed by Mao Zedong’s secret police before his memoir was published in the United States, where it became a bestseller (Kim Young-Sik, “The US-Korea Relations 1910–1945,” http://www.asianresearch.org/articles/1624.html). 21. Yang quoted in Kang, Black Umbrella, 100–101; and Nahm, “Themes,” 195. “Pongsŏnhwa” has been translated as “The Balsam Flower Song” and as “Touch-Me-Not.” The music was composed by Hong Nan-p’a in 1919, with lyrics added in 1925 by Kim Hyŏng-jun. The score and translated lyrics appear in Tae, Korea Sings, 67–68. The song refers to the annual herbaceous plant Impatiens noli-tangere, the yellow flowers of which “are followed by pods which forcefully explode when ripe, ejecting the seeds for some distance” (http://en.wikipedia.org/ wiki/Impatiens_noli-tangere). 22. Kim, “Arirang,” 5; McCann, “Arirang,” 53–54. See also Nahm, “Themes,” 200; Cho, “Oral Literature,” in Chun, Folk Culture, 46; Suh, Encyclopedia, 565; and Shin, Peasant Protest, 140–41. 23. Kim Yong-un, “3.1 undō de utawareta Ariran o fukugen,” Digital Chosun ilbo (Japanese ed.), Feb. 24, 2003, http://japanese.chosun.com/site/data/html _dir/2003/02/24/20030224000033.html. Kim Yŏn-gap, executive director of the Arirang Association (Arirang Yŏnhaphoe), contends protesters sang from sheet music in Yi Sang-jun’s 1914 anthology of “vulgar songs” (sokkok), which actually was adapted from Hulbert’s 1896 transcription. This assertion revises Miyatsuka, Ariran no tanjō, 56, who says that “Arirang” was not printed in Korean until Yi Sang-jun’s later anthology Chosŏn sokkok chip, vol. 2 (Kyŏngsŏng [Seoul]: Samsŏngsa, 1929). 24. Verses translated in Kim and Wales, Song of Ariran, vii; and Kim, “Arirang,” 11. 25. “Kwangbok kun arirang,” in Pak, Kankoku kayōshi, 63. See also Kim, “Arirang,” 17; and McCann, “Arirang,” 51. The Kwangbok Army, established by Korean nationalist Kim Ku (1876–1949) in Chongqing in 1940, became the foundation for the ROK army after liberation. 26. My translation from Japanese verses in Kim and Yamakawa, “Nikkan gappei” to Ariran, 224. 27. Post-liberation folk song anthologies containing hang’il arirang include: Kim, Ch’oe, and Pang, Chosŏn minyo chipsŏng; Ko, Chosŏn minyo yŏn’gu; and Im, Han’guk minyojip. 28. Kim and Wales, Song of Ariran, 7; and Kim, “Arirang,” 12, 14. Pak, Kan-

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koku kayōshi, 58, offers rare visual evidence of the censorship of “Arirang,” a page from the 1931 songbook Chosŏn kayojip in which the offending lyrics “If we can fight no longer/Let’s set all Creation afire” were blacked out. 29. Kim, “Arirang,” 13–14. 30. Kim and Yamakawa, “Nikkan gappei” to Ariran, 222–25; Kim, “Arirang,” 5, 14; and Ko, Ariran tōge no onna, 51–52. 31. See Miyatsuka, Ariran no tanjō, 153–61; Edgar Pope, “Songs”; Young, Japan’s Total Empire, 72; and Atkins, Blue Nippon, 134–39. The CD Ajian konekushon (Asian Connection) (Teichiku: TECR-20177, 1995) reissues several Chinainspired songs. 32. This version was reissued on Seitan hyakunen kinen Saijō Yaso zenshū (Nippon Columbia: COCA-10026–41, 1992), Disc 3, Track 4. The story of the pseudonym is related in the liner notes, 87. Sheet music for vocal, piano, and harmonica published as Nippon Victor Chōtokusen Gakufu 47. 33. See the Discography in Atkins, “Dual Career,” 682–87. 34. Ad for Ariran no uta, produced by Shōchiku Shōjo Kageki, YS Sept. 12, 1940: 4. 35. Nihon Eigashi Kenkyūkai, ed., Nihon eiga sakuhin jiten—senzen hen, vol. 1 (n.p.: Kagaku Shoin, 1995), 113, lists three “Arirang” films from the 1930s, in addition to Na Un-gyu’s 1926 original Arirang: Ariran no uta (Song of Arirang, 1933), a musical (kouta eiga) produced in Ōsaka by Takarazuka Cinema; Ariran tōge (Arirang Pass, 1936), a historical melodrama (ninjō jidaigeki), produced by Chōsen Eiga Sha; and Ariran (1939), a contemporary melodrama (gendai ninjō geki), produced by Chōsen Kinema Sha. Pak, Kankoku kayōshi, 179, 192, 202, 290, 296, refers to the musical revues, Arirang Boys, and a film entitled Uta no Chōsen (Musical Korea, 1935); and Miyatsuka, Ariran no tanjō, 107, discusses “Arirang” souvenirs. 36. Kim Pong-myŏng, “Ariran suljip” (composed by Yi Pu-p’ung and Mun Ho-wŏl, ca. 1940–43); and “Ariran musume,” composed by Ch’o Nyŏ-im and Kim Kyo-sŏng, and recorded by Kim An-na (Nippon Victor A4114B, 1940), Im Tongma (Nippon Victor A4114A, 1940), and Paek Nan-a. Pak, Kankoku kayōshi, 62– 63, prints lyrics for both songs. See also Miyatsuka, Ariran no tanjō, 67, 86. 37. Miyatsuka, Ariran no tanjō, 76–77; King Light Music Orchestra, “Uta wa sekai o meguru” (King Records, 1942). See also Atkins, Blue Nippon, 137. “Arirang Beguine” was recorded by Clarke Johnston (or Johnstone), who was among the United States Occupation forces stationed in Japan. The recording has been reissued on the compilation Occupied Japan: The Legendary Recordings by the Shinchūgun Soldiers (Nippon Victor: VICJ 60716, 2001). 38. Pope, “Songs,” 3, 31, 178. 39. Miyatsuka, Ariran no tanjō, 157–61, lists no less than forty-four Koreathemed songs recorded for Nippon Columbia alone between 1932 and 1940. Titles include: “Taegu March,” “P’yŏngyang is a Great Place,” “Kisaeng kouta,” “Inch’ŏn March,” “Ondol kouta,” and “Keijō [Seoul] Dance.” I found references to two additional Columbia releases, “Chōsen is a Great Place” (28551B, 1935), and “Chōsen Youth Song” (29491A, 1937). Miyatsuka notes that the list would be much longer if releases from Victor, Teichiku, King, and other companies were included.

