Key Papers on Korea: Essays Celebrating 25 Years of the Centre of Korean Studies, SOAS, University of London
Key Papers on Korea: Essays Celebrating 25 Years of the Centre of Korean Studies, SOAS, University of London
Edited and Introduced by Andrew David Jackson
LEIDEN • BOSTON 2014 Cover illustration: Elizabeth Keith, A Game of Chess. 1935. SOAS Library; coloured woodblock print on paper. Height 53cm. Width 63cm. SOASAW 2010.0155.01©SOAS.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Key papers on Korea: essays celebrating 25 years of the Centre of Korean Studies, SOAS, University of London / edited and introduced by Andrew David Jackson. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-90-04-25458-9 (hardback : alk. paper) 1. Korea--Civilization. 2. Korea--History. I. Jackson, Andrew David. II. Miller, Owen. Tobacco and the gift economy of Seoul merchants in the late nineteenth century. III. University of London. Centre of Korean Studies. DS904.K43 2014 951.9--dc23 2013040501
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List of Illustrations and Maps xi Foreword xiii Acknowledgements xv List of Abbreviations and Note on Romanization xvii List of Contributors xix Chronology xxiii
1 Introduction: Sixty Years of Korean Studies at SOAS 1 Andrew David Jackson
PART ONE HISTORY
2 Introduction: History 23 Andrew David Jackson 3 Tobacco and the Gift Economy of Seoul Merchants in the Late Nineteenth Century 27 Owen Miller 4 India as Viewed by Ancient and Mediaeval Koreans – Focussing on the Karak Kukki (Records of Karak State) 41 Vladimir Tikhonov (Pak Noja) 5 Northern Territories and the Historical Understanding of Territory in Late Chosŏn 61 Anders Karlsson 6 Nation, Ethnicity, and the Post-Manchukuo Order in the Sino-Korean Border Region 79 Charles Kraus and Adam Cathcart
PART TWO NORTH KOREA
7 Introduction: North Korea 103 Andrew David Jackson
8 Rousing the Reader to Action: North Korean Wartime Literature 107 Jerôme de Wit 9 State Power and Hegemonic Values: Media Coverage of the Super Bowl and Arirang Mass Games 123 Andray Abrahamian 10 How North Korea Made its English-Korean Dictionary 135 Lee Heejae
PART THREE LITERATURE, PHILOSOPHY AND SOCIETY
11 Introduction: Literature, Philosophy and Society 153 Andrew David Jackson 12 The Task and Risk of Translating Classical Korean sijo: Yun Sŏndo and Hwang Chini 155 Hye-Joon Yoon 13 Wandering Bodies,Wondering Minds – the Body, Territory and National Identity in Pak T’aewŏn, Ch’oe Inhun and Chu Insŏk’s Stories about Kubo 169 Justyna Najbar-Miller 14 Reviving the Confucian Spirit of Ethical Practicality: Tasan’s Notions of Sŏng (‘Nature’) and Sim (‘Heart/Mind’) and their Political Implication 187 Daeyeol Kim 15 Shamans, Ghosts and Hobgoblins Amidst Korean Folk Customs 203 Michael J. Pettid
PART FOUR MUSIC, HERITAGE AND ART
16 Introduction: Music, Heritage and Art 223 Andrew David Jackson 17 The Five Surviving P’ansori Repertoires: Themes, Issues and the Connection to India 227 Dorothea Suh
18 1910–1911: Years that Changed Seoul’s Music 241 Sung-Hee Park 19 Heritage Practices during the Park Chung Hee Era 253 Codruţa Sîntionean 20 Korean Art Objects at SOAS 275 Charlotte Horlyck
Index 297
Andrew David Jackson 1 Extract from the Oryun haengsilto (Pictures of the Five Relationships in Practice, SOAS collections). Korea early nineteenth century. SOAS Library; Four volumes, woodblock printed book, H32 x W18.5 cm 16
Owen Miller 1 Korea in the late Chosŏn period (1895). © Andrew David Jackson 28
Vladimir Tikhonov (Pak Noja) 1 India and Ancient Korea. © Tear and McVey 44 2 The four Kingdoms. © Tear and McVey 45
Anders Karlsson 1 Parhae and Silla. © Tear and McVey 63
Sung-Hee Park 1 Musical distribution by style in Korea 241 2 Musical distribution by performance venues in Korea 241 3 A reworked nineteenth-century map of Seoul (c.1830), showing where patrons and musicians lived or performed and including significant other buildings and locations. The original of this map, the Susŏn chŏndo by Kim Chŏngho, is the property of Korea University Museum 243
Charlotte Horlyck 1 Set of miniature burial vessels (myŏnggi) – Korea, Chosŏn dynasty, sixteenth-eighteenth century. Various heights, ranging from 5 to 10 cm. Percival David Sherd Collection, © SOAS 279
2 Moon Jar – Korea, Chosŏn dynasty, seventeenth or eighteenth century. SOAS Library; H45 x Diam 31cm. Percival David Sherd Collection, © SOAS 282 3 Elizabeth Keith, The East Gate, Pyeng Yang, Korea. Published by Watanabe Shōzaburō, 1925. SOAS Library; coloured woodblock print on paper. Height 51.3 cm. Width 64 cm. SOASAW 2010.0154.01, © SOAS 285 4 Scene from Chōsen shisetsu gyōretsu zukan (Procession of Korean Ambassadors). Japan, Edo period, mid-seventeenth century. SOAS Library; handscroll, ink, colour and gold on paper. Height 33.3 cm. Length 1246 cm. SOAS, MS 86566, © SOAS 287 5 Scene from Chōsen shisetsu gyōretsu zukan (Procession of Korean Ambassadors). Japan, Edo period, mid-seventeenth century. SOAS Library; handscroll, ink, colour and gold on paper. Height 33.3 cm. Length 1246 cm. SOAS, MS 86566, © SOAS 289 6 Scene from Chōsen shisetsu gyōretsu zukan. Japan, Edo period, mid-seventeenth century. SOAS Library; handscroll, ink, colour and gold on paper. Height 33.3 cm. Length 1246 cm. SOAS, MS 86566, © SOAS 291 7 Kim Kich’ang, The Moonlight. Early 1970s. SOAS Library; watercolour on paper, mounted as a hanging scroll. Height 98 cm. Width 81 cm. SOAS, MS 381154, © SOAS 292
This book was originally conceived as a vehicle for the publication of selected papers contributed by SOAS-AKS staff and other scholars who have presented them at our fortnightly CKS seminars, SOAS Korean Studies workshops and conferences. The publication of this book is timely, as it coincides with the twenty-fifth anniversary of the foundation of the SOAS Centre of Korean Studies, initially funded by the Korea Research Foundation and subsequently by the Korea Foundation. In 2006, SOAS became the first European beneficiary of the Korean Studies Institution Grant, and subsequently received the Overseas Leading University Programme for Korean Studies Grant in 2011. Thanks to the generous support of the Academy of Korean Studies, SOAS has been able to significantly expand its staffing and infrastructure, its research pro- gramme and its event calendar over the past seven years. This book is the first collection of SOAS-AKS working papers. My sincere thanks go to Andrew Jackson for editing this book and providing an introduction to the volume that I believe will become an important touchstone for the history of Korean Studies at SOAS and in the UK. Andrew Jackson, as a CKS research fellow, has been instrumental in organizing CKS seminars and running CKS research activities over the years. We also express profound gratitude to Professor Martina Deuchler and Dr Youngsook Pak who have now retired but who strengthened the foun- dations of Korean Studies at SOAS during their tenure. Finally, the editor and authors would like to dedicate this book to the late Professor Bill Skillend, pioneer of Korean Studies at SOAS and in the UK as well as a founder of the Association of Korean Studies in Europe.
Jaehoon Yeon Professor of Korean Language and Linguistics Director, SOAS-AKS Research Project
This work was supported by the Academy of Korean Studies (KSPS) Grant funded by the Korean Government (MOE) (AKS-2011-BAA-2104). Thanks also to the Korea Foundation for their support. Special mention goes to Perry Iles for his extensive proofreading and sound advice, also to Keith Howard for his editing work on the music papers and substantial help with this project. I would also like to acknowledge the support and help of Fujiko Kobayashi, Anders Karlsson, Yeon Jaehoon, Charlotte Horlyck, Pak Young-sook, Martina Deuchler, Grace Koh, Jim Hoare, Janet Poole, Jerôme De Wit, Vladimir Tikhonov and Ross King. All photographs of the rare books in the SOAS Collection were taken by Glenn Ratcliffe. Thanks to John Hollingworth and Susannah Rayner at SOAS for their assistance and to Peter Lee of UCLA for providing permission to print his translation of the poem ‘A chain of mountains is long, long […] first published in A History of Korean Literature (Cambridge University Press, 2003). Thanks to Jae-seo Jung of Comparative Literature for providing permission to reprint sections of Hye-Joon Yoon’s ‘The task and risk of translating classical Korean sijo: Yun Sŏndo and Hwang Chini’ that were published previously as ‘Translating Ch’unhyangga: The Problems and a Strategy’ in Comparative Literature (2012). Thanks to Peter Rutt and also Roger Stephens of Hine Downing for securing permission to print Richard Rutt’s translations of sijo. Thanks to Carcanet Press for permission to print John Ashberry’s ‘Instead of Losing.’ Thanks to Sŏ Myŏngil of Korea University Museum and to Philip Gowman,
Ch. Chinese Kor. Korean Jap. Japanese r. reigned lit. literally dir. director c. circa n.d. not dated trad. traditional
A NOTE ON ROMANIZATION
Romanization of Korean names and terms has followed the McCune- Reischauer system unless otherwise stated. Where Korean authors have not followed McCune-Reischauer, their own spelling is used. Japanese terms have used the Hepburn system and Chinese has followed the Pinyin system.
Andray Abrahamian has an MA in International Relations from the University of Sussex and is currently pursuing a PhD focusing on western media and images of North Korea. He spends seven months a year teach- ing at the University of Ulsan. He is also an Executive Director at Choson Exchange, a Singapore-based non-profit organization focusing on educa- tional training in economics, management and finance for young North Koreans. His academic interests include intercultural relations, post-colonialism, Orientalism, hegemony and US-East Asian relations.
Adam Cathcart is Lecturer in Asian History at Queen’s University, Belfast, and editor of SinoNK.com. He regularly does fieldwork in the Yalu and Tumen river valleys, and writes about North Korean music.
Jerôme de Wit is a PhD student of the Korean Studies department at Leiden University (Netherlands). His dissertation deals with the way North and South Korean writers perceived and experienced the Korean War and how these aspects are reflected in their wartime works. His research interests are the Korean War, modern Korean literature and mod- ern intellectual history. He has lectured at the Hanguk University of Foreign Studies, Leiden University and Roma University.
Charlotte Horlyck is a Lecturer of Korean Art History in the Department of History of Art and Archaeology, SOAS (School of Oriental and African Studies), University of London. She mainly researches on material culture of the Koryŏ period, in particular bronze artefacts and ceramics, as well as on the collecting of such objects in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century. She curated the Korean collection at the Victoria and Albert Museum in London 1998–2004.
Andrew David Jackson obtained his PhD in Korean history from the School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London in 2011, and wrote a dissertation on the Musin Rebellion of 1728. As well as pre-modern history, he is interested in modern Korean history and society, South Korean film, and theories of rebellion and revolution.
Anders Karlsson is Senior Lecturer in Korean Studies and head of the Centre of Korean Studies at SOAS, University of London. He graduated from Stockholm University with a PhD in Korean History, and he is the author of many articles on Korean history and translations of Korean lit- erature and the monograph The Hong Kyŏngnae rebellion 1811–1812: conflict between central power and local society in 19th-century Korea. His research interests include rebellion and the legal system in late Chosŏn society.
Specializing in History of religions and Anthropological studies of religion, Daeyeol Kim is an expert in East Asian classical studies. Through his doctoral thesis (2000, University of Paris-Sorbonne), he contributed to a better understanding of alchemical practices and their relative religious elements from ancient China by studying both technical knowledge and belief systems. Since 2001, he has been a Lecturer in Korean history and culture at the National Institute for Oriental Languages and Civilizations (INALCO) and his research interests include the cultural history of eigh- teenth century Korea.
Charles Kraus is a PhD student in the Department of History at The George Washington University. Broadly interested in modern Chinese his- tory, his research focuses on borders and border regions in China after 1945, with a particular emphasis on the interplay between central-local relations, foreign relations, and ethnicity on the Chinese periphery. His publications have appeared in Cold War History, Journal of Cold War Studies, Chinese Historical Review, and Journal of Korean Studies, among others.
Heejae Lee is a South Korean translator who was born in 1961. He graduated from Seoul National University with a bachelor’s degree in psychology. He has translated dozens of English literary works as well as Japanese and German books, into Korean. He also wrote Birth of Translation, a book on the theory and practice of English translation in 2009. He resides in London and teaches Korean and Practical Translation at SOAS.
Owen Miller is a Lecturer in Korean Studies at SOAS, University of London where he teaches Korean history. He was previously a research fellow at Robinson College, University of Cambridge. He received his PhD from SOAS in 2007 for a thesis on merchant-government relations in late nineteenth century Korea. His research interests include: the social and economic history of nineteenth and twentieth-century Korea; urban
history; Korean nationalist and Marxist historiographies; and the eco- nomic history of North Korea.
Justyna Najbar-Miller holds a PhD in Korean literature from the University of Warsaw, and has also studied at Yonsei and Kyung Hee Universities. She has been working as Assistant Professor at the Oriental Faculty of the University of Warsaw since 2011. Her research interests include Korean literature and literary translation. She translated Pak T’ae- wǒn’s A day in life of Kubo, the novelist from Korean into Polish in 2008 and her PhD dissertation dealing with the ‘stories about Kubo’ was published in Poland in 2013.
Sung-Hee Park is doing a postdoctoral fellowship at Oxford University (2012/13), pursuing her interests in pre-modern Korean music and society, especially regional and vocal forms and patronage. Her PhD thesis was entitled ‘Patronage and Creativity in Seoul: The Late 18th to Late 19th Century Urban Middle Class and its Vocal Music’ (SOAS, University of London, 2011). Previously she studied in Seoul National University (BA and MA) and worked in several universities in Korea as a part time lecturer.
Michael j. Pettid is Professor of pre-modern Korean Studies at Bingham ton University. He has published widely on pre-modern Korean literature, history, religions and culture including monographs on the history of Korean cuisine, and has produced an annotated translation and analysis of a seventeenth century novel. He is also a co-editor of the forthcoming Death, Mourning, and the Afterlife in Korea: Critical Aspects of Death from Ancient to Contemporary Times (with Charlotte Horlyck).
Codruţa Sîntionean is Assistant Professor in the Korean Language and Literature section at the Department of Asian Studies at Babeş-Bolyai University in Cluj-Napoca, Romania. After studying in Japan and South Korea she received her PhD from the Faculty of Letters at Babeş-Bolyai University with a dissertation on East Asian Mirrors. Her academic inter- ests include Korean heritage and mythology.
Dorothea Suh is a PhD student of the Ethnomusicology department at Martin-Luther-University (Germany). Her dissertation explores the oral tradition of Korea, p’ansori, specializing in the socio-cultural influence, transcription and literary analysis. She conducted her fieldwork at the Seoul National University and was a research fellow at the Academy of
Korean Studies, Korea. She is currently a DAAD-NRF fellow and her academic interests are European and East Asian oral traditions, music in Jewish culture and KPop.
Vladimir Tikhonov (Pak Noja) was born in Leningrad (St Petersburg) in the former USSR (1973) and educated at St Petersburg State University (MA: 1994) and Moscow State University (PhD in ancient Korean history, 1996). He has worked for the Russian State University of Humanities (1996), KyungHee University (1997–2000) and for Oslo University as asso- ciate and full professor (2000-present). His research interests include the history of ideas in early modern Korea, particularly Social Darwinist influ- ences in the formative period of Korean nationalism in the 1880s–1910s.
Hye-Joon Yoon teaches English and Comparative Literature at Yonsei University, Seoul, Korea. He was Visiting Scholar at Darwin College, Cambridge from 2001 to 2002 and SOAS, London between January and December 2011. He has also been involved in evaluating translations of Korean literature into English at the Daesan Foundation and Korea Literature Translations Institute. His own published works include Metropolis and Experience: Defoe, Dickens, Joyce and translations into Korean of Oliver Twist and Robinson Crusoe. He has published two novels and a sonnet sequence in Korean.
Korea
Proto Three Kingdoms, 原三國時代 [trad.108 bc-313?] including Mahan 馬韓 Three Kingdoms 三國 300–668 Puyŏ 夫餘 [trad. second-fourth Century bc-494?] Koguryŏ 高句麗 [trad. 37 bc]-668 Paekche 百濟 [trad. 37 bc]-668 Silla 新羅 [trad. 57 bc]-668 Kaya 伽耶 [trad. 42–562] Unified Silla 統一新羅 668–935 Koryŏ 高麗 918–1392 Parhae 渤海 698–926 Chosŏn 朝鮮 1392–1910 Japanese Colonial Period 日帝强占期/日帝時代 1910–1945
China
Qin dynasty 秦 [trad. 221–206 bc] Han dynasty 漢 [trad.206 bc]-220 Three Kingdoms 三國 220–266 Jin dynasty 晉 266–420 Northern and Southern 南北朝 420–589 dynasties Sui dynasty 隋 581–618 Tang dynasty 唐 618–906 Five dynasties 五代十國 906–960 Song dynasty 宋 960–1279 Northern Song dynasty 北宋 960–1127 Southern Song dynasty 南宋 1127–1279 Liao dynasty 遼 907–1125 Jin dynasty 金 1115–1234 Yuan dynasty 元 1271–1368 Ming dynasty 明 1368–1644 Qing dynasty 淸 1644–1911
INTRODUCTION: SIXTY YEARS OF KOREAN STUDIES AT SOAS
Andrew David Jackson
On the evening of 27 April 2012, the Centre of Korean Studies (CKS) at the School of Oriental and African Studies (SOAS) celebrated its twenty-fifth anniversary. To commemorate the occasion, a special lecture was given by one of the Centre’s most prestigious academics, Professor Martina Deuchler, author of Confucian Gentlemen and Barbarian Envoys: Opening of Korea, 1875–85 (1978) and many other works. Dr Pak Youngsook (Pak Yŏngsuk) also delivered a congratulatory speech outlining some of the achievements of the CKS. After twenty-five years, the CKS remained the largest Korean Studies centre in the United Kingdom, and an important European and global centre for Korean research. SOAS by this stage had seven full-time teaching staff devoted to instruction and research on Korea, in addition to numerous other members of staff teaching on sub- jects related to Korea. The CKS boasted twenty-three research students engaged in higher-level study into Korean history, language or culture. In addition, the CKS was running over thirty-two Korea-related courses at both postgraduate and undergraduate level. By 2012, the yearly undergrad- uate intake had grown, and there were more than 100 BA students in four- year programmes. SOAS Korean Studies, as Dr Pak observed on that night in April, was in a strong position, and there was much to celebrate. But it had not always been so. In 1953, Korean Studies at SOAS consisted of a single lecturer, still to complete his PhD, and not much more than a handful of students. And there was nothing inevitable about the growth of Korean Studies or the CKS within SOAS. The development was more itera- tive than linear and resulted from a great deal of hard work, which was influenced by several significant variables. It was shaped by the educa- tional policy of various British and Korean institutional and governmental bodies, and in more recent years there was a shift in the way educational policy was conceptualized. Official changes in attitudes towards educa- tion about Korea have also seen a concomitant change in the way Korean Studies is funded and supported. Another significant influence has come from other Korean Studies university departments and academics in universities in the UK and beyond that have helped foster an atmo- sphere of collaboration and healthy competition with SOAS. All UK
Korean Studies institutions share a concern for a complex and deeply mis- understood region of the world. Another major influence has come from the institutional values and academic atmosphere that makes SOAS the institution it is. SOAS started life as an institution charged with educating the British Empire’s colonial administrators, and it is perhaps in part the attempt by some SOAS academics to overcome the burden of these colo- nial origins that SOAS developed in the direction it did, evolving in a spirit of tolerance. This atmosphere has fed into the educational departments representing the different regions of the world, and Korean is no excep- tion, as we shall see. But most of all, the development of Korean Studies within SOAS has been shaped by its teaching staff and students, some from the UK but many more from abroad, who have played the most deci- sive role in the development of Korean Studies. This introduction deals with the development of Korean Studies at SOAS.
Early Years: 1950s–1970s
The first Korean post was set up at SOAS in 1953 and the first teacher of Korean Studies at SOAS – and in fact in the whole of the UK – was William Skillend (Deuchler 2010). Skillend was at the time completing his PhD in Japanese Studies at Cambridge when he took up his position at SOAS. He had originally won a scholarship in Classics to study at Cambridge, but at the outbreak of the Second World War, when the call for Japanese lan- guage specialists went out, he answered the call with enthusiasm. Skillend served at Bletchley Park decoding Japanese military messages, and follow- ing his demobilization he became one of the first Japanese Studies students at the Cambridge University’s nascent Japanese department. Classics’ loss was Oriental Studies’ gain, and it is partly thanks to the war that Bill Skillend began a lifelong interest in the language and culture of East Asia. It is testament to his intellectual curiosity that within a year of starting a PhD at Cambridge in 1951 investigating the Man’yōshū, an early collec- tion of Japanese poetry, Skillend began learning Korean from a visiting Korean academic at SOAS. The precise identity of this Korean scholar and how he came to be at SOAS is a matter of some conjecture, but it was prob- ably Zong In-sub (Chong Insŏp), author and translator of many works of Korean literature. In 1953, Bill Skillend became lecturer in Korean and Korean Studies at SOAS had its first British expert, and Europe had its first full-time post in Korean Studies.
The reasons for the establishment of Skillend’s post at SOAS are also unclear, but the initial expansion of interest in Korean Studies must also be understood in the context of the momentous events occurring on the Korean peninsula at the time: Japanese decolonization, a state of virtual civil war in the post-liberation South and the impact of the full blown war that tore through the Korean peninsula between 1950 and 1953, in which British forces played a significant role. The establishment of Korean Studies also came in the wake of the 1946 Scarborough report on Oriental, Slavonic, East European and African Studies, which revealed glaring deficiencies in the British capacity to provide expertise on overseas gov- ernments and peoples in East Asia, Africa and Eastern Europe, and recom- mended expansion of language study in the above areas (Philips 2003: 33). The Scarborough Report was partly a response to the general complacency that marked British official attitudes towards not only their Asian allies but also a motivated Asian foe (Philips 2003: 33). For example, at the out- break of the Pacific War, official attitudes towards East Asian experts had initially been lukewarm. SOAS had twice offered its expertise on Japanese and Chinese language to military authorities and had twice been rebuffed, only for the same authorities to approach the school later for its help in those same areas (Philips 2003: 31–2). Idealists may argue that it would be prescient for governments to have specialists in place before conflict begins, but necessity is the mother of invention and, just as it had in the USA, Area Studies in the UK grew as a response to wartime situations in foreign states, and there was a sudden need for more in-depth knowledge of Korea. In 1955, Skillend spent the first of three study leaves in Korea, where he continued with his scholarly enquiry into Korean language and literature. He also spent a year at Columbia University in the USA between 1963 and 1964 where he taught Korean literature. During the early years of SOAS Korean Studies, there were few students and fewer subjects, and Korean Studies at the time consisted principally of instruction in the Korean lan- guage. However, classes began to incorporate the instruction of Korean literature. Early research on Korea-related subjects such as linguistics was carried out by scholars attached to subject-specific departments rather than within a dedicated Korean department. The majority of Bill Skillend’s students were Japanese or Chinese studies students who had opted for a minor in Korean Studies. However, SOAS has always had a duality of purpose, and the institution was charged not just with the instruction of students of academic subjects but also those with professional or ideo- logical interests such as missionaries and foreign-service employees.
In addition, overseas scholars also came to SOAS to study under Bill Skillend; amongst them Daniel Bouchez, later to be Professor of Korean literature in Paris. Many passed through the doors of Skillend’s SOAS Korean language course before proceeding to Korea. Scholars from other disciplines such as anthropology, museum studies, art history and ethno- musicology began their Korean language training in SOAS before going on to fieldwork research. The early years of Korean Studies at SOAS coincided with a golden age in British higher education. Considering the limited number of subjects and students, it is strange to think of this as a golden age as it was a period of fewer students than today despite the generous provision for those stu- dents who did enter higher education. It was however a time of manda- tory educational maintenance, perhaps an age when it was believed that the point of education was that it really did make you a better person. For teaching staff at institutions like SOAS, there was more freedom from external evaluations and teaching commitments in this period (Shackle 2003: 67) and despite the lack of objective and strenuous assessment crite- ria, much important academic work was still carried out. Bill Skillend pub- lished his magnum opus, Kodae Sosŏl: a study of Korean Traditional Style Popular Novels in 1968. This was an in-depth bibliography of pre-modern fictional literature that could be found in Korean, European and North American libraries, and proved to be an essential source for academics in the pre-internet era. Under the stewardship of Sir Cyril Philips, the school director from 1957 to 1976, SOAS nurtured an atmosphere of academic enquiry and embraced the tolerance of differences in political and intellectual outlook (Cruise O’Brien 2007: 15). SOAS could also be a place of eccentrics and eccentrici- ties like the Professor of Old Mons, who famously had a single student in thirty years (Baker 2003: 168). Such practices would be considered unthinkable under the current product-orientated framework of the Research Excellence Framework (the REF, the UK government’s method of assessing performance in higher education). This period embodied greater self-confidence (some might say complacency) within academic enquiry into Asia in a time that pre-dated the devastating critique of western scholarship of the East in Edward Said’s Orientalism, a time in which ‘Orientalists’ could still define themselves as scholars researching an important yet little understood region of the world. SOAS being SOAS, it is not surprising that Bernard Lewis, the target of Edward Said’s attack, was himself a SOAS academic until he decamped to Princeton in 1974.
It should also be remembered that the late 1960s and mid-1970s was a different time for Korean Studies. This was before North Korea’s recent economic difficulties and the phenomenal economic expansion of the South. In fact the situation was rather the reverse, and North Korea had the more powerful economy. North and South Korea were competing for legitimacy and for international recognition of their respective regimes. Both countries wanted to be seen as the true inheritors of Korean tradition on the peninsula. It was a period during which North Korea, it is fair to say, had a relatively high profile in the UK and other European Countries com- pared to its southern neighbour and competitor. It was a time when the North Korean government took out full-page advertisements in British quality newspapers extolling the virtues of ‘their’ version of socialism. There was even a visit to North Korea by a SOAS academic in a period when visits by outsiders were relatively rare.1 North Korea was also able to fund a not insignificant overseas aid programme to developing countries. To a limited degree North Korea played a role in the expansion of Korean Studies at SOAS. The SOAS library bears evidence of this battle for com- peting legitimacy and was the recipient of North Korean largesse. In the late 1970s, the library received an extremely large donation of books from the North Korean government via the Polish embassy. Such is the promi- nence of the North Korean collection that it is frequently remarked upon by visiting South Korean scholars, many of whom can recall a period prior to democratization when accessing such material could have earned them a prison sentence. While such gifts might seem distasteful in the light of the authoritarian character of North Korea, the 1970s was a Cold War period in which the acceptance of funding from either side of the demili- tarized zone separating North and South Korea could not be construed as a politically neutral act. Important South Korean state funding sources were often closely linked to national intelligence agencies. The generosity of the North Korean donation means that the SOAS cat- alogue lists Kim Il Sung (Kim Ilsŏng) as one of their most prolific authors, with 125 entries. While works from the early 1970s deal with the tasks fac- ing the North Korean nation, the Great Leader turned his attention from the 1980s onwards to overseas problems, for example with Answers to ques- tions raised by the managing editor of the general director of the Latin American news agency Prensa Latina (1987). His son Kim Jong Il (Kim Chŏngil) is the author of seventeen books in the SOAS library, including
1 The visit was by the controversial academic Malcolm Caldwell, later to be murdered by the Khmer Rouge during a visit to Cambodia, see Anthony 2010.
was divided, and it is testament to Bill Skillend’s academic dynamism that attempts were made to draw scholars not just from Western Europe but from Eastern Europe as well. Skillend pushed for greater participation by scholars of Korea from the former Eastern Bloc at a time when such over- tures could be condemned as pandering to the propagandists of a Cold War enemy. Speakers from Poland attended the conference in 1978, from Czechoslovakia and Hungary in 1983, from Russia and East Germany in 1984, and from North Korea in 1989 (Bouchez 2007). The fall of the Communist world has perhaps vindicated those like Bill Skillend whose voice of mediation pressed for the inclusion of Eastern bloc Korean schol- ars in AKSE participation, as many of the scholars who had previously worked under Soviet-style communism have continued their investigation into Korean history and culture regardless of the change in political sys- tems. This tradition of engagement is something that has continued amongst SOAS Korean Studies to this day, and most recently the 2007 International Society of Korean Studies (ISKS) conference held at SOAS included a significant contingent of North Korean academics.
Expansion: 1980s–2000s
SOAS was not the only place in Britain to have a claim on Korean Studies development. From the late 1970s to the mid-1990s, the site of much radi- cal and innovative Korean Studies development was firmly rooted in the North of England and organized under the aegis of Yorkshire and Northumbria Korean Studies (YANKS). It was in the Universities of Sheffield, Leeds, Newcastle, Hull and Durham that a great deal of impor- tant work, predominantly but not exclusively in the social sciences, was conducted. British Korean Studies was developing, but there was still much to do. In the late 1980s, Skillend observed that there were only two British univer- sity posts specifically designated for Korean Studies. This all changed at the end of the decade when the largest expansion in Korean Studies occurred. The Korean Studies Unit had been set up at at Sheffield University in the early 1980s and by 1992 it had three lecturers and a lan- guage instructor. In 1988, Newcastle University East Asian Centre created the first lectureship in Korean Politics at a European University, and from 1989 students were also able to learn Korean language (Drifte 1992: 16). Oxford University created a Korean lectorship from 1987 with university funding and then from 1989 with government funding, and then a full- time post in Korean Studies in 1994, and Cambridge followed suit in the
2000s. This expansion occurred thanks to increased funding from South Korea and the British government in the late 1980s. By the mid-1970s, South Korea had overtaken the North economically, and by the time of the 1988 Seoul Olympics South Korea was a serious economic power that had begun to shed the strictures of its authoritarian past. Greater funding opportunities were available to SOAS and other British universities from South Korean state educational organizations no longer tarnished by asso- ciation with a repressive government. These institutions included the Academy of Korean Studies (founded in 1978), the Korea Research Foundation (Hanguk haksul chinhŭng chaedan, founded in 1981), and the Korea Foundation (founded in 1991). While each organization has a slightly different brief and are mutually competitive, they are dedicated to the dis- semination of Korean culture abroad. Expansion was seen as a vital way to develop an increased awareness of all things Korean in the outside world, but it was also a way of representing South Korea’s growing interests over- seas. Given the country’s phenomenal economic growth in this period, South Korea was also paying more attention to the activities of another neighbour – Japan. Japan had been generously disseminating its own cul- ture abroad via the Japan Foundation since 1972, and Korean educational institutions followed suit by committing significant resources to overseas Korean education. While there was increased funding to the UK and beyond, there were strong disagreements within the field about how to divide up this money (King and Howard 1992: 12). On the one hand, there were those who believed that given the smaller profile of Britain-Korea links, British Korean Studies would be better served by concentrating financial and material resources amongst a limited number of centres of excellence like SOAS. On the other, there were some, particularly adminis- trators of funding bodies, who believed the funds and resources should be spread more widely amongst a number of high-profile institutions. The ongoing question of whether to spread funding more widely or create a super-centre of Korean Studies has never been satisfactorily resolved, and this is sure to be a source of contention for some time. This boost in funding and shift in policy provided the catalyst for the great expansion of Korean Studies at SOAS and in the UK during the 1980s and 1990s. In 1987 Bill Skillend was promoted to Professor of Korean Studies and this was the year the CKS was set up at SOAS with funding from the Korea Research Foundation. SOAS was selected ahead of rival institutions thanks to its emphasis on humanities and the arts rather than social science subjects. Martina Deuchler, a specialist in Chosŏn period social history, joined the History Department of SOAS in 1988 as senior
lecturer in Korean history. While at SOAS, she published perhaps her most famous work, The Confucian Transformation of Korea, and from 1991 to 2001 she served as Professor of Korean Studies. After Martina Deuchler’s appointment, moves were also made to expand Korean language instruction. From the late 1980s, there was a mas- sive expansion in foreign language teaching when the British government realized the population was falling behind their continental European counterparts in terms of language acquisition. A lack of linguistic and cul- tural competence was having a negative impact on British business inter- ests. The government introduced mandatory foreign language instruction at secondary schools and encouraged the growth of languages elsewhere, and it was within this atmosphere of increased linguistic provision that Korean language instruction was expanded at SOAS. Institutions like SOAS found it challenging to meet the needs of students as well as the demands of the RAE (the Research Assessment Exercise, an official gov- ernment method of assessing University performance, introduced by Margaret Thatcher’s government in 1986; now known as the REF) within a changing institutional environment and a transformed East Asian politi- cal context. Increasing democratization and economic expansion meant increased opportunities for travel to and employment in the South. There was a greater emphasis on developing a greater proficiency in oral and aural Korean to meet the opportunities that came as a result of increased cooperation between Britain and South Korea, and later North Korea with whom the UK established diplomatic relations in 2000. The years of expansion in the 1980s and 1990s therefore saw a trans formation in focus of teaching and teachers; these were developments that grew out of the changing needs of students in changing times. In 1989, Yeon Jaehoon, a specialist on Korean linguistics, was employed as a Sir Peter Parker language training fellow in Korean language. Parker, probably most well-known for his stewardship of British Rail during the 1970s period of industrial strife, had a lifelong association with both Japan and SOAS. He had been one of the ‘Dulwich boys’, employed by the government during the war to translate Japanese military messages, and had received his initial Japanese language education at SOAS. Although Parker’s interest was directed mainly towards Japan and Japanese, his ini- tial support helped expand Korean language instruction at SOAS. In 1990, Ross King, a specialist on Korean historical linguistics and Korean dialec- tology, was appointed lecturer in Korean language and literature. Ross King moved to the University of British Columbia in Canada in 1994, but during his period at SOAS he co-produced textbooks that met the
elsewhere was also not so encouraging. In several UK institutions Korean Studies ended, and they ended not with a bang but a whimper. Korea- related courses at Hull and Leeds had ceased long before, and courses in Newcastle also folded (King and Howard 1992: 9). In many places, Korean Studies ceased to exist after scholars with Korea-related research interests retired or moved on, and their positions were never filled. At many red- brick universities with solid reputations, accountants without long-term vision looked for short-term savings and ‘minority’ subjects were cut. Rumours that Oxford’s Korean Studies position was about to lose its fund- ing led to questions in South Korean daily newspapers, which resulted in the creation of a new position in Korean linguistics at Oxford. In 2007, Durham University followed through on its 2003 decision to close not only its Korean section but its entire East Asian department (Killeya 2007). Durham University’s decision led to questions being raised in the British Parliament, occurring as it did at the point at which China was emerging as the world’s second largest economy. One of Britain’s most venerable educational establishments had decided to cut off all research into one of the most dynamic regions of the world. It was a fit of educational myopia that beggars belief. So the massive educational expansion of the late 1980s and 1990s produced mixed results in British Korean Studies. Many centres had closed, while others like SOAS had thrived to set up a healthy platform upon which to build Korean Studies in the second decade of the new millennium.
