When My Name Was Keoko

“The person at the top had to be Japanese. The principal was the father of my friend Tomo. All our lessons were in Japanese. We studied Japanese language, culture, and history. School weren’t allowed to teach Korean history or language. Hardly any books or newspapers were published in Korean. People weren’t even supposed to tell old Korean folktales.”

Japanese occupation and social conditioning is prominent in this narrative. In every situation, the Japanese have revoked Koreans of their status and power by relegating them to second-class citizens. As stated, Japanese “had to be” above the rest, therefore perpetuating their ability to keep the Koreans below them in every aspect. In addition, all schooling and education related to Japanese history and culture, blatantly negating Korean heritage as a way to strip the community of any unity or pride.

“‘Why do we have to remember it? Why can’t we just put the picture up on the wall? That way we’ll see it every day and we’ll always know what it looks like.’ Uncle reaches out and pulls gently on one of her braids. ‘We can’t, little cricket. It is against the law to fly this flag—even to put up a picture of it. Korea is part of the Japanese Empire now. But someday this will be our own country once more. Your own country.’”

As part of controlling not only the body, but the mind and spirit as well, Japanese occupation did not allow Korean families to brandish any signs of their Korean nationality, including any imagery or symbols of their flag. It can only live in the memory of the elders—or those knowledgeable of it—and becomes a mythical idea that they must lock away in private. In this particular scene, Uncle is teaching the younger family members about the flag and why it’s illegal. It is one of many examples in the text where the family must harbor their secret knowledge and a develop a sense of trust in their coded language in order to maintain their Korean identity.

“Onishi-san’s job was to make sure all the students were learning to be good citizens of the Empire. He came into our classroom several times a week, often in the middle of a lesson. We always stopped what we were doing and bowed to him. Then he’d stand at the back of the room and observe us for a while. I could tell he made the teacher nervous. I tried especially hard to give the right answers when he was around.”

The repeating motif of Japanese supervision forms a pillar of fear, power, control, and oversight in the lives of the Korean characters.

They cannot freely express themselves, and must live under the vigilant eye of the Japanese military, or worse, Koreans who report against their fellow community members. The presence of their vigilance makes everyone uncomfortable, especially the educators who are responsible for shaping young minds to be indoctrinated during Japanese occupation. The mood is tense and violent.

“Chin-il-pa meant ‘lover of Japan.’ It was almost like a curse. Chin-il-pa were people who got rich because they cooperated with the Japanese government. I hadn’t done anything like that! Why were they cursing me, calling me that awful name? I ran home, blinking away tears.”

Perhaps the only thing more despised within the Korean community besides the Japanese soldiers are “chin-il-pa.” These are Korean nationals who have sold out and “cooperate with the Japanese government” to save their own skin. Often exposing their fellow Koreans, it creates an environment of uncertainty and distrust. No one knows who they can share information with, because they might trade that information for Japanese favor. In this quote, Sun-hee faces persecution from her Korean classmates for her ability to speak Japanese fluently. Her horror of others identifying her as chin-il-pa reveals how much internalized shame and guilt the epithet carries for Koreans.

“I said nothing. I could hardly believe we were cooking animal food for our dinner.”

Times were never easy for Korean families during Japanese occupation, but they quickly grow worse when the war begins. The imagery of human desperation and dehumanization reaches a disturbing zenith when the family must resort to eating animal feed for dinner. This act symbolizes how not only one family, but the entire Korean nation was no longer valued as equal citizens but as animals who ate what pigs and cows ate.

“Truly, rose of Sharon trees are not as beautiful as cherry trees. But if that little tree were ever planted outside again, I knew it would be the most beautiful tree in the world.”

The rose of Sharon trees emerge as a strong national symbol for Koreans. When Japanese soldiers order everyone to cut their trees down and plant Japanese cherry blossoms in their place, Omoni keeps one of her Korean trees and plants it in a secret location. Sun-hee imagines a future when her country and people regain independence and how hopeful and beautiful their national tree will look. She is still hesitant, however, saying “if” rather than when, indicating how low the morale of the Korean people had sunk.