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40. Liner notes, Saijō Yaso zenshū, 182; and Saijō Yaso, Waga uta to ai no ki (Niiza: Shakai Fukushikai, 1983), 53. 41. Pope, “Songs,” 321–22. 42. Pope, “Songs,” 323. The record was heavily promoted by Columbia, getting substantial ad space in YS March 26, 1940: 2, and inviting listeners to “fully sing the melancholy of spring!” (haru no yūshū o utatte amasu tokoro nashi!). 43. Lyrics reprinted in Japanese in Pak, Kankoku kayōshi, 62, and in Korean at http://ask.nate.com/qna/view.html?n=4024415 . 44. Pak, Kankoku kayōshi, 313–15, lists several other songs by Korean composers and performers that exhibit tairiku merodi characteristics and tout GGC policies encouraging Koreans to settle in Manchuria. 45. Arranged by Yi Hŭng-yŏl, from Tae, Korea Sings, 12–15. Alternate English translations appear in Lee, Korean Folk Songs, 62, and Joh, Folk Songs, 10 (which translates toraji as “bluebells” rather than “bellflower”). Chinese bellflower root (radix platycodi) is used in several Korean dishes such as toraji namul and bibimbap, and is frequently taken as an anti-inflammatory in the treatment of colds (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chinese_bellflower). 46. Pak, Kankoku kayōshi, 143, 339. 47. Koga, Uta, 27–28. Chikugo is in southern Fukushima, Koga’s home prefecture. 48. Koga Masao, “Ariran no uta—Chōsen min’yō ni tsuite,” Kaizō Dec. 1932: 87. 49. Koga, “Ariran no uta,” 89. 50. Yanagi Sōetsu, “Chōsenjin to bijutsu,” Shinchō May 1922, translated in Brandt, “Objects of Desire,” 735, 736, and Kingdom, 31, 32. 51. Kim, Chōsen min’yō shū, 267, 271, 273–75, 280. As noted in Chapter 2, Kim objected to previous characterizations of “Arirang” as bōkokuteki in publications by Shinobu Junpei, Takahama Kyoshi, and others (see Miyatsuka, Ariran no tanjō, 131). Kim So-un also wrote on “Arirang” for Tokyo Asahi shinbun (July 23, 24, and 26, 1931), and “Chōsen min’yō no ricchō: Arirang no ongaku teki keitai,” Minzoku geijutsu Dec. 1928: 158–63. 52. Grinker, Korea and Its Futures, 73–98; Willoughby, “Sound of Han,” 17–20. 53. “Chikuonki rekōdo no torishimari,” Chōsen 217 (June 1933): 118–20. 54. Karashima Takeshi, “Chōsen ni okeru bunka seisaku no gendankai,” Chōsen 329 (Oct. 1942): 11. 55. Konishi Mitsuo, “Geijutsu kara no naisen ittai,” Chōsen 284 (January 1939): 24–25; Kim, Chōsen bunka, 256; Pak, Kankoku kayōshi, 326; Killick, “Invention,” 199–201; and Park, Voices, 103. 56. Fujishima Ijirō, “Hōsō chōhyō: wajutsu are kore meikyoku kanshō, Chōsen min’yō sono ta,” YS Feb. 23, 1941: 5. 57. Park, “Making of a Cultural Icon,” 622–24. 58. Karashima, “Chōsen ni okeru bunka seisaku,” 15. 59. Major biographical sources on Ch’oe Sŭng-hŭi include: Ch’oe’s autobiography Watakushi no jijoden; Takashima, Sai Shōki; Chŏng, Ch’um ch’unŭn Ch’oe Sŭng-hŭi; Van Zile, Perspectives, chapter 8; Kim, Honō wa yami; and the documentary film Choi Seunghee: The Korean Dancer (Kultur: KUL-2219, 2001). 60. “Buyō ni seishin suru Chōsen umare no bishōjo,” YS Aug. 13, 1928: 3; Ch’oe Sŭng-hŭi [Sai Shōki], “Watakushi no jijoden: doryoku to namida no itsu-

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waranu kako,” Fujin kōron June 1935, reprinted in Takashima, Sai Shōki, 232–33; Van Zile, Perspectives, 186. 61. Ch’oe, “Watakushi no jijoden,” 234–35, 237–38. 62. Van Zile, Perspectives, 188–89; Park, “ ‘Nihon teikoku bunka,’ ” 128. 63. Kim, “Ideorogii,” 6; Park, “ ‘Nihon teikoku bunka,’ ” 130. 64. “Hantō no maihime! Sai Shōki no yū,” YS Aug. 22, 1936. 65. The title Eheya Noara is translated as “Dance of the Carefree” in Fujiwara Tomoko’s 2000 documentary film Densetsu no maihime (see Tai Kawabata, “A Dance of Hope: Rediscovering the Artistry and Power of Choi Seung-Hee,” Japan Times August 13, 2000, http://search.japantimes.co.jp/cgi-bin/ft20000813a1.html). Van Zile (who spells the title Ehea Noara) speculates that this “signature dance” may be the same as Young Korean Bridegroom: “The popularity in Japan, Korea, and the United States of dances with these two titles, captioned photographs of Ehea Noara from Japan and Korea and Young Korean Bridegroom in the United States, several advance announcements including the title Ehea Noara, and the fact that the words ‘ehea’ and ‘noara’ have no meaning in Korean and therefore could not be translated, all suggest these dances might be one and the same” (Perspectives, 198). List of dances from program for “Sai Shōki, Noted Korean Dancer, Dance Recital, Tuesday 22nd October, Hibiya Hall,” reprinted in Takashima, Sai Shōki, 56–58. 66. See various reviews quoted in Takashima, Sai Shōki, 58–60. Kawabata Yasunari’s comments (originally published in Bungei shunjū November 1939) are quoted in Kim, Honō wa yami, 96–97; Van Zile, Perspectives, 190; and Park, “ ‘Nihon teikoku bunka,’ ” 130. 67. “Haru no odori—Sai Shōki san,” YS Jan. 11, 1935: 9; “Sai Shōki ga meijinkai ni shutsuen,” YS Jan. 28, 1935: 10; “Buyōkai no isai Ginmaku e shinō ni hairu Sai Shōki,” YS March 30, 1935: 2; “Sai Shōki no eiga wa jijoden butsu,” YS May 1, 1935: 10; ad for Nihon Gekijō performance, YS Aug. 29, 1935: 5; ad for Hibiya Kōkaidō performance, YS Sept. 15. 1936: 7. 68. Park, “Making of a Cultural Icon,” 606, 610, and “Nihon teikoku bunka,” 127. 69. Jules-Rosette, Josephine Baker, 48–9, 215. 70. Jules-Rosette, Josephine Baker, 2, 3. 71. Jules-Rosette, Josephine Baker, 60–1, 66; Park, “Making of a Cultural Icon,” 614, 619. For more on the transgressions of cross-dressing in Japanese revue theater, see Robertson, Takarazuka. 72. See Okakura Kakuzō, The Ideals of the East (London: J. Murray, 1903). 73. Park, “Making of a Cultural Icon,” 624; Jules-Rosette, Josephine Baker, 62–3, 66. 74. Jules-Rosette, Josephine Baker, 63, 71, 235–37; Hammond and O’Connor, Josephine Baker, 148–56. 75. “Jun Nihon buyō dede yo,” YS Dec. 6, 1940: 7; “Gaikoku buyō to zetsuen Sai, kenage na hotsugan,” YS Dec. 8, 1940: 3. 76. Park, “Making of a Cultural Icon,” 622–25; Kim, Honō wa yami, 189– 92, 194–213, 272–75. Ch’oe’s wartime service began soon after hostilities with China began, as she performed matinees to benefit the National Defense Fund (YS Sept. 24, 1937: 4). Ads in the Yomiuri shinbun indicate that she was choreographing and performing new work at the Imperial Theater as late as 1944.