SOAS Korean Studies Today
Over the past twenty-five years, the motivational factors encouraging stu- dents into Korean Studies have seen a remarkable transformation. Prior to the 1990s, missionaries, business people and diplomats made up a large proportion of new recruits. There were also those with an interest in, if not a commitment to, North Korean politics. In the late 1990s and 2000s, stu- dents entering Korean Studies were still a rather rare breed – although there were those with an interest in Korean martial arts like Taekwondo (T’aegwŏndo), Tangsudo or T’aekkyŏn. There were also partners of Korean nationals, or members of religious groups associated with Korea. Britain has always had a rather small Korean community, largely centred around the suburb of New Malden in south-west London, and so students of Korean heritage tended to make up a smaller proportion of SOAS students in comparison to other countries like the United States, Canada or
Germany where there are larger Korean communities, or Northern European countries with a large number of Korean adoptees. The last few years have seen a relative explosion in the numbers of new Korean Studies students. The extremely competitive education system in South Korea has resulted in increasing numbers of parents sending their children abroad for their education at both tertiary and secondary levels. Many recent SOAS students claim their initial interest in Korea was sparked by friendships with South Korean nationals studying in the UK. The early 2000s also saw a great renaissance in Korean film associated with directors like Lee Changdong (Yi Changdong), the controversial Kim Ki-duk (Kim Kidŏk) and Park Chan-wook (Pak Ch’anuk), and this cultural phenomenon has attracted many students. More recently, SOAS has attracted students with a fascination for Korean popular music (K-Pop) and Korean dramas. The impact of youth culture in generating interest or favourable impressions of a country should not be underestimated. Whereas South Korea in the past may have generated rather negative impressions of war and military dictatorship, increasing awareness of Korean popular culture has intensified the degree of interest in Korea within a younger demographic. A new generation is attracted by what they perceive to be a vibrant and expansive culture that can offer some- thing of interest to all ages. In the context of the high and low culture debate, there are those who criticize the current fascination for Korean popular culture, particularly K-Pop and Korean Drama, which they see as an overall dumbing down of Korean Studies. However, the early signs of working with students have proved more positive for the future prospects of Korean Studies. Students may enter SOAS with an interest in Korean popular culture, but they leave having specialized in ‘heavier’ subjects like Korean linguistics, late Chosŏn political culture or the politics of division in North and South Korea. University is not a place for hobbyists, it is a place where difficult and important questions are addressed and critically analysed. Not only has there been a greater level of interest in Korea, but today’s students are increasingly planning to make Korea a part of their post-university life. While SOAS Korean Studies students in the past expressed an interest in finding out more about Korea, more recent stu- dents have enthused about travelling to Korea and living and working there. The CKS has always attracted a significant proportion of overseas stu- dents; particularly from the United States, Italy, Germany, France, Poland and South Korea, who come to SOAS because of the absence or the aca- demic inflexibility of Korean Studies programmes in their home countries.
Korean Studies at SOAS are in many ways typical of the diversity and mul- ticulturalism that has always been central to the School as well as one of its supreme ironies. SOAS was established by the British state to educate a colonial administration, but it soon became obvious that the institute could only survive by accepting large numbers of scholars and students from those very colonial territories that SOAS graduates were supposed to administer (Philips 2003: 27). An increasing number of students from other London colleges like University College London and Queen Mary’s also attend SOAS Korean Studies classes as part of intercollegiate agree- ments. The rise of interest in Korean popular culture has produced a con- comitant increase in Korean ‘floaters’ – students that choose Korean-related classes outside their degree area. In addition, many students from Korea are also attracted to SOAS because the institution allows them access to resources and encourages them to explore a range of interests, like the recent student who specialized in court dance from the Chosŏn period.
Courses
To meet the increased demand for understanding Korea, the CKS has expanded its teaching staff and added to the number of courses it teaches. Anders Karlsson, a specialist on Chosŏn political, social and legal history, replaced Martina Deuchler on her retirement in 2001 and teaches courses on pre-modern history and twentieth century society, history and culture, as well as methodology courses. Since the 1990s, SOAS has developed a strong linguistic tradition. While other European institutions have stressed historical linguistics, the CKS has emphasized contemporary syntax and more recently Korean language pedagogy, reflecting the burgeoning global demand for Korean language teachers as Korea’s global profile has grown. There is a temptation to associate Korean Studies with only South Korea, but South Korea is not exclusively representative of Korea as a whole. To correct this imbalance, the CKS has added a course on the ‘other’ Korea, North Korea, a course currently taught by the person with perhaps more inside intelligence on this secretive country than anyone else in the UK; the first British chargé d’affaires to North Korea, Jim Hoare. In addition, SOAS has a full-time post dedicated to Korean literature. Grace Koh, a specialist on Korean pre-modern literature, has established postgraduate and undergraduate Korean literature courses within the CKS, teaching Korean literature in the original and in translation. SOAS also has a full-time academic position devoted to the understanding and
their research. Since 2005, fifteen half-day and day-long workshops have been held at the CKS on subjects including Korean art, Korean music and dance, pre-modern history, publishing in Korean Studies, shifting notions of borders and territory in Korean history, accounts of Korea in early travel literature, and Korean cinema. With the increasing profile of online research materials it was decided to make the results of the CKS work- shops and seminars available to those unable to travel to London. Since 2005, forty papers from both the seminar series and workshops have been edited into online working papers to make this research freely available to all those with an interest. Of the papers in this volume, the majority have been either presented at a CKS seminar, workshop, and/or published as part of the working papers series. Over the period of the AKS funding, CKS members have produced six publications, including research monographs and edited collections on Korean linguistics, and Korean history. The stress on publications reflects the current concern within academic assess- ment on observable and quantifiable published outcomes; a development that has significantly added to the pressures of those working in tertiary level education. As a result of CKS activities, the AKS renewed the institution grant for a further five year period, during which workshops and conferences have already been held exploring the diversity and distinctiveness of Korean music and dance, state capitalism and development in Korea and East Asia, Korean Art as displayed in museum contexts and South Korean cinema. There are plans for further publications by CKS members and proposals for establishing the first UK postgraduate course devoted to examining North Korean history, politics and society, as well as courses that critically examine South Korean cinema. As part of Korea Foundation funding secured by the CKS in 2011 a further position in Korean Studies was filled by Owen Miller, a specialist in pre-modern economic history and historical materialism in East Asia. Former members of the CKS have gone on to take up positions at the Universities of Heidelberg, Oregon at Portland, in Macedonia and the Australian National University in Sydney. It is the students who are the lifeblood of any educational institution and this year there are a record number of research students engaged on Korean-related topics with titles as varied as: Eugenics in Colonial Korea; the Preservation and Development of Korean Folk Music during Japanese Colonial Rule; Agency, History, and Reality in Contemporary Korean Literature; South Korean Policy for North Korean Defectors and Nation- Building on the Korean Peninsula 1997–2010; and Relative Clauses with Reference to Korean as a Foreign Language.
Figure 1. Extract from the Oryun haengsilto (Pictures of the Five Relationships in Practice, SOAS collections). Korea early nineteenth century. SOAS Library; Four volumes, woodblock printed book, H32 × W18.5 cm.
Korean Book and Art Collections at SOAS
It is a curious fact that over the years the SOAS library has received more widespread recognition than education and research within the school itself (Arnold and Shackle 2003: 3). The SOAS Library holds more than 1.5 million items in addition to electronic resources. In 1995, it held 10,000 books in English on Korea and 30,000 Korean language books, and has been growing by between three and five hundred books a year. Visitors to SOAS are often surprised to find relatively rare books from the Korean War and the immediate post-war period, including a mint condition 1953 liter- ary work Hwangch’oryŏng [Hwangch’o Hill] by Han Sŏrya unavailable in South Korea, and countless others from the Korean War period. These items are all the more remarkable as the 1950s marked a period during which paper was rationed, and many books were simply destroyed during the devastation. There are also examples of novels from North Korea including Nodongŭi nanal [Days of labour] by Kim Pukhyang, which con- tains some interesting artwork, and most importantly there are also some fine volumes of literature from the Colonial period, written in Korean
characters, mixed script and Classical Chinese, including a 1938 collection of literature entitled Hyŏndae Chosŏn yŏryu munhak sŏnjip, [Collection of literary works by modern Chosŏn women], a 1936 volume providing guid- ance on the correct spelling of the Korean han’gŭl alphabet entitled Han’gŭl mach’umpŏp t’ongiran published by the Han’gŭl Hakhoe [Han’gŭl society] and many others. The collection includes a 1939 edition of the col- lected short stories of Park Tae-won (Pak T’aewŏn), a 1938 collection of the literary works of Hwang Chich’u, a 1936 volume of literary essays by Yi Simhyang entitled P’ahon [The Break up]. It is a mystery how many of these books ended up at SOAS, although it is known that they were acquired during the early 1960s. One of the most famous Korean books in the SOAS collection is a vol- ume from the early nineteenth-century containing illustrations attributed to a well known painter Kim Hongdo, called the Oryun haengsilto (Pictures of the Five Relationships in Practice; Figure 1). Written in both classical Chinese (hanmun) with some Korean characters (han’gŭl) this volume provides over a hundred tales celebrating the five relationships of Confucianism, including stories about loyal subjects of the king, filial chil- dren, virtuous wives, loyal friends and fraternal siblings. The most famous of these tales is the story of one true Confucian yangban who attempted to mourn the death of his mother for three years, an action that was strongly opposed by his relatives who believed such a period of mourning excessive (Carpenter and Yasumura 2007: 39).2 In addition to its important library, SOAS holds a number of notable artworks, many of which have been held in storage at SOAS for years without any real conception of their value and significance. They will be discussed by Charlotte Horlyck later in this volume. While it is the work of the students and teachers that repre- sents the most important face of SOAS Korean Studies, the special collec- tions of rare books and valuable artworks discussed above represent important physical connections between the school and Korean life and culture. It would have been difficult for Bill Skillend to have predicted many of the twists and turns that SOAS Korean Studies has taken over the past sixty years. No doubt he would have wished that after such a time SOAS Korean Studies would be in the kind of healthy state that it was in on 27 April 2012. It would be foolish to make outlandish predictions about the
2 Yangban, a term referring to the elite literati class, awarded special privileges and access to the civil service examination.
Papers in this Collection
All the papers in this collection are previously unpublished and all reflect the various research interests and different strengths of SOAS over the past sixty years. The papers have been contributed by SOAS researchers and other established and emerging scholars who have pre- sented at our fortnightly CKS seminar meetings, SOAS Korean Studies workshops and conferences. The SOAS CKS has made access to these events free and open to the public as part of its remit to inform both the academic and the wider community about Korea. The aim of this collection is to provide the reader with a small and representative taste of the work of the SOAS CKS over the decades. This volume features papers covering different aspects of Korea that are studied at SOAS: pre-modern and modern history, literature, North Korea, philosophy, music, society and art. It is hoped that each of the papers contained in this volume will make a contribution to Korean Studies not just in the UK but worldwide, and that the papers provide a representative sample of the strengths of SOAS, an institution at the heart of Korean Studies.
Bibliography
Anthony, Andrew 2010: ‘Lost in Cambodia.’ The Observer, 10 January 2010
Glossary
Chindo 珍島 Kim Il Sung 金日成 Hanguk haksul chinhŭng Man’yōshū 万葉集 chaedan 한국 학술 진흥 재단 Oryun haengsilto 五倫行實圖 han’gŭl 한글 T’aekkyŏn 태껸 hanja 漢字 T’aekwŏndo 跆拳道 Hanmun 漢文 Tangsudo 唐手道 Kim Chŏngil 金正日 Zong In-sub (Chŏng Insŏp) Kim Hongdo 金弘道 정인섭
PART ONE
HISTORY
Andrew David Jackson
The study of history occupies a special place at SOAS since the depart- ment of history is the only one in the UK devoted to the historical study of Asia and Africa. These are both areas of the globe with particularly com- plex relationships with their colonial past, and where historical research has been mobilized to explain the contrasting trajectories of different countries. Historical research into Korea’s complex and often controver- sial past has been a cornerstone of the CKS since its inception. However, it is interesting to note that in contrast to many other institutions, the stress has been firmly on Korea’s pre-modern history, and all three full-time historians who have been employed at SOAS have emerged from a pre- modern background. This should not be regarded as prejudicial against modern Korean history per se, but rather as evidence of Korea’s rich pre- modern history that still offers up many unanswered questions and pos- sesses many rich historical sources that can be examined or re-examined using the application of new methodologies and theories. This move towards a greater understanding of the pre-modern Korean world is also reflected in a bias to the SOAS CKS seminars and workshops. Out of a total of 200 seminars and workshop papers over the past seven years, thirty (the largest number of any subject) were devoted to explaining pre-modern history. This bias is also reflected in this section, with three out of the four historical papers examining pre-modern historical matters. One particular historical era that has consistently attracted enquiry has been the late nineteenth century, particularly the period immediately after the opening of Korea to western and Japanese imperialism. One of the key questions of Korean historiography has centred on whether Korea was developing the sprouts of capitalism independently prior to its open- ing by Japan in 1876, or whether capitalism was simply introduced whole- sale from the outside, principally by Japanese imperialism. Another reason for the interest in this period is the wealth of sources available to the researcher – in comparison to earlier periods of Korean history – many of which still await proper study. The first article in this section deals with the merchant guilds of the Chosŏn period. Owen Miller, a lecturer in Korean history who has been connected with SOAS continuously since his
Karlsson, who provides background for this debate. His paper was origi- nally presented at the workshop ‘Territory, Frontiers, and Borders in Korean History’, held in May 2009, which discussed the shifting notions of territorial ownership, nationality and boundaries at different times in Korean history. Although the paper avoids becoming embroiled in the cur- rent controversy, the author provides important data that can be used to clarify a debate that has often generated more heat than light. Karlsson discusses recognition of these territories in historical sources from the Chosŏn period. Another reason for interest in borderlands is their territorial ambigui- ties and their hybrid ethnic, cultural and linguistic mix of identities, and Manchuria is a particularly pertinent example of this, with its complex mix of ethnic Han Chinese and a substantial Korean minority. The admin- istration of such areas can be particularly problematic for policy makers, especially if policy is guided by nationalist discourses that stress ethnic or racial homogeneity of a sort that does not exist in Manchuria. The final paper in this section, by Charles Kraus and Adam Cathcart, was originally presented at SOAS in November 2012 and it moves the reader into twenti- eth-century history, more specifically the political tinderbox that was the Manchurian border region in the Japanese colonial period and up to the 1950s, a period when important Korean-Chinese interactions occurred.
Glossary
Sin Ch’aeho 申采浩 Koguryŏ 高句麗 minjok 民族
TOBACCO AND THE GIFT ECONOMY OF SEOUL MERCHANTS IN THE LATE NINETEENTH CENTURY1
Owen Miller
Introduction
This paper makes a more detailed investigation into an observation I made during my PhD research on Korean guild merchants.2 While collecting data from the late nineteenth-century account books of Seoul’s Guild of Domestic Silk Merchants (Myŏnjujŏn), one thing that stood out among the everyday administrative expenses of the organization was the frequent appearance of large quantities of tobacco. It appeared even from this casual observation that the social smoking of tobacco and its use as a gift was extremely important to the internal economic and social life of the Silk Merchants’ Guild. From this initial observation a number of questions arose. First, was it possible to quantify the use of tobacco by the Myŏnjujŏn members and analyse its social purposes in the organization? Second, how does the distribution of large quantities of tobacco to guild members fit into the broader picture of gift and commodity exchanges in late Chosŏn society and in other similar societies? Third, what explains the overwhelming importance of this particular commodity in the internal social and economic life of the merchants’ guild? In looking at these questions, this study therefore draws together three elements: the nature and purpose of the guild organizations of late Chosŏn Seoul; the non-market distribution of goods in the form of gifts, and the importance of tobacco in late Chosŏn society, both in terms of its social usage and economic significance as a commodity. In the next section I will look at each of these elements in turn.
1 This work was supported by the Academy of Korean Studies (KSPS) Grant funded by the Korean Government (MOE) (AKS-2011-BAA-2104). 2 Versions of this paper were presented at the Association for Korean Studies in Europe conference in Dourdan, France, in April 2007, and at the International Society for Korean Studies Conference at SOAS, London, in August 2007. I’m grateful for the comments I received from other participants. The research on which this paper is based was made possible by a research fellowship funded by the Academy of Korean Studies, Republic of Korea.
Figure 1. Korea in the late Chosŏn period (1895). ©Andrew David Jackson
Guilds, Gifts and Tobacco
Guilds The guild was the typical form of commercial organization in pre-capital- ist state societies, where merchants were faced with surplus-extracting political authorities such as bureaucratic states or powerful lords. Guilds sought to make profits for their members by minimizing competition amongst those dealing in the same commodities, by maintaining price dif- ferentials and by gaining patronage from powerful figures or procurement agreements with state organs. Chosŏn was no exception in this regard and although various forms of more independent commerce had arisen in the late eighteenth century, the merchant guilds of Seoul still dominated the commercial activities of the capital city until close to the end of the nine- teenth century. There was a great variety of commercial guilds in late Chosŏn Seoul, many of which had been in existence since the capital was moved to its new location at the beginning of the dynasty. The guild markets were called sijŏn, and at the top of the hierarchy of sijŏn were the so-called Six Guilds – including the Myŏnjujŏn – which dealt largely in textiles (cotton, Chinese and domestic silk, hemp and ramie cloth). They were responsible for supplying goods to the government at fixed prices and providing cor- vée labourers when necessary for works at royal palaces and shrines in the capital. The Chosŏn government recognized the importance of the guilds and particularly the Six Guilds, and in return for their services they were granted monopoly rights within the jurisdiction of the Capital Administrative Bureau (Hansŏngbu), which lasted until the Kabo-Ŭlmi Reforms of 1894–1895.3 Previous North and South Korean scholarship has tended to argue that guilds represented an archaic form of commerce that presented an obsta- cle to the development of indigenous capitalism in Korea and thus had to be ‘overcome’ in the late Chosŏn period.4 In contrast, my previous work has argued for the significance of guilds during the same period as the primary institutions through which commerce was embedded within Chosŏn society. My research has looked specifically at the organizational
3 For more on the history of the sijŏn guilds of Chosŏn Seoul see Pyŏn Kwangsŏk 2001; Yu Kyosŏng 1955; Ko Tonghwan 1955; Ch’oe Pyŏngmu 1958; Ko Sokkyu 1998. For more on the Domestic Silk Guild in particular see Owen Miller 2005. 4 See for example: Ch’oe Pyŏngmu 1958; Kang Man’gil 1973.
Gifts Gift-giving has formed a part of the economic life of human societies all over the planet for thousands of years and, although economically less sig- nificant than in the past, continues to be an important part of social life in capitalist societies today. Gift exchange is an extremely complex and diverse aspect of economic activity that has varied hugely in form accord- ing to the type of society in which it has existed, but it is generally agreed that one of the main functions of this activity is the strengthening of social bonds ‘be they cooperative, competitive, or antagonistic’ (Yunxiang Yan 2005: 246). In the late Chosŏn context, gift exchange formed a crucial ele- ment of what was largely a non-market economy based on subsistence, state redistribution and systems of reciprocity centred on clans, yangban networks and village communities (Yi Yŏnghun 2004: 372–8). In his study of gift exchange based on the nineteenth and twentieth-century accounts of the Pak Clan of Matchil Village, Kyŏngsang Province, economic histo- rian Pak It’aek has shown how gift giving was associated with two princi- ples of Confucian social thought that dominated the yangban view of social relations: ceremonial formality and hospitality. He argues that gift exchange based on these principles served both to create solidarity among kin and social networks among members of the yangban class more gener- ally, and at the same time to differentiate between yangban and subordi- nate classes (Pak It’aek 2001: 357). However, the culture of gift giving was not limited to yangban clan organizations but permeated society more generally and was clearly central to relations among merchants who were organized, as we have seen above, into corporate bodies for mutual benefit.
Tobacco It seems that tobacco and tobacco smoking were first introduced to Chosŏn in the early seventeenth century, almost certainly from Japan, where they had arrived with Portuguese traders in the previous century (Barnabas Tatsuya Suzuki 2004: 76–7). Once it arrived in Chosŏn, tobacco smoking spread extremely quickly and it was said to have permeated soci- ety from top to bottom in the space of twenty years, far faster than other post-Columbian imports such as chillies, which are now so closely associ- ated with Korean food culture (Yang Chinsŏk 2006: 178). Although there were discussions of moral problems related to the practice of tobacco smoking, and periodic attempts at banning or limiting the cultivation of the plant (largely because of the pressure it put upon traditional food agri- culture), its popularity continued throughout the late Chosŏn period. As Dutch castaway Hendrik Hamel observed during his stay in Chosŏn in the mid-seventeenth century, even children of four or five years old would regularly be seen smoking. As South Korean historian Yang Chinsŏk has also noted, important factors in this rapid adoption of tobacco smoking included both the highly addictive nature of nicotine and the great profit- ability of tobacco as a cash crop in a period when the Chosŏn economy was recovering from the ravages of the Imjin War (1592–1598) (Yang Chinsŏk 2006: 179). Not only did tobacco smoking become widespread and popular, it also inserted itself firmly into the status system of Chosŏn society. Perhaps one of the most well-known status-related aspects of Chosŏn smoking is the matter of pipe length. Shorter pipes, called tanjuk were used by common- ers while the very long changjuk were used by yangban and other people of status and were so long that they required a servant to light them. As in many societies, smoking was a social practice that groups of people of a similar status did together, perhaps while gathering for a specific purpose, as illustrated by Yu Suk’s 1853 picture of a group of chungin men (Chosŏn period ‘middle class’ of technical specialists) enjoying a poetry composi- tion party (Yang Chinsŏk 2006: 186). As we shall see, this sort of smoking during social or business-related gatherings appears to have been one of the important roles of tobacco for the merchants of the Myŏnjujŏn.
Tobacco in the Economy of the Myŏnjujŏn
While the majority of the surviving account books that once belonged to the guildhall of the Myŏnjujŏn record its trade in silk with the Chosŏn
7) Miscellaneous In this category I have placed unidentifiable items found in the accounts as well as commutation payments made to government offices and the costs of repairing and replacing various items and facilities kept within the guildhall. Table 1 shows how much the Main Office spent on each of these categories of expense and reveals quite clearly just how predominant tobacco was as a proportion of the guild’s daily administrative expenses. Since the Assisting Office was considerably less important in the guild’s administrative structure than the Main Office its expenses were also much lower and less complex than those of the more senior body. In Table 2, I have therefore divided them into just four categories: stationery and other consumables, food for corvée labourers, tobacco and other miscel- laneous items. Looking at the two tables above, it is striking that despite quite large differences in other areas, tobacco made up almost the same proportion of expenses for both the Main Office and Assisting Office, standing at a
Table 1. Main Office expenses for 1880 by category, in yang. Category of expense Cost in yang Percentage Charcoal and other guildhall consumables 10.88 1 % Stationery 17.59 2 % Ritual expenses 66.00 9 % Food for guild members 73.02 10 % Gifts and bribes for government officials 49.31 6 % Tobacco 512.74 68 % Miscellaneous 31.17 4 %
Table 2. Assisting Office expenses for 1881 by category, in yang. Category of expense Cost in yang Percentage Stationery and other office consumables 18.92 28 % Food for corvée labourers 2.96 4 % Tobacco 45.45 67 % Miscellaneous 0.54 1 %
5 In the Record of Regulations (Tŭngnok) it states the following concerning this tobacco allowance: ‘It is stipulated that members serving as officials of the Main Office and Guildhall shall be paid [an allowance of] half a kŭn of tobacco every day to settle their expenses’ (Tŭngnok, 3).
Table 3. Different types of tobacco distributed by the Main Office in 1880. Type of tobacco expense Cost in yang Percentage Five-day tobacco allowance for officials of the 436.24 85 % Main Office Courtesy tobacco 16.8 3 % Special tobacco 29.38 6 % Accounting tobacco 30.32 6 %
Table 4. Different types of tobacco distributed by the Assisting Office in 1881. Type of tobacco expense Cost in yang Percentage ‘Daily’ tobacco allowances 36.08 71 % Courtesy tobacco 4.44 9 % Meeting tobacco 8.88 18 % Corvée tobacco 1.23 2 %
To simplify this picture somewhat further, we can divide the various types of tobacco expense listed above into three broad categories, each with a different function: tobacco for official allowances, formal gift tobacco and socially consumed tobacco. Clearly, for both administrative bodies of the guild, expenditure on tobacco was dominated by the allowances that were given to senior members of the guild carrying out official duties, making up 85 percent of Main Office tobacco expenses and 71 percent of Assisting Office tobacco expenses. Although this tobacco allowance had something of the character of a gift from the organization to its senior members, it was also intended to compensate these members for the expenses they incurred in the course of their duties. The tobacco given to members performing corvée involved tiny quantities by comparison, but it too had the character of an allowance given for performing a particular duty on behalf of the organization. Courtesy tobacco, on the other hand, was very much a formal gift designed mainly to demonstrate respect to the senior members of the guild and their families. This correlates with the category of formal- ceremonial gifts described by Pak It’aek in his study of gift exchange in the Pak Clan accounts (Pak It’aek 2001: 334–6). Meanwhile, special tobacco,
Conclusion
Quantifying Tobacco Use within the Myŏnjujŏn Although I have only collected data for one year of each of the expenses ledgers, the results are quite clear. The everyday expenses of both the Main
6 The Record of Regulations, stipulates in great detail exactly how various gifts, includ- ing different types of tobacco gift, should be redistributed among its members, according to a strict hierarchy of age, rank and position. See in particular: Tŭngnok 13–20.
Office and the Assisting Office were dominated by the tobacco that was mainly distributed among the senior members of the guild. Not only was the spending on tobacco in the accounts very substantial in comparison to the other everyday administrative expenses of the guild, the actual quan- tity of tobacco bought seems to have been rather large in absolute terms. If we assume that a nineteenth-century kŭn was approximately equivalent to 600 grams then the five-day tobacco allowance alone would have come to nine kilograms, while the half a kŭn received by each member of the guild executive every day would have been equivalent to 300 grams. This seems like an impossible amount of tobacco for one person to smoke, which tends to lead to the conclusion that the recipients did not in fact smoke all this tobacco – something I will consider further below.
What Sort of Gift Economy Operated within the Myŏnjujŏn? The quantitative data obtained above indicate that tobacco was probably the most important medium for distributing the guild’s wealth among its members. We have also seen, however, that the internal economy of the Myŏnjujŏn was quite different in a number of ways to the ‘classical’ gift economies that have been studied by anthropologists. The use of gifts in the guild did not involve the exchange of goods between two individuals and did not entail a strict reciprocity. In the case of the guild, gifts of tobacco were given by the organization as a whole to its members in a hierarchical fashion which served to redistribute wealth upwards towards the more senior members. This would seem to reflect the more general tendency in Chosŏn society for people of greater age and higher status to be supported in this fashion. However, I argue that reciprocity functioned in this form of wealth distribution too, since it is presumed that most guild members could expect to obtain senior positions in the guild once they had reached a certain age and length of membership. Then, just as parents who have provided for their children’s upbringing and education expect to reap rewards in the form of support in their old age, the older guild mem- bers would be paid back for the share of the guild’s collective wealth they had foregone as young members. However, the bulk of the tobacco given out to members (the five-day tobacco allowance) was actually explicitly given as compensation for the expenses associated with holding certain senior administrative and advi- sory positions in the organization. Thus, while many of the types of tobacco gift distributed by the guild certainly fitted the standard descrip- tion of a gift, and, above all, served to reproduce and reinforce hierarchies
What Explains the Predominance of Tobacco? The points made by Yang Chinsŏk concerning both the addictiveness of tobacco and its potentially lucrative nature are also likely causes behind its heavy usage among guild merchants in Seoul. One reason that the mon- etary value of tobacco may be important in explaining its use within the guild is that, considering the sheer quantities of tobacco involved, it seems likely that not all gifts of tobacco were actually consumed by the recipi- ents. I would speculate that a substantial proportion of the tobacco dis- tributed to members was either passed on once again as gifts to friends, relatives or business associates or sold on the market for cash. The use of tobacco as a form of money by the guild would not be at all surprising considering that a number of commodities such as rice and cotton were commonly used as currency in late Chosŏn society. Like rice, tobacco as currency may have been particularly useful in times when there was seri- ous inflation and metallic currency became devalued. Another explanation for the peculiar importance of tobacco may be found in the nature of tobacco itself as a commodity that, like alcohol,7 lends itself to social consumption in meetings or other more informal social occasions. We have already discussed the way in which tobacco gifts and allowances functioned within the guild as a way of creating social soli- darity and also differentiation and respect between members of different ages and ranks, but it is clear from the records of the Myŏnjujŏn that smoking, along with eating, was also something that the merchants did together on certain occasions, particularly after or during meetings to dis- cuss the business of the organization. Finally, we also need to consider the position of tobacco in Chosŏn society more generally, as a luxury commodity marking social status in various ways. Smoking is a very visually demonstrative practice and its status dimension was advertised most overtly in Chosŏn through the length of the pipe that a smoker used. For the merchants of the guilds, whose social status as wealthy commoners was anomalous and perhaps
7 The general non-appearance of alcohol in the guild accounts is something of a mystery.
rather precarious at times, the consumption of tobacco, made conspicu- ous by both quantity and style, may have been a useful way to compensate for their formally low position in Chosŏn society. Although they were not officially members of the chungin class, it seems likely that they at least positioned themselves as members of this class by their way of dressing and by their habits, manners and life customs. One such important and clearly visible habit must have been the regular smoking of tobacco.
Bibliography
Primary Sources Iryongch’aek 日用 1880: (National Library of Korea cat. no: 古9796–13). Tŭngnok 謄錄 [Record of Regulations] (National Library of Korea cat. no: 古2109–43). Pang hoegye ch’aek 房會計冊 1880–1892: (National Library of Korea cat. no: 古9796–4).
Secondary Sources Ch’oe Pyŏngmu 최병무 1958: ‘Rijo sigi ŭi sijŏn’ 리조 시기의 시전 [The sijŏn of the Chosŏn period]. In: Ryŏksa ronmunjip 력사론문집 2. P’yŏngyang. Han’guk Komunsŏ Hakhoe 韓國古文書學會 2000: Chosŏn sidae saenghwalsa 조선시대 생활사 2 [History of everyday life in the Chosŏn dynasty]. Seoul: Yŏksa pip’yŏngsa. Kang Man’gil 姜萬吉 1973: Chosŏn hugi sang’ŏp chabon ŭi paltal 朝鮮後期 商業資本의發 達 [The development of commercial capital in the late Chosŏn period]. Seoul: Koryŏ taehakkyo ch’ulp’anbu. Ko Sokkyu 고석규 1998: ‘19 segi chŏnban sŏul sijŏn sangŏp ŭi tonghyang’ 19세기 전반 서 울 시전상업의 동향 [The direction of Seoul’s sijŏn commerce in the first half of the nineteenth century]. In: Yi T’aejin (ed.), Sŏul sangŏpsa 서울 상업사. Seoul: T’aehaksa. Ko Tonghwan 高향煥 1995: ‘19 segi huban tojajŏn tŭnggŭpmunsŏ e taehayŏ’ 19세기 후반 도자전 등급문서에 대하여 [On the late nineteenth-century Tojajŏn documents]. Sŏulhak yŏn’gu 서울학연구 6. Miller, Owen 2005: ‘The Myŏnjujŏn: A silk merchants’ guild in late Chosŏn Korea.’ Papers of the British Association for Korean Studies 10, 185–210. Pak It’aek 박이택 2001: ‘Nongch’on saehoe esŏ ŭi sŏnmul kyohwan: 1834–1956’ 農村社 會에서의 膳物交換: 1834–1956 [Gift exchange in rural village society: 1834–1956]. In: An Pyŏngjik 安秉直 and Yi Yŏnghun 李榮薰 (eds.), Matchil ŭi nongmin tŭl 맛질의 농 민들: 韓國近世村落生活史 [The Farmers of Matchil Village: Life in an Early Modern Korean Village]. Seoul, Ilchogak. Pyŏn Kwangsŏk 卞光錫 2001: Chosŏn hugi sijŏn sangin yŏn’gu 朝鮮後期 市廛商人 硏究 [The sijŏn merchants of the late Chosŏn dynasty]. Seoul: Hyean. Suzuki, Barnabas Tatsuya 2004: ‘Tobacco Culture in Japan.’ In: Xun Zhou and Sander L. Gilman (eds.), Smoke: A Global History of Smoking. London: Reaktion Books. Yan Yunxiang 2005: ‘The gift and gift economy.’ In: James G. Carrier (ed.), A Handbook of Economic Anthropology. Cheltenham: Edward Elgar. Yang Chinsŏk 양진석 2006: ‘Kiho sikp’um, in’gan ŭi ponnŭngjŏk yokku’ 기호식품,인간 의 본능적 욕구 [Luxury foodstuffs, instinctive human desires]. In: Han’guk Komunsŏ Hakhoe 韓國古文書學會. Chosŏn sidae saenghwalsa 조선시대 생활사 3. Seoul: Yŏksa pip’yŏngsa. Yi Yŏnghun 李榮薰 2004: ‘Chosŏn hugi kyŏngjesa yŏn’gu ŭi saeroun tonghyang kwa kwaje’ 조선후기 경제사 연구의 새로운 동향과 과제 [New directions and problems in the
study of late Chosŏn economic history]. In: Yi Yŏnghun (ed.), Suryang kyŏngjesa ro tasi pon Chosŏn hugi 수량 경제사 로 다시 본 조선 후기 [Re-examining the late Chosŏn period through quantitative economic history]. Seoul: SNU Press. Yu Kyosŏng 劉敎聖 1955: ‘Sŏul yugŭijŏn yŏn’gu – Yijo tosi sangŏp ŭi ilkoch’al’ 서울六矣廛 硏究: 李朝都市商業의 一考察 [The yugŭijŏn of Seoul – an investigation of the city commerce of the Chosŏn dynasty]. Yŏksa hakpo 8.
Glossary
Ch’usŏk 秋夕 Matchil Village, Kyŏngsang Province changjuk 長竹 (long tobacco pipe) 맛질 마을, 慶尙道 Chosŏn 朝鮮 munan namch’o 問安南草 chungin 中人 (Chosŏn period ‘middle (Courtesy tobacco) class’ of technical specialists) Myŏnjujŏn 綿紬廛 Hansŏngbu 漢城府 (Capital (Domestic Silk Guild) Administrative Bureau) namch’o 南草 (tobacco) hoegye namch’o 會計南草 Namsan 南山 (Meeting tobacco) o-il namch’o 五日南草 Imjin War 壬辰倭亂 [Japanese (Five-day tobacco) disturbances of the year imjin] Pang hoegyech’a ek 房會計冊 Iryongch’a ek 日用錄 pyŏl namch’o 別南草 (Special tobacco) Kabo-Ŭlmi 甲午-乙未 (1894–1895) sijŏn 市廛 (guild) kŭn 斤 (unit of weight) tanjuk 短竹 (short tobacco pipe) Kwanu 關羽 (semi-legendary Tano festival 端午 figure from Chinese yang 兩 (unit of currency) literature, worshipped yangban 兩班 (aristocratic/bureaucratic by merchants) class of scholar-officials) kye 契 (association – formed largely Yu Suk 劉淑 (late Chosŏn painter, for economic purposes) 1827–1873)
Vladimir Tikhonov (Pak Noja)
Introduction
For much of the last hundred years, Korean nationalist historians (during the colonial period and in North and South Korea), have been waging an incessant battle against what they regarded as a Sino-centric, or a ‘serv- ing the great’ (sadaejuŭijŏk) view of Korea’s ancient history. As defined by scholars such as Sin Ch’aeho (1880–1936), the pioneering nationalist histo- rian and journalist of the early twentieth century, the ‘serving the great’ vision of ancient history implied, among other things, an emphasis on the China-centred outlook of the sinophilic élites, and the concurrent neglect of the tradition of militant self-assertion vis-à-vis China. The presumption of a Sino-centric tradition in Korea dating back to ancient times, charac- terized by the pre-modern historiographical works, became the point of rejection and denial by modern nationalists, desperate as they were to ‘prove’ that Korea ‘always’ possessed an ‘independent identity’ (Robinson 1984: 121–42). Not all the earlier historical nationalists, of course, went to the same lengths as Ch’oe Namsŏn (1890–1957), who by the mid-1920s came to view Korea (and Manchuria) as the centre of the North-East Asian ‘cultural sphere’ (Allen 1990: 787–806). After that point, the historical profession underwent an academization of sorts in South Korea under the domina- tion of the Rankean school of Yi Pyŏngdo (1896–1989) and his disciples, which has been successfully precluding the extreme nationalistic ideolo- gization of professionally composed historical narratives.2 However, despite all the claims to objectivity, the imperative of emphasizing the independence of ancient Korean worldviews still seems to be central for
1 This work was supported by the National Research Foundation of Korea grant funded by the Korean Government (NRF-2007-361-AM0005). 2 A critical view on Yi Pyŏngdo’s foremost disciple, Yi Kibaek (1924–2004), and his school is available in a recent article by a post-nationalist historian, Kim Kihŭng, see Kim 2009: 285–319. Otherwise, the subject is still largely taboo in South Korean academia.