“Uncle becoming chin-il-pa—is this what worries Abuji? The chin-il-pa do everything they can to please the Japanese. Patriotic Koreans—those who work for independence from Japan—hate the chin-il-pa. Sometimes the patriots wreck shops and homes. There are rumors that chin-il-pa get beaten, even killed. Abuji’s face always goes dark when he hears those rumors. Koreans killing Koreans, he once said—it’s worse than anything the Japanese can do to us.”

While shedding light on the negative stigma associated with chin-il-pa, Abuji’s fears begin to show. As an educated and well-tempered scholar, he cannot fathom Koreans persecuting their own people. Knowing that his brother is secretly involved in the illegal Korean resistance only amplifies his fears and concerns. It is in these situations that characters must grapple with their daily worries and find ways to survive not only the threat of Imperial Japanese abuse, but the threat of each other as well. Once again, Linda Sue Park shows how others battles took place apart from the actual war.

“So much good news—for the Japanese...It’s so odd. The war is going well for the Japanese—which makes life better for Koreans too. If the Japanese win the war, will things be better still?”

Ironically, improvement and success for Japan early in the war translates into improvement and success for Korea. Since Japan controls Korea during the war, it is in Korea’s interest to stay informed of Japan’s actions and potentially benefit from their victories. Though they won’t ever experience the same level of treatment as their Asian counterparts, there is some potential hope in seeing changes as a result of Japanese victory. Yet, as the story progresses, Sun-hee realizes that the US Army wants to liberate Korea by defeating Japan, and it later becomes clear to her that it is Korea’s dream to see Japan finally defeated.

“‘But, Ajima, you have only learned to count to five. Surely we should continue, to ten—’ There were ten households in our association; she would need to be able to count at least that high. ‘No.’ Mrs. Ahn’s voice rang out strongly. I looked at her, surprised. ‘No,’ she said again. She lowered her voice a little. ‘I will tell you why. I have nothing in this world—you know that. Everyone knows that. No children, no family. Alone here all day with nothing but my thoughts.’ Her voice was still fierce as she continued, ‘They cannot have my thoughts. I will not allow it.’”

In a powerful and inspiring scene, the widowed neighbor, Mrs. Ahn, refuses to learn Japanese numbers. Though it threatens her safety and wellbeing (since she has to count to 10 in Japanese during the neighborhood accountings), she simply refuses to give her body and mind to Japanese occupation. It is her mental and spiritual form of resistance, since she has nothing else left for the Japanese to take. She is alone, yet maintains hope and a sense of self and pride that is admirable for a character with nothing to celebrate.

“But I don’t feel like playing anymore—all because of that stupid announcement. ‘Express your gratitude,’ they’d said. What they take: our rice, our language, our names. What they give: little rubber balls. I can’t feel grateful about such a bad deal.”

As Tae-yul grows older and more aware, he begins to see the inconsistencies and contradictions from the Japanese leaders. They take everything from the Koreans, but still expect the Koreans to show love and admiration towards their oppressors. Tae-yul’s realization occurs after students receive small rubber balls as toys to celebrate a Japanese victory in a rubber-producing region of the Pacific; the toy is a symbol of Japanese expansion. While the children are playing, soldiers stop them and make the students recite a pledge of allegiance to “express gratitude.” Afterwards, Tae-yul goes home instead of staying with his friends, angry at the Japanese’s insolence.  

“What Uncle and others like him are doing—it’s more important than anything. We aren’t Japanese—we’re Korean. But we’ll never be allowed to truly be Korean unless we have our independence.”

Resistance takes shape in many ways throughout the text, depending on the character and their strengths or limitations. In the case of Uncle, he utilizes his status as a respectable male printer in the community and leverages his shop to run an underground newspaper for Korean rebels. His pride and actions are infectious, especially for Tae-yul, who heralds him as the example of manhood in their household. The desire for complete liberation appears in the hearts and minds of the Koreans by men like Uncle waging a secret battle on the frontlines.

“‘More important than family?’ she asks. But it’s not one of her usual whiny little-sister questions. She’s thinking hard, I can tell. ‘Our duty to Abuji is important,’ I say. ‘It’s a part of our culture. But if the Japanese have their way, someday there won’t be any such thing as our culture. When Uncle works for independence, he works for the right to live as Abuji wants us to…Do you see what I mean?’”