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77. Kim Tal-su quoted in Kawabata, “Dance of Hope.” 78. Song, Korean Music, 35; Lee, “Evolution,” 78; Kawamura, Kiisen, 20, 43–46. 79. “For many westerners the image of the Japanese woman starts and finishes with the geisha,” Ian Littlewood contends. “She is demure, remote, artistic, but also holds out the promise of sexual pleasure. Her elaborate hair, rich kimono with other-worldly make-up proclaim both her strangeness and, according to popular belief, her availability. In a single exotic figure she unites the principal qualities by which the west has chosen to define the Japanese woman” (Idea of Japan, 109). See also Prasso, Asian Mystique, 42–43. 80. Amelia Maciszewski, “Tawa’if, Tourism, and Tales: The Problematics of Twenty-First-Century Musical Patronage for North India’s Courtesans,” in Feldman and Gordon, Courtesan’s Arts, 334. 81. See Contogenis and Choe, Songs, 12–13; Kim, Women, 140–42; Osgood, Koreans, 258; and Joshua D. Pilzer, “The Twentieth-Century ‘Disappearance of the Gisaeng during the Rise of Korea’s Sex-and-Entertainment Industry,’ ” in Feldman and Gordon, Courtesan’s Arts, 295, 300–4, 307. Korea Church Women United issued a Kisaeng Tourism report in 1984 to decry sex tourism in Korea in the 1960s and 1970s. Thousands of Japanese men embarked on package tours across the straits to be entertained by so-called kisaeng, who they were told would “leave nothing unattended” (3). Noting that kisaeng had traditionally enjoyed “special status” (“many of the norms and mores of the day did not apply to them”), the report maintained that “this old, aristocratic practice of ‘Kisaeng’ is being made a sham by today’s tast[e]less venality and it is really no more than a ‘euphemism’ used to thinly guise the repulsive, inhumane act of selling and buying human beings” (15). 82. Pilzer, “ ‘Disappearance,’ ” 298–99; Kim Ki-tae, “Reevaluating Lives of ‘Kisaeng,’ ” Korea Times June 17, 2005, www.koreatimes.co.kr. 83. See also Nakamura, Chōsen fūzoku gafu, for sketches of kwangi (5–6) and kisaeng performing the sword dance (kŏmmu, 24); Matsui, Bessatsu, 110–13; CSF Tetsudōkyoku, Chōsen no fūkō, plate #3; and Kawamura, Kiisen, for the covers of three Japanese guidebooks to Seoul, each featuring an image of a kisaeng: Chōsen ryōri enseki no shiori (1934, a dining guide); Keijō annai (1936); and Kankō no Keijō (1937), front matter, plate #15. Kawamura also reprints a number of postcards featuring kisaeng, including a set entitled Chōsen Keijō hansei ki published in 1915 by Hinode Shōkō (200–01). 84. McCarthy, “Kisaeng in the Koryŏ Period,” summarizes Chosŏn court debates about the propriety of employing female entertainers for state functions, with lengthy translations from royal chronicles (5–14). See also Lee, “Evolution,” 78–79; and Kim, Women, 139. Kawamura argues that kisaeng were vital to both internal politics and external diplomacy in Chosŏn (Kiisen, 40–42). 85. According to Miho Matsugu, under a licensing system implemented in 1872, Japanese geisha were distinguished from ordinary prostitutes, “in order to prevent the ‘shamefulness’ of the latter from attenuating the ‘beauty’ of geisha.” One of the “perks” of being a geisha was taking the required syphilis exam once rather than thrice monthly. Still, Miho maintains, geisha were considered sexual labor and treated accordingly: “the licensing system did not differentiate between

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the lower and higher ends of the geisha continuum; under the law, all geisha were seen as potential prostitutes” (“In the Service of the Nation: Geisha and Kawabata Yasunari’s Snow Country,” in Feldman and Gordon, Courtesan’s Arts, 244, 246). 86. Kawamura, Kiisen, 125–30, includes reprints of two entries from the Treasury, featuring kisaeng Yi Chin-pong and nine-year-old dōgi Yi Kyŏng-ran. 87. Yoshikawa, Kiisan, 15, 16. The terms “Fuji-yama,” “Yoshiwara,” “Mikado,” “sakura,” and “geisha girl” are rendered in katakana in the original texts, possibly to poke fun at foreign tourists who fixate on these items of Japanalia. Yoshikawa writes that the conversation transcribed here was originally published in the Korean edition of the Ōsaka mainichi shinbun, as part of a series entitled “Josei kōshinkyoku—kiisen no maki.” 88. Yoshikawa, Kiisan, 16–25. 89. This fascination with the kisaeng’s past is apparent in a favorable review of Yi Nŭng-hwa’s book Chosŏn haeŏhwa sa (“Chōsen no chinpon konko kiisen seishi,” YS Dec. 12, 1927: 4). 90. Kawamura, Kiisen, 125–27; Song, Korean Music, 35. Kwŏnbŏn were located in Hansŏng (Seoul), Hannam, Kyŏnghwa, and P’yŏngyang; kisaeng associations (kumiai; chohap) existed in Taegu, Kwangju, Inch’ŏn, Ansŏng, Kaesŏng, Chinnamp’o, Suwon, Ch’angwon, Taejŏng, Tongnae, Yŏngi, and Kimch’ŏn. 91. Tanaka Tokutarō, “Chōsen no ongaku,” Chōsen 78 (Aug. 1921): 91. Standard curricula for kisaeng included Japanese songs (Nihon uta or naichi uta). See Han Chae-dŏk, “Kiisen gakkō dewa nani o oshieru ka?” Modan Nihon Nov. 1939, cited in Kawamura, Kiisen, 147–48. 92. For advertising and a review of a performance by kisaeng at a major Tokyo venue, see YS April 20, 1922: 1; and “Yūrakuza no ‘kiisen’ o miru,” YS April 5, 1922: 7. 93. Quoted in Kim, “Reevaluating Lives,” Korea Times June 17, 2005, www. koreatimes.co.kr.; see Ch’oe Hong-ryŏng, “Ilche ttaedo ‘hyori’ itŏt da,” Chosun ilbo June 3, 2005, http://www.chosun.com/culture/news/200506/200506030234 .html. Following the translation into Korean of Kawamura’s book, several Korean authors have responded to Kawamura’s alleged “blurring [of] the division between prostitutes and kisaeng.” Such works include three by Sin Hŏn-gyu: Kkot ŭl chapko (Seoul: Kyŏngdŏk, 2005); P’yŏngyang kisaeng Wang Su-bok: 10-tae kasu yŏwang toeda (Seoul: Kyŏngdŏk, 2006); and Kisaeng iyagi: ilche sidae ŭi taejung sut’a (P’aju: Sallim, 2007); as well as Yi Kyŏng-min, Kisaeng ŭn ŏttŏke mandŭl ŏ chyŏnnnŭn ka: kŭndae kisaeng ŭi t’ansaeng kwa p’yosang konggan (Seoul: Sajin Akkaibŭ Yŏnguso, 2005); and Kim Yŏng-hŭi, Kaehwagi taejung yesul ŭi kkot, kisaeng (Seoul: Minsokwŏn, 2006). 94. See Bardsley, Bluestockings; and Hyun, Writing Women. 95. Yoshikawa, Kiisan, 23. 96. Tamara L. Hunt, “Introduction,” in Hunt and Lessard, Women, 1, 8. See also Sinha, Colonial Masculinity; McClintock, Imperial Leather, 5–7; Stoler, Carnal Knowledge, esp. Chapter 3; Clare Midgley, “Introduction—Gender and Imperialism: Mapping the Connections,” in Midgley, Gender, 9, 14; Tamara L. Hunt, “Wild Irish Women: Gender, Politics, and Colonialism in the Nineteenth Century,” in Hunt and Lessard, Women, 54; Kawamura, Kiisen, 190–91; and Young, Postcolonialism, 326.