3 ‘5 segi kŭmsŏkmun e poi nŭn Koguryŏin ŭi Ch’ŏnhagwan.’ An English translation of this article was published recently, see Noh 2004: 1–43. An enlarged version of the article is included into No T’aedon’s overview of Koguryŏ history, see No 1999: 356–95.This overview is one of the most oft-cited references in the recent academic articles and books on Koguryŏ produced in South Korea. 4 An exception is the research works by Mohan Pankaj, for example, Pankaj 2007: 59–84.
Samguk Sagi (Records of the Three Kingdoms, 1145), Samguk Yusa (Memorabilia of the Three Kingdoms, 1285) and Haedong Kosŭng Chŏn (The Lives of Eminent Korean Monks, 1215) to the first Korean contacts with India and Indian culture. The Samguk Yusa is to be used as the main source. It also examines how those contacts were negotiated via early Chinese states, and looks at how India and Indian culture were viewed by elites and monks in proto-Korean states, and which ideological roles the images of India were to play in the context of the political competition between the proto-Korean states and among the different groups in their ruling classes. Finally, the paper discusses the linguistic and philosophical impacts that the early interactions between the two nations had on Korea. It is hoped that this work will help to provide a more accurate and com- plete picture of the diverse external others and the interaction by which the identity of ancient Korean elites was shaped.
India as the Centre of the Buddhist World
While East Asia was of relatively little significance for ancient and mediae- val Indians, India was, from roughly the first century ad onwards, one of the few foreign areas that Chinese – and later other East Asian peoples – had to acknowledge as at least equal to the Sino-centric civilization. Such official sources as Han Shu (History of the Han dynasty, ad 111) and later Hou Han Shu (History of the Later Han, compiled in the early fifth century) describe ‘the country of Shendu’ (Sindh – the Indus Valley) and ‘the country of Tianzhu’ [Heavenly Centre – the whole of Northern India] as prosperous and peaceful, populated by highly civilized and skilled people. The latter source also emphasized the supposed Buddhist paci- fism of Indians, who were assumed to eschew taking life or behaving aggressively.5 The latter quality was further elaborated upon in later Chinese Buddhist descriptions of India – works by Buddhist pilgrims who managed to reach the land they considered the centre of the Buddhist universe such as Faxian’s (337–422) Gaoseng Faxian Zhuan (commonly known in English as A Record of Buddhist Kingdoms),6 or Xuanzang’s
5 Fasc. 85, ‘Lezhuan’ (Biographies), – Hou Han shu (History of the Later Han), ‘Xiyuzhuan’ (Account of the Western lands). Original is accessible here:
(602–664) Datang Xiyuji (Great Tang Records on the Western Regions).7 The India which emerges from these records is a Buddhist utopia popu- lated by devout citizens who care mostly about karmic retribution in their afterlife, committing little crime while living in their clean and orderly country with little taxation or punishment (Mather 1992: 1–8). In contrast to the Confucian utopia that was attuned to the past and focused on the idealized epoch of the sage-emperors, the Buddhist utopia looked outwards, with India taking centre stage as that part of the civilized world most worthy of praise and emulation. Since direct interaction between the ancient Koreans and Indians was sporadic at best, much of the information and images relating to India undoubtedly came to the Korean peninsula through China. In other words, India became known to ancient Koreans as the country of Tianzhu, based on Chinese Buddhist narratives rather than direct experience of first millennium ad India. Of course, that does not mean that no direct contacts occurred. They did, but in many cases, the extant information on
Figure 1. India and Ancient Korea. © Tear and McVey.
7 See English translation by Li Rongxi (Li 1996). The Chinese original is accessible here:
them is not verifiable; in other cases, contact was limited to the one-way travels and pilgrimages of either Indian or Serindian monks to the Korean Peninsula, or ancient Korean monks to India. To begin with, several sources indicate – Samguk Sagi, Samguk Yusa and Haedong Kosŭng Chŏn – that Buddhism was transmitted to the court of one of Korea’s ancient king- doms, Paekche, by a Indian (or possibly Serindian) monk, Maranant’a (Mālānanda) in 384. However, the surviving information on this rather extraordinary case of early contact between ancient Koreans and the countries to the west of China is too scanty to provide any conclusions. A later secondary source (Yi 1918), cites a previously unknown primary source,8 to tell the story of a Paekche monk, Kyŏm’ik, who is said to have travelled to India in 526 in search of portions of the Vinaya (yul) that had yet to be translated into classical Chinese. It looks, however, as if this narrative does not fit the known facts about East Asia’s and Paekche’s Buddhism in the sixth century, and was most likely compiled in the late nineteenth or early twentieth century (Best 1991: 139–97).
Figure 2. The four Kingdoms. © Tear and McVey.
8 Mirŭk Pulgwangsa Sajŏk (A Historical Record of Maitreya’s Buddha Radiance Temple) in Yi 1918: (1) 33–4.
Much more reliable is the information on Silla’s (ca. second-third centuries – 935) contacts with India and other western lands in the sev- enth and eighth centuries. Haedong Kosŭng Chŏn indicates that in 605, two Khotanese monks, Pimachinch’e (Vimalacinti?) and Nonggat’a (Nangata?) came to Silla together with a Silla monk, Anham, who studied in China between 601 and 605 (Chang 1991; Chang, Kim and Kim 1994: 64). It is not unlikely that their mastery of Sanskrit, extremely rare both in China and early Korea, could have been a stimulus for the Silla court to invite them to Silla. Haedong Kosŭng Chŏn also cites the biographies of five Silla and one Koguryŏ monk who travelled to India via China in the early and mid-seventh century, using Yijing’s (635–713) famed Datang xiyu qiufa gaoseng chuan (Buddhist Monks’ Pilgrimages of the Tang dynasty)9 as its original source. All of these monks are described as proficient in Sanskrit and having experienced long-term sojourns in India’s best-known monas- teries (such as Nālandā). However, only one of them, Hyŏndaebŏm (Sanskrit name – Sarvajnyadeva), is known to have returned at least to China; the rest – Ariyabalma (Aryavarman), Hyŏnyu, Hyŏn’gak, Hyeryun (Prajnyavarman) and Hyeŏp – are said to have died in India. None of them ever returned to the Korean Peninsula; thus, their knowledge of Sanskrit and Indian Buddhism was of no consequence for the development of Buddhist and general intellectual life in the proto-Korean kingdoms (Chang 1991: 234–5). What remained from their heroic pilgrimages was the early image of India as the country of high Buddhist learning, in the very centre of the Buddhist universe – similar to the images of the Buddhist utopia built in China by Faxian and Xuanzang. A famed case of a pilgrim- age to India by an early Korean monk is Hyech’o’s (704–787) journey through present-day India, Nepal, Pakistan, Afghanistan and Xinjiang between 723 and 727. His travelogue, however, was only discovered in 1908, having long been thought lost before that, and Hyech’o’s Silla prov- enance was not clearly established before the commencement of modern research on his work. Hyech’o never returned to Silla, and his travelogue was never circulated on the Korean peninsula before more recent times, and, therefore, had no influence on Korean visions of India.10 While India was the faraway, almost inaccessible centre of the Buddhist world, Tang China was the country with which eighth to ninth-century
9 T51, No. 2066. See the English translation by a famed Japanese Buddhism scholar, Takakusu Junjirō (1866–1945) in Takakusu 1896. 10 An English translation is available (Yang 1984), and the classical Chinese original is available here:
Silla had the closest possible diplomatic and cultural ties. Apart from very frequent (during some periods, almost annual) diplomatic missions, a steady stream of guard students (sug’wisaeng)11 entered Tang’s National Academy (Taixue), and aspirant talents were flowing westward, willing to study in China to take the state examinations for foreigners (Bingong) later. At the same time, Silla Buddhist monks were coming too. For them, a study sojourn in China was an important rite of passage before launch- ing a successful career as an exegete12 or meditation master. Given that in 840, 105 Silla guard students were sent back at once following an Imperial order, we can surmise that by that time they were coming to Tang by the hundreds; the approximate number of Silla students who passed the state examinations in Tang is considered to be about fifty (Ha 2002: 179–207). It was these scholars who, based on the information and images found in Chinese literature, created a specifically Silla view of India – shaped also by their own ideological agenda, which could well have differed from that of their Chinese hosts. For Silla intellectuals, as we will see later, defining the uniqueness of Silla in terms of Buddhist cosmology was an important task, while Chinese just tended to see Silla as nothing more than a relatively civilized part of the tributary world on Tang’s periphery (Kwŏn 2011: 261–307).
Proto-Korean Kingdoms – Periphery with a Special Connection to the Centre?
A typical example of Silla intellectuals’ special agenda is Ch’oe Ch’iwŏn (857–?), Silla’s literary genius, who passed examinations in the Tang capi- tal in 874 and then continued to serve successfully as a Tang official before returning home in 884. Among other official assignments, he was inter- mittently commissioned to compile stele inscriptions for the royally pro- tected and sponsored high priests of the Meditation (Sŏn) School. Some of these highly erudite, ornate inscriptions contain references to India in the context of Ch’oe’s vision of Silla’s destiny and rightful place in the world.
11 The state-sponsored students, mostly from aristocratic (chin’gol) and semi- aristocratic (yuktup’um and odup’um) families, officially dispatched to Tang with a view to have them take the state examinations for foreigners, were referred to as guard students, since their dispatch was a part of the diplomatic practice. They were supposed to represent Silla, as a tributary of Tang Dynasty, in the guard of the Tang Imperial palaces. At the same time, private study in Tang China was also possible, see Sin 1985: 221–3. 12 Expert in textual learning belonging to one of the traditional schools, such as Avatamsaka (Ch. Huayen, Kor. Hwaŏm) or Tiantai (Kor. Ch’ŏnt’ae).
A cosmopolitan intellectual and Silla patriot, Ch’oe regarded India as first and foremost the centre of Buddhism (seeing Buddhism as an ‘Indian religion’),13 and saw Silla as karmically predestined to be led into the ‘merciful sea of the Indian teachings’ by ‘Buddha’s sun’ and assumed that the character (sŏng) of the people of Silla and proto-Koreans gener- ally (called, ‘barbarians living in the lands where sun rises’) was close to that of Buddha’s Shakya clan, their language ‘resembling’ Sanskrit.14 If India was the centre of the Buddhist universe, then Silla and proto- Korean peoples in general were all karmically related to it – how else otherwise could the efflorescence of Buddhism on the Korean peninsula be explained in the terms of Buddhist epistemology? Remaining a ‘barbar- ian’ tributary of Great Tang, Silla was thus simultaneously elevated to the ranks of the lands karmically predestined to play an important role in the fortunes of Buddha’s Dharma. While Ch’oe Ch’iwŏn articulated the belief in the essential, preordained connectedness between India, Buddhism and Silla in the flowery language of the royally ordered stele inscriptions, the belief itself seems to have predated Ch’oe. A good number of Samguk Yusa stories deal with the reli- gious monuments relating to India and Buddhism which ‘miraculously’ reached the Korean peninsula or were ‘discovered’ there. Most importantly, the main royal Buddhist shrine of Silla, the Hwangnyongsa Monastery, was reportedly erected by King Chinhŭng (540–576) in 553 to the east of the Wŏlsŏng Castle in Silla’s capital (today’s Kyŏngju), where a stone seat once used by Buddha Kāshyapa, was conveniently ‘found’. Thus it was understood that there was already a temple there in the time of Kāshyapa, the sixth of six Buddhas supposedly predating the historical Buddha in the present kalpa.15 Silla was not alone in its karmic connection to the earlier Buddhist history – a ‘sage king’ (it was unclear, even for the Samguk Yusa’s compiler, Ir’yŏn, which king was actually meant by this designation in the earlier source he claimed he was citing) of Koguryŏ once found a stupa16 built by King Asoka (ca. 304–232 bc), with Sanskrit inscriptions on it near
13 ‘Chirisan Ssanggyesa Chin’gam Sŏnsa Taegong T’appi’ (The Stupa Stele for Meditation School Priest Chin’gam Taegong, Ssanggyesa Monastery at Chiri Mountains), erected in 887. See a Korean translation in Yi 1995: 305–16. 14 ‘Hŭiyangsan Pongamsa Chijŭng Taesa Chŏkcho T’appi’ (The Stupa Stele for the Grand Priest Chijŭng Chŏkcho, Pongamsa Monastery at Hŭiyangsan Mountains), the inscription was finalized in 893, and the stele erected in 924. See a Korean translation in Yi 1995: 339–56. 15 ‘Kasŏppul Yŏnchwasŏk’ (The Feast-Seat Stone of Buddha Kāsyapa) Ir’yŏn, 1983: 212–14. 16 Stupa (Kor. t’ap) was originally a form of burial mound for the Buddhist ascetics, later developed into a mound-like commemorative monument and a place of veneration which might also house Buddhist relics; see Snodgrass 1985.
the Yodong (Liaodong) Castle (today’s Liaoyang), on Koguryŏ’s northern frontier. It appears that Ir’yŏn believed that Asoka managed to unify the population of the entire southern continent of Jambudvipa (Yŏmbuje) – so the appearance of a stupa, which ‘spirits had built on Asoka’s orders’, near the boundaries of the Korean peninsula was not a strange phenom- enon in his view.17 As well as the northern kingdom of Koguryŏ, the proto- state of Kŭmgwan Kaya (today’s Kimhae) on the Korean peninsula’s southern coast was also alleged to possess an Indian connection. According to the legend included in Samguk Yusa and referred to in several of its frag- ments, Kŭmgwan’s putative founder, King Suro, who reportedly reigned at some time between ad 42 and 199, married an Indian princess from the state of Ayut’a (Ayodhyā?), Hŏ Hwang’ok, and her safe passage from India to the Korean peninsula was guaranteed by a small magic stone stupa, P’asa (Sanskr. bhāsā – [speech or language]) which was able to quell the rough waves. The five-storied stupa, which was then moved into a local monastery, Hogyesa, was seen as foreign because the reddish patterns on its stones were supposedly atypical of the local stone.18 Last but not least, Hwangnyongsa Monastery’s famed (and no longer extant) life-sized Buddha image (changyuksang) – made in 574 on the orders of King Chinhŭng – was supposedly smelted from the gold and iron sent in a ship by King Asoka, who was also said to have attached a letter to the gift, with the wish that it be used to make a Buddha image by a ruler of ‘a kar- mically related country’ (yuyŏn kukt’o). It was also said that the ship visited ‘five hundred Central Kingdoms, ten thousand small countries and eighty thousand villages’ on its way to the Korean peninsula, but in the end it was only Silla that managed to mould the image into the form that King Asoka wished.19 Such was the strength of the karmic ties between Asoka’s India and King Chinhŭng’s Silla. This assumed two-fold bond between King Chinhŭng and India/ Asoka – that led to the establishment of the main royal monastery, Hwangnyongsa, on the site supposedly related to Buddha Kāsyapa, and the moulding of Hwangnyongsa’s life-size Buddha image with the use of what was regarded as the materials sent by Asoka – should not come as a surprise. Chinhŭng, an ambitious king who succeeded in greatly enlarging
17 ‘Yodongsŏng ŭi Yugwangt’ap’ (An Asoka Stupa nearby Yodong Castle) Ir’yŏn 1983: 215–17. 18 ‘Kŭmgwansŏng P’asasŏkt’ap’ (The P’asa Stone Stupa of Kŭmgwan Castle) Ir’yŏn 1983: 217–18. 19 ‘Hwangnyongsa Changyuk’ (Hwangnyongsa [Buddha Image] of One Chang and Six [Ch’ŏk] Size) Ir’yŏn 1983: 219–22.
Silla’s territory, wanted to sacralise his power by proclaiming Silla’s royal family a ‘ksatriya clan’20 which would in due course give birth to a chakravartin – the universal ‘wheel-turning’ emperor,21 who, in more real- istic terms, was most likely expected to defeat Silla’s peninsular rivals, especially Paekche, and cement Silla’s control over the peninsular territo- ries. In fact, the logograph ryun (wheel) is to be found in the names of Chinhŭng’s two sons, Kŭmnyun [Golden Wheel], who reigned as King Chinji, 576–579) and Tongnyun [Bronze Wheel], ?–572, father of King Chinp’yŏng) (Ch’oe 1990: 317–351). Given that Asoka was seen as an arche- typical chakravartin in the Buddhist tradition (Tambiah 1976: 54–72), it should come as little surprise that Chinhŭng strove to present Silla as a state karmically related to Asokan India. While Silla in the middle of the sixth century was at best a mid-sized power on the periphery of the Sinitic world, still largely dwarfed by mighty Koguryŏ and much less known to the Chinese dynasties than either Koguryŏ or Paekche, such a claim was supposed to raise the morale of Silla’s populace and further strengthen the legitimacy of Silla’s warlike rulers. In fact, Chinhŭng’s grandson, Chinp’yŏng (r. 579–632) went even further in claiming chakra- vartin status for his lineage. His own name was Paekchŏng – that is, Śuddhodana, Buddha father’s name. The claim was further augmented by his royal consort styling herself as Maya-puin – that is, Buddha’s mother Queen Māyā. Logically, such a family was to produce either Buddha or chakravartin, thereby turning Silla into a second Kapilavastu or a second Asokan empire (Pankaj 1994). It is unclear whether a comparable ambition to elevate itself to the cen- tre of the Buddhist world existed in Koguryŏ and influenced the creation
20 The historical Buddha (Gautama Sakyamuni) hailed from the Sakya clan which belonged to the ksatriya (warrior) varna (social order). The historical Buddha had report- edly chosen the path of ascetic life, while the other option available to him was to become the universal monarch – chakravartin. Thus, by claiming ksatriya descent, the Silla mon- archs could hint that they were too karmically predestined to the chakravartin role. The account of the ‘prophesies’ about the karmic possibility of becoming universal mon- arch for Gautama Sakyamuni may be found in Buddhacharita, the famous Sanskrit poem on Buddha’s life. It was translated in 414–426 into classic Chinese by Dharmaksema, and thus available to the sixth-seventh centuries Silla intellectuals. See the relevant passages from Chinese Buddhacharita (Ch. Fosuoxingzan, Kor. Pulsohaengch’an): T.192 1b27–2a2. See the full English translation from Sanskrit in Cowell 1893. 21 Chakravartin represents an ideal monarch in Indian and, more specifically, Buddhist tradition. Being a secular counterpart to Buddha, he is understood to be able to unify either the whole world or at least part of it without violence, just on the basis of his virtues. An early Buddhist text explaining the meaning of this concept is Cakavatti Sihanada Sutta from Digha Nikaya (Long Discourses), No. 26. Chinese translation of this text – produced in 413 – may be found here: T.1 1 39a21–42b20.
of the legend about an Asokan stupa there, or whether the legend was invented post factum. Either way, after Silla incorporated a sizeable chunk of Koguryŏ’s southern territories and accepted a good number of Koguryŏ refugees in the late seventh century, it appears that the mythology about Kŭmgwan’s Indian connection began to develop approximately at the same time that Silla was refashioning itself as a second Asokan Empire – that is in the late sixth to early seventh centuries. After Kŭmgwan’s last ruler, Kuhyŏng (521–532), surrendered to Silla, all his three sons were given Silla’s highest kakkan rank. One of them, Muryŏk, went on to gain fame in the wars against Paekche, while his son, kakkan Sŏhyŏn, married King Chinhŭng’s niece Manmyŏng and had an illustrious career as a gen- eral and provincial administrator. Sŏhyŏn’s son, t’aedaekakkan (the high- est possible extraordinary rank in the Silla system) Kim Yusin (595–673), was one of the main architects of the defeat of Paekche and Koguryŏ, and exerted a dominant influence on Silla’s politics in the mid-seventh century (Tikhonov 1994). It can be assumed that Kuhyŏng’s descendents were keen to acquire that same status of peninsular India for their own ancestral land Kŭmgwan that King Chinhung’s were claiming for Silla. Thus, just as an Asoka ship supposedly brought the materials for a Buddha statue from India to Silla, the ship of Hŏ Hwang’ok was said to have brought the P’asa stone stupa from India to Kaya. As Kŭmgwan royalty’s descendants were to claim the highest degree of status and privilege in late sixth and early seventh century Silla, their relationship with India was to be considered on the same level as that of Silla’s own ksatriya royals.
The Marriage with an Indian Princess?
Indeed, Kaya royals living in Silla went even further. The legend of Hŏ Hwang’ok’s marriage to King Suro found in Samguk Yusa’s main article on Kŭmgwan, Karak kukki, is unmatched in Korea’s ancient mythology, as it links the founder of a Korean proto-state with the glorious Indian city of Ayodhyā, about which the seventh-century Silla inhabitants could at best learn only from the Buddhist writings and travelogues, such as Xuanzang’s Datang Xiyuji. Xuanzang described Ayodhyā as a place endowed with an equable climate, where customs were gentle and Buddhism prospered, with more than one hundred monasteries and three thousand monks (Li 1996).22 It is not impossible, given Xuanzang’s connections to Silla – one
22 The Chinese original is accessible here:
23 A standard biographical account of Wŏnch’ŭk is Ko 1999. 24 ‘Mich’uwang Chug’yŏpkun’ (King Mich’u and the Bamboo Leaves Army) Ir’yŏn 1983: 76–7.
(Ha 2002: 179–207), Suro’s presumably ‘Indian’ wife is predictably depicted in Karak kukki as a Chinese princess instead. Her name, Hŏ Hwang’ok (Ch. Xu Huangyu), exhibits no traces of Indian influences, and the names of her two chief retainers, Sin Po (Ch. Shen Fu) and Cho Kwang (Ch. Zhao Kuang), display no Indian flavour either. Cho Kwang’s name written in Chinese logographs is identical, in fact, with the name of Zhao Kuang a well-known late eighth-century Confucian exegete of Tang times famed for his commentaries on the Chunqiu (Spring and Autumn Annals).25 The names of Sin and Cho’s wives, Mojŏng [Admiring Chastity] and Moryang [Admiring Goodness], obviously smack of Confucian moralizing. Lastly, Hŏ Hwang’ok’s explanation of how she came to marry Suro on account of her parents having received such an order in their dreams from the Lord-on-the-High (Shangdi) looks more like a Confucian, rather than Indo-Buddhist, legend.26 In a word, Karak kukki’s myth of Suro and Hŏ Hwang’ok’s marriage mixes up two models against which the late sixth to eighth-century Silla ruling class was prone to measure itself, namely a largely symbolic ‘India’ as the world’s Buddhist homeland, and the Tang Confucian culture as the pattern Silla society was ideally to follow. As Yi Kwangsu, an India history expert who has also extensively researched Korean ancient history, persuasively argues, the legend of Suro’s marriage to Hŏ Hwang’ok is essentially an archetypical myth of the marriage between a state founder representing Heaven, Sun and Mountain (Suro was portrayed as born out of a golden, solar egg which descended upon a sacred mountain, Kuji) and a goddess of water and fertility. The well-known Puyŏ/Koguryŏ myth of the marriage between the Son of the Heavenly Emperor, Haemosu, and the daughter of a river god, Yuhwa, belongs basically to the same pattern (No 1999: 158–64, 358–67; Yi 2003: 179–208). However, the sixth to eighth-century compilers of the material which eventually ended up being used by the compiler of Karak kukki adorned this basic pattern with Indo-Buddhist ornamentation. Not only was the Indian princess invented; Kŭmgwan, as well as other Kaya proto- states, known originally as Kara,27 Imna,28 Karak29 or Karyang30 – all these
25 On his contributions, see, for example, Ge 2005: 40–5. 26 ‘Karak kukki’ Ir’yŏn 1983: 172–89. 27 Ch. Jialo: Liangshu, Songshu, Nanqishu, Nihon Shoki, Sinsen Shōjiroku. 28 Jap. Mimana: Nihon Shoki, King Kwanggaet’o Tomb Stele Inscription. 29 Samguk Sagi, Samguk Yusa. 30 Samguk Sagi.
31 See the full list of the diverse names of Kaya statelets in Kim 2002: (1) 40–3. The hypothesis on Kara/Kaya etymology mentioned here, was originally proposed by Imanishi Ryu (1875–1932). See Kim 2002: (1) 44–5. 32 Sanskr. saptadhana, Kor. ch’ilsŏng: faith, discipline, feelings of atonement and shame, ability to learn and practice charity, and meditational skills. ‘Karak kukki’ Ir’yŏn 1983: 173.
cites as well (Kim 1993: 11–79; Simpson 1881: 183–207).33 That Suro suppos- edly lived long before the earliest Buddhist monastery of Karak was built (Wanghusa, mentioned in Karak kukki, was reportedly built during the 451 to 492 reign of king Chilji) did not seem to disturb either Ir’yŏn or the anonymous compilers of the material he cited. Since Suro, a sage king, ruled over the land karmically connected to India and Buddhism, the descriptions of him preaching Buddha’s Dharma long before its official transmission to Karak and generally to the Korean peninsula did not seem strange, such was the logic of the karmic connectedness between the proto-Korean lands and India.
In Place of Conclusion
Briefly unified – at least partially – by Harsha (590–647), a protector of Buddhism who strove to establish diplomatic ties with the Tang Empire and welcomed Xuanzang’s visit, India was an important element of the Chinese worldview in the late sixth to early seventh centuries. It was seen, at least by the Buddhist writers, as a highly civilized area, on a par with China itself. In fact one of the dominant Buddhist figures of that age, Daoxuan (596–667), even argued that India, and not China was the true Middle Kingdom (Shijia Fangzhi [Sakyamuni’s Gazetteer], vol. 1: T51, No. 2088). From as early as Sui times, Buddhist texts were no longer marked as produced by ‘barbarians’ (Ch. hu, Kor. ho) – they were instead respectfully referred to as ‘Sanskrit’ (Ch. fan, Kor. pŏm) (Yang 1998: 156–70).34 In late sixth to early seventh-century Silla – not unlike the Sui Empire – the vision of the state ruler as chakravartin, a highly ethical and devout unifier of the universe, was fashionable. At the same time, India was seen as the centre of the Buddhist universe, karmically connected to Silla and all the other proto-Korean lands which Silla had either conquered or was going to conquer. This belief was further developed by the descendants of the Kŭmgwan (Kimhae) royalty inte- grated into Silla’s ruling aristocratic elite. They wished to match the Silla vision of its royal house being directly related to chakravartin Asoka, by stressing their own narrative of their putative ancestor King Suro marry- ing an Ayodhyā princess, preaching Buddhism to mischievous spirits and ruling over the land that was worth being named in honour of Bodhgaya
33 ‘Ŏsan Puryŏng’ Ir’yŏn 1983: 266–71. 34 See a recent work on the changes in the perceived status of Buddhism among the Chinese intellectuals in the third to seventh centuries: Yang 1998: 156–70.
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Glossary arhat 阿羅漢 Hwangnyongsa 皇龍寺 Ariyabalma 阿離耶跋摩 Hyech’o 慧超 Asoka 阿育王 Hyeŏp 慧業 Ayut’a 阿踰陁 Hyeryun 慧輪 Bingong 賓貢 Hyŏn’gak 玄恪 Ch’oe Ch’iwŏn 崔致遠 Hyŏndaebŏm 玄大梵 Ch’oe Namsŏn 崔南善 Hyŏnyu 玄遊 chakravartin 轉輪聖王 Imna 任那 changyuksang 丈六像 Ir’yŏn 一然 Chinhŭng 眞興 K ŭmnyun 金輪 Chinji 眞智 Kaehwangnok 開皇錄 Chinp’yŏng 眞平 kakkan 角干 Cho Kwang 趙匡 Karak kukki 駕洛國記 Chunqiu 春秋 Kara 呵羅 Daoxuan 道宣 Karyang 加良 Datang xiyu qiufa gaoseng Kaya 伽耶 chuan 大唐西域求法高僧傳 Kim Yusin 金庾信 Datang Xiyuji 大唐西域記 Kimhae 金海 Fahuajing 法華經 Kŏdŭng 居登 fan 梵 Kogi 古記 Faxian 法顯 Koguryŏ 高句麗 Gaoseng Faxian Zhuan 高僧法 Ksatriya 刹帝利 顯傳 Kuhyŏng 仇衡 Haedong Kosŭng Chŏn Kŭmgwan 金官 海東高僧傳 Kwan Pulsammaegyŏng Han Shu 漢書 觀佛三昧經 Hŏ Hwang’ok 許黃玉 Kyŏm’ik 謙益 Hogyesa 虎溪寺 Maya-puin 摩耶夫人 Hou Han Shu 後漢書 Mich’u 味鄒 hu 胡 Mojŏng 慕貞
Moryang 慕良 sŏng 性 Ŏsan Puryŏng 魚山佛影 sug’wisaeng 宿衛生 P’asa 婆娑 Suro 首露 Paekche 百濟 t’aedaekakkan 太大角干 Paekchŏng 白淨 Taixue 太學 Puyŏ 夫餘 Tang (China) 唐 rakshasi 羅刹女 Tianzhu 天竺 ryun 輪 tongnyong 毒龍 sadaejuŭi 事大主義 Tongnyun 銅輪 Samguk sagi 三國史記 Wŏlsŏng (Castle) 月城 Samguk Yusa 三國遺事 Wŏnch’ ŭk 圓測 Shangdi 上帝 Xuanzang 玄奘 Shendu 身毒 Yi Pyŏngdo 李丙燾 Silla 新羅 Yijing 義淨 Sin Ch’aeho 申菜浩 Yodong 遼東 Sin Po 申輔 Yŏmbuje 閻浮提 sogyŏng 小京 yul 律 Sŏn 禪 yuyŏn kukt’o 有緣 國土
NORTHERN TERRITORIES AND THE HISTORICAL UNDERSTANDING OF TERRITORY IN LATE CHOSŎN1
Anders Karlsson
Introduction
There is continuing controversy between China and Korea about the his- torical ownership of ancient kingdoms in Manchuria. But this is not the first time the memory of such kingdoms has been contested. When the Jurchen, a nomadic people who traditionally inhabited the area northeast of the Korea peninsula developed into the Manchu nation, defeated Ming China and established the Qing dynasty (1644–1912) in the early seven- teenth century, they included in their historical memory north-eastern kingdoms that had not been part of the territory or identity of earlier Chinese dynasties. In the same time period we can also see an increased interest in the areas north of the Korean peninsula during the Chosŏn dynasty, and towards the end of the eighteenth century the inclusion of Parhae (Ch. Bohai) into Korean history, a kingdom that previously had been largely excluded. This late Chosŏn interest in the Liaodong/Manchuria area has already been studied in great detail in both North and South Korean historical scholarship. This research has mainly been part of the nationalist reinter- pretation of intellectual trends in the period and the arguments for an incipient nationalism in late Chosŏn, and the focus has mainly been on the growing geographical knowledge of the area and Chosŏn irredentist claims regarding it. The recent controversy regarding Koguryŏ and Chinese claims to the historical memory of this kingdom has occasioned a new interest in late Chosŏn attitudes towards the northern territories, building on the work of earlier twentieth-century nationalist scholarship. Without getting embroiled in the current controversy, this paper argues that twentieth-century scholarship has not paid enough attention to the larger picture, to the question of how the intellectuals of late Chosŏn viewed the longer historical relationship between the Korean peninsula
1 This work was supported by the Academy of Korean Studies (KSPS) Grant funded by the Korean Government (MOE) (AKS-2011-BAA-2104).
2 Traditional historiography dated the establishment of Old Chosŏn to 2333 bc by the mythical Tan’gun. (Old) Chosŏn started to appear in Chinese sources from around the fourth century bc. 3 According to legend Kija (Ch. Jizi) was a scion of the Shang Dynasty who was enfeoffed as the ruler of Chosŏn by King Wu of Zhou and in 1126 bc brought Chinese civilization to Chosŏn.
Figure 1. Parhae and Silla. © Tear and McVey
was an inclusive concept, it did not represent a closed historical commu- nity, and allowed a lively discussion on which peoples, kingdoms and dynasties should be emphasized, or even included, in addition to the core kingdoms as established by traditional historiography. Without questioning the existence of ethnic identity in Chosŏn Korea, this paper will argue that to equate Eastern history or the History of the Eastern Kingdom consistently with the modern concept of a Korean eth- nic nation at times puts a straitjacket on the rich and diverse historical discourse of late Chosŏn. This paper will argue that understanding the rationale behind the inclusion of Parhae into eastern History will provide a crucial clue as to how intellectuals of the period viewed the relationship between the Korean peninsula and the Liaodong/Manchuria area, which in turn will provide a clue as to the historical understanding of territory in the larger region.
Qing and Chosŏn Rivalry Over the Liaodong/Manchuria Area
When discussing the changing attitudes towards the Liadong/Manchuria area in late Chosŏn, we must initially consider the larger geopolitical
established Qing had developed out of the Jurchen, a nomadic tribe living north of the Korean peninsula and traditionally Korea’s ‘northern barbar- ians’, and the conviction that the barbarian Qing was going to fall led to concerns over what might happen when the Jurchen/Manchu retreated to their former territory of Yŏnggot’ap, north-east of the Korean peninsula. Concerns were raised that they would take a detour through the northern part of the Korean peninsula to avoid the Mongols. This possible scenario necessitated a better strategic knowledge of the geography on both sides of the Yalu and Tumen rivers. Chosŏn officials thus obtained maps from China, and used them in conjunction with their own to produce more detailed maps covering Manchuria and the northern part of the peninsula (Pae Usŏng 1998: 64–95). However, as the Ming-Qing transition also constituted a challenge in terms of identity construction, it furthermore occasioned a renewed inter- est in northern kingdoms in Korean history, and a re-conceptualization of the country’s role in the history of the region. This re-evaluation of the northern territories was not only due to the fact that the Manchu claimed some of the northern kingdoms in their historical memory, another impor- tant factor was that the situation with ‘barbarian’ control of mainland China meant that the Chosŏn state and Chosŏn intellectuals increasingly viewed their country as the rightful successor to Ming and the defender of proper civilization in the region (Chŏng Okcha 1998). With the realization that Qing was not going to fall, the perceived threat of military unrest weakened. Chosŏn had to get accustomed to being a tributary to Qing, and the view of Chosŏn intellectuals on both the geopo- litical situation in the region and on the Eastern Kingdom and its histori- cal role changed accordingly. In its relation to Chosŏn, Qing was no longer so much a military threat – although still a menace to civilization – as a threat to the legitimacy of historicized identities based on Manchuria. It was this situation that at least partly engendered a new interest in these regions among the scholars of Chosŏn and in the Korean kingdoms that had once held them. The geographical knowledge gained as a conse- quence of the previous strategic concerns now provided empirical knowl- edge that was crucial for the historical and geographic studies that came into vogue in the period. There are many facets to the changing attitude towards the northern territory in the period, but this paper will focus on developments in histo- riography. Mid-Chosŏn historiography had been dominated by the notion that Korean history was centred on a chain of legitimate kingdoms that linked Korea with Chinese civilization. This chain started with Kija Chosŏn
For a scholar like Chŏng Yagyong, the Eastern Kingdom was a geographic entity. As for the country south of the wall and north of the five mountain passes, it is called the Middle Kingdom, and the country east of the Liao River is called the Eastern Kingdom. (Chŏng Yagyong 1970, 1: 270) The increased interest in the Liaodong/Manchuria area in late Chosŏn therefore resulted not only in historical works that gave more attention to northern kingdoms, with scholars like An Chŏngbok and Yi Chonghwi (1731–1797) starting the chain of legitimate kingdoms with Tan’gun Chosŏn, but also in detailed investigations into the historical geography of the larger region and separate kingdom studies like Yu Tŭkkong’s (1748–1807) A Study on Parhae (Parhaego). Furthermore laments of lost territory, like the one below by Yi Ik (1682–1764), were frequently expressed. When refer- ring to the failure of Koryŏ to seize the territory of Parhae, Yi Ik said:
This opportunity was lost and we had to retreat and ended up with just a small piece of land. We became a weak country under Heaven, not being able to escape the fate of a bird in a cage or a frog in a well. Due to this the nature of our people became stubborn. Oh! Is this our destiny? (Quoted in Han Yŏngu 1989: 222) It is lamentations like these that form the basis for the claims for irreden- tist trends in the period, but as we will see later in this paper such state- ments need to be understood within a larger context.