Morals and family expectations constantly shift in times of war and distress. Sun-hee, in particular, finds herself continually redefining her place and purpose, and must wrestle with enormous decisions as a child. In response to Tae-yul’s adoration of Uncle, she questions whether she should also disobey her father or follow the cultural family code that she has known all her life—even if her father isn’t showing signs of obvious leadership. It presents a conflict of interest for her, as she must choose between family traditions, cultural morals, or Korean independence. This internal dispute is a larger theme that all characters in the text must deal with in overcoming the war. 

“That was what Tomo had been talking about. He’d been warning me that our metal things were about to be taken away. Maybe he thought that if we knew in advance, we could hide some things before it happened. But telling me straight out would have made him a traitor to the Japanese, his own people. He’d been telling me the only way he could—and I hadn’t understood.”

Since Koreans don’t have freedom of expression during Japanese occupation, they must communicate in coded language. This creates the problem of miscommunication, distrust, and anxiety. When Tomo—a Japanese friend of Sun-hee—tries to inform her about potential danger, she misreads his message and further endangers her Uncle as a result, telling him to flee. It’s one of the various barriers that the Korean community had to deal with during occupation: how to share messages and inform each other of danger without tipping off the authorities or unintentionally worsening their own situation. 

“I didn’t expect this. I thought we’d be supervised by our teachers. The soldiers are a lot crueler. Punishment isn’t being struck with a bamboo cane across your legs but standing with the shovel held over your head. For a long time—hours, even. Some students get slapped hard in the face for working too slowly or not saluting respectfully enough.”

Even when Tae-yul and other young Koreans want to learn and play a role in the country, they face subhuman treatment. In this situation, young Koreans had volunteered to help build an airstrip outside of town. In many cases it represented a way to keep busy and contribute their efforts to a larger purpose. However, as the stinging language of the passage reveals, the Korean student volunteers suffered beatings, abuse, punishment, often disciplined worse than usual. It’s evidence of the lack of opportunities given to the Koreans, but also how even in trying to pursue a skill they faced mistreatment.

“Too many eyes. I understood this. The Japanese were watching us because of Uncle’s escape. Not as closely as during the first few weeks, but still more than usual. We might be studying Hangul and soldiers might burst in on us. It was too dangerous. I promise one day…One day? When? When would the Japanese let us have our own language back?”

There are literal and figurative dangers for every Korean character in this historically-based novel, due to tyrannical Japanese supervision. So much so that Abuji will not even consider teaching Sun-hee the Korean language, Hangul, in their own home for fear of punishment. The suppression of Korean culture and language is evident, but this represents the highest loss for the people—not even allowed to speak their own language in their own homes without persecution.

“Those soldiers tonight, tearing apart our house. And me? I’d stood there, frozen. I hadn’t done anything—I hadn’t even said anything. And I’m three years older than Abuji was then. I know now. What could he have done? What could any of us do?”

In a rare instance of empathy, Tae-yul begins to understand his father’s—as well as his own—futility in the face of Japanese Imperialism. After hearing the brutal story about his grandfather’s mistreatment from Japanese soldiers, Tae-yul wondered why his father did nothing to stop them. But now that Tae-yul’s father and family have faced disrespect, Tae-yul must grapple with his powerlessness. It reveals a legacy of abuse that has gone on for generations, and the story creates a bridge between the elders and youth in how they both suffer equally. Coming to terms with this reality, Tae-yul represents the younger generation learning how their parents must have felt in past decades, and forgiveness becomes possible.

“But do not forget, Sun-hee—they burn the paper, not the words […] it was important. Our stories, our names, our alphabet. Even Uncle’s newspaper. It was all about words. If words weren’t important, they wouldn’t try so hard to take them away.”

The power of voice and language is perhaps the biggest pillar of resistance and liberation for the Korean community. By eliminating these practices, the Japanese hope to stifle the Korean spirit. However, many of the characters find alternative ways to preserve their tongues, minds, spirits. Knowing the importance of this, Tae-yul reminds his sister of how valuable their ability to express is. From Uncle’s underground newspaper to speaking Korean in the house, the Japanese ironically fear the Korean voice, and do everything they can to disable and eliminate it. This leads to the coding of Korean identity, which the characters achieve by various covert means.