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97. Matsugu, “In the Service,” in Feldman and Gordon, Courtesan’s Arts, 246. 98. “Haruharu kiisen shūkō—Ikebukuro no kissa machi e kanshō o nokoshi Tsukinami [Wŏl-p’a]-san kokyō Chōsen e,” YS Sept. 17, 1936: 4; “Kiisen san imontai nyūkyō,” YS July 19, 1943: 2; “Kiisen no yūshi imongyō,” YS July 23, 1943: 3. 99. Kawamura, Kiisen, 191–92. 100. Robertson, Takarazuka, 90, quoting Marius Jansen, “Japanese Imperialism: Late Meiji Perspectives,” in Myers and Peattie, Japanese Colonial Empire, 76. Representative studies of imperial Japanese popular culture include: Young, Japan’s Total Empire, chapter 3; Davis, Picturing Japaneseness; Iwamoto, Daitōakyōeiken to eiga; High, Imperial Screen; Atkins, Blue Nippon, chapter 4; Kushner, Thought War; Baskett, Attractive Empire; and Silverberg, Erotic, chapter 3. 101. See for instance Brcak and Pavia, “Images of Asians”; Baskett, “Outposts of Empire”; and Kushner, Thought War, chapter 5. 102. See also Silverberg, Erotic, 86–87, which describes the Japanese eroticization of Korean women and “how Japanese Orientalist writers negotiated the contradiction between Korea as the oriental other and Korea as ostensibly one with Japan.” 103. Thomas, Colonialism’s Culture, 51. 104. Robinson, “Broadcasting,” 63–68, and Korea’s Twentieth-Century, 87–91. 105. Ch’ae, Peace, 12–14. 106. High, Imperial Screen, 307–08, relates a bizarre slippage in media censorship, in which the Korean-language film Angels Without a Home (Ienaki tenshi, 1941) was approved for distribution in Japan by the Ministry of Education, even though it plainly violated language policy. The Ministry regarded it as a potential contribution to the naisen ittai campaign, but, in a “cumbersome sleight of hand,” publicized it as a “revised”—yet not “recommended”—version that had originally been filmed in Japanese and later dubbed in Korean.

e pi logu e 1. Choi, “Artistry,” 184 n8; Hogarth, Korean Shamanism, 345. Pak was tortured to death by the police in January 1987; Yi died from head injuries after being hit with shrapnel from a teargas canister at a June 9 demonstration. “Student Critically Injured by Police Tear Gas Shell,” Korea Times (hereafter KT) June 11, 1987: 3; “Machine Supports Life of Injured Yonsei Student,” KT June 12, 1987: 3; “Lee Han-yol Dies 27 Days After Being Hit by Tear Gas Shell,” KT July 7, 1987: 3. 2. Living national treasure Yi Aeju performed sungp’uri (calming a violent rage) before two million people, in memory of the students. See “500,000 Join Funeral Procession,” KT July 10, 1987: 1; Shin Sang-in, “Lee Laid to Rest Among Citizens’ Wails,” KT July 10, 1987: 3; Chungmoo Choi, “The Minjung Culture Movement and the Construction of Popular Culture in Korea,” in Wells, South Korea’s Minjung Movement, 109–10; and “Korean Mask Drama and the Dance of Therapy,” http://ieas.berkeley.edu/events/2005.04.18a.html. 3. “Chun OKs Direct Election,” KT July 2, 1987: 1–2; Clyde Haberman, “South Korea Chief Says He Never Sought Power,” NYT Jan. 30, 1988: 4; Nicholas D.

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Kristof, “Scandal Shows Deep Roots in Korean Politics,” NYT Nov. 12, 1995: 1, 14. Chŏn entered Paekdamsa on November 23, 1988. 4. Yang Jongsung argues that folk performances have “lost much of their dynamism” as a result of cultural protection legislation, which insists upon the maintenance of “original” forms (wŏnhyŏng), a “repetition of the same model in every performance.” “After designation as a cultural property, the rules . . . do not allow any changes whatsoever in the performance of that form” (Cultural Protection, 2, 4). 5. Choi, “Minjung Culture Movement,” 107; Janelli, “Origins,” 32–34. 6. Pai, “Creation,” 77. 7. UNESCO Culture Sector—Intangible Heritage, http://www.unesco.org/ culture/ich/. 8. For more detail, see Yang, Cultural Protection, Chapter 3; Choi, “Competence,” 65–74; and Howard, Preserving, Chapter 1. The CPA has changed its name to Cultural Heritage Administration (Munhwa Chaech’ŏng, CHA). See http://english .cha.go.kr/. 9. Yang, Cultural Protection, 78–86; Howard, Preserving, 15, 28; and Lee, Making of Minjung, 189–91. To be fair, the current CHA has come to recognize this as a problem: with regard to p’ansori, it acknowledges that “it has lost much of its original spontaneous character. Ironically, this recent evolution is a direct result of the preservation process itself, for improvisation is tending to be stifled by the increasing number of written texts. Indeed, few singers nowadays can successfully improvise, and contemporary audiences are less receptive to the impromptu creativity and language of traditional Pansori” (http://www.unesco.org/culture/ ich/index.php#TOC2). 10. Killick, “Invention,” 23, 263–66; National Ch’anggŭk Company at National Theater of Korea, http://www.ntok.go.kr/english/index.do. Some intellectuals favored the very sort of present-mindedness that ch’anggŭk exemplified: they urged Koreans to “prove that [they are] able to take those primary forms and present them in the context of the modern world.” See Hong I-sop, “Between ROK and Japan: A Thought on Cultural Exchange,” Korea Journal 2.4 (April 1962): 6–7; and S. F. Solberg, “To Win Western Audience Koreans Must Develop Arts Based on Modern Day Terms,” KT May 9, 1964: 2. 11. Portal, Art Under Control, 27, 105–06, 126, 135. 12. Janelli, “Origins,” 42; Choi, “Competence,” 70. 13. Yang, Cultural Protection, 7–8. 14. Kendall, Shamans, 49, 176; Choi, “Competence,” 59–60, 68, 74–75; Hogarth, Korean Shamanism, 351. 15. Janelli, “Origins,” 24–25; Choi, “Competence,” 67; Pai, “Creation,” 77, 89; Yang, Cultural Protection, 33–34; Howard, Preserving, 2, 6; and Sang Mi Park, “South Korea’s Modeling of Japanese Cultural Policy,” paper presented at the Association for Asian Studies Annual Meeting, Atlanta, GA, April 6, 2008. The Korean and Japanese heritage systems use the same Chinese characters to designate titles, assets, and treasures. For information on Japan’s Department of Intangible Cultural Heritage see http://www.tobunken.go.jp/~geino/index_e.html; for the history of cultural properties law see “Cultural Properties for Future Generations,”