Late Chosŏn Inclusion of Parhae in Eastern History
At the same time as laments were expressed over the fact that Koryŏ had been unable to seize Parhae territory, Parhae was gradually included in the narration of Eastern history, in the end on a level equal with Silla, with some scholars even arguing that the period should be called the period of a Northern and a Southern Kingdom. These two trends are probably not unrelated. We must, however, keep in mind that this was not a universal trend and that views differed greatly. While there were eighteenth century scholars like Sin Kyŏngjun (1712–1781) and Yu Tŭkkong who fully incorpo- rated it the structure of Eastern history, intellectual giants of the period like Yi Ik and An Chŏngbok excluded Parhae from ‘our’ history, albeit showing a keen interest.
The interest faded somewhat in the nineteenth century, but it was the attitude of Sin Kyŏngjun and Yu Tŭkkong that was dominant, with schol- ars like Han Ch’iyun (1765–1814), who in his history of Korea Haedong yŏksa treated Parhae on an equal level with Silla and other kingdoms cen- tral to Eastern history (Han Ch’iyun 1911), and Kim Chŏngho (1804–1866) who reiterated Yu Tŭkkong’s argument that Silla and Parhae together formed a period of Northern and Southern Kingdoms (Kim Chŏngho 1976: 614–15). The increased willingness of certain late Chosŏn scholars to include Parhae in Eastern history is unquestionable, but when it comes to the rationale behind this the picture is much more complicated. The inclusion of Parhae into the narration of Eastern history in late Chosŏn is not paral- leled by an increased acceptance of the ‘Korean-ness’ of its founders in ethnic terms. As for the origin of Parhae, Yu Tŭkkong, in the foreword of his A Study on Parhae, states that Tae Choyŏng (645–719), the founder of Parhae, was Koguryŏ, but then the main text states that his father was Malgal. Also nineteenth-century scholars like Han Ch’iyun and Kim Chŏngho, while fully including Parhae into Eastern history, continued to describe the founders of Parhae ethnically both in terms of Koguryŏ and Malgal. Some contemporary scholars have seen this as a structural weakness of his work (Cho Tonggŏl, Han Yŏngu and Pak Ch’ansŭng 1994: 304; Song Kiho 1991: 66), but an equally plausible conclusion would be that Yu Tŭkkong did not consider the distinction of origin important in establishing Parhae as an integral part of Eastern history, and that the two might not have been considered contradictory, in the sense that he could have consid- ered Tae Choyŏng to be a Koguryŏ-ized Malgal.4 In this vein, South Korean historian Yi Manyŏl concludes that Yu Tŭkkong probably considered Tae Choyŏng to have been descended from a Malgal tribe under Koguryŏ domination and that he was active as a Koguryŏ general (Yi Manyŏl 1981: 462). We have to be open to the possibility that although the distinction between Koguryŏ and Malgal is considered to be important today, the rea- son that these scholars used them interchangeably was that they did not see the two groups as mutually exclusive. After all, given that the Koguryŏ state by its demise had been constituted of these two groups for centuries,
4 Song Kiho discusses the possibility of such a view [Tae Choyŏng as a “Koguryŏ-ized person” (koguryŏhwa han inmul)] regarding Hong Sŏkchu who while describing the found- ers as Malgal still called Tae Choyŏng a descendant of Koguryŏ (Song Kiho 1991: 64).
it seems likely that a ‘Koguryŏ general’ (as Tae Choyŏng increasingly was referred to) in fact could come from a Malgal background. However, even if we accept the position that these late Chosŏn scholars saw no contradiction in the founders of Parhae being both Koguryŏ and Malgal, the question of the rationale behind the inclusion remains. It has rightly been argued that the tendency in modern historiography to under- stand the inclusion or exclusion in terms of whether the scholar saw the founders as Koguryŏ or Malgal needs to be reconsidered (Kim Chongbok 2006). Current scholarship offers some suggestions. Song Kiho argues for three stages of the treatment of Parhae within Eastern history. In the first stage it was dealt with as a neighbouring coun- try and thus not considered part of ‘our’ history. In the second stage it was included as the successor state of Koguryŏ, both in terms of territory and population. Finally, in the third stage it was established as a central king- dom in Korean history as an independent entity. Even though he does not elaborate on the rationale behind this full-fledged inclusion in the third stage, it seems that Song Kiho considers the notion of Parhae as a succes- sor to Koguryŏ, a kingdom whose position in Eastern history was also revaluated in the period, as the most important contributing factor (Song Kiho 1991). Kim Chongbok argues that in the late Chosŏn the discourse on the legitimacy of Silla in Korean history was challenged by scholars who argued, based on discussions on territory, that it was Koguryŏ that was the successor of the legitimacy handed down from Tan’gun and Kija. Similar to the argument put forward by Song Kiho, Kim Chongbok regards the fact that Parhae was considered to be the successor to Koguryŏ which sig- nified that this kingdom also had a place in the chain of legitimate king- doms and thus naturally could be included in Eastern history (Kim Chongbok 2011). Both these explanations have their strong points, but in both approaches the issue of ethnicity has no place. It is true that ethnicity seemingly was not crucial when it came to the inclusion of Parhae into Eastern history, but it was still important for identity construction in the period. The eth- nicity of the founders of Parhae was constantly referred to, and given this distinction in ethnic terms between Koguryŏ and Malgal, and the fact that the former were considered to be ‘us’ and the second not, the founders of Parhae were thus not considered to be bona fide ‘us’, although their king- dom was included in Eastern history. We can see this view expressed also by the Sirhak scholar Yi Tŏngmu (1741–1793), who described Parhae as ‘the most civilized and strongest of the outer barbarians’ (Yi Tŏngmu).
For Song Kiho this contradictory situation indicates the ‘limitations’ of the understanding of Parhae’s role in Korean history. He regards the late Chosŏn to be a transition period in which a new understanding was devel- oping, although the narration was still influenced by earlier more negative views on the kingdom (Song Kiho 1991). Although historical writing in tra- ditional East Asia often consisted of quotes culled from earlier texts, we ought to assume that these late Chosŏn intellectuals understood what consequences the references to the Malgal ethnicity of the founders of Parhae had for their arguments. So unless we assume that they were bad historians this is not a convincing approach. Another possibility is that ethnicity actually did not matter, that intel- lectuals of the period had no problem with the legitimacy of Tan’gun being carried over to a kingdom founded by Malgal. This, however, would neces- sitate a re-evaluation of many aspects of identity construction in Chosŏn Korea, and although the possibility of this is worth pursuing, what follows next in this paper is an attempt to provide an explanation closer at hand.
The Middle Kingdom of the East: The Relationship between the Korean Peninsula and the Northern Territories
An interesting clue as to how the Chosŏn state understood this relation- ship has been provided by South Korean post-nationalist scholar Chŏng Taham. He questions the way in which foreign relations since early Chosŏn in modern scholarship have been described as ‘serving the great’ (sadaejuŭi) with mainland China and ‘neighbourly relations’ (kyorin) with the peoples and states to the north and south of the peninsula. Chŏng argues that the early Chosŏn state did not consider the Jurchen (or Taemado/Tsushima) as equal neighbours, as the term suggests, but rather as vassals, and that Chosŏn aspired to establish a small peripheral empire in the region. Chŏng Taham does not consider the military conflicts with the Jurchen (yŏjin chŏngbŏl) in early Chosŏn to have been primarily defensive, previ- ously interpreted as little more than warding off marauding tribes, but as efforts to subjugate the northern Jurchen tribes into loyalty to the new dynasty (Chŏng Taham 2011). This attitude towards the Jurchen and Taemado/Tsushima, according to Chŏng, can also be seen in the fact that the envoys the Chosŏn state sent to these areas were titled kyǒngch’agwan, the name given to envoys usually understood to have been sent to local provinces (Chŏng Taham 2008).
As we have seen, Parhae was included into Eastern history in late Chosŏn, although most scholars at the time continued to consider it to have been a state founded by the Malgal. Given the manner in which Parhae was included into Eastern History, this paper suggests that late Chosŏn intellectuals considered the Eastern Kingdom to be a middle kingdom in the region, similar to the view of the early Chosŏn state as argued by Chŏng Taham, centred on the Korean peninsula and stretching its influence, and occasionally power, into the Liaodong and Manchuria areas. Eastern history in late Chosŏn was written as a regional history, modelled on the histories written on China, centring on a group of legitimate kingdoms surrounded by dependent kingdoms, vassals and barbarians. The position of Parhae in this historical community was that of a king- dom that had succeeded Koguryŏ, a central kingdom in terms of Eastern history, in territory, people, and to a certain extent historical legitimacy, and had created a large and powerful state. It was thus important in the history of the Eastern kingdom, and for some scholars who argued for a period of Northern and Southern Kingdoms, although the founders were not considered to be ‘us’. This is not unlike the Northern and Southern Dynasties in China (420–589) with a northern dynasty like the Northern Wei founded by barbarian Xianbei. Also ethnic groups like the Khitan or Jurchen occasionally grew strong and established large and powerful king- doms like Liao and Jin. Such kingdoms also came to play an important, although contested, role in Chinese history. Although not referring to the northern areas, but explicitly mentioning the ‘middle kingdom of the Eastern Kingdom’, the quote below by Chŏng Yagyong (1762–1836) indicates such a notion of a civilized, agricultural southern part of the peninsula as opposed to the more uncivilized areas to the north:
As for our country the north-west is rough and cold, the east is mountainous and narrow, the Yŏngnam region is an isolated distant area, and in the north- ern part of the Kyŏnggi province the land is barren and the peasants poor. Only south of the Han River, the old territory of Mahan, is the climate benign and the soil fertile. It is the middle kingdom of the Eastern Kingdom and that is why Mahan could become the leader among the three Han. (Chŏng Yagyong 1970, 6: 302) It is interesting to note that Yi Ik ascribed the not yet fully civilized charac- ter of the north-eastern part of the peninsula to the migration of people from Parhae and Liao.
When Parhae fell its people moved into our country, and when the Khitan fell its people also moved into our country. […] That is why the people in the west mostly are sturdy and found of physical strength and why the old habits still have not disappeared. (Yi Ik 1977: 129/29) If the settled and agricultural, that is, civilized centre of the Eastern Kingdom was the southern part of the Korean peninsula, what was then the character of the northern areas? This is what Chŏng Yagyong had to say about the Liaodong area:
I consider the fact that Liaodong has not been reclaimed as good luck for our country. Liaodong is an area that is constantly overrun by the Chinese and the barbarians. The Jurchen have to pass Liaodong to get to China, the Xianbei and Khitan can not ward off the enemies without holding Liaodong, and the Mongols have to pass through Liaodong to get to the Jurchen. If a truly honest and gentle country that doesn’t value military power comes to hold Liaodong, then the damage will be unspeakable. (Chŏng Yagyong 1996: 392) Chŏng Yagyong’s willingness to disregard the importance of Liaodong could be linked to the fact that he, unlike many other scholars of the period, did not consider Kija Chosŏn to originally have been located in Liaodong, but rather in the northern part of the peninsula. Only later, when Kija Chosŏn grew in strength, had it conquered Liaodong and come into contact with Yen (Han Yŏngu 1989: 369). His disinterested attitude towards Liaodong can also be seen in the following quote:
The topography of our country has the two rivers (Yalu and Tumen) as the northern border and the rest is surrounded by water, so the composition of our borders forms a natural complete unit. So if we were to obtain Liaodong, it would rather be to attach something superfluous. Why is that something to lament? (Chŏng Yagyong 1996: 392) Yi Ik also expressed similar views. Acknowledging the problems from Chosŏn’s point of view with the border east of Paektu Mountain estab- lished in 1712 he continued: However, just because we say that we want to retrieve something that we abandoned a long time ago does not mean that we will get it back. There is also the problem of defending and safeguarding such areas, and that would become a great worry in the future. So one should not make it one’s business
just to broaden the territory. We have good relations with China now, and we have no problems at the borders, so we cannot but worry about greedy ambi- tions that can create problems. (Yi Ik 1977: 129/29–30) With the notion of Chosŏn as a middle kingdom in the region, historical texts in late Chosŏn started to include peripheral states and the barbarians north of the peninsula in the narration of Eastern history. We can see this trend emerging already in the seventeenth century. Hong Yŏha’s (1621– 1678) Hwich’an yŏsa [A compiled history of Koryŏ], for instance, included a section on the ‘outer barbarians’ (oeijŏn) that dealt with Japan, the Khitan and the Jurchen (Yi Manyŏl 1974: 343–4). This tendency towards inclusion became more prominent in the eigh- teenth and nineteenth centuries. Yu Tŭkkong for instance, while writing a treatise on Parhae, also wrote a treatise on the four Han commanderies, and originally Chŏng Yagyong had intended to include studies on the Jurchen, Khitan and Mongols in his Abang kangyŏkko (Historical Geography of Korea) (Cho Sŏngŭl 1992: 65). Although not extant today, An Chŏngbok also wrote a treatise on surrounding states and ethnic groups (the Tongsa eojŏn) to supplement his Tongsa kangmok (Annotated Account of Korean History), and in this work he reportedly dealt with Parhae, the Jurchen and Japan (Ha Ubong 2006: 232). That the northern areas were considered as part of Eastern history regardless of whether they were controlled by a ‘Korean’ state or not, and the way in which groups not associated with ‘us’ were included in this his- torical and geographical community can also be seen in Kim Chŏngho’s Taedong chiji (Geography of Korea). After dealing with the three Chosŏn and the Han Commanderies, and before going on to discuss the kingdoms that existed in the southern part of the peninsula, this work includes a sec- tion in which other kingdoms and tribes in the Liaodong and Shenyang area are introduced, under the heading ‘various countries in Liadong and Shenyang’ (yosim cheguk) covering among others Suksin, Malgal, Puyŏ, Okchŏ, Yemaek, Hsien-Pei, Khitan, and Jurchen (Kim Chŏngho 1976: 573–81).
Concluding Remarks
South Korean historian Pae Usŏng has made a strong case for the organic view of territory in Late Chosŏn in which the Korean peninsula was lik- ened to a human body (Pae Usŏng 1998). According to these geomantic
of the territories of northern Korean kingdoms in Late Chosŏn historical maps. For instance, when indicating the borders of Koguryŏ ‘at its height’, the map in An Chŏngbok’s Tongsa kangmok is still centred on the Korean peninsula and the northward expanse of the kingdom is greatly under- stated (An Chŏngbok 1977: 23). Also, in Han Chinsŏ’s appendix to Haedong yŏksa, the Haedong yŏksa sok, the map at the beginning ‘providing a gen- eral outline map for the historical maps to follow’ is a map of the eight provinces of Chosŏn (Han Chinsŏ 1911). The later visual description of Koguryŏ territory that follows shows the same limited envisioned spatial extension as Tongsa kangmok. However, the historically significant Liaodong area seems to have been perceived differently. This was the area where many late Chosŏn intellec- tuals located Kija Chosŏn, the kingdom crucial in the transmission of mainland civilization to the Korean peninsula and in the early beginnings of the legitimacy of history of the Eastern kingdom. Although we have seen scholars like Chŏng Yagyong dismiss the significance of Liaodong (he considered Kija Chosŏn to have been located on the Korean peninsula), we can also see efforts to bring Liaodong into the organic understanding of Chosŏn territory. Hong Kyŏngmo (1774–1851), for instance, travelling the area as part of a Chosŏn embassy to the Chinese capital, linked the Liaodong peninsula with the Korean peninsula in geomantic terms (Yi Sŭngsu 2004). Furthermore, if we look at some of the historical maps of late Chosŏn, reflecting perceptions of history as much as actual geography, the Liaodong peninsula can be seen as part of the Korean peninsula, and can thus also be ‘headed’ by Paektu mountain in the organic view of territory. This paper began with a reference to the current controversy between China and Korea over the historical memory of historical kingdoms in the Liaodong/Manchuria region. As mentioned above, the purpose is not to take sides in that conflict, but rather to provide a historically con- textualized understanding of how the relationship between the Korean peninsula and these northern territories was viewed in late Chosŏn. The peninsula-centric understanding argued for in this paper does not undermine the ‘Korean-ness’ of Koguryŏ or the central role of Parhae in Korean history – as we have seen they were very much part of the his- torical-memory community of Eastern history – but rather cautions against projecting modern notions of nation and history into the Chosŏn period and thereby putting a straitjacket on the dynamic historiography of the period.
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Glossary
Abang kangyŏkko 我邦疆域考 Paektusan 白頭山 An Chŏngbok 安鼎福 Pak Chiwŏn 朴趾源 Cheju 濟州 Parhae/Bohai 渤海 Chŏng Yagyong 丁若鏞 Parhaego 渤海考 Haedong yŏksa sok 海東繹史續 Piryuch’ŏn 沸流川 Haedong yŏksa 海東繹史 Puyŏ 扶餘 Han Ch’iyun 韓致奫 Qing 清 Han Chinsŏ 韓鎭書 sadaejuŭi 事大主義 Hong Kyŏngmo 洪敬謨 Samguk sagi 三國史記 Hong Sŏkchu 洪奭周 Silla 新羅 Huch’un 後春 Sin Kyŏngjun 申景濬 Jinshi 金史 Suksin 肅愼 Jurchen 女眞 Tae Choyŏng 大祚榮 Khitan 契丹 Taedong chiji 大향地志 Kija 箕子 Taemado 對馬島 Kim Chŏngho 金正浩 Tongguk yŏji sŭngnam Koguryŏ 高句麗 東國輿地勝覽 koguryŏhwa han inmul 고구려화 한 Tongguksa 東國史 인물 tongi 東夷 Koryŏ 高麗 Tongsa eojŏn 東史外傳 kyǒngch’agwan 敬差官 tongsa 東史 kyorin 交隣 Tumen 豆滿 Liaodong 遼東 Xianbei 鮮卑 Liaoshi 遼史 Yemaek 濊貊 Maek (tribe) 貊 Ye 濊·穢·薉 Mahan 馬韓 Yi (tribe) 夷 Malgal 靺鞨 Yi Ik 李瀷 Manzhuo yuanliu kao 滿洲源流考 Yi Tŏngmu 李德懋 Mohe 靺鞨 yŏjin chŏngbŏl 女眞征伐 oeijŏn 外夷傳 Yŏnggot’ap 寧古塔 Okchŏ 沃沮 Yŏrha ilgi 熱河日記 Ora 烏喇 yosim cheguk 遼瀋諸國 Paektu 白頭 Yu Tŭkkong 柳得恭
NATION, ETHNICITY, AND THE POST-MANCHUKUO ORDER IN THE SINO-KOREAN BORDER REGION1
Charles Kraus and Adam Cathcart
Introduction: Questioning Ethnic Identity and Categorization in Modern China
In June 1946, a young man named Kim Hwarak crossed the Tumen River from Yanbian, China, and entered his ancestral homeland of Korea for the first time in his life.2 It was a long-awaited homecoming for Kim. According to a North Korean personnel dossier, he had been born and raised in the North-East (Kr. Tongbuk; Ch. Dongbei), or Chinese Manchuria, and later moved to Tokyo for higher education. Kim’s rendering of his birthplace, ‘the North-East’, was slightly ambiguous, and perhaps intentionally so: Kim avoided the politically charged term ‘Manchukuo’ and, still, did not indicate Chinese sovereignty over the land, leaving the door open for Manchuria to remain, in the words of Andre Schmid, a ‘Korean national space’ (Schmid 2000: 219). Kim’s decision to leave the Chinese-occupied Korean Communist enclave in East Manchuria, a key battleground in the Chinese Civil War, was not without broader meaning or consequences. Fluent in Korean and Japanese and proficient in Chinese and Russian, Kim represented the transnational colonial subject who knew no precise homeland. And yet by departing for (North) Korea, he was tacitly supporting arguably the most profound change to be levied upon North-East Asia in the immediate post- war period: the transformation of ‘nationality’ and ‘ethnicity’ into fixed, unflinching, and even hegemonic institutions (Watt 2009: 3–4). Straddling the boundaries of China, Russia, and Korea, Yanbian is an ideal space from which we can explore these post-war transitions and the
1 The authors wish to thank Daqing Yang and Edward McCord of George Washington University for their helpful comments on earlier versions of this chapter and their overall encouragement of this research. 2 All information about Kim Hwarak is drawn from his personal dossier dated April 1947 in National Archives and Records Administration, Record Group 242, National Archives Collection of Foreign Records Seized, 1941-, Records Seized by US Military Forces in Korea, Shipping Advice 2005, Item 8/15.
included dozens of different minority nationality groups took many years (Mullaney 2011). Though the Yanbian Korean Autonomous Region (later renamed Prefecture) emerged in 1952, notions of Han and ethnic-Korean were fluid in the immediate post-war milieu. None of the above is meant to suggest that concrete ethnic categories did not exist in China in toto in 1945. The work of Xiaoyuan Liu, among others, has made abundantly clear that elements of the CCP had actually internalized the distinction between Han and ‘other’ in various regions of China, such as Inner Mongolia, during and prior to the start of the Chinese Civil War (Liu 2004 and 2006). Moreover, other scholarship on ethnicity in China’s frontiers has suggested that notions of Han did exist as far back as the Ming and Qing dynasties (Crossley, Siu, and Sutton 2006). The above is meant to suggest, however, that the inconsistent application of these con- cepts and categories – Han and ethnic-Korean, among others–has been overlooked by scholars, especially in the case of Yanbian.3 That ethnic identity had not been fully articulated in Yanbian by 1945 suggests that the consequences of Japanese colonial rule spread far beyond the military and economic realms and into the social. The construction of modern ethnic identity in North-East China was not completed by 1945, but only began following the demise of the Manchukuo state. In the process, the issue over the ethnic identity of Koreans in China intersected with post-colonial and Cold War projects of ‘redefining…identity and borderlines as nations’, in the words of Tessa Morris-Suzuki (Morris-Suzuki 2006: 303–16). A final note on sources to conclude this introduction is worthwhile. This study draws heavily on neibu wenxian, or a collection of ‘internal doc- uments’ produced for circulation among Chinese Communist Party mem- bers (Yanbian Chaoxian zu zizhizhou dang’anju [guan] 1985). While we recognize that these types of collections often present an incomplete pic- ture of the past – one which is, moreover, produced by and for the state – there is much we can still learn from these books, especially given that most archives in China remain subject to limited access. Comparing the language of the documents to contemporary discourse on ethnic identity in China, for example, reveals a world of difference. Still, to account for any shortcomings of the neibu collection, the article also incorporates memoirs, captured North Korean documents, publications from the Japanese colonial era, and Soviet records from its occupations of Yanbian
3 There are many examples in Chinese, but for a representative case, see Jin Binggao 2006. In English and Korean, see Lee Jong-Seok 2012: 251–67; Cathcart 2010: 25–53; Yi Chong-sŏk (Lee Jong-seok) 2000: 17–121; Olivier 1993; Chae-Jin Lee 1990: 93–114.
Colonial Legacies
One the early harbingers of Japan’s rise as a modern world power con- structing an informal empire can be traced directly to Yanbian, which was variously known as Jiandao and Kando in the early twentieth century. As Korea became a protectorate of Japan in 1905, Korean rebels, or freedom fighters, began to take refuge in and around Yanbian, much to the chagrin of the Japanese colonial authorities. As Erik Esselstrom writes, ‘by 1909, the Jiandao problem had become a major issue in Sino-Japanese relations,’ with Japan advocating that it had a legal right to police against these Korean activists in Chinese Manchuria (Esselstrom 2005: 43). In 1909, in order to resolve disputes over the Yanbian region, China and Japan agreed to enter into the Kando Convention (also known as the Jiandao Treaty) which, though recognizing Chinese sovereignty over Yanbian, allowed Japan to open up consulates, all equipped with police forces, in the region and to receive substantial railway concessions. The CCP later reflected back on Japan’s maneuvres in 1909 with great disdain, suggesting that, under the pretext of ‘protecting Korean people,’ the Japanese sent armed troops into Yanbian in 1907 and soon forced a weakened Qing regime to sign the Kando Convention (Zhongguo kexueyuan minzu yanjiusuo and Jilin shaoshu minzu shehui lishi diaocha zu 1963: 6). Despite the shame which some Chinese later felt as a result of the Kando Convention, at least from a legal perspective, China retained nominal administrative control over the Koreans then living in Yanbian. Japan had yet to push the boundaries of the dispute over Yanbian to a point at which China’s claims over the administration and citizenship of the Koreans could be questioned. This point came in 1910, when the Japanese government formally annexed Korea. One immediate consequence of Japanese imperialism in Korea proper was a rapid influx of Koreans moving into the Manchurian region – first as rebels of the state, later as state-sanctioned rice cultivators (Lee 2001). In the context of Korean migration to Manchuria, however, the turning point of 1909 was soon eclipsed by the events which transpired in 1915. The Sino-Japanese Treaty of 1915, also known as the Twenty-One Demands, carved out special economic rights for Japanese nationals living
in China. Japan immediately began to argue that the Twenty-One Demands therefore obligated the Chinese government to provide the Koreans with various privileges in Yanbian and Manchuria. According to the Japanese Ministry of Foreign Affairs, because the annexation of Korea in 1910 had meant that ‘the Koreans in China naturally acquired the status of Japanese subjects’, the Sino-Japanese Treaty of 1915 ‘should naturally be applied to Koreans, who are Japanese subjects’. Moreover, the Japanese government began to contend that much of the Kando Convention, particularly as it allowed the Chinese government to administer Koreans in Manchuria, needed to be dismissed (Japan. Gaimushō 1932: 64). Thus began a long and drawn out contest between the Japanese and Chinese governments over the legal, national, and ethnic status of Koreans in Manchuria generally and Yanbian specifically. Much as Alexis Dudden has argued about Japanese imperial expansion generally, Japan’s interests and rights in Yanbian were often framed and argued in international legal- istic terms (Dudden 2005). Thus, as more and more disputes emerged between China and Japan over the Koreans in the late 1920s, the Japanese government began producing more and more detailed legal briefs reflect- ing back on the meaning of the 1915 Treaty (Japan. Gaimushō 1932: 63–6). One thing is clear: even prior to the establishment of the Manchukuo government in 1931, Japan hoped to use Korean migration to Manchuria as leverage in its dealings with the Chinese. This has been suggested not just by agitated Chinese contemporaries, but by historians who have recently suggested that ‘Korean migration [w]as a mechanism in the formation of the Japanese empire and its capitalist expansion’ (Park 2005: 20). Annual reports from the Toa-Keizai Chosakyuku (East-Asiatic Economic Investigation Bureau) explain that, by 1927, more than 800,000 Koreans were living in Manchuria and perhaps 400,000 were concentrated in Yanbian alone, ‘mostly cultivating rice in paddy fields’ (Toa-Keizai Chosakyuku 1932: 461). The Japanese Ministry of Foreign Affairs added that ‘the cultivation of rice now carried on so prosperously in Manchuria and Mongolia owes its origin to the labour of Koreans’ and that ‘the Korean farmers have particularly benefited Manchuria by opening up a vast tract of waste land for the cultivation of rice’ (Japan. Gaimushō 1932: 60). Though praised by the Japanese for successfully advancing the agricul- tural economy of Yanbian, Korean land ownership and rice cultivation was a particularly contentious issue in the late 1920s and early 1930s. In particular, Japanese praise obscures the fact that Chinese farmers and administrators believed that Chinese land was being illegally seized and redistributed to Koreans. Moreover, Chinese administrators and even
[while] Chinese people were third class citizens [san deng guomin]’. Changes in land ownership and cultivation patterns, according to Zhou, had made relations between Koreans and Chinese ‘antagonistic and hate- ful’ (Yanbian Chaoxian zu zizhizhou dang’anju [guan] 1985: 356). Zhou was particularly mindful of these problems not because he was an expert on the colonial period, but because debates over national status and land ownership continued to influence post-war Yanbian. Problems between Chinese and Koreans, though, began well prior to 1931. Japanese officials claim that ‘by 1927, these questions [over the status of Koreans in Yanbian] led the Chinese to pursue a policy of restricting the free residence of Koreans in Manchuria – a policy which the Japanese characterized as one of unjustifiable oppression’ (The Department of State 1932: 55). On several occasions, competition over economic resources between Chinese and Koreans boiled over into direct violence, particu- larly in the case of the Wanpaoshan Incident or Manbosan Incident.4 China’s alleged persecution of Koreans in Yanbian figured prominently in Japanese legal claims brought against the Chinese government, but it was the efforts of the Chinese to have Koreans take on Chinese citizenship which most alarmed Japan. The Chinese Nationalist government began to argue that Koreans, as foreign nationals, had no legal right to land owner- ship in Yanbian, but if they were to take on Republic of China citizenship they would have all the same rights as Chinese nationals. Pockets of Koreans did begin to take on Chinese citizenship, though the greater majority of Koreans attempted to maintain the status quo (Toa-Keizai Chosakyuku 1932: 461). If land relations were already contentious, the release of the Tanaka Memorial in 1927 further infuriated the Chinese and aggravated relations between Chinese and Koreans. Though the authenticity of the Tanaka Memorial has often been disputed and it is unclear whether its contents actually reflect the aspirations of then Prime Minister Tanaka Giichi, its consequences were manifold in the late 1920s and early 1930s. Chinese audiences learned that Japanese war planners purportedly believed that ‘the Koreans who have become naturalized Chinese are Chinese only in name: they will return to our fold eventually’. Not only were the Koreans duplicitous, but, according to the Tanaka Memorial, Japan hoped to rely
4 For contemporary accounts, see Wanbaoshan shijian ji Chaoxian pai Hua can’an 1931 and Dongbei ri zhanqu Wanbaoshan shijian yu Hanren pai Hua cao’an 2010. The best study of the incident is by Michael Kim 2010: 209–27. The incident has also been described in Clark 2003; Wilson 2002: 18–19; Jordan 2004: 3; Chong-sik Lee 1963: 256.
Liberation
On 15 August 1945, the Concordia of Nationalities came to an abrupt end as the Japanese puppet state Manchukuo sank beneath the horizon of history like a setting sun. Minzoku kyōwa, or ‘racial harmony’, had been a centrepiece of Japanese imperial policy in Manchukuo, though, as the pre- ceding discussion has hinted, Japan could never claim to have fully resolved the ‘nationalities problem’ in North-East Asia (Duara 2009: 53–5). Instead, the official ideology of minzoku kyōwa, or ‘racial harmony’ and the high ideals of pan-Asianism only served to mask Manchukuo’s complex racial relations and hierarchies (Young 1998: 286–91). The cluster of counties making up Yanbian was liberated by the Soviet Red Army in August 1945. Russian troops staged several quick and success- ful battles against the Japanese Kwantung Army, and declared the libera- tion of Hunchun on 12 August, Wangqing on 15 August, Tumen on 17 August, Yanji on 18 August, Longjing and Dunhua on 19 August, and Helong on 20 August. Having taken these counties in rapid succession, a new Jiandao Provisional Government was established on 20 August (Jiefang chuqi de Yanbian 1999: 3–10).
Despite the swiftness of their assault upon Japanese positions in Yanbian, the Soviets appear to have taken a largely hands-off approach to governing the region, preferring to cede power to a handful of friendly local stakeholders. Why the Soviets did so is not entirely clear, but as Yanbian was not an urban or industrial centre, they may have simply pre- ferred to allocate resources elsewhere in Manchuria. The Soviets did occasionally speak of the state of ethnic relations in the region. Specifically, they distinguished Chinese and Koreans in Yanbian along national, not ethnic, lines (Cathcart 2010: 29). For example, in a report on a city-wide celebration held in Yanji on 22 August, Soviet authors spoke only of the ‘Chinese people’ and ‘Korean people’, not Hans or ethnic Koreans, living in Yanbian in 1945 (‘Report on the Process of Japanese Troops Surrendering’ 1945). From the perspective of discourse on Chinese nationalities today, how the Soviets voiced the situation was incorrect, or, at the very least, unsophisticated. But the Soviets were not alone in ren- dering nations and ethnicities in this fashion. There is no shortage of descriptions of the antagonism which had his- torically existed between ‘Chinese’ and ‘Koreans’ in the Sino-Korean bor- der region, both during the Manchukuo era and immediately after. The Soviet Red Army, during its land invasion of Yanbian and northern Korea, produced multiple reports about these poor relations in the latter half of 1945. An October 1945 report, for example, included details on the murder of three Overseas Chinese on the outskirts of Chongjin in North Hamgyong Province (Ignat’ev 1945). Reports more specific to Yanbian elaborated on the ‘more privileged position’ enjoyed by Korean settlers than Chinese in the region. According to Soviet understanding, the Japanese had ‘viewed the Korean colonists as their own support among hostile Chinese peas- ants’ and had given them access to better land and forms of subsistence activities than Chinese peasants. This created a situation in which ‘the Chinese population undoubtedly felt hatred not only toward the Japanese, but also the Korean population in Manchuria.’ With Japan’s defeat, the Chinese began to engage in retribution, causing a sudden exodus of Koreans seeking to return to their ancestral homeland. Multiple refugee informants later confirmed to the Soviet Red Army instances of Chinese murdering Korean farmers, stealing coal, and sabotaging Korean agricul- ture (‘The Japanese Population in Korea’). Despite these antagonisms, and as was mentioned above, the Soviet Red Army still permitted local leaders to take on administrative responsi- bility for the region. Initially, power was put in the hands of a small circle of local Koreans who had taken the initiative to form a ‘welcoming
minzu) because, at this stage, the Guomindang was relying on Chinese landlords to revive colonial-era ‘contradictions between the Chinese and Korean nations’ (Zhong Chao minzu de maodun) (Yanbian Chaoxian zu zizhizhou dang’anju [guan] 1985: 3). Kang’s reported ‘nationalities bias’ continued to influence his decision- making into September 1945. He noted for example that at a meeting of ‘Worker, Peasant, and Youth Representatives’, there was no discussion of the lack of ‘unity between the Chinese and Korean nations’. According to the CCP, this failure to adequately address the unity of the Chinese and Korean peoples implicitly mimicked colonial practices and provided an opening for alleged Guomindang operatives in Yanbian, to ‘create frictions between the Chinese and Korean nations’ (zaocheng Zhong Chao minzu de moca) (Yanbian Chaoxian zu zizhizhou dang’anju [guan] 1985: 4). On 19 September, only one month after Yanbian’s historic liberation, a group of Korean returnees from the Soviet Far East arrived in Yanji. Led by Kang Sint’ae, the delegation was composed of soldiers who had served in the Soviet organized 88th Brigade outside Khabarovsk (Jang 2007). Kang, who was conversant in Korean, Russian, and Chinese, had served side-by- side with Zhou Baozhong as well as Kim Il Sung, Ch’oe Yonggŏn, and Kim Chaek – the future kernel of the North Korean state – in the Soviet Union (Armstrong 2003: 38). Like the Kang Tongju period, the Kang Sint’ae interim in Yanbian is also notable for a shortage of surviving primary sources. Kang himself was killed leading troops of the North Korean army during the Korean War and left behind no memoirs or diaries, even of the hagiographic variety so commonly published out of P’yŏngyang. We know that he was born in 1918 to a poor peasant family in southern Korea and, after crossing over the boundary into what was then called Manchukuo, fought in North-East China. In the late 1930s and early 1940s, Kang rose quickly through the ranks of exiled Korean guerrillas. While initially paired up with the North-East Anti-Japanese United Army in Manchuria, Kang, like Kim Il Sung, was forced to retreat to the Soviet Far East in 1940 and was subsequently recruited into the Red Army’s 88th Brigade headed by Zhou Baozhong. Zhou famously emerged as a mentor and friend to Kim Il Sung, but he was perhaps just as close to Kang and many of the other Korean soldiers, including Ch’oe Yonggŏn and Kim Chaek. Six years Kim Il Sung’s junior, Kang was very well connected; a person for whom Soviet sponsor- ship during the war was important. Kang was made a brigade leader in 1942, holding a position on par with Kim Il Sung before 1945 (Armstrong 2003: 38).