“It was so cruel. All of it—the occupation, the war, Uncle in hiding, Tae-yul going into the army…I needed to get out of that room; the unfairness of it all was choking me. I whirled and bolted out of the house.”

Sun-hee is a resilient and bold character. Yet even she collapses near the end of the story in sadness, feeling overwhelmed by the amount of loss and pain suffered from the war. Her trauma is deep, and she and her Korean community have suffered extreme cruelty for no apparent reason. When Tae-yul leaves after Uncle’s disappearance, her house feels emptier—she feels emptier. The imagery of choking underscores not only the psychological, but physical impact of war on a person. The suffocating pressure of her situation is crushing, and she must run away from it in this rare moment of retreat.

“We have to sign both our names—Japanese and Korean: Japanese because we’re citizens of the Empire, Korean so they can keep track of us, of the ones who aren’t really Japanese.”

One of the most interesting elements of this history is how Koreans had two names, and essentially, two identities: as authentic Koreans, and as false Japanese. It’s a cultural and political schism that prevents them from ever being complete. They must always operate as two halves, torn and in disagreement. The illusion of their Japanese citizenship is merely surface-level; the Japanese benefit from the Koreans being only partial citizens. Therefore, despite having legally-imposed Japanese names, they must always reveal their Korean names so that the Japanese can stratify them as lower members, even in the military when they are sacrificing their lives for the Japanese. Even in approaching their deaths, they are seen as less than the Japanese.

“Abuji never once interrupted me. He listened intently to every word. He didn’t shake his head or act like I was crazy. I was grateful for that.”

Abuji proves to be a kind, compassionate, and intelligent man. This is crucial to Sun-hee’s development as an astute, confident, and studious young girl. Unlike other male members of her society, Abuji shows great respect and deeply values his daughter’s contributions and ideas. It represents how gender roles have shifted in the house, especially with the absence of Tae-yul while he is at war. It speaks to how expectations and treatment shifts during extreme times. Even though Abuji has always valued his daughter’s mind, he focuses on it even more when desperation ravages his family.

“Then I think about other things. Girls. I’ve never had a girlfriend. Hee-won, Jung-shin’s older sister—I wish I could have gotten to know her better. Maybe we could have talked about things, about her family being chin-il-pa, about me joining the army, how life gets so complicated sometimes. Now the simplest things seem the best. Marriage, a family of my own, children. I never thought before about being a father—it seemed too far in the future.”

There is significant loss in this text, in this history. However, some of the smaller losses of innocence become overshadowed by the larger ravages of war. In this quote, before Tae-yul’s probable death as a kamikaze pilot, a sad moment of realization and tenderness for a young teenager who has never been able to live as a teenager arises. His boyish innocence is at the forefront, as he confesses his thoughts for “girls.” Loss affects his life in more than one way, both literally and emotionally Even if he survives the war, he will never regain his youth, and his experiences of joy and love as a boy will forever be stolen from him and many Korean boys of his generation.

“A bit at a time we pieced together what had happened. The Americans had dropped two bombs on Japan. The bombs were said to have been powerful enough to destroy half a city. At first no one could believe this. Half a neighborhood, perhaps? Or half a major military base? But Abuji eventually confirmed that half of the city of Hiroshima had indeed been destroyed on August 6, and half of Nagasaki three days later.”

Much of this history revolves around a lack of information, disrupted communication, and censorship of Korean expression. Even at the end of the war, when Korea is now free from Japan, there is limited access to clear information. Abuji must “piece together” various news sources to “eventually confirm” what happened to end the war. Partially the result of war’s chaos, partially the result of Japanese secrecy, this moment emblematizes how an environment of unreliable, inconsistent, and untruthful news has trapped the Korean community. 

“Funny how the war made ordinary things seem special again.”

Hope endures throughout the text, but only in small ways. Here, Tae-yul is learning to cherish the “ordinary things” in his life again, such as sitting at a dinner table with his family and eating a real meal. It’s a minor bright spot in an otherwise gloomy reality—knowing that everything one once took for granted is actually a wonderful privilege. It reminds readers to embrace and appreciate comforts, because during war or crises, they might experience the inhumanity of living in a dysfunctional or even persecutory world.