A History of Korea (78 page)

It would be no exaggeration to call Yi Kwangsu and Ch’oe Nams
n the two most influential intellectuals of the early twentieth century, and indeed perhaps the two seminal figures in the formative period of modern Korean culture itself. Yi, author of what is considered the first modern novel (and possibly still the most famous one),
Heartless
(1917), became the standard-bearer for Korean fiction writing in the colonial period. And Ch’oe, a pioneering poet and publisher whose innovations, beginning with his poems “Song of the Seoul-Pusan Railroad” and “From the Sea to the Boys,” along with his literary journal,
Boys
—all unveiled in 1908—established the stylistic foundation for modern Korean poetry. But these two figures’ influence extended beyond literature, as both played active roles in educational campaigns, scholarship, and, most intriguingly, causes for Korean independence. Ch’oe Nams
n, in fact, authored the stirring March First Declaration of Independence of 1919. His turn into a vocal supporter of the Japanese war effort, then, would be akin to Thomas Jefferson’s joining the British forces in the
War of 1812. Granted, Ch’oe shunned political activism and even demurred from actually signing the Declaration of Independence, but he also produced foundational works of scholarship on Korean history, religion, and language. Yi Kwangsu, for his part, published essays that adamantly called for reforming Korean customs and character to prepare for eventual autonomy. He also idolized his mentor, the celebrated independence activist An Ch’angho, who died in 1937 while recovering from a prolonged bout in a Seoul prison.

In their roundtable discussion following their November 1943 speeches to a throng of Korean students studying in Japan (see Image 19), Ch’oe and Yi rehashed the by-then familiar arguments calling for Koreans’ support for the war effort: that Korea had a great deal to gain from Japanese tutelage; that the real enemy was the Anglo-Saxon civilization that threatened to destroy the East Asian one; that it would be an honor for the individual, family, and nation to sacrifice one’s life for this great cause. Interestingly, Ch’oe Nams
n also alluded to the findings of his historical research, noting that in ancient times—before Korean civilization had become “soft” through a preoccupation with literary pursuits due to Chinese influence—Korea was much like Japan: militarily oriented. Indeed, Ch’oe notes, these ancient Koreans who migrated to Japan were likely the ancestors of the samurai themselves! For
his part, Yi, who appears in the transcript through his Japanized name, betrays an anxiety that his message should have been better received by the Korean students, who still seemed overly attached to their Korean identity. As if to accentuate such a naive innocence of youth, Ch’oe and Yi spend the rest of the discussion recounting their own formative years, starting four decades earlier, as students in Japan. This experience, they note while praising each other, had provided the springboard for their major accomplishments in developing Korea’s modern literary culture.

Image 19
   Ch’oe Nams
n, Yi Kwangsu, and children’s author Ma Haesong at the roundtable discussion in Tokyo, November 1943. (Courtesy of
S
j
ng sihak
.)

It is somehow fitting that these two giants took an intellectual stroll through the entire colonial experience. Much more had emerged than modern Korean literature and culture; the colonial period in many ways had stood as the intensive cauldron of modern Korea as a whole. Within a relatively short span of three decades, Korea had experienced nearly the full spectrum of changes that took one-and-a-half centuries to take hold in, say, colonial India: urbanization, industrialization, state-led development, nationalism, communism, social restructuring, and so on. By the early 1940s much of Korea, especially the urban areas, looked fundamentally different than in 1910, and throughout the country a pervasive feeling of permanence arose regarding Japanese colonial rule. Even the dislocations of wartime mobilization reinforced the sense that Koreans were simply cogs in the wheels of the Japanese empire. For many Koreans, then, resignation, not “collaboration,” was almost unavoidable and equated simply to accommodation with the inexorable changes of modernity.

What complicates matters is that the wartime mobilization included the excesses of forced labor and sexual slavery, as well as the horrors of wartime combat itself for many caught outside the peninsula. In other words, the ultimate judgment on the so-called collaborators cannot escape consideration of the colonial period as a whole, which in turn cannot disregard the crimes of the wartime years. Given what happened in the subsequent Korean War, it is not difficult to believe that, had Korea remained independent, the wrenching trials of modern change would have resulted in horrors of one kind or another, either among Koreans or committed by Koreans on other people. The terrible events, however, cannot be
detached from the reality that Korea was ruled by a foreign power, and this makes fingering and condemning Korean collaborators almost inevitable, however simplistic. The suffering of Koreans was one thing, but for Koreans to assist the Japanese colonial system in committing abuses invites outrage. As in France’s periodic soul-searching regarding its Vichy past, the complicity to horrific crimes (in the French case, the Holocaust) is almost overshadowed by the more facile condemnation of national betrayal—collaboration with a longtime foreign rival turned hated ruler. In this sense, to most Koreans today, the wartime mobilization period represented a fittingly ignoble end to the despicable enterprise of colonial rule as a whole. To forgive the Korean collaborators from the wartime mobilization would be as unfathomable as acknowledging any positive results from the colonial experience.

THE GRAND NARRATIVE: INDEPENDENCE MOVEMENTS

The most ready alternative to a more forthright engagement with the issue of collaboration in the wartime era, and indeed of much of the colonial period itself, has been to focus on the celebrated efforts by Koreans to fight for their independence. These are well known, hailed as evidence of a resilient national spirit. Among the renowned leaders was Syngman Rhee, who spent most of his lifetime in the US trying to use his patchy connections to the Washington elite in order to influence American foreign policy. There were also Kim Ku and Kim Il Sung, who fought alongside the Chinese nationalists and Chinese communists, respectively, in the common struggle against Japanese imperialism. By the 1940s, in fact, Kim Ku acted as the
de facto
leader of the Korean government in exile that had originated in the spring of 1919. He even formed a Korean Restoration Army from his base in China, with hundreds of soldiers ready to charge into the peninsula. There are several problems with the traditional focus on these movements, however: first, these organizations were all operating outside the peninsula; second, they were splintered and commanded little cooperation from each other; finally, and not
unrelated to the first two issues, these movements had little to no effect on actually bringing about liberation from Japanese colonial rule.

The heroizing of these freedom fighters is understandable, given that they at least made great sacrifices for the cause of independence, and given the demands of constructing the modern narratives of nationhood; indeed, the North Korean political system has always been utterly dependent on this story. But their historical significance lies more in understanding the history that followed than the history for which they are honored. That their role in achieving Korean liberation was far greater in legend than in actuality bespeaks the complexities of the colonial experience as a whole.