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http://www.bunka.go.jp/bunkazai/pamphlet/pdf/pamphlet_en_03.pdf. The text of Japan’s law (as amended) is available at http://www.wipo.int/tk/en//laws/pdf/ japan_cultural.pdf. 16. Korea Annual 1964, 362, 368. 17. Choi, “Minjung Culture Movement,” 106, 108. 18. “Students Clash with Police; 98 Arrested,” KT May 21, 1964: 1, 4; “Unfortunate Actions,” KT May 22, 1964: 2; “Government Takes Tougher Line Toward Oppositionists,” KT May 24, 1964: 2. Documents released forty years after the signing of the Treaty on Basic Relations between Japan and the Republic of Korea suggest just cause for popular discontent with the agreement. According to the Chosŏn ilbo, the documents reveal that “Korean negotiators made a number of statements that could be construed as surrendering the rights of individual Koreans to sue the Japanese government.” The ROK agreed to do so in exchange for economic assistance to fund its development plans. The Japanese government has repeatedly used the treaty as the basis for refusing to offer compensation to former “comfort women,” conscripted laborers, and other individuals whose health and well-being were affected by Japanese colonialism and the Pacific War. See “Declassified Documents Could Trigger Avalanche of Lawsuits,” and Shin Ji-eun, “Victims of Japanese Imperialism React to Documents’ Release,” Digital Chosun ilbo Jan. 17, 2005, http://english.chosun.com; and Funabashi Yōichi, “East Asia’s History Creating Mistrust,” Asahi shinbun Jan. 4, 2005, www.asahi.com. 19. Choi, “Competence,” 71–74, and “Minjung Culture Movement,” 109–11; and Donald N. Clark, “Growth and Limitations of a Minjung Christianity in South Korea,” in Wells, South Korea’s Minjung, 95–96. 20. Quoted from English translation in Ch’oe et al., Sources, 400–11. See also Choi, “Minjung Culture Movement,” 111–12, 115–16; Grinker, Korea, 84–5; Choi Hyun-moo, “Contemporary Korean Literature: From Victimization to Minjung Nationalism,” trans. Carolyn U. So, in Wells, South Korea’s Minjung Movement, 173; and Lee, History, 445–51. Kim Chi-ha composed other anti-government p’ansori libretti, including Groundless Rumors (Piŏ), part of which (“The Story of a Sound,” Sori naeryŏk) is translated in McCann, Columbia Anthology, 212–23. 21. Kendall, “Who Speaks,” 67. 22. See Ch’oe et al., Sources, 173–77. 23. Abelmann, Echoes, 27–29; Grinker, Korea, 197, 200; and Lee, Making of Minjung, 56–58. 24. Lee, Making of Minjung 147–48, 191–92; Choi, “Competence,” 78–80; Timothy R. Tangherlini, “Shamans, Students, and the State: Politics and the Enactment of Culture in South Korea, 1987–1988,” in Pai and Tangherlini, Nationalism, 131–35. 25. Abelmann, Echoes, 62. 26. The IHK opened in late summer 1987, on the heels of student rallies, labor unrest, and Chŏn’s announcement of direct presidential elections. See Chung Kyung-a, “Independence Hall Testifies to Japan Oppression,” KT Aug. 15, 1987 (supplement): 1; and Park Chang-seok, “Independence Hall Dedicated—Chun Calls for Nat’l Reconciliation,” KT Aug. 16, 1987. 27. See for instance Kim Yong-un, “Traditional Folk Music to Celebrate Independence Movement,” Digital Chosun ilbo Feb. 20, 2002; and Kim Gi-cheol,

Notes to Pages 197–198

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“Independence Martyr’s Centennial Commemorated,” Digital Chosun ilbo Feb. 28, 2002, http://english.chosun.com. P’ungmul drumming and folk dancing also accompany protests in the Korean diaspora: the 1996 documentary film In the Name of the Emperor contains a scene of Koreans greeting Emperor Akihito in New York with a boisterous musical demonstration for redress for comfort women. 28. Choi, “Politics of Gender,” 113, 116. 29. Cho, “Reading the ‘Korean Wave,’ ” 154–55, 170; Kim, “Korean TV Dramas,” 187–88. 30. Kusno, “Remembering/Forgetting,” 159–61.

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Bibliography

To conserve space, the following abbreviations are used in the notes and bibliography: CSF

Chōsen Sōtokufu

CSFCSI

Chōsen Sōtokufu Chūsūin

GGC

Government-General of Chōsen

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Index

aak (Korean court music), 126, 129–30, 131, 228n67 Abelman, Nancy, 195 Abe Nobuyuki, 46 aesthetics of sorrow, 9, 72, 167–68, 184 Africa, 14, 28, 29, 54, 56, 60, 65, 83, 84, 98, 107 Akamatsu Chijo (Tomoshige), 87 Akhak kwebŏm (Model for the Study of Music), 126–27. See also Sŏng Hyŏn Akiba Takashi, 76–77, 81, 87, 96–97, 212n97 Algeria, 57, 98, 107 Amerindians, 83, 87, 88 An Chung-gŭn, 39 Angkor, 108–9 An Mak, 170, 174 annexation of Korea (Nikkan heigō), 13–15, 24–26, 39, 43, 53, 56, 64, 65, 113, 117, 118, 131, 161, 178 anthropology. See ethnography anti-modernism, 3, 5–6, 56, 59, 80, 92, 93, 100, 124, 166–67, 172 archaeology, 7, 11, 50, 63, 99, 106–8, 113, 116–17, 190 Arirang (film), 150–51, 222n7, 223n9 “Arirang” (song), 2, 9, 11, 93–94, 131, 149, 151–63, 164, 165–67, 168 Asad, Talal, 59–60 Asakawa brothers (Noritaka and Takumi), 124–25 assimilation policies (dōka, kōminka, naisen  

 

 

 

 

 

 

ittai), 3, 10, 11–12, 26–27, 32, 33, 37, 38, 42, 45, 46, 49, 76, 96, 97, 98–99, 100, 104, 105, 135, 150, 173, 189, 196. See also language policy; Name Change Australasia, 57, 83, 87, 107, 108 Austro-Hungarian empire, 28 Awaya Noriko, 157, 159  

 

 

Babur, 53–54 Baker, Josephine, 171–75 Bertrand, Louis, 107 Boas, Franz, 55, 74 Bonaparte, Napoleon, 106, 109 Borobudur, 108–9, 215n13 Brudnoy, David, 34, 201n2 Buddhism, 7, 8, 56, 58, 66, 72, 94, 103, 109, 111–12, 117–22, 141, 187, 216n35, 217n46  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cambodia, 108–9 Canada, 31, 84 censorship, 11, 26, 30, 34, 37, 65, 133–34, 168, 203n106, 223n9, 225n28 Central Council (Chūsūin), 38, 69–70, 93, 110 ceramics, 111, 112, 123–25, 166, 167, 196 Ch’ae Man-sik, 186 Chang, Iris, 50 Chang Chi-yŏn, 23–24 ch’anggŭk (“singing drama”), 132–34, 144, 190 Chang Hyŏk-chu, 135 Che Kyu-yŏp (Hasegawa Ichirō), 159  

 

 

 

 

 