Upon his arrival in Yanbian, Kang Sint’ae apparently wrested control from Kang Tongju rather quickly. The nature of the transition from Kang Tongju to Kang Sint’ae is not clear, but it should be noted that the latter was a deeply experienced and respected military leader with important ties to both the Soviets and the Chinese (Jiefang chuqi de Yanbian 1999: 216–30). Kang Tongju possessed neither of these attributes, having remained a provincial organizer in North-East China for much of his life. Moreover, with Zhou Baozhong’s homecoming to North-East China in 1945, the name Kang Sint’ae spread quickly among the CCP’s North-East Bureau (‘Report on the Composition and Distribution of the Personnel of the 88th Brigade’ 1945). Kang moved swiftly to consolidate his power in Yanbian, forming a gov- erning body composed almost entirely of Koreans and establishing a Korean military in the region. The military demands after Japan’s nominal defeat in the region should not be underestimated – there were significant clusters of hold-out forces all over the region, including a complex mix of formerly pro-Japanese collaborationist troops, armed landlords with pri- vate militia, and groups of pure ‘bandits’ which tended to proliferate in the North-East (Tang 2000: 21). In October, Kang set up a rudimentary Chinese Communist Party orga- nization with himself at the helm, but it was not long before cadres from Yan’an arrived in Yanji and took control of the local administration (Yun 2006: 32). When the first CCP cadre arrived in November 1945, they found Kang Sint’ae buttressed with various titles. Most notably, in October 1945, Kang had promoted himself to become Secretary of the Yanbian Committee (Zhonggong Yanbian Weiyuanhui). But with the CCP’s arrival, Kang’s committee was soon abolished and replaced: first by the CCP Yanbian Local Committee (Zhonggong Yanbian Defang Weiyuanhui) in November, and later by the East Jilin Sub-Provincial Party Committee (Jidong Fenshengwei) in January 1946 (Zhonggong zhongyang zuzhi bu 2000: 916, 941–943). With each administrative restructuring, local CCP per- sonnel tightened the North-East Bureau’s control over the region. Kang’s autonomy was in jeopardy almost immediately after he had installed him- self in Yanbian. Kang Tongju, eager to ingratiate himself with Yan’an, was just as critical of Kang Sint’ae as he had been of himself. He reported that Kang Sint’ae’s military endeavours in post-war Yanbian were marked by a ‘serious nation- ality bias’ (yanzhong de minzu pianxiang) in which he had privileged Koreans over Chinese (Yanbian Chaoxian zu zizhizhou dang’anju [guan] 1985: 6). In November, Kang was removed as the local secretary and
replaced by Yong Wentao. He was not completely cast out, however; Kang switched into military garb to head the Yanji Military Sub-District. By all indications he was comfortable with his responsibilities and set his sights on a rather ambitious set of interrelated goals: the elimination of ‘ban- dits’ from the region and, in the process, the creation of an environment suitable for the development of the local economy. By February 1946, Kang had become commander of the enlarged Ji-Dong [East Jilin] Military District, and in the process had marshalled six platoons, or eleven- thousand Korean soldiers (Zhonggong zhongyang zuzhi bu 2000: 924–5). With Kang sidelined by military affairs, the new Party leadership in Yanbian began an important campaign to confirm, both rhetorically and legally, that Yanbian was in fact Chinese territory. Dong Kunyi, the Deputy Commissioner in late 1945, began to encourage Koreans (Hanren) to adopt Chinese citizenship and announced that ‘the Korean nationality could become a minority of the Chinese nation’ (Chaozu keyi chengywei Zhonghua minzu zhong de yige shaoshu minzu) (Yanbian Chaoxian zu zizhizhou dang’anju [guan] 1985: 7–8). In January 1946, the Guizhou- native Yong Wentao spoke similarly of easing the divides between Han Chinese and Koreans through assimilation. Yong complained that even the pro-communist military forces in the region were divided along national lines, which he designated as Koreans, or Hanguo ren, and Chinese, or Zhongguo ren. The southerner, wielding the top Party post in the region, proclaimed that the people of Yanbian should no longer label certain individuals as ‘outsiders’ (wairen), while privileging others as ‘one’s own people’ (ziji ren) (Yanbian Chaoxian zu zizhizhou dang’anju [guan] 1985: 9–26). Although the available Chinese sources do not indicate it explicitly, Yong’s comments may have functioned as a critique of some of Kang Sint’ae’s policies, as Kang had focused primarily on recruiting Korean soldiers and did not appear to be interested in promoting Chinese-tinged nationalism among his troops. Indeed, Kang paid little heed to the integra- tion of Chinese and Korean forces. Kang Sint’ae eventually reversed course and began to speak of the need to unite Chinese and Koreans, for fear of replicating Chinese-Korean rela- tions experienced under Japan. In one of the only – perhaps the only – report produced by Kang which has survived and been reproduced in Chinese, Kang commented that ‘the great majority of Chinese people [Zhongguo ren] are kind hearted’ and that there was no need for mutual antagonism between Chinese and Koreans. Kang announced that ‘the Koreans [Chaoxian ren] in the army are not just serving Koreans, but they are serving all of Yanbian. The Chinese people [Zhongguo ren] are
Recasting Ethnic Identity
Kang later departed for North Korea in June 1946, where he helped to establish the Korean People’s Army. In his absence, the CCP continued to work frantically to reframe the national and ethnic status of Koreans in Yanbian. One CCP administrator, Bai Dongcun, was stricken by the fact that ‘the old contradictions among the Chinese and Korean masses’ were ‘being reflected amongst the Chinese and Korean cadres’ in Yanbian. According to Bai, the Koreans and Chinese, though working together under the auspices of the CCP, had come to ‘despise one other’ (huxiang kanbuqi) (Yanbian Chaoxian zu zizhizhou dang’anju [guan] 1985: 47). These same concerns were echoed by Yong Wentao, a CCP administra- tor who compiled a comprehensive report on land ownership in Yanbian in late 1946 entitled ‘The Problem of Public Lands in the Liberated Ares of Jilin’ (Yanbian Chaoxian zu zizhizhou dang’anju [guan] 1985: 99–129). According to Yong, public lands (gongdi) made up a significant portion of total arable land in all counties in and around Yanbian. In the past, the public lands had mostly been used by ‘Korean people’ (Chaoxian ren), a fact which infuriated the ‘Chinese masses’ (Zhongguo qunzhong). The sta- tistical majority of Koreans vis-à-vis Chinese in Yanbian, however, did not explain the roots of this problem alone. Yong continued that Koreans used more public lands than Chinese not simply because they were more numerous, but because of Japanese colonial policies. Yong argued that Koreans were given ‘cultivation rights’ (gengzhong quan) over public lands to strengthen Japanese control over Yanbian (Yanbian Chaoxian zu zizhizhou dang’anju [guan] 1985: 101). Yong’s description of past practices is significant, but what is most interesting is the terminology he uses to describe the residents of Yanbian. Yong described the Koreans as Chaoxian ren and the Japanese as Riben ren, while the Chinese were variously described as Zhongguo ren and Neiguo ren, or ‘domestic people’ (Yanbian Chaoxian zu zizhizhou dang’anju [guan] 1985: 101–102). Nowhere did the suffix zu appear which would con- note an ethnic identity rather than a national identity. This omission was not noticed by Yong, who could not realize he was still operating within a colonial lexicon. His only concern was that the public lands issue be resolved in order to avoid a repeat of the problem whereby third parties, such as Japan, used agricultural to ‘sow discord within national relations
between Chinese and Koreans’ (tiaobo Zhong Chao minzu guanxi) (Yanbian Chaoxian zu zizhizhou dang’anju [guan] 1985: 101, 124). Numerous reports produced by the CCP continued to show a remark- able reluctance or inability to abandon the old nationalities’ vocabulary. In a January 1947 report on land ownership, for example, CCP cadre Kong Yuan spoke of ‘Koreans’ (Chaoxian ren) and ‘domestic people’ (neiguo ren), or ‘Chinese people’ (Zhongguo ren), living in Yanbian (Yanbian Chaoxian zu zizhizhou dang’anju [guan] 1985: 133). Reports from mid-1947 revealed intensified efforts to ‘correctly resolve the nationalities problem’ (minzu wenti), but still retained old language when speaking of ‘the unity of Chinese and Korean [Zhong Han] cadres, the unity of Chinese and Korean [Zhong Han] soldiers, and the unity of the Chinese and Korean [Zhong Han] peoples’ (Yanbian Chaoxian zu zizhizhou dang’anju [guan] 1985: 362, 367). Zhou Baozhong offered perhaps the most comprehensive and prescrip- tive report on relations between Chinese and Koreans in his ‘On the Problem of the Korean Nationality in Yanbian.’ Zhou claimed that uncoor- dinated and unsophisticated leadership in Yanbian in the immediate post- war period had nurtured many problems in local administration, including issues involving ‘national relations’ (minzu guanxi). Zhou said that ‘segre- gation between Chinese and Koreans’ (Zhong Xian fenli) was common and, in a striking admission, revealed that armed clashes (wuzhuang chongtu) had even taken place between Chinese and Korean forces in Wangqing, Helong, and Longjing after August 1945. Though Kang Sint’ae’s arrival Yanbian had done much to alleviate this tense situation, ‘opposi- tion between the Chinese and Korean nationalities’ (Zhong Xian minzu duili) was still continuing unabated according to Zhou. Even since Han Chinese cadres had arrived from Yan’an, including Yong Wentao, ‘the prob- lem of unity between the Chinese and Korean nationalities has still not been resolved’ (Yanbian Chaoxian zu zizhizhou dang’anju [guan] 1985: 338, 351). Zhou’s report was, above all, driven by two simple questions: ‘Are Korean people [Chaoxian renmin] a minority nationality within Chinese territory? Or are they foreign nationals [waiguo de qiaomin]?’ Zhou was attempting to resolve that lingering colonial legacy, and he was quick to answer his own question. Zhou announced that, ‘in general, Korean resi- dents are to be considered a minority nationality within Chinese territory’ (Yanbian Chaoxian zu zizhizhou dang’anju [guan] 1985: 327). With the trend toward ethnicization of the Koreans becoming more apparent, Kim Hwarak, with whom this essay opened, decided to leave
Yanbian in June 1946. Kim later reported that had been working with The Great Democratic League of the Korean Peoples in China (Zai Zhong Chaoxian renmin minzhu datongmeng) since October 1945. In Mandarin, this organization is more typically referred to as the Great Democratic League of the Yanbian Peoples (Yanbian renmin minzhu da tongmeng). Though a seemingly trivial distinction, the difference in nomenclature may be rather important. The Great Democratic League was initially an autonomous organization run by Koreans in greater Yanbian, but it was eventually absorbed, repurposed, and disbanded by the Chinese Communist Party. Chinese Communist leaders praised the Democratic League for its ability to organize citizens, but derided it for lacking ‘unity’ (tuanjie), a reference to how the organization approached relations between ethnic Koreans and Han Chinese (Jiefang chuqi de Yanbian 1999: 46). Though his specific portfolio was never made clear, Kim was likely engaged in propaganda work, as the other activities of the Democratic League included staging military operations against bandits and repairing railroads, and Kim appears to have had neither a military nor an engineer- ing background. From February through March 1946, he received political training, almost certainly from the Chinese Communist Party. For the next three months, he was working out in the field near Jiaohe on the outskirts of Yanbian. This may mean that Kim was completing agitation work on behalf of the CCP in and around Yanbian, but again, the specifics of this experience are not made clear in his dossier. The reasons for Kim’s departure for Korea in 1946 are not known, but it is reasonable to suspect that he was disinterested in carving out a Korean enclave within the broader Chinese polity. Kim probably wanted Korean independence, not autonomy.
Conclusion: Resolving the Impasse
It was not until 15 August 1948, a full three years after the defeat of Japan, that the CCP began to adopt a more sophisticated ethnic platform. Though the Party continued to make being Han synonymous with being Chinese, the CCP recognized the need to start clarifying the distinction between Koreans as Chinese citizens (gongmin) and Koreans as foreign nationals (qiaomin) (Yanbian Chaoxian zu zizhizhou dang’anju [guan] 1985: 383–7). As the Koreans in Yanbian were gradually recast as members of the Chinese nationality, the post-war project of transforming ‘nationality’ and
‘ethnicity’ into more rigidly fixed institutions and ideas becomes abun- dantly clear. The language of the Yanbian Koreans as a minority nationality within China first began to surface in earnest in late 1948. Military reports on the activities of CCP troops in Yanbian announced that ‘[we] must also make it so the masses understand that the Korean people are a nationality with a motherland; they reside in China, and are considered a minority nation- ality within Chinese territory’ (Yanbian Chaoxian zu zizhizhou dang’anju [guan] 1985: 91). Still, the CCP was troubled by its own distinctions. It had yet to use the term ‘Han’ in Yanbian, and still clung to the old formula that being Chinese was equal to being Han. Thus, the 1949 New Year’s report describing the main tasks to be performed over the coming year in Yanbian remarked on the Party’s desire to ‘further enhance the unity between the Chinese and Korean peoples’ (Zhong Chao renmin de tuanjie), rather than enhancing the unity between the Han and Korean ethnic groups (Yanbian Chaoxian zu zizhizhou dang’anju [guan] 1985: 98). It was not until the Chinese People’s Political Consultative Conference (CPPCC), convened in September 1949, that the CCP finally abandoned the jargon which had characterized much of the Japanese colonial era. The task fell on acclaimed military leader Zhu De to reframe how the CCP thought about and discussed the Koreans of Yanbian. Though Zhu’s pub- lished remarks from the CPPCC lament over how landlords, warlords, and the Japanese invaders had ‘sowed discord in the feelings among the Chinese and Korean people’ ( tiaobo Zhong, Chao renmin de ganqing), Zhu was intent on moving beyond the contentious past. He announced that ‘the Korean people of the North-East constitute a part of the Chinese nation; they are a member of the large family of Chinese nationalities!’ (Zhongguo renmin zhengzhi xieshang huiyi di yi jie quanti huiyi jianghui, baogao, fayan 1949: 228). Zhu’s remarks publicly announced on the largest platform to date that the Koreans remaining in Yanbian and elsewhere in China were to become an official minority group within the broader Chinese nation. In doing so, the CCP signaled the beginnings of a post-war and post-Manchukuo order in which long-standing ambiguities surrounding national and ethnic identity were finally put to rest. But just as the CCP achieved a post- Manchukuo order, the Party itself was creating its own new set of prob- lems. After granting ‘autonomy’ to Yanbian in 1952 and restructuring the area as an official ethnic Korean enclave, some Koreans in Yanbian began to believe that Yanbian would soon ‘unite with the [North] Korean state’ (yu Chaoxian guo hebing) and ‘Kim Il Sung was dispatching leadership’ to
Yanbian. Mistaking autonomy for unification with the DPRK, citizens remarked that the ongoing Korean War was ‘no longer [the campaign] to Resist America and Aid Korea, but simply the [campaign to] Resist America!’ (bu shi Kang Mei yuan Chao shi zhijie Kang Mei le!). As the Tumen River was no longer a ‘national boundary’ (guojie), the minority of Han Chinese living in Yanbian also speculated that they would soon become overseas Chinese (Zhonggong Xinjiang Weiwu’er zizhiqu weiyuanhui yan- jiushi 2000: 475–80). Though the CCP had overcome colonial configura- tions of nation and ethnicity in Yanbian by the early 1950s, the post-war transformations were perhaps just as consequential and contested.
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Tang Hongsen 唐洪森 2000: ‘Dongbei kang Ri lianjun jiaodao lv zhong fan zuguo’ 东北抗 日联军教导旅重返祖国 [The North-East Anti-Japanese United Army’s Return to China]. Shiji qiao 世纪桥 3: 20–4. Tanner, Harold M. 2003: ‘Guerrilla, Mobile, and Base Warfare in Communist Military Operations in Manchuria, 1945–1947.’ The Journal of Military History 67.4: 1177–222. The Department of State 1932: Manchuria: Report of the Commission of Enquiry Appointed by the League of Nations. Washington, United States Government Printing Office. ‘The Japanese Population in Korea.’ Undated report produced by the Soviet Red army in North Korea. An English translation of this document was furnished to the authors by the North Korea International Documentation Project (NKIDP), Woodrow Wilson International Center for Scholars. The Puppet State of ‘Manchukuo’ 1935: Shanghai, China United Press. Toa-Keizai Chosakyuku 1932: The Manchuria Year Book, 1932–33. Tokyo, The Japan Times Printing Office. Wanbaoshan shijian ji Chaoxian pai Hua can’an 萬寳山事件及朝鮮排華慘案 [The Wanpao Mountain Incident and the Massacre of Chinese in Korea] 1931: Nanjing, Zhongguo Guomindang zhongyang zhixing weiyuanhui xuanchuanbu 中國國民黨中 央執行委員會宣傳部. Watt, Lori 2009: When Empire Comes Home: Repatriation and Reintegration in Postwar Japan. Cambridge, Harvard University Asia Center. Wilson, Sandra 2002: The Manchurian Crisis and Japanese Society, 1931–1933. London, Routledge. Yanbian Chaoxian zu zizhizhou dang’anju (guan) 延边朝鲜族档案局 (馆) (ed.), 1985: Zhonggong Yanbian Jidong Jidun diwei Yanbian zhuanshu zhongyao wenjian huibian 1 中共延边吉东吉敦地委延边专属重要文件汇编 [Collection of Important Docu ments from the CCP Yanbian Jidong and Jidun Committee and the Yanbian Prefectural Commissioner’s Office]. Printed for internal circulation. Yi Chongsŏk이종석 2000: Pukhan-Chungguk kwan’gye, 1945–2000 북한・중국 관계, 1945–2000 [North Korean-Chinese Relations, 1945–2000]. Seoul: Chungsim중심. Young, Louise 1998: Japan’s Total Empire: Manchuria and the Culture of Wartime Imperialism. Berkeley, University of California Press. Yun Guangying 云广英 2006: ‘Dongbei gongzuo de huiyi (1945–1949)’ 东北工作的回忆 (1945–1949) [Recollections of My Work in the North-East, 1945–1949]. Guangdong dang- shi 广东党史 3: 31–6. Zhonggong Xinjiang Weiwu’er zizhiqu weiyuanhui yanjiushi 中共新疆维吾尔自治区委 员会研究室 [CCP Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region Committee Research Office] (ed.), 2000: Zhongguo gongchandang yu minzu quyu zizhi zhidu de jianli he fazhan 中国 共产党与民族区域自治制度的建立和发展 [The Chinese Communist Party and the Establishment and Development of the Ethnic Minority Regional Autonomy System]. Beijing, Zhonggong dangshi chubanshe 中共党史出版社. Zhonggong zhongyang zuzhi bu 中共中央组织部 [CCP Central Committee Organization Department] (ed.), 2000: Zhongguo gongchandang zuzhi shi ziliao. Di si juan. Quanguo jiefang zhanzheng shiqi (1945.8–1949.9) 中国共产党组织史资料. 第四卷. 全国解放 战争时期 [Historical Materials on the Organization of the Chinese Communist Party, volume 4: The National War of Liberation Period, 1945–1949]. Beijing, Zhonggong dang- shi chubanshe 中共党史出版社. Zhongguo kexueyuan minzu yanjiusuo 中国科学院民族研究所 [Chinese Academy of Social Science Nationalities Research Institute] and Jilin shaoshu minzu shehui lishi diaocha zu 吉林少数民族社会历史调查组 [Jilin Minority Society and History Investigation Team] (eds.), 1963: Chaoxian zu jianzhi (chugao) 朝鲜族简志 (初稿) [Draft Version of the Brief Gazetteer of the Korean Nationality]. Changchun. Zhongguo renmin zhengzhi xieshang huiyi di yi jie quanti huiyi jianghui, baogao, fayan 中國 人民政治協商會議第一屆全體會議講話・報告・發言 [Speeches, Reports, and Remarks from the First Plenary Session of the Chinese People’s Political Consultative Conference] 1949: Shanghai, Xinhua shudian 新華書店.
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Glossary
Bu shi Kang Mei yuan Chao shi zhijie san deng guomin 三等国民 Kang Mei le! 不是抗美援朝是 tiaobo Zhong Chao minzu guanxi 挑拨中 直接抗美了! 朝民族关系 Ch’oe Yonggŏn 崔庸健 tiaobo Zhong, Chao renmin de ganqing Chaoxian gongheguo wansui! 朝鲜共和 挑拨中、朝人民的感情 国万岁! tuanjie 团结 Chaoxian minzu jiefang wansui! 朝鲜民 waiguo de qiaomin 外国的侨民 族解放万岁! wairen 外人 Chaoxian minzu 朝鲜民族 wuzhuang chongtu 武装冲突 Chaoxian qunzhong 朝鲜群众 Xia’ai de minzu pianxiang Chaoxian ren 朝鲜人 狭隘的民族偏向 Chaoxian renmin 朝鲜人民 Yanbian renmin minzhu da tong- Chaoxian wuchan jieji jiefang wansui! meng 延边人民民主大同盟 朝鲜无产阶级解放万岁! Yanbian 延边 Chaozu keyi chengywei Zhonghua minzu Yong Wentao 雍文涛 zhong de yige shaoshu minzu 朝族可 yu Chaoxian guo hebing 以成为中华民族中的一个少数民族 与朝鲜国合并 Dong Kunyi 董昆一 Zai Zhong Chaoxian renmin minzhu Dongbei 東北 datongmeng 在中朝鮮人民主大 er deng guomin 二等国民 同盟 gengzhong quan 耕种权 zaocheng Zhong Chao minzu de moca gongmin 公民 造成中朝民族的摩擦 guojie 国界 Zhong Chao minzu de maodun 中朝民族 Han ren 韩人 的矛盾 Han zu 汉族 Zhong Chao minzu 中朝民族 huxiang kanbuqi 互相看不起 Zhong Chao renmin de tuanjie 中朝人民 Jiandao/Kando 间岛 的团结 Jidong Fenshengwei 吉东分省委 Zhong Han 中韩 Kang Sint’ae 姜信泰 Zhong Xian fenli 中鲜分离 Kang Tongju 姜東柱 Zhong Xian minzu duili 中鲜民族对立 Kim Chaek 金策 Zhonggong Yanbian defang weiyuan- Kim Hwarak 金花洛 hui 中共延边地方委员会 Kim Il Sung 金日成 Zhonggong Yanbian weiyuanhui 中共延 Manchukuo 满洲国 边委员会 minzu guanxi 民族关系 Zhongguo minzu jiefang wansui 中国民 minzu wenti 民族问题 族解放万岁! Neibu wenxian 内部文献 Zhongguo qunzhong 中国群众 Neiguo ren 内国人 Zhongguo ren 中国人 qiaomin 侨民 Zhou Baozhong 周保中 Riben ren 日本人 ziji ren 自己人
PART TWO
NORTH KOREA
Andrew David Jackson
SOAS has always had a particular interest in North Korea, and it is interest- ing to note that the seminars (exactly ten percent of the total) that dealt specifically with North Korea tended to attract larger audiences. There are several reasons for this, notably the strong historical connections and geo- graphical proximity of SOAS to governmental institutions as well as NGOs with a vested interest in understanding areas of potential conflict, for example the Foreign and Commonwealth Office and Chatham House. But the general interest is also a reflection of the realization that many of the older paradigms that are used to explain Communist countries are less helpful when it comes to North Korea. In the past, it was simpler for policy makers to overlook differences between European Communism and the specific development of the North Korean brand of state. The oft- predicted collapse following the demise of world Communism has not materialized, and this shows that North Korea was no mere puppet of the Soviet Union, but a separate entity that requires understanding more on its own terms, and in relation to its history, the history of the peninsula, and its context within East Asia as a whole (Robinson 2007). There have been many theoretical attempts to analyse North Korea that contextualize and explain its longevity and difference from Communist or formerly Communist countries in other parts of the globe. The three papers in this collection contribute to this ongoing enquiry and focus on three very different but often overlooked features that are essential for understanding what makes North Korea so different. The events of the Korean War (1950–1953) were central to the shaping of the North Korean psyche and its relations with its East Asian neighbours and beyond. Certainly, the notion of North Korea as both victim of American aggres- sion and bulwark against American expansionism stems from this brutal conflict. In his paper, Jerôme de Wit, who presented at SOAS in December 2010, considers North Korean literature from the time of the Korean War, literature that helped to both shape and reflect the North Korean view of its Cold War role and its Cold War enemy. This was literature too often simply dismissed as propaganda, when in fact it reveals how much the
Bibliography
Robinson, Michael 2007: Korea’s Twentieth-Century Odyssey: A Short History. Honolulu, University of Hawai’I Press.
Glossary
Juche 主體
ROUSING THE READER TO ACTION: NORTH KOREAN WARTIME LITERATURE
Jerôme de Wit
Introduction
Here I look at several North Korean short stories and novels that were writ- ten during the Korean War (1950–1953) with a special interest in the way North Korean writers stressed the function of literature in society as a means of rousing readers to action, or to support the war effort. Korea’s wartime literature has, in general, never been valued highly or been wor- thy of much consideration by literary scholars. The lack of literary quali- ties in these wartime stories – with their one-dimensional approaches to the stories’ characters or plot – have deterred many from looking more seriously at this type of literature as its heroes, seemingly without any obstacles in their way, defeat the enemy and attain victory. It is because of the above attitude that North Korean literature in particular has never been appreciated, especially due to the view that the stories perform a subservient role to the Communist Party which prescribed their content and the manner in which they were to be written. Even when made the object of study, North Korean literature is analysed for its inherent politi- cal message rather than its literary qualities, in order to look at what sort of idealized image the Communist Party wanted its people to believe or be persuaded by. Many earlier studies of North Korean literature, there- fore, focused on how closely the literary work in question followed the prescribed party directives.1 However, Stephen Epstein, in his article North Korean Short Stories on the Cusp of the New Millennium, has shown that even under such condi- tions of prescribed rules and top-down directives, the writer still needs to imbue the story with sufficient literary qualities to make it interesting to readers. As Epstein explains: ‘the success of any given story will depend on the skill with which the author can manipulate these conventions while still remaining within a rigid structure’ (Epstein 2002: 37). Furthermore,
1 Studies of North Korean literature’s relation to ideology in English are Marshall Pihl, 1977: 63–110; Kwon Young-min 1991: 56–70; Vladimir Pucek 1996.
The Function of North Korean Wartime Literature
Kim Il Sung laid down his directives of what in his opinion the form and function of North Korean wartime literature should be in an official speech
on the topic on 30 June 1951. Here he praised writers and artists for their achievements, but also mentioned several shortcomings in the topics and themes that the writers thus far had chosen for their works. He stressed that writers and artists ‘should see that their works serve our embattled people as a powerful weapon and as a great inspiration spurring them to ultimate victory’ (Kim 1981: 336). Furthermore he added that ‘Writers and artists must produce works which will help the men of our People’s Army and will strengthen the confidence of the entire people in victory’ (ibid. 339). He then went on to enumerate several broad themes that writ- ers should address in wartime. These included how the writers should present the patriotism of various groups, (soldiers, civilians in their own territories and also those in enemy-occupied areas) concretely through the thoughts, feelings and lives of real people to make their works true to life (ibid. 337–9). What he stressed most in his speech was the need of the writers to arouse hatred for the enemy through their works. Kim Il Sung’s words were interpreted and reinterpreted differently by writers themselves to fit their own personal views. The predominantly older generation of writers, who controlled the North Korean literary scene, had their own ideas of what wartime literature should be like, and also had previous experience of wartime writing when they were promot- ing the Japanese war effort from 1937 onwards. Until Kim Il Sung’s speech, the government had not concerned itself too much with literary matters. Now that the war had become more protracted it was necessary to gain the support of all citizens by mobilizing literature and the arts. When one reads the essays on literature published during the Korean War, one sees that they focus on diverse topics. The literary critics weighed in with their own ideas about a suitable direction for North Korean literature; a direction that would help them implement their view of socialist literature. In order not to offend the party line, the strategy they adopted was to use Kim Il Sung’s speech, quote a sentence from it, and then start interpreting that sentence to their own liking. Yi Wŏnjo, for example, picked up on Kim Il Sung’s extensive plea to depict the country’s wartime heroes correctly, and focused on how to depict stories using life- like heroic figures. An Hamgwang picked up on Kim’s discussion of ‘natu- ralistic techniques’ that were still prevalent in literary works and used this to criticize several writers for their naturalist and formalist tendencies, while writer Kim Namch’ŏn argued that Kim Il Sung’s conception of short- comings in the literary field was related to the remnants of colonial thought which required eradication (An Hamgwang 1952; Kim Namch’ŏn 1952: 1–3).
What the writers and critics all agreed on was the function of literature in a wartime society. Many literary critics mentioned that the writer’s main goal should be to instil patriotism in the reader’s mind, and the portrayal of the North’s heroic characters would have just such an effect. An Hamgwang, for example, mentions that ‘Writers enhance the noble patriotic spirit in the people and their fighting spirit, stir up hatred towards the enemy and strengthen the resolve for their righteous struggle and ultimate victory’ (An 1952: 143). The main tenet of this wartime literary paradigm, though, was that literature is most effective in enhancing feelings of patriotism or the will to fight when the main focus in a story is on the cruelty and barbarism of the enemy. Literary critic Ŏm Hosŏk summed up this role of literature: ‘The spirit of hatred shines through in our writers’ works like a sharp bayo- net and has become an effective weapon to support the people …. Through this spirit of hatred our literature has become an unprecedented fighting force’ (Ŏm 1993: 189). The element of hatred was therefore seen as the most important element of a wartime literary work, and a work was there- fore judged to be effective and well written when it had the function of rousing the reader to action. This kind of attitude towards literature may seem counter-intuitive to modern observers of North Korean affairs, where the literary work is mainly appreciated for its ideological quality, and especially for its adher- ence to the Juche doctrine.2 Even before the Korean War the main crite- rion a literary work should abide by was its correct depiction of communist ideology. Wartime literature, however, required a completely different atti- tude, and the North Korean writers knew this full well, having had first- hand experience with war at the end of the colonial period (1910–1945), when they had actively helped to shape the role of the writer and of litera- ture during wartime. Their experience had taught them that in order to sustain the morale of the population, and to (re)gain the reader’s trust in and support for the war effort it was not enough to repeat slogans about the certainty of victory or the brilliance of Kim Il Sung ad infinitum. This approach was certainly not unique to North Korea and is seen in many other modern wartime societies as well. Katherine Hodgson, for example, tells of Soviet literature of the Second World War: ‘It was clear … that the war effort would demand real popular commitment which could not
2 Juche is a political doctrine which stresses economic and political self-reliance, and was developed by Kim Il Sung from 1955 onwards. It has been a guiding principle in North Korean policy making until at least the mid-1990s.
be won by mouthing empty slogans about the might of the Party, or by making groundless claims that the war was going well, when large numbers of people had direct evidence to the contrary. […] Literature in wartime was preoccupied with giving an immediate response to events while they were still in progress: the broader perspective had to wait. Most prose fiction written during the war was short and focused on a single limited aspect of the war’ (Hodgson 2009: 112, 119). North Korean literary critics argued that the function of the literary work was to stir the reader into action through hatred instead of ideology. This may seem to be contradictory to the original explanation of the pur- pose of propaganda, which has frequently been defined as ‘a manipulation of changing ideas or opinions, of making individuals “believe” some idea or fact, and finally making them adhere to some doctrine’ (Ellul 1973: 25). In his study on propaganda, Jacques Ellul agrees with the North Korean view that it is not the manipulation of ideas and thoughts that is impor- tant in modern propaganda, but that propaganda can be deemed effective when it is able to rouse the target individual to action. Ellul states that ‘the aim of propaganda is no longer to modify ideas, but to provoke action. It is no longer to change adherence to a doctrine, but to make the individual cling irrationally to a process of action. It is no longer to lead to a choice, but to loosen the reflexes. It is no longer to transform an opinion, but to arouse an active and mythical belief’ (ibid.: 25). North Korean writers dur- ing the Korean War were thus to concern themselves more with the effec- tiveness and the emotions that their work should arouse than with the specific content. Arousing feelings of hatred towards the enemy, like Japanese writers did during the colonial period, was an important way North Korean authors attempted to rouse readers’ feelings during the Korean War.
Arousing Anger: Han Sŏrya’s Jackals
One wartime story that North Korean critics believed provoked such a reaction in the reader is Han Sŏrya’s Jackals. Literary critic Ŏm Hosŏk sin- gles out Han’s story specifically because of its ability to incite feelings of hatred for the enemy: ‘The spirit of hatred for the enemy is one of the important topics in our wartime literature and has become a catalyst that fuels our fighting spirit. […] One could say that this hatred for the enemy is the leitmotiv that guides our writers in their energetic writing. The leit- motiv that Han Sŏrya was guided by until the very last sentence when
3 Socialist realism is a style of realist art whose aim is the furtherance of the goals of socialism and communism. Socialist realism holds that successful art depicts and glorifies the proletariat’s struggle towards socialist progress. Socialist realism was adopted as the official aesthetic doctrine after the Congress of 1934 and was implemented in cultural poli- cies by Andrei Zdhanov in particular until the late 1950s. It influenced or was adopted in official literature of other Communist countries as well.
impossibility of regarding Han’s work as significantly closer to socialist realism than the first clumsy efforts of colonial proletarian writers’ (ibid.: 100). Myers does mention that Maxim Gorky’s The Mother (1906), which is regarded by many as the first socialist realist novel, has a very similar end- ing, but regards the ending of Gorky’s story as a ‘classical transposition of spontaneity-consciousness dialectic’ by which the main character over- comes her naiveté and attains political awareness. Han’s attempt to do this in Jackals is in his eyes the opposite: ‘the death of her son…induces her to slough off the remains of the un-Korean “consciousness” and heed her “spontaneous”, i.e. ethnic, aversion to the white race’ (ibid.: 99). A key element that Myers does not consider in his analysis of the story is that Han Sŏrya wrote it during the Korean War for wartime readers. Myers mentions literary critic Han Chungmo, who reviewed the story in 1959, six years after the war had ended: ‘[Han Chungmo] bravely tried to show the story had an uplifting message, mainly by emphasizing the missionaries’ fears of a village uprising and interpreting the heroine’s last words – ‘But just you wait! Not all Koreans have died’ – as a powerful threat. The critic seemed not to care that the Yankees’ fears prove com- pletely unfounded, which in turn makes the heroine’s parting shot sound downright pathetic’4 (ibid.: 100–101). This does not take into account the fact that the wartime stories in North Korea are written to address prob- lems or concerns that are present within a society. The life of a particular story after its publication is therefore diverse as it serves various different purposes at different times, its longevity depending on how contemporary readers may identify themselves with the contents or the message. This is an important reason why many socialist works were rewritten, sometimes several times, to better reflect and address contemporaneous issues. This phenomenon of rewriting in socialist literature relates to what Wolfgang Iser calls the dynamic interaction between text and reader. Through rewriting, the ‘reality’ that was created in the literary work is reformulated to communicate a different message to the implied reader, since they will read the work under different historical (and social) conditions (Iser 1980: 29). Han Chungmo, therefore, may have had different reasons in mind when he chose to read the story in a different way in 1959, for example by
4 During the war there are some North Korean literary critics who, like Myers, criticized the story’s weakly written ending. Ŏm Hosŏk for example wrote: ‘When one ignores the fact that the mother figure in Han Sŏrya’s Jackals is excessively beautified politically and is exaggerated character-wise, one can still call this Han’s best work yet from after the Liberation period.’ Ŏm Hosŏk 1951: 76.
‘But just you wait! Not all Koreans have died!’ Life has not ended. Life goes on and the sad history of Sugil’s mother has continued through the War for the Liberation of the Fatherland. The tragedy of Sugil’s mother is not an unre- solvable grief that is forever denied closure, but has now found a way for a resolution through the Korean people’s heroic struggle. When readers have read the last sentence of this story, therefore, they will, out of their own accord, turn their attention to fight for revenge against the American impe- rialists for the sake of our people in this war. Owing to this positive prospect that is embedded in the story’s ending, the story has the effect of activating a resolve for revenge in the soul of our people in today’s war. (Ŏm 1993: 188) Ŏm Hosŏk regards the story’s conclusion of denying readers a happy end- ing to be a suitable literary device as it denies the reader a satisfactory conclusion to the story, and therefore this may stir them to take up arms to fight against the wartime enemy. Ŏm is not the only one who praised the story for this very reason, and connected the colonial setting in which the story is placed to contempo- rary wartime circumstances. Literary critic Han Hyo also argued that the story’s ending was effective because it encouraged the reader to link the setting to the present wartime situation: ‘People may have qualms about the fact that Sugil’s mother cannot, despite her insuppressible anger, get revenge for her son’s death at the hands of the enemy and is captured by the Japanese police. It should be understood, however, that through this work the writer aims at a bigger judgment and more severe revenge. The crimes of the American missionaries that this work exposes evoke feelings of hatred in the same degree as Sugil’s mother to all Koreans who are today fighting against the American robbers and raises their thirst for revenge even higher. […] It is imperative for authors that they concern themselves with how they are able to create a lasting effect in the minds of readers when writing a work for raising morale’ (Han Hyo: 95–6). Now that we have discussed views on how the story was interpreted by literary critics
during the war, we can examine the elements Han Sŏrya used in his story to create this effect, by looking at how he shaped his narrative to fit the wartime reader’s expectations.