257

258

|

Index

China, 6, 8, 9, 11, 14, 16, 18, 20, 21, 28, 29, 39, 40, 41, 47, 53, 58, 61, 81, 94, 108, 114, 119, 144, 158, 160, 161, 163, 168, 169, 171, 174, 184, 185, 198; Korean servility to (sadae), 7, 21, 38, 47, 76, 94, 121 Chin Ch’ae-sŏn, 134 Cho Dong-il, 8–9, 136 Ch’oe Che-u, 20, 73 Ch’oe Kil-sŭng, 76, 81 Ch’oe Nam-sŏn, 29, 77 Ch’oe Sŭng-hŭi (Sai Shōki), 11, 149, 150, 168–75, 185 Ch’oe Sŭng-il, 169, 170 Choi, Chungmoo, 192, 197 Ch’ŏndogyo, 34, 72–73, 121. See also Tonghak Rebellion Chŏn Tu-hwan (Chun Doo-hwan), 187, 191, 194 Chōsen Sōtokufu. See Government-General of Chōsen; Residency-General of Chōsen Chosŏn (Yi dynasty), 8, 11, 17–21, 25, 45, 46, 61, 67, 73, 74, 94, 95, 102, 103, 105, 112, 117, 118, 120, 121, 122, 123, 126–27, 131, 134, 143, 151, 175, 203n23; stagnation of (teitairon), 47, 56, 91, 95, 96. See also Taehan Empire Christianity, 28, 31–32, 55, 108; missionaries, 28, 29, 31–32, 44, 64, 72, 118, 119–20, 125, 153 Chung, Henry, 28 Ch’unhyang-ka (p’ansori opera), 8, 132, 220n87; Japanese production (Shunkōden), 135 Clemenceau, Georges, 28 Clifford, James, 53 Cohn, Bernard, 7 colonialism and imperialism: in Asia, 15, 25, 77–78, 187; and gender, 97–98, 183; theories of, 3, 4–7, 36, 52–55, 58, 60, 106, 110, 140, 145, 148–49, 168, 173, 175, 183, 184–85 communism, 28, 35, 108, 156 Confucianism and Neo-Confucianism, 8, 17, 56, 58, 67, 72, 76, 94, 95, 98, 103, 112, 120–21, 126, 128, 134, 141, 173, 193, 207n88, 211n84 “continental melodies” (tairiku merodii), 158, 161–63 Cooper, Frederick, 54 “cultural genocide,” charges of, 3, 32, 96, 104, 185 Cultural Properties Administration (ROK, now Cultural Heritage Administration), 104, 189–92, 193, 195  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“cultural rule” (bunka seiji), 10, 15, 33–39, 40, 45, 48, 70, 122, 129, 131, 136, 191 Cummings, Bruce, 34, 46 curation: and colonialism, 106–10; of Koreana, 11, 37, 49, 63, 103–7, 110–11, 117, 123, 125–27, 130–31, 134, 136, 138, 140– 46, 166, 180, 188–92, 195  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

dance, 49, 75, 87, 98, 105, 126, 129, 131, 132, 136, 137, 140, 142–43, 150, 169–75, 176, 180, 185, 187, 188, 189, 191, 192, 193, 195, 196 Democratic People’s Republic of Korea (North Korea), 2, 148, 152, 174, 188, 190 dual structure theory of Korean society, 58, 76–77, 94, 131, 188, 194 Duara, Prasenjit, 39–40, 63 Duus, Peter, 9, 24, 25, 79  

 

 

 

Eckert, Carter J., 78 education policy/compulsory schooling, 32, 34, 37, 38, 39, 45, 64, 78, 100, 103, 125, 169, 173 Egypt, 14, 22, 29, 106, 108, 131 ethnography: and imperialism, 5, 52–56; Japanese in Korea, 3, 10–11, 37, 38, 49, 50–51, 52–53, 56–61, 63–75, 78–81, 93, 96–101, 105, 106, 110, 112, 132, 137, 141, 167, 192; Japanese in Taiwan, 62; Korean native anthropology, 93–96; and photography, 3, 57, 75, 76, 79, 81–91, 113, 123, 185. See also archaeology; ethnomusicology ethnomusicology, 58, 60, 70, 126, 127–29, 131–32, 145, 166–67 evolutionary anthropology/cultural evolutionism, 55–57, 74, 80, 81, 82, 125, 132  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fabian, Johannes, 57 feminism, 19, 46, 50, 176, 180–81 folk crafts (mingei), 59, 124–25, 127, 144–45, 146, 166–67 folklore, 8, 32, 35, 38, 48, 49, 58, 59, 61, 63, 65–66, 69, 70, 72, 74, 76, 77, 80, 93, 95– 96, 97, 99, 136, 150, 151–52, 153, 156, 160, 161, 163, 169, 171, 174, 185, 188, 189, 190 folk performance (minsok yenŭng, minzoku geinō): as satire and populist protest, 7–9, 12, 94, 141–43, 151, 154–57, 167, 187–89, 192–95; as signifier of Korean identity, 3–4, 48, 153–54, 157, 170, 188, 196–97; Japanese suppression of, 74, 104–5, 133, 136–37, 143–44, 150, 156, 167–68, 191–92, 196, 215n7  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Index folk songs: Japanese (min’yō), 166; Korean (minyo), 9, 11, 81, 93–94, 104, 131–32, 134, 141, 149, 152, 156, 158, 164, 165–67, 168, 185, 218n67; “new folk songs” (sin minyo, shin min’yō), 157–58, 165, 185. See also “Arirang”; recording industry; “Toraji t’aryŏng” Foucault, Michel, 4–5, 60 France, 18, 21, 107, 109, 172, 174; French empire, 14, 57, 60, 98, 107, 108–9, 173–74 Fukuda Hideko, 19 Fukuzawa Yukichi, 18–19, 58  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Gandhi, M. K., 29, 205n54 gaze (imperial and ethnographic), 3–5, 49, 52, 55, 56, 57, 58, 61, 67, 79, 82, 83, 91, 93, 130, 132, 143, 172, 175, 180, 189 geisha, 58, 97, 175–76, 179, 181–84, 228n79, 228–29n85 gendarmerie (kenpeitai), 24, 30, 34, 49, 64, 65, 66, 113 geomancy (feng shui, p’ungsu), 7, 27, 70, 137–38, 150 Germany, 21, 28, 102, 127, 160; German empire, 14, 28, 60, 65 Government-General of Chōsen (GGC, Chōsen Sōtokufu), 11, 14, 15, 27, 30, 32–35, 36, 37, 39, 40, 41, 42, 43, 44, 46– 47, 79, 129, 132, 137–38, 150, 167, 178, 192, 196, 199; as conservator of heritage, 11, 66, 102–6, 110–12, 117–18, 145–46, 188, 192; and ethnography, 38, 48–49, 64–66, 68–69, 70, 72–76, 80, 91, 93, 140; headquarters building, 49, 138, 139fig., 150, 196, 199; as patron of the arts, 122– 23, 130; policies on religion, 44, 72, 74– 75, 100, 117–22, 137. See also Central Council; Residency-General of Chōsen Great Britain, 18, 30, 174; British empire, 7, 14, 29, 57, 60, 65, 98, 108, 176, 198  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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259

Imaida Kiyonori, 78 Imamura Tomo, 48, 66–68, 70, 73, 80–81 Imjin War, 16, 66, 123, 126, 142, 143, 221n107 Im Kwŏn-t’aek, 196–98 Imna/Mimana, 111, 114–17. See also Kaya federation Imperial Japanese Army, 19–20, 40, 41, 42, 61, 191 Im Sŏk-chae, 77, 93 Independence Hall of Korea (Tongnip Kinyŏmgwan), 30, 114, 115fig, 195, 199fig. India, 22, 29, 30, 53–54, 57, 98, 176 Indonesia (Dutch East Indies), 26, 65, 109, 198 insurgency and terrorism, 14, 24, 26, 27, 39, 65, 113, 121, 143, 156, 184 Ireland, 57, 107 Ishii Baku, 169–170 Ishikawa Giichi, 131–32 Islam, 4, 55, 98, 107, 109, 176, 198 Israel, 108 Itō Hirobumi, 19, 20, 24, 26, 39, 63  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Japanese attitudes toward Koreans and Koreana: ambivalence, nostalgia, aesthetic and affective attachment, 3, 5–6, 8, 11, 15, 48, 51, 56, 59, 93, 98, 100, 105, 124–25, 130, 132, 135, 137, 146, 148–49, 165, 166, 171, 179–80, 181, 184, 185, 186; contempt and prejudice, 2–3, 14, 18, 33, 46–47, 48, 70–72, 94, 100, 179, 185 Japanese empire and imperialism, 2, 3, 6, 8, 11, 26–27, 32, 40, 53, 57, 59, 114, 139, 151, 171, 173–74, 157, 192 Jingū, 15–16, 114, 116 Jinmu, 121 Jules-Rosette, Bennetta, 171–73  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Kabo Reforms, 19, 20, 21, 178 Kaehwap’a (Korean Enlightenment faction), 18–19, 20, 38 Kang Wi Jo, 34, 74–75 Kapsin Coup, 18–19 Karafuto, 6, 61 Kawabata Yasunari, 171 Kawamura Minato, 178, 181 Kaya federation, 114–16 Keijō Imperial University, 76, 102 Killick, Andrew, 133–34, 190, 222n113 Kim Chi-ha, 193–94 Kim Chwa-jin, 121 Kim Hye-shin, 122–23 Kim Jong-il, 148 Kim Ok-kyun, 18–19. See also Kapsin Coup  

 

han (indignant sorrow), and Korean national character, 9, 72, 93–94, 153–54, 167, 189, 194, 195. See also aesthetics of sorrow Han Sŏng-jun, 170 Harootunian, Harry, 36 Hasegawa Yoshimichi, 27, 32–33, 120 Hattori Ryōichi, 157, 161, 163 heritage management. See curation Hesselink, Nathan, 143 Hosokawa Shūhei, 128, 130, 145 Hulbert, Homer B., 153 Huyssen, Andreas, 92  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

260

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Index

Kim Ryŏ-sil, 150–51 Kim San (Chang Chi-rok), 153–54, 155, 156 Kim Shi-ŏp, 154–55, 156 Kim So-un, 93–94, 167 Kim Tae-jung, 147 Kim Tal-su, 174–75 kisaeng (courtesan-entertainers), 8, 11, 58, 68, 79, 97, 129–30, 131, 133, 143, 149, 168, 169, 170, 175–84, 185–86, 221n107, 228n81, 229n93. See also kwŏnbŏn Kobayashi Chiyoko (Kin’iro Kamen), 158 Koga Masao, 157, 158–60, 165–67 Koguryŏ, 111 Kojiki, 15–16 Kojong, 20–21, 24, 31, 116 Kon Wajirō, 138 Korea Wave (K-Wave, Hallyu, Kanryū), 1–2, 147–48, 150, 198 Korean Art Exhibition (Sŏnjŏn), 122–23, 134 Korean script (ŏnmun, han’gŭl), 45, 103, 126, 178, 215n3 Korean War, 46, 104, 191, 194, 197 Koryŏ, 16, 112, 120, 123, 142 Kuno, Yoshi S., 114–16 Kusano Taeko, 152, 153 Kuwayama, Takami, 81 Kwon, Nayoung Aimee, 135–36 kwŏnbŏn (kisaeng licensing academies), 129, 178, 180, 181. See also kisaeng Kyŏngbok palace, 21, 110, 112, 125, 138, 150, 151  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

May 4 Movement, 29 McCann, David, 155 McKenzie, F. A., 31 Meckel, Maj. Klemens Wilhelm Jakob, 19–20 Meiji emperor (Mutsuhito), 17, 44 Meiji Restoration, 17, 18–19, 36, 67, 101, 126, 198 Memmi, Albert, 98 Micronesia, 6, 61 military rule (martial law, budan seiji), 10, 26–28, 32, 33, 65, 67, 155 Mimana Nihonfu. See Imna/Mimana Minami Jirō, 43, 45, 49 minjung, 12, 47, 143, 188, 193; populist ideology and movement, 188–89, 192–95 Min Wŏn-p’yŏk, 129, 291n71 Miura Gorō, 21–22 Miyatsuka Toshio, 160 Mizuno Naoki, 44 Mongolia, 61, 77; Mongol empire, 16, 20, 108 Morris-Suzuki, Tessa, 35–36 Murayama Chijun, 70–75, 81, 95, 112, 132, 140–42 Murayama Tomoyoshi, 135–36 museology. See curation  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Na Ch’ŏl, 121 Name Change (sōshi kaimei), 12, 43–44, 185 Nam Sŭng-nyong, 42–43 Nanjing Massacre, 50 nationalism, 22, 24, 26, 29, 35, 38, 42, 44, 50, 73, 75, 77, 95, 101, 105, 108, 109–10, 119–20, 121, 122, 135, 143, 145, 146, 150–52, 154–55, 157, 159, 176, 184, 188, 192, 196, 198; nationalist historiography (minjok sahak), 47–48, 99–100, 102, 104, 117, 194–95 Natsume Sōseki, 59 Na Un-gyu, 150, 153, 158, 166 Netherlands, 18, 174; Dutch empire, 26, 65, 108, 198 Nihon shoki, 15–16, 116, 120 nissen dōsoron (common ancestry/ethnic kinship theory), 5, 11, 26–27, 53, 56–58, 63, 69, 96–98, 100, 106, 120, 145, 171, 181, 185, 209n20, 209n22, 217n57 nong’ak (farmers’ music). See p’ungmul  

 

 

language (kokugo) policy, 26, 34, 37, 44, 45, 65, 95, 100, 103, 144, 149, 150, 160, 168, 192. See also Korean script Las Casas, Bartolomé de, 54 League of Nations, 28, 39 Lears, T. J. Jackson, 56 Lee Ki-baik, 34 Lee, Namhee, 195 Lenin, V. I., 148 Li Hongzhang, 19, 20 Madagascar, 14, 60 Manchuria (Manshū), 6, 21, 32, 39–41, 58, 61, 77, 81, 99, 150, 158, 184, 209n20 Manhae (Han Yong-un), 122 Mansenshi (Manchurian-Korean history), 77–78 March 1 Movement, 15, 28–34, 35, 38, 42, 49, 69, 119, 125, 155, 196 masked dance drama (t’alch’um), 3, 12, 94, 104, 136–37, 138–39, 141–42, 143, 171, 188, 193, 195  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Olympic games, 42, 108 Ottoman empire, 28 Pacific War. See World War II Paekche, 16, 110, 111, 112, 114, 116–17, 120 Pae Yong-jun, 147, 148  