Creating an Effect: The Echoes of Total War Ideology
The function of literature was, as we have already seen in writers’ essays and the speeches of Kim Il Sung, to maintain high morale among the gen- eral population in order to continuously maintain their support for the war, as well as to enhance the soldier’s fighting spirit. This view is strongly connected to the experiences of Korean writers in the last eight years of the colonial period, when the Japanese propagated the ideology of total war from 1937 onwards. This ideology informed writers of their role during wartime and the way they should approach their work. After being exposed to these ideas for many years, readers must have been well acquainted with the ideology of total war, an ideology which reappeared during the Korean War. Such ideas informed both writers and policy makers as to what course of action they should take, and may also have influenced the expectations with which the reader approached a story. Therefore, even though Jackals is set in the colonial period, it contains imagery and allego- ries that the reader can relate to the Korean War. The first thing that stands out in this regard is the obvious lack of the Japanese presence, except at the end when the colonial police drag Sugil’s mother away. In Han Sŏrya’s depiction of the colonial period it is not the Japanese but the American missionaries who have designs on Korea, while the Japanese appear amenable to American demands. The total war ele- ment here is revealed when the missionary convinces the director of the hospital to inject Sugil with bacteria, as he mentions that the whole of society should play its part in establishing American ‘virtues’. ‘For American virtues and Americans we do not only need churches. The Lord has given us bullets. He gives us airplanes and battleships. What do you think the bible is that missionaries carry with them? What do you think of the syringe that doctors are holding? They are weapons [to be used] for America and Americans’ (Han Sŏrya 1951: 23–4). It can even be argued that the reason for killing Sugil, which is depicted here as stemming from the innate evil of the Americans, could be related to total war ideology, since this ideology explains that a nation’s fighting strength relies for a large part on how big its population is. Young people are therefore the future fighting strength of a nation. Indeed because of
made relevant to suit explanations for the reader’s current circumstances. The reader should experience such an expectation when reading a histori- cal novel and therefore historical fiction should provide answers to ques- tions that are shared by writer and reader alike for the stories to hold meaning.5 In Jackals, many elements within the text show that the story is more about the importance of present concerns than it is about a truthful depiction of the past. They do this by focusing solely on the cruelty of the American missionary family, the metonymical use of Simon who repre- sents the American soldier fighting in the Korean War, and by denying the mother her revenge, while hinting at a future retribution.
The Shared Experience of War
Like Han Sŏrya’s Jackals, many stories written during the Korean War had the express purpose of arousing hatred for the enemy. This hatred is what motivates the majority of the characters appearing in North Korean war- time stories to take up arms and join the brave struggle. In The Hunter (Sanyanggun, 1951) written by Kim Mansŏn we follow the overwhelming ambition of farmer Kim Ŭisŏng, who became a soldier after he witnessed the deaths of countless farmers and a seven year old child in American bombing raids. His ambition is to one day shoot down an enemy airplane to get his revenge. After fighting fiercely for months, he hears a rumour that every soldier above the age of forty is to be discharged. He is not able to sleep that night, and the next day he goes missing. The day afterwards he returns to his squad carrying a wheel. The squad leader thinks Kim has lost his mind, but Kim argues that this wheel comes in handy to shoot down airplanes, as a gun can be rested on top of it making it easier to aim. At that moment an American airplane flies over, but is too far away to be shot at. Despite the warnings of his squadron commander, Kim waves a towel in the hope that the airplane will turn around. He is noticed and three enemy aircraft approach his position. Kim manages to shoot all three of them from the sky. His squadron commander is pleased and tells him that the rumour of the forced discharge of soldiers was just hearsay.
5 This ‘sense-making’ of history is an issue Jörn Rüsen deals with in his book, where he defines historical sense as having three components: context, form and function, that are interrelated, but among which the functional aspect is ultimately crucial: the pragmatic coherence of the past made significant for the present in relation to the existential needs of the present. See Rüsen 2008.
Having seen American bombs kill several fellow farmers and a child, Kim is spurred into action to fight against the Americans. In most stories, American cruelty or bombing prompts the characters into action. One feature that defines North Korean wartime stories is the fact that the characters’ drive and desire is focused solely on their hatred for the enemy; neither Kim Il Sung nor communism appear in the vast majority of the stories. The war needed an immediate and honest response to the dramatic shifts in the North’s fortunes, and the focus needed to be else- where. The earlier slogans extolling the might of Kim Il Sung or the party, and the slogan of ‘driving the enemy into the sea’ that abounded during the initial phase of the war, had lost currency after the UN counter-attack. After the frontline stabilized in the spring of 1951, a new rallying cry was desperately needed to motivate the population. The incessant bombing campaign by the Americans provided such an opportunity as it had an immense impact on the North Korean people’s normal way of life. South Korean journalist Pak Chinmok6 remembered staying in P’yŏngyang for around forty days in July 1951: ‘Several times a day I had to rush out of my room because of the air strikes. This life was truly a living hell. During the Korean War, I was so weary from the bombardments that whenever I heard the sound of an airplane my heart would be pounding and I would feel stressed. Every day I had to live in fear due to the incessant bombings’ (Han Sŏnghun 2012: 198). The daily American bombardments became an element of the wartime writers’ stories as readers would find it easy to identify with the main characters’ experiences. In Hwang Kŏn’s novel Happiness (Haengbok, 1953) the female protago- nist’s principal reason for fighting and becoming a nurse is her firsthand experience of the American bombings. Before losing her family to an air raid, Sŏ Ryeju was an innocent school teacher. With the help of her friend Chŏngim and her thirst for revenge, she quickly regains her zeal for life and becomes a nurse. She meets a wounded soldier, Chŏngho, with whom she falls in love. Every day her eagerness to go to the front to fight becomes stronger, and eventually she is allowed to become a frontline nurse. Among her fellow comrades-in-arms she feels like a true Korean. Soon she is joined by her friend Chŏngim, and Chŏngho, who has recovered from his wounds. One day they are suddenly ordered to retreat, which comes as a
6 Pak Chinmok (1918–2010) was a South Korean journalist who went to Py’ŏngyang with the help of the American Information Agency in an attempt to persuade the North Korean leaders to cease the internecine war. During his stay in the city from July 1951 he met several times with North Korean minister of Home Affairs Yi Sŭngyŏp.
terrible shock to them. During the retreat they encounter large enemy forces and take many casualties. When the group’s machine-gunner succumbs to his wounds, Ryeju heroically takes over and kills many ene- mies before she is fatally wounded. When Chŏngim finds her, Ryeju is barely alive. Just before dying, Ryeju tells her: ‘Don’t think that I am an unlucky person. I am very happy now. Go now, tell our story and hate the enemy even more.’ Hwang’s novel makes references to and borrows some passages from Alexander Fadeev’s 1945 novel The Young Guard. The loss of Ryeju’s family to an American air strike serves as the catalyst for her to become a nurse and seek revenge for their death. She feels that working behind the front lines remains unsatisfying for her, and she keeps yearning to be a frontline nurse to fight side by side with other comrades. When this wish is finally granted she regains joy in her life, and this experience makes her feel ‘truly Korean’. The singing of the soldiers, the slogans they shout all lend joy to her existence and make her realize that dying for the fatherland brings peace of mind. The narrative that appears in Hwang’s work is that in war the feeling of comradeship between fellow soldiers trumps ideology, and even relegates the figure of Kim Il Sung himself to the back- ground. It is the shared experience of combat that serves as the true yardstick for belonging to the Korean nation.7 This feeling of being part of a community of soldiers is even perpetu- ated in death. With Ryeju’s dying words to her friend that she should ‘tell our story,’ her individual death attains meaning because the combat group that she joins perpetuates her memory and incorporates her heroic actions into a larger picture.8 The incorporation of the death of the individual in the national narrative by the commemoration of characters is not only a feature of North Korean wartime literature, but has also been described by Martin Hurcombe when he analysed the French patriotic novels of the First World War. He mentions that ‘while individual characters are able to perceive their living actions in terms of being-towards-death, outside the group the individual’s death risks losing all meaning since it is only the group that can place it within the wider context of the continuing
7 This focus on comradeship between soldiers is not only found in Happiness, but is an important element in many other North Korean wartime stories as well. The heroic actions of the commander in Yun Sejung’s Comrades (Ujŏng, 1951), for example, are explained not as individual acts of courage, but in the commander’s words stem from his feeling of com- radeship for his fellow soldiers. 8 Another story in which this aspect is shown is Yun Sich’ŏl’s The bugler’s merits (Nap’alsu-ŭi konghun, 1952).
9 This aspect can be seen in Im Sundŭk’s Cho Okhŭi (1951) and Ri Pungmyŏng’s ‘Daughter of Korea’ (Chosŏn-ŭi ttal, 1952).
as is the case in the vast majority of South Korean wartime stories. These passages in the stories serve to show the main character in a better light, as this is their moment of glory for which they get their fame, but it also imbues the story with a layer of realism, making the battle scenes more gripping as it is highly uncertain whether the main character will come out of the encounter unscathed.
Conclusion
This analysis of North Korea’s wartime literature has shown that there is more to these stories than initially meets the eye. The straightforward narrative of the stories and the characters’ obvious heroic features did not mean the writer only painted a too-good-to-be-true picture of the war. Instead, the writers during the Korean War had a specific function of their literature in mind, namely to boost morale and to exhort the readers to come into action to fight for their country, and wrote their stories with this intention in mind. Next to this, they inserted passages in the text where explanations and commentary on current events and sensitive issues were given and made an effort to imbue meaning to the wartime sacrifice of soldiers and citizens. Finally it can be argued that the North Korean wartime literature had a formative influence on the way the war was ‘expe- rienced’. This last argument, however, requires further investigation by looking at the way the Korean War has been interpreted and presented after the war ended in 1953.
Bibliography
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Glossary
An Hamgwang 안함광 Kim Namch’ŏn 김남천 Chŏngho 정호 Kim Ŭisŏng 김의성 Chŏngim 정임 Ŏm Hosŏk 엄호석 Haengbok 행복 Pak Chinmok 박진목 Han Chungmo 한중모 Poksu 복수 Han Hyo 한효 P’yŏngyang 평양 Han Sŏrya 한설야 Sanyanggun 사냥군 Hwang Kŏn 황건 Sŏ Ryeju 서례주 Hyŏn Tŏk 현덕 Sugil 수길 Juche 주체 Sŭngnyangi 승량이 Kim Il Sung 김일성 Yi Wŏnjo 이원조 Kim Mansŏn 김만선
Andray Abrahamian
Introduction
In the swathe of spectacle that mediates and defines social life, one of the most important, emotive and mass-participatory events is the ‘big-time’ sporting fixture – the ‘sports spectacular’. Theodore Adorno wrote that ‘if one were to summarize the most important trends of present-day culture, one could hardly find a more pregnant category than sports’ (Adorno 1981: 56). Sport, for Adorno, is both an institution of social domination and a factor in cultural formation (Khabaz 2007: 30). Sporting events impart value to society in ways that are far more diverse than mere enjoyment of the prowess displayed by athletes in an arena. In the modern world, where broadcast technologies allow such wide levels of passive participation, the constitutive and reconstitutive power of such events looms especially large in any society. For participants – and this includes the audience – sport helps define and construct the very society in which they live. Civil society and cultural values are transmuted or affirmed and state power is exalted. The superi- ority of the system that produced the event is constantly referenced and held aloft for praise either directly or indirectly. In the United States of America, the National Football League (NFL)’s Super Bowl is the clearest example of such an event. The NFL is the most popular professional sports league in the country. Also, unlike other top professional American sports, a single contest acts as the climax to the entire season. In the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea, it is the Arirang Mass Games.1 The Arirang Mass Games are by no means the first mass gymnastics event in the DPRK, but they are the biggest in terms of participants, viewers and longevity as a multi-annual event. Despite the similar functions of these sporting spectacles, western media analyses of
1 The song ‘Arirang’, from which the Mass Games takes its name, is Korea’s most popular and culturally significant folk song. With obscure origins and orally transmitted, there are up to thirty versions in both North and South Korea. They all speak to loss or tragedy in some form.
The Events
The Super Bowl The Super Bowl is the National Football League’s championship game, played annually at a neutral ground, usually an indoor stadium or some- where with a relatively warm climate. American Football has its roots in the late nineteenth century, when American universities began altering the rules of rugby and association football. It is a team sport which is unique in several regards. It has the most complex strategic component of any version of football, extreme specialization in position play and very large rosters. This means that each NFL team has fifty-three players on the active roster, plus eight practice squad players. Unlike other iterations of football, players are usually given a single specialized position and task, such as kicking the football for conversions or defending the quarterback from tacklers. The championship game has become an overt media spec- tacle and an unofficial national holiday in the United States. Viewing numbers increase every year: in 2011 a new record was set with 111 million viewers, representing more than one third of the US population (Klayman 2011).
Arirang Mass Games The precursors to mass gymnastics in Asia were developed by nineteenth century nationalist movements in central Europe and expanded under
2 National Broadcasting Company, Cable News Network, Consumer News and Business Channel.
communist regimes such as those of Bulgaria and Romania. They empha- size uniformity and synchronization, deploying thousands of partici‑ pants. In North Korea, the earliest incarnations of Mass Games began in the 1940s, when ‘images abounded of parades of young athletes carrying flags, group calisthenics, and public drills celebrating holidays and events of all kinds’ (Armstrong 2004: 213). Since 2002, North Korea has packaged the Mass Games as the ‘Arirang Festival’, an annual event lasting roughly two months. The run usually begins in early August and lasts until late September, a period which includes two important national dates (Liberation Day on 15 August and National Independence Day on 9 September) and also coin- cides with the peak travelling season for both domestic and international tourists. Up to 100,000 people perform, including students of all ages, adult volunteers, as well as professional acrobats and athletes. Preparation takes several months.3
Social Functions
The Social Role of the Super Bowl For the United States, the Super Bowl combines electronic mass media and sports into what commentators like Michael Real argue is a mass rit- ual that highlights specific American values and is a form of contemporary myth-making (Real 1975: 31). The sport of American Football is itself, as Douglas Kellner notes, ‘organized on a mass-production industrial model, which was appropriate to the era of factory production, and which reached its highest stage of development in the first half of the twentieth century. Football is a team sport that exemplifies arduous collective physical labor mated with individual achievement.’ Players at star positions can shine and grab headlines, but without the organized infrastructure they ‘cannot function adequately and their team cannot win consistently’ (Kellner 2003: 67). Common American mythical memes are referenced here: commu- nity, teamwork and selflessness provide the backdrop for the success of the outstanding lone hero. This reinforces ideas of individual
3 The documentary A State of Mind best illustrates this training regime: A State of Mind (VeryMuchSo Productions, 2004) Daniel Gordon (dir.).
are equal, we are united.’ The military participants then promised to ‘cherish and defend our home’ (Fox Broadcasting, Superbowl Pregame, 6 February 2011). The role of private commerce has become a cause célèbre during the Super Bowl, in which the festival of advertising has become in many ways as important as the game itself. In an increasingly fragmented media envi- ronment, a unified mass audience means that advertising space during the event has become the most expensive in any given year. In 2011, a 30-second spot cost $3 million (Smith 2011). By contrast, in the same year the average 30-second spot on network television cost just under $110,000 (Crupi 2012). Research has shown that people pay as much attention to the commercials as to the game itself. One study found that visual attention levels for the commercials was similar to the game itself (Beasley 1998: 33–40). The buzz over the commercials before, during and after the event ‘is encouraging not just the selling of a particular product, but also a larger commercialization of American culture’ (McAllister 1999: 404). The Super Bowl invites the audience to celebrate a particular vision of America: wealthy, consumerist, militarily strong, technologically superior and with unparalleled opportunities for individuals to succeed.
The Social Role of the Arirang Mass Games
Mass Games were born out of long-gone nation-building programmes in central Europe. As social anthropologist Petr Roubal puts it: ‘The key con- cepts that the mass gymnastic performances embodied – strength, youth, beauty and discipline – were transformed into symbols of a strong, young, beautiful and disciplined socialist society and how this was used to legiti- mize the leadership – that same leadership which observed these rituals from the platforms of the stadiums’ (Roubal 2003: 3). Roubal’s comment highlights the key functions of mass games that went on to greatly influ- ence the North Korean versions. Kim Jong Il (Kim Chŏngil) himself specifically referenced their value, stating that they are ‘important in training schoolchildren to be fully developed communist people’. Blending both artistic and athletic ele- ments, they encourage not only strong physiques, according to Kim, but also teach organization, discipline and collectivism (Roubal 2003: 2). As well as the physical and organizational functions, the Arirang Mass Games reflect quite literally the official national historical narrative bun- dled into a ninety-minute athletic performance spectacle, charting the
Media Coverage
Media Coverage of the Super Bowl By far the overwhelming mainstream media coverage of the Super Bowl revolves around the game itself and associated dramatic narratives of struggle, desire, effort, unity and destiny. As there is no ‘foreignness’ for American media, there is no need for cultural explanation or interpreta- tion. With regards to the aforementioned militarization of the sporting spectacle, mainstream media gives us virtually no debate at all, though a few alternative media sources have discussed the idea (Zirin 2010). Certainly it would be an understatement to suggest that the issue has never had traction in mainstream media discourse, but if one searches the archives of the mainstream press, very little in the 2000s turns up. There was, however, a letter to the editor in the Washington Times in 2005, enti- tled: ‘”Militarization”’ of the Super Bowl.’ That the editorial staff saw fit to title it with scare-quote marks around the word ‘militarization’ is telling. The author of the letter stated he felt ‘uneasy’, and was reminded ‘of
Hitler’s use of the Olympics and the Nuremberg rallies to whip up support for nationalism, militarization and wars of aggression’ (The Washington Times 2005). Another solitary article, this time in the Washington Post, dis- cussed the new NFL policy of lessening the use of military metaphors to describe football, though they still remain prevalent (Carpenter 2009). However, even though there is little debate about the underlying mean- ing of much of the imagery and narrative surrounding the Super Bowl, there is marginally more often a complaint about cost. For example, because the 2011 Super Bowl took place during a period of high unemploy- ment and continued economic hardship for many, some critiques sur- faced. One editorial in the Washington Post lamented that football had long lost its working class, locally driven roots. Instead, it opined: ‘we’ve allowed league owners to cash in on American pride, and hunger for enter- tainment. We should insist they share American economic problems’ (The Washington Post 2011). Other pundits disagreed with the Post’s critique, however, asking ‘Why is it all right for Chrysler to get billions in bailout money and then buy a two-minute advertisement for around $10 million but not for the Navy to use a fraction of its budget to promote itself?’ The nexus of advertising, sports and military power goes unexplored as usual, meekly concluding instead that ‘there are far worse ways to spend taxpayer money than pro- motion of our nation’s armed forces’ (Chase 2011). CNBC News, the news arm of one of the major US TV networks, also gave the military a chance to respond: ‘The US Navy is hoping to put into context the cost and the purpose of the fly-past of four F-18 fighter jets on Super Bowl Sunday.’ The article emphasizes how the cost is justified by recruitment and is a tradition (Rovell 2011). It is worth noting that the Super Bowl was not on NBC, but on Fox, a rival media conglomerate. The media’s basic position on the Super Bowl is a non-critical one. Indeed, it is usually supportive and celebratory.
Media Coverage of the Arirang Mass Games In reviewing Daniel Gordon’s documentary A State of Mind, Variety wrote: ‘archive footage of past Mass Games is dazzlingly colorful – group celebra- tions of cultural and political identity that seem less strange to the Asian mind (with its focus on the collective) than the western one (with its focus on the individual)’ (Variety 2004). The familiar trope of collective Asia vs. the individualist West is dragged out, pinning billions of people under the descriptive power of a single adjective. Moreover, the difference between
Asia and the West is brought down to an epistemological level. Our very minds are different, so what seems exotic and bizarre to ‘us’ is normal to ‘them’. One has not only to ignore the fact that mass games were a European invention to accept this analysis, but also assume that there is a founda- tional difference in the way we think. Such perspectives shut down path- ways for compromise and mutual understanding across cultures. A 2005 CNN special broadcast on the Mass Games was by contrast a fairly representative example of the memes used to describe the Mass Games. The host, Jonathan Mann, was initially compelled to use whatever beauty existed in the spectacle to highlight the weaknesses of the society at large: ‘North Korea stages astounding mass performances while quietly taking steps that will add to its isolation and mask its misery’ (CNN 2005). The common assertion – that even when North Koreans are displaying happiness, it is just a mask for sadness – comes to the fore. A society with considerable shortcomings was thus rendered as a place entirely unhappy all the time. A New York Times article described the event as ‘the world’s biggest and most spectacular propaganda exercise’ (Stevens 2005). Another article on the Mass Games stated: ‘It has been criticized as a propaganda tool achieved through the rigid and disciplined training of its young perform- ers’ (ABC News 2010). Here perhaps is the most crucial distinction between ‘our’ spectacles and ‘theirs’. As we have seen, the Super Bowl fulfils remark- ably similar functions to the Mass Games, yet analytically occupies a non- space in the public discourse. The 2005 CNN special broadcast voiceover continued: ‘it’s supposed to depict the heroic revolutionary struggle resulting in a happy, prosperous and independent land, a land of abundant harvest, a land of plenty. The reality is, of course, somewhat different, an impoverished land still strug- gling to feed itself and run by a reclusive dictator who appears set to plunge his people into further hardship’ (CNN 2005). This is the most common critique of the Mass Games, and reflects simi- lar concerns expressed by some writers and netizens in the US about the costs of the Super Bowl: that spectacular events should be tempered in times of economic hardship. It is an understandable criticism, based on the idea that egalitarian societies should not be wasteful in the face of need. The left-leaning British Newspaper The Guardian, while neither American nor Korean, is subject to similar professional and cultural influ- ences that American media is. Thus, the Arirang Mass Games are ‘a form of social control’, it opined in 2005, ‘mobilizing 100,000 people for months
of training and performing keeps the population occupied and reinforces the impression of a strong state and a government firmly in control’ (Watts 2005). This may be true, but it gives the impression that the athletes are coerced into participation. More likely, there are varying degrees of com- mitment. Some must love it, and train relentlessly to ensure their success. Others might go along more grudgingly to please their parents or hang out with their friends. Almost certainly, no one is pressuring the uncoordi- nated kids to join. One wonders if a British newspaper such as the Guardian would call participation in American Football as a ‘mobilization’ or ‘a form of social control’ even when it overtly is: after-school athletic programmes are often in large part designed to prevent youths from having free time in which less socially desirable activities might take place.
Conclusion
The Mass Games and the Super Bowl provide excellent examples of how similar events with a similar social role are portrayed very differently by English speaking media. The Super Bowl celebrates the Fordist mode of production, technology, individual glory, teamwork and consumerism in late-modern capitalism. The Mass Games focuses on unity, collectivism, health, industry, development and the vitality of the leadership, socialism, the military and the Worker’s Party of Korea. Both make connections with the armed forces, though ironically, con- sidering the relative political and social power of the military in the USA and the DPRK, the Super Bowl makes perhaps the most explicit links between the armed forces and the spectacle itself. The Super Bowl, even with its heavy cooperation with the military, is organized and run by pri- vate corporations which own the teams, venues and media conduits through which they purchase advertising. The Arirang Mass Games is run by the state and party. For western media, then, despite their similar social roles in disseminating values and norms, P’yŏngyang engages in ‘propa- ganda’ through the Mass Games. The Super Bowl, by contrast, is merely a mix of competition, advertising and fun. Indeed, it is the uncritical approach to the role of sports in society which characterizes media attitudes to the ‘home’ event and marks the major difference between coverage of the Super Bowl and of the ‘foreign’ event. By contrast, North Korean spectacles are very much treated as an opportunity for western media to censure the host society. English- language media very clearly link the events to the societies of which they
Bibliography
ABC News, 30 August 2010: ‘North Korea Begins Massive Dance Performance.’
Variety Magazine, 14 November 2004: ‘A State of Mind.’
HOW NORTH KOREA MADE ITS ENGLISH-KOREAN DICTIONARY
Lee Heejae
Introduction
When the North Korean lexicographers at the Pyongyang University of Foreign Studies compiled the Yŏngjo taesajŏn (‘Grand English-Korean Dictionary’) in 1992, the first unabridged English-Korean dictionary in North Korea, they based their work on Kenkyusha’s New English-Japanese Dictionary, one of the most established English-Japanese dictionaries.1 Indeed, it would be no exaggeration to say that the Yŏngjo taesajŏn is none other than a North Korean version of the New English-Japanese Dictionary: it translates almost every single word in it. South Korean lexi- cographers have also historically shown a heavy dependence on Japanese lexicography during its early stage of English-Korean dictionary making in the wake of liberation from Japanese rule. Later, however, their diction- aries became much more diverse and sophisticated than anything found in North Korea. The Northern Yŏngjo taesajŏn shows one significant difference from Southern dictionaries. South Korean lexicographers, despite their efforts to filter out expressions with strong Japanese flavour, stay reliant on Chinese characters as the traditional lingua franca of East Asia. Conse quently, their translations of English entries are predominantly based on the Korean phonetic readings of words that consist of Chinese characters as they appear in Japanese dictionaries. By contrast, North Korean lexicog- raphers try to replace difficult words that originate from Chinese charac- ters with indigenous words or established Sino-Korean words that do not sound alien to native speakers. So why is there such a difference? This article argues that the distin- guishing factor is the opportunity to systematically explore one’s own
1 In this paper I have used the following transcription convention: Korean lexical items and quotations from the dictionaries investigated are transcribed according to the princi- ples of the Yale romanization method. Terms, proper names and book titles, on the other hand, are rendered either in their customary form (e.g. Pyongyang, Kim Il Sung) or in the McCune-Reischauer romanization method, conforming to the cataloguing style used by the US Library of Congress.
A Unique Tradition
From the outset, the North Korean leadership emphasized the role of language as a weapon for achieving their dream of communist revolution. Accordingly, they conducted an intensive literacy campaign between 1946 and 1949, which claims to have reduced the number of illiterate people by about three million. Also, as part of their efforts to eradicate illiteracy, they banned Chinese characters in every official document from 1949 onwards. In reality, however, the abolition of Chinese characters as such did not constitute a full solution to the problem posed by the Sino-Korean tradi- tion: hanja, the Chinese characters, were simply phonetically transcribed into han’gŭl, the Korean script, and many obscure and unintelligible words remained in use.2
2 For instance, catching the meaning of expressions like hwa.uy.yongsim (화의용심 ‘watch out for fire’), chengcho.aychwi (청초애취 ‘cutting green grass’), pipay.kwanli (비배 관리 ‘management of fertilizer dispensing’) written only in Korean characters was incom- prehensible to common people (Li Hokyŏng 2005: 68). Hwa.uy.yongsim was Korean read- ing of Japanese hi.no.yōjin (火の用心), in which Korean hwa, uy, yongsim correspond to Japanese hi, no, yōjin expressing English ‘fire’, ‘of’, ‘watch out’, respectively. As the word con- sists of four characters, it sounded, in spite of the existence of native Korean element of uy, like one of the Chinese tetragrams, which was very confusing. In the second example of chengcho.aychwi, aychwi derives from the inaccurate Korean transcription for the Chinese characters used in expressing Japanese 刈り取る (karitoru), which is 刈取. Although the correct Korean reading of 刈取 is not aychwi (애취) but ayeychwi (예취), the mistake has not been redressed. Today in South Korea both aychwi and ayeychwi are used as agricul- tural terms for designating the same work of cutting grass. To make matters worse, due to the fact that ‘grass’ is expressed as cho (초) in Sino-Korean rendering and the pronuncia- tions of cho and chwi are similar, South Korean farmers have two more confusing words at their disposal nowadays: aycho (애초) and ayecho (예초). It means South Koreans are confronted with four Sino-Korean words describing exactly the same farming work of cut- ting grass: aychwi, ayechwi, aycho, and ayecho. North Koreans have avoided this frustrating situation by refining chengcho.aychwi to phwul.peyki (풀베기), in which phwul and peyki are indigenous Korean words meaning ‘grass’ and ‘cutting’, respectively. They also polished hwa.uy.yongsim and pipay.kwanli to simple Korean expressions like phwul.chosim (불조 심) and kakkwuki (가꾸기).
As a consequence, government officials encountered difficulties in disseminating important decisions and even in communicating amongst themselves without distortions or misunderstandings, which was a formi- dable obstacle to progress for a fledgling republic. After the completion of the first comprehensive Korean monolingual dictionary (K’ŭn sajŏn, ‘Big Dictionary’), published between 1948 and 1957 in South Korea, North Korea followed with the Chosŏnmal sajŏn (‘Dictionary of Korean’), their own version of an unabridged monolingual dictionary, in 1962. The two dictionaries did not differ drastically, except on a few marginal points. Thus, similarly to the Southern K’un sajŏn, the Northern Chosŏnmal sajŏn listed most of hanjamal, the Sino-Korean words that originated from ancient China and modern Japan, but in han’gŭl transcription. Despite incessant struggles to refine the Korean language under the initiative of a few journals of linguistics including Chosŏn ŏhak (‘Korean Linguistics’) and Chosŏn ŏmunhak (‘Korean Language and Literature’), enigmatic words still dominated both industry and academia. The impetus to intensify the movement at a national level came after the appearance of an article with the title ‘A few ideas on improving the Korean language’ (Kim Il Sung 1982: [18] 14–27). It summarized instruc- tions delivered to North Korean linguists by Kim Il Sung in January 1964. In these, Kim set out some basic principles: you do not need the compli- cated system of expression comprising of two separate layers of hanjamal (Sino-Korean words) and koyuŏ (home-grown Korean words); though you have to be careful not to overuse hanjamal, you should not discard estab- lished words; but in general, it is better to replace redundant hanjamal with equivalents in koyuŏ. Two years later, in May 1966, issuing similar instructions about language under the title ‘On rescuing and enhancing the national character of the Korean language’ (Kim Il Sung 1982:[20] 335–52), Kim reaffirmed the importance of solidifying the status of munhwaŏ, the ‘cultured’ standard language based on the dialect of Pyongyang. To put into practice his demands, the North Korean government launched a serious attempt to eliminate difficult examples of hanjamal and replace them with transparent examples of koyuŏ, and this effort, two years later, led to the appearance of Munhwaŏ haksŭp (‘Learning Cultured Language’), a linguis- tic quarterly dedicated to serving the movement and still in existence. The so-called ‘refined’ words (see below) were compiled in 1969 into a new, smaller dictionary (Hyŏndae chosŏnmal sajŏn, ‘Modern Korean Dictionary’) with 50,000 entries, which was later reissued in an enlarged version (Chosŏn munhwaŏ sajŏn, ‘Dictionary of Cultured Korean Language’) in 1973.
These dictionaries compiled according to Kim Il Sung’s direction have a common feature: they were not descriptive dictionaries that reflected and recorded actual words spoken and written by people at the time, but prescriptive dictionaries with entries mainly chosen for their clarity in communication. In particular, many Sino-Korean words originally based on Chinese characters – for example sek.kyo (석교 ‘stone bridge’), sangcen (상전 ‘mulberry field’), and hapok (하복 ‘summer clothes’) – were replaced by more indigenous counterparts – here toltali (돌다리), ppong- path (뽕밭), and yelum.os (여름옷). This compilation had limited useful- ness as a dictionary because most of its entries were new coinages that did not reflect the real expressions in use. Kim Il Sung pointed out these short- comings and urged the inclusion of hanjamal in the next generation of dictionaries. The revised and enlarged edition of the Hyŏndae chosŏnmal sajŏn, published in 1981, contained over 130,000 entries and the Chosŏnmal taesajŏn (‘Grand Korean Dictionary’), the most comprehensive Korean dictionary ever published in North Korea, boasted 330,000 entries that include difficult hanjamal, which are listed together with their Chinese characters at the foot of each entry. However, the prescriptive tradition of monolingual North Korean dictionaries was upheld: every word deemed undesirable was clearly marked or substituted with a recommended ‘cultured’ word.3 Since the mid-1960s over 50,000 Korean words have been refined through reinvention or modification. They were gathered in a booklet titled Tatŭmŭn mal (‘Refined Words’). This guidebook for the cor- rect use of language was regularly updated and distributed to every part of the country. A significant number of the refined words entered into North Korean English-Korean dictionaries as well. Traditionally, of course, the most important foreign language in North Korea was not English but Russian. A small Russian-Korean dictionary appeared as early as 1948 and Russian was adopted by Kim Il Sung University, the most prestigious university in the country, as the compulsory foreign language exam in place of English. North Korea predominantly imported advanced science and technology
3 Firstly, archaic words like kokayk (고객 孤客 ‘a lonely traveller’) or redundant words like phakong (파공 罷工 ‘a strike’: a word imported recently from Chinese despite the fact that phaep (파업 罷業), another Sino-Korean word with the same meaning, already exists) are marked X to show undesirableness of the use of them. Secondly, the Sino-Korean words that have corresponding indigenous Korean words with the identical meaning are assigned → and are given a Korean equivalent: tongkyeng (동경 銅鏡) → kwuli.kewul (구리 거울 ‘copper mirror’). Finally, some Sino-Korean words without conventional indigenous Korean words were matched with newly coined words: kyomok (교목 喬木) was substi- tuted with khi.namwu (키나무 ‘height trees’).
from Russia. However, since the collapse of the Soviet Union in the early 1990s, English rapidly replaced Russian on the North Korean foreign lan- guage scene. The first North Korean English-Korean dictionary (Yŏngjo sajŏn) appeared in 1961. It was small in size and in 1973 was followed by a medium size volume with the same title. The Yŏngjo taesajŏn (the ‘Grand English-Korean Dictionary’), the first unabridged English-Korean diction- ary in North Korea, was published in 1992.
North Korean Borrowings
The 1992 Yŏngjo taesajŏn, with over 340,000 entries, is based on the fifth edition of Kenkyusha’s New English-Japanese Dictionary, published in 1980. The New English-Japanese Dictionary, since its first appearance in 1926, has been regarded as one of the most reliable and authoritative of its kind in Japan. The latest and sixth edition came out in 2002. One could say that the Yŏngjo taesajŏn is the North Korean edition of the New English-Japanese Dictionary, as it translates almost every single entry in the latter. North Korea, with little experience of compiling English-Korean dictionaries, must have seen strong merit in translating one of the most established English-Japanese dictionaries as a way to rapidly absorb the achievements of modern English bilingual lexicography. South Korea, despite starting much earlier in this area and having a more diverse collec- tion of English-Korean dictionaries, failed to impress the North Korean lexicographers, in spite of the fact that North and South use the same language. This is an important paradox. Why would North Korean lexicog- raphers use Japanese sources when the South Korean sources were appar- ently so close? It is unclear whether there was a political motivation behind the actions of the North Korean lexicographers in ignoring the South Korean dictionary; however, it is likely that the decision was made for more practi- cal reasons.4 Most English-Korean dictionaries produced in South Korea
4 Kim Il Sung condemned South Koreans for their indiscriminate use of foreign words: ‘The moment you read a South Korean newspaper you realize that South Korean journalists not only overuse English and Japanese words in their writing but also insert in their sentences archaic Chinese characters that even Chinese people themselves do not use nowadays. When you remove Chinese, Japanese, and English words from the South Korean lexicon, you get only a few particles like ul or tul. Language is one of the essential traits of a people. But the language used in South Korea does not sound like Korean and is rapidly losing its national character. It makes me worry. If you leave it like that, our national language may be doomed to disappear.’ Kim Il Sung 1982: (20) 337. Derision does not pre- dispose one to imitation.