Index Pai, Hyung-il, 104, 188 Pak Ch’an-ho, 163 Pak Chong-ch’ŏl, 187 Pak Chŏng-hŭi (Park Chung-hee), 191, 193 Pak Ch’ŏn-su, 116–17 Pak Ŭn-sik, 121 pan-Asian ideology, 6, 8, 37, 40, 56, 126, 127– 29, 135, 139–40, 146, 168, 169, 173, 184, 185. See also nissen dōsoron p’ansori (solo narrative singing), 8, 104, 132– 34, 138, 144, 186, 190, 193–94, 196–97 Paris Peace Conference, 28–29, 31 Park, Chan E., 138–39, 144 Park, Sang-mi, 171, 174 Philippines, 14, 23, 65 pirates, Japanese (waegu; wakō), 16, 104, 142 Polynesia, 57, 83, 84, 184 Pongsan, 8, 141–42, 193, 201n8 “Pongsŏnhwa” (“The Balsam Flower Song”), 154 Pope, Edgar, 161 primitivism, 11, 53, 56, 58–59, 78–81, 83, 85, 87, 91, 100, 106, 124–25, 132, 166–67, 172–73, 185 propaganda, 33, 41, 45, 56, 80, 101, 144 prostitution. See sexual commerce Protectorate Treaty (Ŭlsa choyak), 13, 23, 24, 63, 116, 121, 193 Provine, Robert, 126, 218n64, 218n67 p’ungmul, 105, 143–44, 188 Puyi (Kangde Emperor of Manchukuo), 40

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261

radio, 76, 81, 105, 133, 148, 157, 160, 167, 168, 176, 180, 184, 186 recording industry, 127, 133, 149, 152, 157–61, 166, 167–68, 176, 179, 180 Republic of Korea (South Korea), 1, 2, 152, 187, 188–93, 195 Residency-General of Chōsen, 23–24, 26, 27, 63–64, 110, 133–34. See also GovernmentGeneral of Chōsen Rhee, Syngman. See Yi Sŭng-man Robertson, Jennifer, 184 Robinson, Michael, 34–35, 38, 42, 149, 185 Roosevelt, Theodore, 22, 56 Russia, 14, 18, 20, 21, 22–23. See also Soviet Union Russo-Japanese War, 14, 21–22, 24, 114. See also Treaty of Portsmouth

Saijō Yaso, 157, 158, 160, 161–62 Saitō Makoto, 32–33, 35, 36–37, 49, 120, 125 Sakuma Shōzan, 198 Sand, Jordan, 36, 201n3 Sano Tasuku, 157, 160 Sapir, Edward, 80 Schmid, Andre, 6, 7, 77, 117 Seikan ron (Japanese plot to attack Chosŏn), 17–18 Sekino Tadashi, 111, 112 sexual commerce, 134, 176, 177–78, 181, 183 sexual violence, 16, 42, 198 shamanism (musok), 3, 12, 58, 68, 70, 72, 73, 74–77, 83, 87, 88, 97, 104, 121, 132, 141, 142, 187, 188, 191, 194–95, 196, 211n84, 212n97, 214n132, 221n102 Sheehan, James, 50 Shintō, 46, 58, 138; mandatory shrine visits, 11–12, 44, 72, 73, 185 Shirakawa Yoshinori, 39 Shōwa emperor (Hirohito), 39 Sich’ŏngyo, 72, 121 Silla, 15–16, 110, 111, 112, 114, 120, 137, 151, 171 Sima Qian, 53 Sim Ch’ŏng-ka (p’ansori opera), 132, 220n87 Sin Chae-ho, 77, 121 Sin Chae-hyo, 93, 134 Sino-Japanese War, 9, 14, 20, 21, 62, 121. See also Tonghak Rebellion; Triple Intervention Sŏdaemun prison, 30 Son Chin-t’ae, 93, 213n119 Sone Arasuke, 26 Sŏng Hyŏn, 126–27 Sŏngjong, 126 Sŏnjo, 16 Son Ki-jŏng, 42–43 Son Pyŏng-hŭi, 121 Song Sok-ha, 93, 94 Soper, E. D., 30–31 Sŏp’yŏnje, 196–98 Southeast Asia, 6, 22, 42, 54, 61, 98, 174, 184, 185, 198 South Manchurian Railway, 21, 40, 41 Soviet Union (U.S.S.R.), 39, 46 Spain, 22; Spanish empire, 54 Stevens, Durham White, 24 Stoler, Ann Laura, 54 Sugawara Tsuzuko, 157, 160–61, 164 Sunjong, 13, 24, 25

Said, Edward, 4–5 Saigō Takamori, 17–18

Tacitus, Gaius Cornelius, 53 Taehan Empire, 13, 21, 25, 193, 203n23

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Queen Min (Myŏngsŏng), 20–21, 203n21  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

262

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Index

Taejonggyo, 72, 121. See also Tan’gun Taewŏn’gun, 22, 134 Taft-Katsura Agreement, 22–23 Taiwan, 6, 20, 34, 45, 61, 62, 149 Takarazuka, 184 Tanabe Hisao, 127–30, 145 Tanaka Tokutarō, 130–31 Tan’gun, 72, 121, 168, 190 Terauchi Masatake, 26–27, 34, 39, 49 Thomas, Nicholas, 6–7, 106, 185 Tibet, 108 Tokugawa Ieyasu, 17 Tokugawa shōgunate, 17, 123, 134 Tonghak Rebellion, 9, 20, 34, 73, 121, 195. See also Ch’ŏndogyo “Toraji t’aryŏng” (“The Bellflower Song”), 11, 149, 163–65, 168 totems (changsŭng), 84–85, 87 Toyotomi Hideyoshi, 16–17, 18 treaties: Ansei, 18; Kanagawa, 18; Kanghwa, 18; Portsmouth, 13, 22–23 Triple Intervention, 21  

 

Wilson, Woodrow, 28, 31, 39 World Peace Conference at The Hague, 24, 29 World War I, 28, 31, 80 World War II, 10, 11, 41–42, 44–45, 61, 92– 93, 105, 127, 129, 136, 140, 144, 150, 168, 173, 174, 186, 206n81  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ue Sanemichi, 129 Ugaki Kazushige, 44, 49 UNESCO World Heritage designation, 118, 188, 191 United States of America, 14, 18, 21, 22, 28, 31, 36, 46, 107, 120, 127, 153, 160, 171, 173, 174, 187, 191, 192 Walraven, Boudewijin, 66, 97, 99–100 Wei Yuan, 198

Yanagi Muneyoshi, 32, 48, 59, 124, 125, 138, 166–67, 217n57 Yanagita Kunio, 59, 63, 95–96 Yanaihara Tadao, 32 Yi Cha-kyŏng, 30 Yi Han-yŏl, 187 Yi Hoe-kwang, 119 Yi In-jik, 133 Yi Kwang-su, 188 Yi Nŭng-hwa, 77, 93, 229n89 Yi Pang-ja (Nashimoto-no-Miya Masako), 34 Yi Pong-ch’ang, 39 Yi Sun-sin, 105, 142 Yi Sŭng-man, 28, 191 Yi Tong-baek, 144 Yi Un, Prince, 31, 34 Yi Wan-yong, 24 Yongsŏng (Paek Sang-gyu), 122 Yoon, Hokg-Key, 137, 138 Yoshikawa Buntarō, 178–80 Yoshikawa Tadayasu, 198 Yu Kil-chun, 19. See also Kabo Reforms Yu Kwan-sun, 30 Yun Pong-gil, 39  

 

 

 

text 10/13 Sabon di s p l ay Sabon c om p o s i t or BookMatters, Berkeley p r i n t e r a n d b i n de r Maple-Vail Book Manufacturing Group

Zhang Zhidong, 198