5 The crucial English-Chinese dictionary here is that completed by the German mis- sionary Wilhelm Lobscheid in 1869, and it was translated into Japanese in 1879 by Tsuda Sen 津田仙 et al. and proofed by Nakamura Masanao 中村正直, whose translation of Self-help by Samuel Smiles (西国立志編 Saigoku risshi hen) had been a bestseller since first published in 1871. The second Japanese version of Lobscheid’s dictionary appeared a few years later in 1884. Inoue Tetsujiro 井上哲次郎, its translator, revised and enlarged the original Chinese edition by incorporating Chinese definitions found in The English and Chinese Dictionary, another major English-Chinese dictionary that had been completed over three decades earlier by W.H. Medhurst in 1847–1848. Inoue was, by the way, also a famous book translator.
other hand, North Korea already had too many words that consisted of Chinese characters deriving from ancient Chinese or modern Japanese, and these had displaced numerous, still useful indigenous expressions. In other words, Japanese lexicographers did not use kana, the traditional Japanese alphabet which possessed a tendency to require many syllables to form a word, and instead used Chinese characters, with their unparal- leled potential to produce short and succinct expressions. On the other hand, North Korean lexicographers, while translating the New English- Japanese Dictionary with its dominance of Sino-Japanese words, tried to replace difficult words based on Chinese characters with indigenous words or established Sino-Korean words that do not sound alien to native Korean speakers.
One Step Further
One of the few differences between the Yŏngjo taesajŏn and the New English-Japanese Dictionary is the choice of English orthography. Both in South Korea and in Japan, American English has gradually gained the status of Standard English.6 Thus, by the 1970s most English-Japanese dictionaries presented entries according to American English spellings and meanings. The New English-Japanese Dictionary itself decided to adopt American variants as entry words from its fifth edition onwards. However, the Yŏngjo taesajŏn did not adopt this line, presumably because North Korean lexicographers may have felt some resistance to accepting American hegemony. Another small difference is the fact that the Yŏngjo taesajŏn contains more illustrations than the Japanese dictionary, mostly in entries about science and technology. Terms like ‘open hearth (fur- nace)’, ‘shock absorber’, and ‘jet engine’ are accompanied by clear visual information with component illustration.
6 The hegemony struggle between American English and British English has a complex historical background. The first proper English-Japanese dictionary compiled by a Japanese lexicographer (Hori Tatsunosuke 堀達之助) was based on a monolingual English diction- ary produced in Britain by a lexicographer named John Ogilvie. But the British English lexicography with its strong tradition of acting as a literary dictionary did not satisfy the Japanese who were desperately in need of encyclopaedic bilingual dictionaries to translate English books. Webster’s English dictionaries produced in America fulfilled the Japanese thirst for a huge list of lexical entries. Naturally, American orthography began to prevail. But from the early twentieth century, with the completion of The Oxford English Dictionary and the appearance in Britain of a new line of English dictionaries with exten- sive grammatical explanations and many idioms, many Japanese students were attracted back to the British style of English (Hayakawa 2001: 164–70).
North Korean lexicographers’ willingness to be independent is revealed in their policy of presenting native Korean words rather than Sino-Korean words as an equivalent to the corresponding English entry. For example, the Northern Yŏngjo taesajŏn translated ‘Adam’s apple’ as wulqtayppye (울대뼈, native Korean words are marked in bold type hereafter) whereas the Southern Kŭmsŏng English-Korean Dictionary relied on the Sino- Korean kyelhwu (결후), or hwukol (후골). ‘Shrub’ was defined as ttelki namwu (떨기나무) in the Northern Yŏngjo taesajŏn instead of kwanmok (관목) in the Southern Kŭmsŏng English-Korean Dictionary. When there were competing terms for a concept, the Northern Yŏngjo taesajŏn placed native Korean words ahead of Sino-Korean counterparts: ‘tide’ became miseyki (미세기) or coswu (조수) while it was matched with coswu (조수) or cosek (조석) in Kŭmsŏng English-Korean Dictionary; ‘intestine’ became payl (밸) or cang (장) while only cang (장) appears in its Southern counterpart. However, if a Sino-Korean word sounds more established, the native Korean equivalent was presented behind it: ‘tideland’ became kansekci (간석지) or kayphel (개펄). Finally, in cases where the Japanese New English-Japanese Dictionary failed to provide a lexical word-form equivalent and instead gave only an explanation, and the Southern Kŭmsŏng English-Korean Dictionary followed the same line, the Yŏngjo taesajŏn tried to define it as a native Korean word. For example, ‘thatch’ became ieng (이엉), whereas in the Kŭmsŏng English-Korean Dictionary we find a literal translation of a phrasal definition from the New English- Japanese Dictionary.7 Along with these traditional native Korean words, the Northern Yŏngjo taesajŏn made use of another kind of lexicographical category: munhwaŏ
7 Interestingly enough, ieng appears as the Korean equivalent for ‘thatch’ as early as the 1890s in the first edition of Underwood’s English-Korean Dictionary (1890) and in Scott’s English-Corean Dictionary (1891), and as late as the 1960s in the second edition of Lee and Kwun’s Pocket English-Korean Dictionary (1961) and in Samhwa’s Standard English-Korean Dictionary (1968). The next generations of English-Korean dictionaries, without exception, fail to present this established native Korean word. One of the possible explanations for this unusual phenomenon is that later generations of lexicographers, who were not as fluent in Japanese as their seniors, ended up being more dependent on Japanese-Korean dictionaries and found it harder to transcend the Japanese explanations and reach the pertinent native Korean equivalent. That this may indeed be the case is corrroborated by the fact that English-Korean dictionaries compiled in South Korea have until recently invariably failed to list oppa (오빠, the term for a female’s older brother) as a Korean equiv- alent for ‘brother’. The fact that Japanese, unlike Korean, does not distinguish between a male’s and a female’s older brother, and uses the same words and Chinese character for what are the two different Korean terms hyeng (형) and oppa, can be given as a possible explanation for this consistent failure. Note that the Yŏngjo taesajŏn included oppa as one of several Korean terms for ‘brother’.
or ‘cultured words’. Thus, where the Southern Kŭmsŏng English-Korean Dictionary matched English entries with their Sino-Korean counter- parts, the Yŏngjo taesajŏn added newly coined words that are largely based on native Korean morphemes: ‘syllable’ became solimati (소리마 디) or umcel (음절); ‘buoyancy’ became ttulhim (뜰힘) or pulyek (부력); ‘wig’ became tesmeli (덧머리) or kapal (가발); ‘ecliptic’ became haykil (해길) or hwangto (황도). However, North Korean lexicographers were not obsessed with using only native Korean morphemes. ‘Indefinite arti- cle’, which is defined as pwu-cengkwansa (부정관사) in the Southern Kŭmsŏng English-Korean Dictionary, is defined as mi-cengkwansa (미정 관사) in the Northern Yŏngjo taesajŏn. Presumably the Northern Yŏngjo taesajŏn chose to replace the prefix pwu (부), with its strong evocation of negativity, in favour of the less emphatic mi (미, literally ‘not yet’), thereby accepting the Sino-Korean whilst attempting to create a clearer alternative.8 Lexicographers, however, also face situations where there is no ready equivalent for a foreign word. Thus, in her study of loan words and hybrid words in modern Chinese, Zdenka Novotná distinguishes the following six types of induced innovation to find equivalents: 1) Phonemic loans (loan-words). For example, Chinese luoji (逻辑) for English ‘logic’. 2) Graphic loans. This type of loan only exists between languages that use the Chinese writing system, such as Chinese, Japanese, Korean, and Vietnamese. For example, Korean hyekmyeng (혁명) for the Chinese geming (革命) or the Japanese kakumei (革命). 3) Hybrid words. These are new compounds consisting of a loan-word and a native word. For example, Chinese pijiu (啤酒) or pi-wine for expressing English ‘beer’. 4) Loan-translations (calques). For example, Japanese shokuminchi (植民地) for Dutch volksplanting or ‘colony’ (literally composed of ‘plant’ + ‘people’ + ‘land’).
8 North Korean linguists criticized the language purification movement in the early twentieth century led by Korean nationalists under Japanese rule because their substitu- tions based on pure Korean indigenous elements like penkay.kil (번개길 ‘lightning route’) for cenpha (전파 ‘radio wave’), nat.al (낱알 ‘individual grain’) for pwunca (분자 ‘mole- cule’) and ttayal.i (때알이 ‘time reminder’) for sikyey (시계 ‘a watch’) were too unrealistic. Eliminating established Sino-Korean words like cenpha, pwunca, sikeye on the grounds that those did not contain native Korean elements amounted to neglecting the reality of language use (Pak 2005: 69).
5) Semantic loans. In this case an existing native word is accorded the meaning of a foreign word. For example, Japanese kakumei (革命) for English ‘revolution’.9 6) Induced new creations. These are newly coined words, mostly of a descriptive nature, without any morphemic correspondence with a foreign model. For example, Japanese sen’i (繊維, literally ‘delicate’ + ‘cord’) for Dutch vezel or English ‘fibre’ (Kuiper 1993: 177–8). Put in these terms, the major difference between the Southern Kŭmsŏng English-Korean Dictionary and the Northern Yŏngjo taesajŏn is that the former prefers to create equivalents through graphic loans whereas the latter often goes one step further and explores the possibility of loan-translation. Thus, for example, the Japanese New English-Japanese Dictionary translated ‘sabre-toothed tiger’ as 剣歯虎, a coinage that com- bines the Chinese characters for ‘sword’, ‘tooth’ and ‘tiger’. The Southern Kŭmsŏng English-Korean Dictionary resorted to the easy method of graphic loan and just gave the Korean phonetic reading of the Sino-Japanese word, which is 검치호 (kemchiho). But the Northern Yŏngjo taesajŏn translated the Japanese 剣歯虎 as 칼이범 (khal.i.pem), combining the native Korean words for the three component meanings. Here it should be noted that loan-translation was actually the favoured method used by Japanese lexicographers as a means of producing perti- nent equivalents for unfamiliar western words. And indeed, the Japanese 剣歯虎 itself is a loan-translation for ‘sabre-toothed tiger’ albeit into Sino-Japanese. The Southern Kŭmsŏng English-Korean Dictionary is not without similar attempts. Thus, for instance, it translated a bird named ‘roadrunner’ as kil.talliki (길달리기), presumably as the loan-translation of Japanese michibashiri (ミチバシリ) in the New English-Japanese Dictionary, meaning ‘road-running’, rather than of ‘roadrunner’, the origi- nal English entry. But this particular loan-translation has a weakness: the Korean term kil.talliki sounds like the noun form of a verb rather than the name of a bird. The Northern Yŏngjo taesajŏn translated ‘roadrunner’ as kil.palpali (길발바리, palpali is a small dog and evokes a sense of quick- ness in Korean), which has a higher potential to be used in real situations.
9 The original meaning of 革命 in Chinese classical texts is the overthrow of a dynasty by a virtuous leader, mostly outside the royal family, that is, with a different family name. In many cases, it remains just the transfer of power among the same ruling class and is not accompanied by the drastic transformation of social, economical structures found in west- ern revolutions.
Translation and Lexicography
The different approaches of the two Koreas in contriving equivalents in English-Korean dictionaries are reflected also in their different styles of translation in general. In a sense, North Korean language reformers’ efforts to find or coin alternatives that are more natural and less obscure than existing Sino-Korean words amounted to nothing less than translation activity, not conducted between two languages but within one and the same language. In the process, North Korea has developed diverse theo- retical tools that could be used to grasp the gist of the meaning of a word and to find a pertinent equivalent. The outstanding translations of English proverbs in the Northern Yŏngjo taesajŏn prove this. For instance, ‘Fine words butter no parsnips’, is translated as Ip ulo man penciluluhakey cik- kelyeto amu soyong i epsta (입으로만 번지르르하게 지껄여도 아무 소 용이 없다 ‘Smooth talk on its own is of no use’) in the Southern Kŭmsŏng English-Korean Dictionary, a rather prosaic translation closely matching the Japanese interpretation in the New English-Japanese Dictionary. The Northern Yŏngjo taesajŏn instead gives another fresh Korean proverb: Mal tan cip e cang tan cip epsta (말 단 집에 장 단 집 없다 ‘No house with a sweet mouth has a sweet sauce’). When Japanese lexicographers began to compile English-Japanese dic- tionaries, they drew on their long tradition of translating from Dutch to Japanese. Likewise the North Korean lexicographers, when they engaged with the task of creating the Yŏngjo taesajŏn, drew upon the translation skills that they had accumulated during their country’s history of refine- ment and nativization efforts. The theoretical and practical endeavour to identify clear and simple Korean equivalents for obscure Sino-Korean words was a translation activity, in a broad sense, and that experience of monolingual translation was a vital asset when they embarked on compil- ing their first major English-Korean bilingual dictionary. As translators, they were not content with the easy solution of replacing difficult Sino- Korean characters with their Korean phonetic transcriptions. They tried to go deeper into the heart of alien concepts. What they pursued unwit- tingly in the process was the policy of domesticating foreign languages, as more emphasis was put on making sure the entries made sense in Korean, the target language, than staying strictly true to English, the source language. By contrast, the South Korean tradition of translation remains much closer to the ‘foreignization’ approach of trying to stay faithful to the
10 Foreignization in translation is an approach trying to be faithful to the structure and logic of the original text or source language, while domestication is an attitude putting emphasis on the fluency and naturalness of the translated text or target language. Neither foreignization nor domestication in its respective extreme form can be regarded as an ideal approach to translation. Lawrence Venuti criticizes Anglo-American culture that has long been dominated by domesticating theories that recommend fluent translation, and urges English translators to adopt foreignizing translation as ‘a form of resistance against ethno- centricism and racism, cultural narcissism and imperialism, in the interests of democratic geopolitical relations’ (Venuti 1995: 20–1). Unlike Anglo-American translators, the tradi- tional norm of translation in South Korea has been much closer to foreignizaton in the sense of struggling to preserve in the translation every trivial linguistic and cultural ele- ment of the source-language text, including many that are alien to Korean readers, with little consideration for the naturalness of the translation as a Korean text.
on the other hand, translate 雇工, 舊章, 歲星, 除拜 with common mod- ern Korean words like mesum (머슴 ‘servant’), yeytpep (옛법 ‘old law’), mokseng (목성 ‘Jupiter’), immyeng (임명 ‘appointment’). North Koreans had already been experienced translators before they took on the task of making their English-Korean dictionary. North Korean translators’ determination to find easy and clear words led to North Korean lexicographers’ boldness to create easy and clear words when there were not existing Korean equivalents. They do not hesi- tate to forge new words with their own hands. The Northern translation equivalent for the English word ‘raccoon’ is a case in point. The Japanese New English-Japanese Dictionary translates this word as araiguma, which literally means ‘washing bear’. In older English-Japanese dictionaries the word appears written as 浣熊 or 洗熊, Chinese character writing that is used to represent not Sino-Japanese sounds but the same native Japanese araiguma with the meaning of ‘washing bear’. The Southern Kŭmsŏng English-Korean Dictionary does not give a lexical translation equivalent but resorts to a phrasal explanation: Namwu wi eyse salmye yakan ey hwal- tonghanun pwukmi san uy phoyu tongmwul (나무 위에서 살며 야간에 활동하는 북미산의 포유동물 ‘A North American mammal living on trees and with nocturnal habits’). Most medium-size English-Korean dic- tionaries compiled in South Korea define this animal as mikwuk nekwuli (미국너구리) or wanwung (완웅). Of the two, mikwuk nekwuli has the literal meaning of ‘American raccoon dog’ and wanwung is the Korean phonetic value of the Chinese characters 浣熊 that were originally used to represent the native Japanese araiguma. The Japanese lexicographers, however, did not translate ‘raccoon’ in this way. The Sino-Japanese word 浣熊 (araiguma ‘washing bear’) appears so early in English-Japanese dictionaries that one can find it in most of the modern Japanese monolingual dictionaries. The Korean lexicographers that introduced mikwuk negwuli may have done so because the Korean loan-translation of Japanese araiguma would sound like a phrase rather than a word to Korean ears (ssisnun kom 씻는 곰 meaning ‘washing bear’). Instead, they chose to coin a new word according to the formula of ‘Place Name + Existing Animal Name’, a customary naming method that requires a low degree of abstraction and analysis. North Korean lexicographers, however, termed ‘raccoon’ as 개곰 (kaykom ‘dog-bear’). In doing so, they seem to have coined a new word based on the observation that a raccoon resembles both a dog and a bear. A good test for a new coinage is how frequently it is used in other con- texts. Mikwuk nekwuli first appeared in South Korean English dictionaries
Conclusion
The historical use of Chinese characters has brought some clear benefits to the Korean language, but also some problems, especially for those lexi- cographers and linguists who work with it. The Japanese coined newer terms using pre-existing Chinese characters, and thanks to the use of numerous modern terms they have used from the late nineteenth century onwards, many concepts associated with modernity have entered the vocabulary and thought patterns of Koreans. One could argue that this process of lexical assimilation has contributed to the modernization of the Korean peninsula, especially as it seems likely that this same assimila- tion will continue to be beneficial to the East-Asian region over the long term. On the other hand, one of the main reasons why South Korea has repeatedly failed to create and preserve its own tradition in English- Korean translation is that it failed to resist the temptation of relying on
11 It appears both in the Choyŏng sajon, a medium-sized North Korean Korean-English dictionary published in 1987 and Choyŏng taesajon, a grand Korean-English dictionary published in 2002. The fact that kaykom has successfully secured its place in the Choyŏng sajŏn published in 1987 implies that the term had already been in existence before the compilation of the Yŏngjo taesajŏn published in 1992. But the creative nature of its coinage by North Korean translators of lexicographers does not change.
Japanese lexicography and its shared use of Chinese characters. What was initially advantageous to national development has become a millstone to South Korean lexicographers. North Korea, on the other hand, while it also copied Japan, relied more on its strong tradition of word creation and replacement in the name of ‘refining’ the lexicon, and showed a strong resistance to uncritical acceptance of a foreign model. This provides evidence that the North will create its own linguistic tradition. But will North Korea succeed in making its own way in English-Korean lexicogra- phy? This is a question that can only be answered in time, but the evi- dence discussed in this paper suggests that North Korean lexicographers have established a solid foundation upon which to develop a tradition of their own.
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Glossary
Chosŏnmal sajŏn 조선말사전 koyuŏ 고유어 Chosŏn munhwaŏ sajŏn 조선문화어 K’ŭn sajŏn 큰사전 사전 munhwaŏ 문화어 Chosŏn ŏhak 조선어학 Tatŭmŭn mal 다듬은 말 Chŏsŏn ŏmunhak 조선어문학 tŭl 들 Chosŏn wangjo sillok 조선왕조실록 ŭl 을 hanjamal 한자말 Yŏngjo sajŏn 영조사전 han’gŭl 한글
LITERATURE, PHILOSOPHY AND SOCIETY
Andrew David Jackson
Literature
Bill Skillend, originally a scholar of Japanese poetry at Cambridge, made his name with his research into early Korean novels, and with Skillend began a long history of investigation of Korean literature at SOAS that has greatly expanded in recent years. Korean literature in this collection is rep- resented by two papers that investigate contrasting aspects of literary endeavour. The first paper starts where the last section ended, with trans- lation, although the author focuses on the problem of literary recognition. In the context of the growing international awareness of modern South Korean popular culture (particularly music, film and television) one enigma is why recognition has not extended as far as older classical Korean litera- ture, which is regularly neglected in collections of world literatures. Hye-Joon Yoon, who presented his paper at SOAS in October 2011 while a visiting scholar, poses the question that one possible barrier is translation, and examines some of the particular problems of translating Korean clas- sical poetry of sijo into English. The second paper in this section mixes society, politics, history and lit- erature and examines a curious Korean literary phenomenon; a tradition of the Kubo novel written by different authors from different periods. Justyna Najbar-Miller presented her paper to the CKS in February 2013, and examines the representations of the Kubo character, reflecting on three formative periods in Korea’s recent history: the Colonial period, the Korean War and the authoritarian period of South Korean government.
Philosophy and Society
It is natural that SOAS, being an institution devoted to the study of Asia and Africa, should always have had a particular concern with the investi- gation of the customs and ideas of different societies. While broader anthropological or philosophical research is true of SOAS as a whole, it is less true of the CKS, which has stressed other aspects of Korean research. It is perhaps in part to compensate for a perceived lack of interest in these
Glossary
Sijo 時調 sǒng 性 Tasan 茶山 sim 心 Chŏng Yagyong 丁若鏞
Hye-Joon Yoon
Korean Literature and English Literature: The Obvious Disparity
This paper seeks to address an important issue in Korean Studies that tends to be evaded rather than addressed. The share of recognition classi- cal Korean literature possesses in the global republic of letters is unim- pressive when compared to other national literatures and when measured against the claims made for Korean culture’s venerable heritage. This is due to a large extent to an absolute dearth of appealing translations of its important works into English. The latter part of this paper looks in more detail at translation issues, focussing on translations of two sijo in particu- lar. But prior to that, a general discussion of the stakes and hurdles involved may not be out of place, considering the obvious disparity between the two literatures, Korean and English. One translates literary works out of love – perverted and mostly unre- quited love perhaps, but love nonetheless, since the sheer amount of labour and pain translators accept as their lot cannot be explained other- wise.1 Some may translate with a view to pecuniary gain, but the pay never quite matches the toil. The endless hardship of the work can be likened to that of a galley slave, chained to the oar, serving the pleasure of the cap- tain, in this case the original author, ceaselessly rowing until the destina- tion is reached. The glory and booty accrue to the author and not to the translator. The invisible wretch has little more reward than his own aching limbs, or if he has not been disabled yet, the prospect of more rowing. If this is love, then, let us pray to be free from it. But there are those accursed creatures who, professionally or otherwise, cannot extricate themselves from the clanking clutch of the chain. In my case, being a slave serving two masters, English Literature and Korean Literature, one flamboyant and prosperous, the other obscure but nonetheless exacting and sensitive,
1 This paper owes its birth to the Centre of Korean Studies seminar at SOAS on 28 October 2011. I thank Dr Jae Hoon Yeon, Dr Grace Koh and all the others who came to the seminar and offered helpful comments.
I chose to turn my abjection into affection, bordering on addiction prob- ably, shuttling between the two, hoping to please both. English Literature – that renowned, magnificent and palatial edifice – is a master or mistress who pays my bills and keeps my family fed, housed and clothed. There is no shortage of lovers offering service to him or her; lovers of all persuasions, hailing from all corners of the world. Korean Literature, on the other hand, commands my native attachment, the lan- guage and the tribe being my own, despite some minor aberrations in my biography. Lovable as she is, Korean Literature enjoys only a meagre share of recognition in the English-speaking world, if any: slim chance of running into her at Waterstones in the UK and shamefully low in the Amazon.com sales ranking. Even in the league table of subjects constituting Korean Studies, literature seems to occupy its lower regions. The British Library catalogue returns an overwhelming number of books on the Korean War when searched under ‘Korean’; the mainstream media loves to lampoon North Korea, while a good portion of YouTube and the blogosphere patron- izes Korean Pop. The success story of South Korea’s export-driven econ- omy courts envy, but Samsung and LG brands, true to their business instincts, do not always trumpet their national provenance. That Korean Christianity, both orthodox and heretical, has a global profile is not well known among secular westerners, but it commands greater respect than Korean literature judging by the Korean translation of the notice in St Paul’s Cathedral’s Sung Eucharist service booklet. No canonical insti- tutes in the literary world have granted comparable honour to Korean clas- sics: no single volume of Korean fiction has made it to the Penguin Classics list; no single work of poetry has been invited to the Norton Anthologies.2 Surely Korean literature deserves better courtesy than to be totally assigned to virtual invisibility? But what is this entity, object, or body called ‘Korean literature,’ or to narrow it down a bit more, ‘Korean classical literature’? Canonical English literature flaunts some renowned names that stand shoulder to shoulder to support the phalanx of its canon. Classical Italian literature, despite the fact that a unified Italian state did not exist until the 1860s, stands on the solid ground secured by the great
2 In the Norton Anthology of World Literature, which is widely used in university courses on ‘world literature’ in North America, classical texts of Chinese and Japanese literature are given due respects, but Korean literature before 1900 is solely represented (only in the full six-volume version and not in the shorter three-volume version) by a few pages taken from the ‘Song of a Faithful Wife, Ch’unhyang’, which has the honour of coming last in the col- lected samples of ‘East Asian Drama’ in Volume D led by two Japanese works and one Chinese author (Puchner 2012: 74–89).
Tuscan masters: Dante, Petrarch, and Boccaccio. Even Koreans’ ancient rivals the Japanese, as Koreans have to remember morosely each autumn when the Nobel Prize for literature is announced, have seen their literary output appreciated and acclaimed by the wider world, thanks not only to their economic might but also to continuous vernacular traditions such as monogatari dating from the ninth or tenth centuries. When or with whom does classical Korean literature begin? Who represents its greatest achieve- ments? We cannot attempt to broach these basic, broad, and baffling questions here, but they haunt any discussion of classical Korean litera- ture, however perfunctory or evasive the approach. Korean is an undoubt- edly ancient language, as old if not older than Japanese,3 but the written language, han’gŭl, is contemporaneous (1443–1446) with Sir Thomas Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur or Quattrocento Renaissance artists such as Donatello, early by western standards but infinitely younger than the spoken tongue it was devised to transcribe. Even after King Sejong’s mar- vellous invention and proclamation of the new phonetic alphabet, the land-owning literate elite chose to hold on to written Chinese, scorning their native alphabet as something below them and deriding it as amgŭl [female writing], fit for women only. Fit for women the new vernacular indeed proved to be. Of the two lyricists from the post-han’gŭl Chosŏn era who have demonstrated the poetic force of vernacular Korean in a manner comparable to the contri- butions of Petrarch or Chaucer to their native tongue, one is a woman – a kisaeng moreover; the other is Yun Sŏndo (1587–1671). But Hwang Chini (known to have lived and died in the first half of the sixteenth century) embodies all that is unique as well as universal about Korean classical poetry – its sustained melody, its compelling emotional thrust, and its sensuously concrete morphology – as superbly as Yun Sŏndo, com- ing a couple of generations later than her. One could do worse than to focus entirely on these two to identify one salient landmark of classical Korean literature.
3 This is of course not to ignore the severe difficulties of determining the ‘age’ of Korean language and of affirming its status as the ‘sole native language … spoken on the Korean peninsula’ (Lee 2003: 15). Peter Lee begins his history of Korean literature from ‘the fourth century bc Old Chosŏn’ (Lee 2003: 53), but admits nonetheless that the ‘Modern Korean (seventeenth to nineteenth centuries) and Contemporary Korean (twentieth century on) differ sharply from Middle Korean’ (Lee 2003: 18), and that ‘our knowledge of the evolution of Korean during the Old Korean period (prehistory to the tenth century) is seriously lim- ited’ (Lee 2003: 17).
‘East is East and West is West’
But how can one convince those readers of the translated works of Hwang Chini and Yun Sŏndo of their literary worth? If such an attempt fails, well then, the entire troupe of classical Korean poetry must pack up and return to the crowded peninsular. Even before considering the technical prob- lems of linguistic barriers, geographic distance between the cultures con- stitutes a redoubtable obstacle. When translated into English, cultures of the Far East can benefit from no ‘common textual grid’ (Bassnett 2007: 19) ensuring a minimal degree of recognition, unlike translations from French, German, Italian, or even Russian. Take that iconic (and laconic) statement opening the Analects (Lun Yü) by Confucius (Kǒng Zǐ), which surely occu- pies a key place in the ‘common textual grid’ of the literate tradition in the Far East: 學而時習之, 不亦說乎
Two translations of this sentence, available on the internet, offer plausible but not fully persuasive rendering: 1) ‘To learn and to practise what is learned time and again is a pleasure, is it not?’ (The Lun Yü in English) 2) ‘Is it not pleasant to learn with a constant perseverance and applica- tion?’ (Chinese Text Project) What suffices in Chinese proves insufficient in English, since ‘to learn’, used without any specific object, may sound sonorous in Chinese (or Korean) but vague in English. Faced with this translation, the innate Aristotelian mindset of English readers would urge them to respond, ‘Yes, perhaps, but it depends.’ First of all, at what point the said pleasure is yielded is not clear in the formulation: whether in the learning process or in the practising phase. The second translation seeks to pre-empt this question, but it seems to have belittled the clear temporal distinction between ‘學’ and ‘時習,’ which places learning in a separate, prior position in relation to the ‘constant perseverance and application’. Furthermore, one cannot but be curious as to whether all subjects are pleasant to learn or to practise, or only some of them are pleasant in either their acquisition or application. Dentistry, for example, would elude all of these possible cases, being rarely pleasant in the learning stage or in its professional application. The pleasure, if at all, comes after and outside the labour of pulling out rotten teeth, in spending money earned from the chore. Art history must be as delightful to learn as to apply that learning, for instance,
as a curator–except that job vacancies in the field are few and far between. The great master himself seems to have been aware of the possible irony that any learning inherently involves pain, that the monotony of ‘constant perseverance’ or repeating ‘time and again’ can rarely be joyous. The almost intimidating ‘is it not?’ (不亦) almost anticipates the sullen reac- tion of the majority of learners to his rhetorical question. Confucius/Kǒng Zǐ in translation has a different import and substance, then, from the origi- nal, which, moreover, is as often ‘experienced’ as framed brush calligraphy to be contemplated in silence, as analysed and debated. If a relatively lucid philosophical statement from a canonical East-Asian text risks being misapprehended or mistreated, the slippery, sensitive, and subtle belles lettres of the region should be prepared to face a fate far worse when transformed into western tongues. As John Balcom complains about the thankless task of translating Chinese literature:
East is East and West is West and never the twain shall meet. This is a feeling to which all translators of Chinese literature are at times subject. Readers or critics rarely understand the work of a translator of Chinese, in all its dimen- sions. Translations of literary works are generally evaluated solely on the merits of readability or to what extent the text reads as if it were originally written in English. However, to make a work of literature in Chinese come to life in English is a complex process that involves a scholar’s knowledge of Chinese language and culture as well as a profound knowledge and creative flair in the English. Each poem, essay or work of fiction presents unique problems for which a translator must find creative solutions. (Balcom 2006: 118) Substitute ‘Korean’ for ‘Chinese’ and the passage will sound absolutely apposite to those translators working on Korean texts. Particularly intimi- dating to them would be the requirement of ‘a scholar’s knowledge of … [Korean] language and culture as well as a profound knowledge and cre- ative flair in the English’. In acquiring the former, one tends to lose touch with the latter; in exhibiting the latter, one risks distorting the former. Poems, moreover, at least the very best ones worth remembering and reciting in their original versions or in translations, are self-contained, arcane, taut mini-universes each and every one of them, a ‘well-wrought urn’ as the old New Criticism of the past century put it. Each, therefore, ‘presents unique problems for which a translator must find creative solu- tions’, which no general theory or guideline can completely predict or prescribe. Translation across the great divide between East and West, then, is vir- tually impossible. But it is also possible, paradoxically, thanks to its very
The Question of Prosody
Translation, under whatever rubric and however ‘foreignizing’ it dares to be, can never escape the boundary of the pre-existing linguistic and cultural code of the target language, into which a source text is trans- ported. Moreover, translating a foreign verse, unless one opts to resort to prose paraphrase, involves making it look like poetry. This never happens
naturally. To believe that some poetic ‘essence’ would be detectable in any language is groundless. What defines the distinctive feature of poetry of any language does not concern us here. Debating whether the essence of poetry consists of a ‘poetic function’ inherent in language (as twentieth- century poetics had it) or resides in the ‘picture’ in words (ut pictura poe- sis, as wrote Horace in the first century) can be left to the more leisurely sort. For the translator, the shape or body of English poetry is what matters most, for otherwise the translated verse would not be recognized as such. Merely trusting the generous margins of printed pages to do the trick hardly justifies the cost of printing: poetry should be something better defined than a certain convention of making uneconomic use of paper. If poetry means verse and if verse means something different from prose, it has to have rhythm, a certain pattern of regularity in sound that informs the line division. English being a stressed language, the sound pattern of poetry in English follows its natural property, the most commonly used being iambic (unstressed + stressed), with trochaic (stressed + unstressed), anapaestic (unstressed + unstressed + stressed), and dactylic (stressed + unstressed + unstressed) adding variety to it. Each foot, in whatever for- mat, must have a stressed syllable, matched with one or two unstressed syllables, except for the ‘headless’ first foot of the opening line. Spondaic has two stressed syllables coming together, but it is used only as an excep- tional device, for the simple reason that English words or phrases typically do not sound like that. Two unstressed syllables in a foot does have a name, ‘pyrrhic’, but its appearance in English poetry, past and present, would be considered a bold deviation (Abrams 1999: 160–2). How conservative, if you will, English prosody is can be demonstrated by comparing an iconic stanza from Shakespeare’s sonnet sequence with a recent American ‘free verse’ (those in bold are stressed syllables, and forward-slashes mark each metrical unit):
Shall I / compare / thee to / a sum/mer’s day? Thou art / more love/ly and / more tem/perate: Rough winds / do shake / the dar/ling buds / of May, And sum/mer’s lease / hath all / too short / a date: Sometime / too hot / the eye / of hea/ven shines, And of/ten is / his gold / comple/xion dimm’d And ever/y fair / from fair / sometime / declines, By chance / or nat/ure’s chang/ing course / untrimm’d (Shakespeare 1987 [1609]: 32) Anyone, / growing / up in a / space you / hadn’t / used yet Would’ve done / the same: / bother the / family’s / bickering
to head / straight into / the chan/nel. My, / those times crackled / near a/bout us, from / sickly / melo/drama instead / of los/ing, and /the odd /confu/sion…con/fusion (‘Instead of Losing’, Ashberry 2012: 72–3) Whereas Shakespeare employs a steady iambic pentameter with minor variations (underlined above) used for emphasis (as in ‘Rough winds’), Ashberry, after almost five centuries and an endless list of great English poems, experiments with a more syncopated, uneven beat, with trochee (starting from ‘Anyone’) predominating rather than iambus. Even so, Ashberry self-consciously creates a certain metrical rhythm by distribut- ing stressed syllables strategically. The one glaring exception, underlined above, visually marked as such with ellipsis (‘confusion … confusion’) can dramatize the disturbed mind of the poet – confusion instead of losing the unpleasant past scenes entirely to amnesia – thanks to the overall regular- ity of other parts. English poetry has set up through centuries and across the oceans a fairly formidable standard of versifying. Can translation of Korean poetry into English, if it is to be considered a ‘rewriting’ or a ‘metapoem’, afford to ignore the written or assumed rules of English poetry, not to mention its numerous examples of enviably suc- cessful achievement? Yes, only when all pretensions to sound poetic have been jettisoned. Since no translator would consciously embrace such defeatism, the burden of making a Korean verse turned into English sound (and surely not just look!) like English verse can never be discarded. However, as we browse the more accessible translations of Korean classi- cal poetry, we find that Korean verse has been transformed into English poems which have little poetry in them. In Peter Lee’s History of Korean Literature, published by the venerable Cambridge University Press, Lee illustrates the greatness of the ‘Great Poet’ Yun Sŏndo by his own transla- tion of a short verse of Yun’s: 뫼는 길고길고 물은 멀고멀고 어비이 그린뜯은 만코만코 하고하고 어듸셔 외기러기는 울고울고 가나니 (Yun & Pak 2003: 238) A chain of mountains is long, long; waters flow far, far. Love for parents is endless and my heart is heavy. Far off, crying sadly, a lone wild goose flies by. (Lee 2003: 206)
Leaving the more decorous questions of diction or trope quite alone, one scans the translated verse, only to find little to convince the English reader of the poet’s greatness in its sound: A chain / of moun-/tains is long, / long; waters / flow far, / far. Love for / parents / is end/less and my / heart is / heavy. Far off, / crying / sadly, a lone / wild goose / flies by. The first three lines each stumble on an incomplete foot; most awkward is the third, ending with a single unstressed syllable (‘-less’). Iambic and tro- chaic meters emerge randomly, with only the last line attaining a notice- able regularity of iambus. Lee’s adherence to the letters of the original may be held responsible for the metrical disarray: the repetitions of ‘길고길 고’ and ‘멀고멀고’ have been rendered literally as ‘long, long’ and ‘far, far.’ Yet a rigorous principle of linguistic equivalence does not seem to have been consistently enforced either, since to ‘만코만코 하고하고’ and ‘울 고울고’ are assigned semantic counterparts of ‘endless,’ ‘heavy,’ and ‘cry- ing sadly’ which have no physical resemblance to the repeated units in the original. Considering how filial longing cannot hope to find sympathetic recep- tion immediately among British or American readers, the middle portion had to be given extra care. ‘Love for parents is endless,’ however, does little to make the sentiment appealing, while ‘my heart is heavy’ is really an unwarranted extrapolation (Yun Sŏndo’s ‘하고하고’ implies no such psy- chological self-diagnosis). Whatever Lee thought he was doing, the trans- lation seriously erodes the literary worth of the original. Considerably diminished, its ‘cultural capital’ hangs on feebly to the closing image of ‘a lone wild goose’ flying away. But surely it should be possible to capture the spirit of the original in a more self-conscious translation than this. (See my own translation in the Appendix to this paper, which sought to address the two tasks of recreating the repetitious sonority of the original and pre- senting the central theme of filial piety.)
Richard Rutt’s Yun Sŏndo
Classical sijo, such as the Yun Sŏndo piece discussed above, is musical poetry, above all else. It was meant to be sung rather than read aloud, much less scrutinized in silence. The repetitions so troublesome for English translators reflect that convention, facilitated by the natural
태산이 높다 하되 하늘 아래 뫼이로다 오르고 또 오르면 못 오를리 없건마는 사람이 제 아니 오르고 뫼를 높다 하나니 (Chŏng 1957: 508)4 Though they say the hills are high, yet they are still below heaven, By climbing, climbing, climbing more, there is no peak cannot be scaled, But the man who never tried to climb he says indeed the hills are high. (Rutt 2003: 195) Notable in this translation (first published in 1970), particularly when placed next to Lee’s translation of Yun, is the solid iambic tetrameter which conveys a sense of continuity of the long-breathed melisma of sijo chants, with just the right amount of variation mixed into it to keep it from sounding mechanical, as the underlined parts in the metrical analysis of the same shows: Though / they say / the hills / are high, yet they / are still / below / heaven, By climb/ing, climb/ing, climb/ing more, there is / no peak / cannot / be scaled, But the man / who nev/er tried / to climb he says / indeed / the hills / are high.
4 The sijo texts as given in the standard Chinbon Ch’ŏnggu Yŏngŏn version has been modernized, with word and line divisions added.
The ‘headless’ foot in line one, trochaic ending of the second, and the anapaest opening of the fifth line enrich the music of the translated poem. Apart from such fine prosodic recreation of sijo’s musical character, Rutt also sets an instructive model for translators of classical sjio by avoiding word-to-word equivalence to add or expand, when necessary, either for metrical or thematic purpose. The reticence of sijo in its ‘script’ form calls for such bold intervention on the part of the translator, for its explicit, assertive, and exclamatory style (in keeping with its sung format) demands a more verbose articulation rather than a literal equivalence. Sijo, in fact, has an expansiveness which should not be misconstrued into a ‘haiku’-like sparseness, although excessive wordiness may equally mar its poetic econ- omy. Rutt’s three lines (or six half-lines) do ample justice to the three-line form of sijo, each of which, to emphasize again, the chanter relishes for minutes before moving on. Such long breath surely condones supple- menting the translation with words and phrases to garnish and accentuate the sense implied or asserted in each line.
Translating Hwang Chini
The didactic sijo T’aesani Noptahatoe, however, having no convoluted imagery or wordplay melted into it, is a relatively simpler piece to grapple with. Many steps above it in poetic ingenuity, as well as in musical depth, stands Hwang Chini’s Tongchittal Kinakin Pamŭl. The central conceit holds the poem together wonderfully: the poet cuts off a chunk of cold winter night and warms it in her bed to spread it out when her lover comes to her. Pathos seasons this poetic conception: the singer is a kisaeng who has to cope with the unpredictable absence of her lover. Being a high-class well- educated demimondaine, she is no common prostitute, so she may choose to stay celibate sexually, merely offering her musical service to those cli- ents demanding her presence, until her favourite returns to her house. Missing, waiting, and longing – these universal emotions offset the intel- lectualism of the witty imagery which eloquently attests to the writer’s exceptional mind as well as her legendary charm. To this superb sijo Rutt gives the following rendering: 동짓달 기나긴 밤을 한 허리를 버혀내어 춘풍 이불아래 서리서리 넣었다가 어룬님 오신날 밤이어든 구비구비 펴리라 (Chŏng 1957: 420)
I will break in two the long strong back of this long midwinter night, Roll it up and put it away under the springtime coverlet. And the night that my loved one comes back again I will unroll it to lengthen the time. (Rutt 1971: 77) The metrical structure of the translation can be analysed as, I will break / in two / the long / strong back of this long / midwin/ter night, Roll it / up and / put it / away under the / springtime / coverlet. And the / night that / my loved / one comes back / again I will / unroll / it to length/en the time. Unlike in his translation of T’aesani Noptahatoe, consistency in prosody, indispensable for a reconstruction of the melodiousness of sijo chant, seems less perceptible. The first two lines both begin with anapaest, fol- lowed by iambic meter. The lines in the middle switch gear to trochaic and dactylic (‘under the’ and ‘coverlet’), which may have sounded less jarring had the final lines returned to ‘unstressed – stressed’ meters of anapaest and/or iambus. In a sense this transition is made in the fifth line, the first two feet being trochaic, and the remainder iambic and anapaest. But the anapaest of ‘one comes back’ severing the two iambic feet somewhat pushes the tune off key, and the division of the last line into two iambus and two anapaests is far too experimental to use on such a highly codified verse form as sijo. The formidable semantic or thematic task Hwang’s original imposes may have played a role in disrupting the musical regularity of the transla- tion. How to render ‘한 허리를 버혀내어’ is one hurdle, while recreating the onomatopoeic associations of ‘서리서리’ and ‘구비구비’ is another. Somewhat unexpectedly, Rutt misinterprets ‘한 허리를 버혀내어’ as ‘will break in two the long strong back.’ The original gives us an erotic con- notation attached to the winter’s waist, which ‘the long strong back’ patently lacks. More damaging still is turning ‘버혀내어’ (‘cutting’ as in ‘cut-and-paste,’ or ‘heaving or scooping something out’) into a ‘breaking in two.’ The broken backbone of midwinter’s night would carry little erotic value for the poet storing it for her lover. Nor can it be ‘rolled up’ under a ‘coverlet’: a piece of bone is far too stiff and dead for that. Of the second challenge presented by the parallel phrases of ‘서리서리’ and ‘구비구비’ the translator chose to handle it semantically, instead of trying to reproduce its musical and sensory attributes. Matching ‘roll’ with ‘unroll’
deserves applause perhaps, but ‘unroll it to lengthen the time’ sounds far too prosaic and explanatory. But can a translation into English of Korean traditional sijo, so different, foreign, and strange, be any better than that? What improvements can be made on it, if at all? A food critic, typically, need not be a good cook. He knows something about cooking, but it really is his sensitive palate and his writing skills that secure him his contracts. What about critics of transla- tions? Shouldn’t they have had some experience of the sorely trying task of translation? This question haunts translation studies, or should do, in my view, for generalizations about translation or critical assessments of other translators’ products need practical justification as to their neces- sity. What’s the point, if it does not lead to better translations? After all, readers read translation, and not criticism of translations. Thus, in lieu of conclusion, I humbly present my own translations of Yun Sŏndo and Hwang Chini (turned to five, instead of six, lines, to capture the spirit of the odd-numbered three-line form of the original). Brazen and shameless as it may appear, I do so really out of ‘love’ for the two literatures I straddle, risking calumny and derision. Translation is a painful labour of love, as I mentioned at the beginning of this paper. It should also be a negotiation between two distinct, and in this case disparate, literary canons. While ‘foreignness’ need not be shunned, the cultural status of the translated text deserves to find resonance in the translator’s choice of words and styles. To raise the profile of Korean classical literature, one may err less by sounding classicist rather than colloquial. Such were the thoughts that dictated my labour of translation. I leave it to the reader to judge the outcome.
Translations of Yun Sŏndo and Hwang Chini by Hye-Joon Yoon
1)Yun Sŏndo, Moenŭn Kilgokilgo Ridge upon ridge, the mount rolls boundless, Rippling, rippling, the stream flees far. Regrets and regrets gather to mounds For parents gone, their love unthanked. Forlorn flies a wild goose, cooing, crying 2)Hwang Chini, Tongchittal Kinakin Pamŭl, Of this night endless of midwinter One fulsome arm’s worth slice I shall, To warm it snug in my bed with vernal breeze, And when the night comes of my love’s visit, Spread it I shall, smooth and supple.
Bibliography
Abrams, M.H. 1999: A Glossary of Literary Terms. Orlando, Harcourt Brace College Publishers. Ashberry, John 2012: ‘Instead of Losing.’ In: John Ashberry, Quick Question. Manchester: Carcanet Press (Harper Collins). Balcom, John 2006: ‘Translating Modern Chinese Literature.’ In: Susan Bassnett & Peter Bush (eds.), The Translator as Writer. London, Continuum. Bassnett, Susan 2007: ‘Culture and Translation.’ In: Piotr Kuhiwczak & Karin Littau (eds.), A Companion to Translation Studies. Clevendon, Multilingual Matters. Ch’ŏng Chudong 鄭鉒東 (ed.), 1957: Chinbon Ch’ŏnggu Yŏngŏn 珍本 靑丘永言. Seoul, Shinsaeng munhwasa 新生文化社. Kim Hunggyu 金興圭, 1997: Understanding Korean Literature, trans. Robert J. Fouser. Armonk, NY, M. E. Sharpe. Kǒng Zǐ 孔子 (n.d.): Lun Yü 論語. The Lun Yü in English.
Glossary
Chinbon Ch’ŏnggu Yŏngŏn 珍本 kisaeng 妓生 靑丘永言 Kǒng Zǐ 孔子 Chosŏn 朝鮮 Lun Yü 論語 haiku 俳句 Monogatari 物語 han’gŭl 한글 sijo 時調 Hwang Chini 黃眞伊 Yun Sŏndo 尹善道
Justyna Najbar-Miller
Introduction
The Korean literary tradition known as ‘stories about Kubo’ (Kubo-hyǒng sosǒl) started in 1934, with the publication of a medium-length story by Pak T’aewǒn (1909–1986) entitled A day in the life of Kubo, the novelist (Sosǒlga Kubo ssi ǔi iril) in Chosǒn Central News (Chosǒn Chungang Ilbo). As the title may suggest, the work of Pak T’aewǒn presents one day in the life of a young Korean intellectual named Kubo, who lives in Kyǒngsǒng (Seoul) during the period of Japanese colonization. The original story became an inspiration for Ch’oe Inhun (1936~) and Chu Insǒk (1963~), who also wrote stories about a novelist Kubo. The term ‘stories about Kubo’ was first coined by Korean scholar, O Kyǒngbok, who distinguished four characteristics common to this category of Korean fiction. Firstly, Kubo is in every case a writer who observes Korean reality and tries to define his own place within that reality. Being single, Kubo remains a step away from so-called ‘real life’, which places him on the margins of Korean society. Secondly, each story – or each chapter within it – presents just one day in the life of Kubo. Thirdly, all Kubo stories are set in the city of Seoul and its surrounding areas. Finally, the main theme is leaving home and going out for a day (O Kyŏngbok 1999: 25–6). Despite the similarities mentioned above, each story about Kubo shows a uniqueness of style and each is particularly significant because all three writers choose to deal with different aspects of recent Korean history. In Ch’oe Inhun’s novel (Sosǒlga Kubo ssi ǔi iril, 1969–1972), which consists of fifteen chapters, the protagonist Kubo reflects not only on the colonial past but also on the Cold War, the division of the Korean Peninsula and the authoritarian regime of Pak Chǒnghŭi. On the other hand, Chu Insǒk’s novel (Sosǒlga Kubo ssi ǔi haru, 1995), which is composed of five chapters, describes the life of a novelist who lives in Seoul in the post-industrial society of the early 1990s.
All three Kubo writers come from markedly different personal back- grounds and have different personal characteristics. This is reflected in their portrayals of Kubo, as the protagonists bear a strong resemblance to their actual creators – Pak T’aewǒn, Ch’oe Inhun and Chu Insǒk. Kubo was Pak T’aewǒn’s pen name and his novel is believed to be partly autobio- graphical. There are also many striking similarities between Ch’oe Inhun and Chu Insǒk and their portrayals of Kubo. For instance, both Ch’oe Inhun and his Kubo are uprooted refugees from North Korea, while Chu Insǒk and his protagonist, who are both born in P’aju (South Korea), share the experience of pro-democratic activists. One vital question about the Kubo novels is why Pak T’aewǒn, Ch’oe Inhun and Chu Insǒk decided to endow their protagonists with the most crucial aspects of their own pasts. One answer to this enigma is that the ‘stories about Kubo’ were created in order to express the authors’ own Korean identities. The question of identity in relation to the Kubo charac- ter has been an under-explored area of research and most analysis of the Kubo novels has focused on their classification (in the studies by O Kyǒngbok and Han Hyŏngu for example), or on the meaning of creative writing and the role of a writer, as seen in analyses by Ch’oe Hyŏngsik, No Sangne and Na Ŭnjin. In this paper, I focus on the central characters themselves, trying to present them as subjective beings changing in time. To achieve this, I analyse the physical environment and bodily perception of all three using different categories of postcolonial theory, such as hybridization, mimicry, ambivalence and authenticity, as presented in Leela Ghandi’s Postcolonial Theory: A Critical Introduction. I also make use of Michel Foucault’s theory on the relationship between power and knowledge, arguing that all three writers Kubo are not simply ‘objects to be known’ but mostly ‘subjects who know’.
Pak T’aewŏn’s Kubo: A Medicalizing Body in Search of Identity
A representative Korean flâneur, Pak T’aewǒn’s Kubo is an unemployed young novelist who roams the streets of colonial Kyǒngsǒng, pursuing his interest in modernology – the study of modern trends and customs.1 Kubo goes out every day in order to observe the changing reality of Korea under Japanese occupation and records his observations in order to use them in
1 Modernology (jap. Kōgengaku, kor. Kohyǒnhak) – the term coined by a Japanese architect and cultural antropologist Kon Wajirō (1888–1973) to designate a field of study concerned with modern trends and customs.
the second stage of his creative process. Although the simple study of modernity seems to be the primary purpose of his city escapades, the Kubo’s observational wanderings largely reflect the process of searching for his own identity. At the beginning of the novel, Kubo leaves home, turning his back on his loving mother. His decision to leave the house without explanation may be interpreted as a desire to define the borders of his own subjectiv- ity. According to psychoanalyst Eric Fromm, ‘the mother is the house that we leave’ – the desire for motherly love is the strongest desire of a little child, but when a child is too strongly attached to its mother, its subjectivity cannot be clearly defined. In order to define the borders of its subjectivity, the child must enter the next stage of its psychological development, where the relationship with the father is the main one (Fromm 2006: 51). Kubo’s house, dark, quiet and full of stagnation, may be understood as a metaphor of pre-colonial Korean culture, which the protagonist seems to undermine. ‘Kubo liberates himself from the darkness of the house, which represents pre-modernity, in order to explore Kyǒngsǒng, which is the space of activity’ (Pang Kyǒngtae 2003: 130), and to experience the situation of dual colonization or double fathering. Being the subject of colonial discourse, which influences his perception of the world, he becomes the hybrid child of the Japanese Empire, which tries to bring western order to Korea.2 During his stroll, Kubo experiences the impact of western civilization and technology. There are elevators in the department stores, street cars circulating around the city and trains going to different destinations from Kyǒngsǒng station. Thanks to these western inventions, the obsta- cles created by long distances are removed. However, the city that Kubo explores is complicated – Kyǒngsǒng is divided into areas occupied by the colonized Koreans and those occupied mostly by the Japanese. The latter region is concentrated around Ponjǒng Street (today known as Myŏngdong and Ch’ungmuro), which is the very centre of colonial cultural life. Astonishingly enough Kubo completely ignores this area, which should be
2 Hǒng Hyewǒn notices that although Japanese people were never colonized, they were subconsciously dependent on western civilization and were considered as the Other of the western world. The Japanese plan to control Korea was the result of the desire to create their own Other and prove the dominance of Japan. However, in order to legitimize its colonial rule, Japan presented itself as the modernizer of Korea, colonizing Korea in the western way. In other words, Korea was in a unique situation of double colonization – it was colonized by Japan, which was a kind of western ‘semi-colony’, see Hǒng Hyewǒn 2005: 229.
3 According to Ch’oe Hyesil, Korean intellectuals were sitting in cafés or roaming the streets in order to show their social resistance against high unemployment, as most of the jobs were reserved for the Japanese people or pro-Japanese Koreans. Ch’oe Hyesil 1998: 182.
up his bohemian escapades, stay at home, devote his time to writing nov- els and care more about his mother who he has previously neglected. His decision reflects a metaphorical intention to break away from the colonial centre and expresses his Korean identity. Kubo discovers that as an unwanted child of the Imperial Empire he will always remain inferior in the colonial hierarchy. But he is no longer a child – thanks to his one-day stroll, Kubo becomes a man who is able to create a reality of his own. While Pak T’aewǒn’s Kubo reflects the psychological search for Korean identity during his stroll, the state of his physical well-being symbolizes his identity as a colonized Korean. As soon as he leaves home, Kubo feels tired and dispirited, suffering from a disease which recurs later and which he identifies as neurasthenia. He develops serious problems with his vision and hearing, which I argue signify the inability of Korean people to find a way forward. He tends to play down his health problems, asking himself: ‘Am I able to accomplish anything with this head of mine, with this body?’ (Pak T’aewŏn 2005: 111–12). Despite all these problems, Kubo manages to avoid any unfavourable events that his illnesses might bring about. Kubo’s attunement to his physical health may be interpreted as the very consequence of the medicalization of his body. Although the main purpose of medicalization is to treat patients and make them healthy, the binary opposition between doctor and patient entails a hierarchy, in which ‘doctor’ is the dominant term. That is why so many patients yield to the imposition of the diagnosis and start to feel worse than they actually should. According to Michel Foucault, ‘medical space can coincide with social space, or rather, traverse it and wholly penetrate it’. As a result of medical observation, a patient starts to evaluate himself using categories imposed by ‘doctors whose intersecting gazes form a network and exer- cise at every point in space, and at every moment in time, constant, mobile, differentiated supervision’ (Foucault 2003: 35). Interestingly enough, Kubo’s medical problems are diagnosed in the Government-General Hospital (Ch’ongdokpu Pyǒngwǒn)4 according to the standards of western medical knowledge. He is diagnosed with neurasthe- nia and is prescribed a mysterious mixture called samppisŭi.5 His vision is evaluated by an ophthalmologist, who discovers numerous blind spots on
4 After the annexation of Korea the Hospital of Korea (Taehan Ŭiwǒn), founded in 1907, was tranformed into the Government-General Hospital (Ch’ongdokpu Pyǒngwǒn). 5 The term samppisŭi literally means ‘water with three bromides’ (potassium bromide, sodium bromide and ammonium bromide). Bromides were frequently used as tranquiliz- ers in western medicine of the nineteenth and early twentieth century.
6 The majestic Government-General Building built by the Japanese in 1926 on the fore- ground of Kyǒngbokkung palace, symbolized the Japanese dominancy over Korea. As the majority of Korean people read the landscape of the Government-General Building and mutilated royal palace as one of national shame, it was finally demolished in 1995, in the fiftieth anniversary of the liberation of Korea, in order to ‘denaturalize this Japanese icon of colonial power and ideology’. Yoon Hong-key 2008: 303.
acts as a diagnostician as far as the diseases of others are concerned. This places him in the ambiguous and interstitial space between the opposing colonial categories; a destabilized space from which he can challenge the relationship of dominance. Through the appropriation of the medical and colonial discourse, Kubo symbolically resists the control of Japan over Korea and undermines the power balance of that dominance, showing determination and potential for the autonomous modernization of his country.
Ch’oe Inhun’s Kubo: A Janus-Faced Wanderer with a Thirst for Authenticity
Ch’oe Inhun’s Kubo, who lives in the Republic of Korea under the regime of Pak Chǒnghui in the late 1960s and early 1970s, is an uprooted refugee from North Korea who migrated to the South during the Korean War. Leaving home and family behind, Kubo was forced to think and act inde- pendently like a ‘silkworm, which got away from its cocoon’ (Ch’oe Inhun 1991: 20). Even twenty years later, he is unwilling to put down roots and prefers to consider himself a homeless wanderer as he seems to be con- vinced that settling down in the Republic of Korea would confirm the symbolic opposition between North and South. Kubo’s fate as a wanderer is reflected in his dream about two villages: the first submerged in the sea, the second hanging in the sky. Kubo tries to reach them but they are only a mirage, a false image of a distant place. The meaning of the dream is revealed on the same day, when Kubo leaves a Buddhist temple located on a mountain. He looks down at Seoul city ‘sunken in the sea of darkness’ and ‘hung in the sky of darkness desert’ (Ch’oe Inhun 1991: 73) and realizes that Seoul – the illusionary place he was heading to as a young refugee from the North – was the place that he tried to reach in his dream. Realizing the illusionary nature of the world, Kubo looks back at the temple, which gives him the possibility of retreat from an earthly life, but he rejects the idea of staying there, as he believes that the division between life and dream is a construct, and that people living in the temple become slaves of convention. In fact, as a Janus-faced intellectual, Kubo preaches restraint from any kind of conventional dualism, and the metaphor of the two-faced Janus reflects his attempt to reconcile contrasting ideas. Ch’oe Inhun himself has made previous reference to this Roman god in his essay Janus-faced literary works (Yanusŭ ŭi ǒlgul ŭl kajin chakp’umdŭl), published in a collec- tion of essays entitled Literature and ideology (Munhak kwa ideollogi).
Escaping the polarized debate between the advocates of pure and socially engaged literature initiated in Korea after the Second World War, Ch’oe Inhun judged that high quality literature, which resembles the two faces of Janus, should be both useful and entertaining (Ch’oe Inhun 1994: 233). The same view is shared by Ch’oe Inhun’s Kubo, who tries to be a Janus- faced novelist. Embracing the dual roles of socially engaged shaman and labourer con- cerned about the aesthetics of his work, Ch’oe Inhun’s Kubo believes that the opposition between North and South Korea is essentially an artificial construct solidified in the Cold War era by the world powers such as the USA, the Soviet Union and China, which were pursuing their own inter- ests. Kubo is shocked that despite the gradual reconciliation between world powers of opposing ideologies, North and South Korea remain in a state of war. He knows that unification will not be easy to achieve as the opposition between North and South is being strengthened by the South Korean dictator, who enforces curfews and censorship in order to solidify his power. South Korean citizens, who obediently confine themselves to the cages of their homes, are subjugated like animals Kubo sees in the Ch’anggyǒngwǒn Zoo. Ch’anggyŏngwŏn, the first modern zoological garden in Korea, was opened to the general public in 1909, and is an object of Kubo’s special attention. The colonial Zoo, situated in the grounds of the Korean royal palace Ch’anggyŏnggung, seems to be an obvious metaphor of the colo- nial situation.7 Walking through the Zoo, Kubo observes different animals, trying to define their characteristics. He finds peacocks similar to slaves taken from their homeland, while cranes and ducks – local birds caged in an aviary – remind him of Korean people who have been enslaved in their own territory and forced to follow foreign habits. On the other hand, exotic camels and ostriches remind him of the western castaways who arrived in Korea in the seventeenth century.8 Kubo accuses them of feigned ignorance as if he believes that they pretended to ‘discover’ new territories in order to win the right to the exclusive possession of these
7 The construction of Ch’anggyŏngwŏn zoo at the territory of the Korean royal palace Ch’anggyŏnggung has been considered in Korea as the Japanese act of profanation of royal majesty, aiming to destroy the Korean national spirit. Finally, in 1983 the government of South Korea removed the zoo to Kwach’ŏn near Seoul and Ch’anggyŏnggung palace was restored to its original appearance in order to recover national pride. 8 Ch’oe Inhun refers to Hendrik Hamel and his thirty-five companions, who arrived at Cheju Island in the seventeenth century. Although they were just accidental castaways, their ship belonged to the Dutch East-India Company, which profited from colonial activities.
lands. Interestingly enough, during his second visit in the Zoo, Kubo asso- ciates the feet of ostriches with wooden shoes worn by the Japanese – this fact helps to connect both camels and ostriches with the colonizers. So, by visiting Ch’anggyŏngwŏn, the ambiguous locus of colonial modernity, Kubo observes different animals, and they remind him of either the colonized or the colonizers. Through the juxtaposition of the dissimilarities between caged animals, he does not focus on physical dif- ferences between people of different nations and races. On the contrary, Kubo believes that people from the East and people from the West are descendants of the two-faced god Janus. However, at the same time he seems to doubt that different nations can peacefully coexist in one terri- tory, as people usually try to mark places with their own culture, beliefs, ideologies and symbols. Kubo himself feels threatened when he sees the Japanese flag on the building of the Japanese embassy, as he associates it with the colonial dominance of Japan over Korea. He feels even more threatened by the process of hybridization of Korea and Korean people, who despite the liberation of their country, still try to follow western patterns, unable to liberate themselves from the neo-colonial centre. Kubo discovers that the process of urbanization has made Seoul similar to western cities, and Korean women are trying to fulfil western standards in order to look like western women. Both Korean territory and the physical appearance of Korean people have become signifiers of a dominating western culture. Kubo decries this unconscious act of mimicry, observing that Korean women are not even able to achieve a perfect resemblance, becoming only cheap, fake local imitations. He is also ashamed of the spiritual atmo- sphere of his country, where people ‘have no regrets about substituting Tripitaka Koreana with nylon underwear’ (Ch’oe Inhun 1991: 15). In brief, Kubo believes that Korean people should liberate themselves from the colonial imprint by overcoming the compulsion to become part of the colonizing culture. Instead of learning patriotic slogans, they should secure the authenticity of their bodies and take care of key aspects of Korean national heritage such as Ch’anggyŏnggung palace, which many years after the liberation still serves as a zoo. Unfortunately, the hybridization of Korea seems to be inevitable, and Kubo himself is not even able to secure the complete authenticity of his own appearance – he has his hair cut short like western men. It had actually become quite uncommon for Korean men to tie the traditional top-knots on their heads by the beginning of the 1970s. However, when Kubo goes to a barber, he reminds himself of the Korean people who, at
9 The royal edict of King Kojong (1864–1907), which forbade Korean people to wear traditional top-knots, was issued on 30 December 1895 in the period of intensive western- ization of Korea. It was created by the Korean government but influenced by the dictate of Japan. The edict met with great social disapproval among Korean people as cutting hair contradicted the Confucian principle of hyo (filial piety) which forbade destroying one’s body, skin and hair.
able to liberate his body from the cage of his house during curfew hours, Kubo tries at least to liberate his mind from the cage of conventional think- ing. And as long as he continues his metaphorical journey to maintain his national identity, there is always symbolic hope for unification.
Chu Insŏk’s Kubo: The Body of a Rebel and his Unbearable Ambivalence of Living
Chu Insǒk’s novel presents Kubo’s life as the writer living in Seoul in the early 1990s. Being unable to adjust to the post-industrial era, Kubo con- stantly reflects on his personal past and the history of his nation. Unlike Pak T’aewǒn’s Kubo, the protagonist of Chu Insǒk’s story has no interest in modernology. His way of recollecting the past takes the form of archeo- logical research. Visiting different – mostly peripherial and forgotten – places, Chu Insǒk’s Kubo focuses on the fundamental elements of the architectual objects and streets in order to recover the past and recon- struct his memories. At the beginning of the novel, Kubo decides to visit his hometown, P’aju, which used to be a camp town of the US Army. His decision is a hard one, as Kubo initially cannot accept the fact that he comes from a place stigmatized by the American domination – as reflected in the relations between American soldiers and Korean prostitutes. He also cannot for- give his deceased father – a refugee from North Korea, sentenced for ille- gal trading in US Army supplies and the attempted murder of an American officer. After his father’s imprisonment, Kubo’s mother decided to move to Seoul, making it possible for Kubo to create a new identity by cutting himself off from his roots. Kubo’s journey to his birthplace does not reflect the process of recon- ciliation, but instead displays a strong opposition to his unwanted past, which ‘clings to him like phlegm’ (Chu Insŏk 1995: 27). Going back to P’aju after many years, he perceives this place in his mind as a ‘territory filthy like used chewing gum or ejected sperm’, which remained in his heart like a ‘disgusting stigma’ (Chu Insŏk 1995: 24). When he finally arrives at his destination, Kubo finds P’aju shrunken, dilapidated and musty, while the street leading to his house is little more than ‘a mouldy backstreet marked with the odour of the old folks’ piss’ (Chu Insŏk 1995: 38). Kubo’s disgust is intensified when he notices several dozen dead chickens at a local market. His feeling of repulsion is expressed physically – not only does he feel nau- seous, but he also breaks out in a cold sweat.
The young man also feels a strong sense of revulsion during his visit to a café, where he is subjected to the provocative advances of a hostess– prostitute. More importantly, the body of the prositute reminds him of his mother’s body. Although Kubo’s mother never prostituted herself, this kind of association reflects his sense of inferiority that comes from the fact that he was born in a camptown stigmatized by the domination of the USA over South Korea. It also proves that his hometown is nothing but a shamefully abject location, a place he has unsuccessfully tried to suppress in his memory. To summarize, the disgust felt by Kubo represents his opposition towards his rejected hometown, which poses a serious threat to his new Seoulite identity. Despite such initial denials, Kubo finally manages to confront his past and creates his individual narration about the history of his family, influ- enced as it was by the division of the Korean Peninsula and the uneven relationship between the USA and South Korea. He is able to effect that confrontation after he discovers an idyllic space on the very outskirts of P’aju, where he used to play as a child. Submerging himself in reveries of his innocent childhood filled with spacious rice paddies, blue sky, green grasshoppers and red dragonflies, Kubo gradually incorporates P’aju as an integral part of his personal subjectivity. Another important destination for Kubo is the dilapidated Sǒdaemun Prison10 where he was detained in 1985, accused of violating national security. From the beginning of the 1990s, former members of the anti- government opposition seem to be interested only in accumulating wealth; Kubo himself starts to question the sense of the social campaign of the previous decade, comparing it to an insignificant ‘road into wilder- ness’ (Chu Insŏk 1995: 85). He comes to the conclusion that his ‘open eyes’, symbolizing social awareness, led him to nothing but misery (Chu Insŏk 1995: 72). The visit to Sǒdaemun Prison helps him to regain his confidence about the importance of his participation in the democratization movement. After visiting the abandoned prison buildings and remembering his own past in one of the prison wards, Kubo comes to the execution site, where he imagines he can still hear the voices of executed prisoners. When he
10 Sǒdaemun Prison (Sǒdaemun Hyǒnmuso) was the first modern western-style Korean prison, which was built in 1908. After the liberation, the prison was used by the South Korean authorities as a penitentiary institution until 1987. In 1998 the prison build- ings were dedicated as the Sǒdaemun Prison History Hall (Sǒdaemun Hyǒngmuso Yǒksagwan) in order to commemorate Korean patriots, who took part in the indepen- dence movement.
tries to recollect their names and faces, the river of collective memory flows through him and he becomes a conduit to the past. Considering the fact that Sǒdaemun Prison was used to incarcerate not only demo- cratic activists from the 1980s but also independence fighters during the colonial period, Kubo becomes the medium for the victims of both colonial and military regimes, which seem to be intentionally balanced, and this is why Kubo is able to regain his pride as a member of the opposition. The spiritual experience at the prison does not completely subdue the sense of unbearable ambivalence felt by Kubo. Despite his difficulties in adjusting to the superficiality of postmodern South Korean society, where books became products like ice-cream or chocolate, Kubo does not have any particular goal in life. He starts to hold ambivalent feelings towards the South Korean military leaders, who contributed greatly to the eco- nomic development of Korea, even as they suppressed the freedom of the Korean citizens. Thanks to their leadership, unemployed Kubo does not have to worry about his survival – in the early 1990s there are no hungry people in South Korea. At the same time, the Korean literary world is in a state of stagnation; Kubo himself faces a serious creativity crisis, and tries to excuse his lack of creativity with the low temperature of his house, which is exposed to the cold wind. I would argue this Siberian wind, blowing down from the North, symbolizes the socialist ideas that influenced his development as a writer in the 1980s. By the early 1990s, however, he has become more concerned about the condition of his nearly frozen nose. Being unable to feel his nose, Kubo is afraid of losing control over the rest of his body. What is more, he strongly believes that the gradual degeneration of his body will result in him losing the ability to think. While his body and his mind seem to shrink dangerously, Kubo starts to consider himself as an insignificant person living beyond the parameters of ‘normal’ Korean society. Sitting unproductively at home, Kubo does not fulfil the criteria of being a ‘real citizen’ and a ‘real man’ – he is soft, irratio- nal and unproductive. His lack of productive action leads him to a crisis of gender identity, which is related to his unfulfilled social role. He con- cludes that he now resembles a woman as women do not need to play any active roles and are expected to be obedient and docile – just like Kubo. So eventually he expresses a wish to be reborn in a body of a woman and simply become a mistress. His growing frustration leads him to suicidal thoughts, which reflect his identity crisis. His strong political identity as a member of the opposition,
11 The coup d’état of 12 December 1979, was initiated by Republic of Korea Lieutenant General Chǒn Tuhwan, who supported by a group of millitary officials called Hanahoe, managed to take military and political control of South Korea. 12 Both Chǒn Tuhwan and No T’aeu were finally arrested in 1995 and accused of inciting the coup d’état of 12 December 1979 and the bloody pacification of Kwangju on 18 May 1980. Chǒn Tuhwan was sentenced to death and No T’aeu to life inprisonment but they lodged an appeal and were finally granted a pardon. 13 According to popular Korean Buddhist beliefs, after death people are summoned before the Ten Kings of the Dead (Myǒngbu siwang) who serve as the judges of the underworld. 14 Yi Kŭnan (1938~) earned his reputation of an ‘engineer of torture’ due to the exep- tional cruelty performed during his work as an inquiry officer at the Kyǒnggi Province Police Headquarters in the 1980s.
Despite the surrealistic nature of his experience, Kubo – brutally tortured by the people in power – paradoxically recovers his sense of dignity. Drawn from the peripheries of social and political life into the very centre of the events, Kubo is able to confirm his shattered identity as a member of the opposition and decides that his future creative work will be focused on exposing the unresolved aspects of Korean history. Although his jaw is dislocated and his right hand is twisted, Yi Kǔnan’s attempt to keep him silent proves unsuccessful when it ironically turns out that Kubo is left-handed. As the anthropologist Robert Hertz once observed, while the right hand is the symbol of aristocracy, the left hand symbolizes all common people (Hertz 1960: 89). It is the right hand which receives favours from heaven, while the power of the left-hand is occult and illegitimate (Hertz 1960: 104). Such diffrentiation between two hands used to be a consequence of dualistic thought, where the world is split into two contrasting spheres. Chu Insǒk also makes use of this polarity, but he reverses the hierarchy, displacing the pole of dominance and enhancing the superiority of the left hand. Kubo’s left hand, which becomes his weapon of dissent, symbolizes the power of a rebel rising against illegitimate power.
Conclusion
Although all three incarnations of Kubo differ from each other, their hard- won voyages of self-discovery reflect social engagement and serious effort to expose the most problematic aspects of Korean history. Their wander- ing bodies not only reflect the wondering nature of their minds but also act as very important tools of self-expression, revealing political con- sciousness and placing them within the constraints of the physical world. While the flâneurie of Pak T’aewon’s Kubo unravels a landscape of social injustice during the Japanese occupation of Korea, his sick and emascu- lated body, which is subjected to medical treatment in a Government- General Hospital, symbolizes his inferior status as a colonized Korean. However, his scrupulous observation of the colonial situation and ability to refract Korean society through a lens of medical metaphor show the ability of Korean people to modernize their country autonomously whilst simultaneously threatening the establishment of colonial paradigms. The wanderings of Ch’oe Inhun’s Kubo reflect his desire for the unifi cation of the Korean peninsula as he refuses to settle down, trying to preserve his neither-North-nor-South-Korean identity. His restless body
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Glossary
Ch’anggyŏnggung 昌慶宮 Kyǒnggi 京畿道 Ch’anggyŏngwŏn 昌慶苑 Kyǒnghoeru 慶會樓 Ch’oe Inhun 崔仁勳 Kyǒngsǒng 京城 Ch’ongdokpu Ch’ŏngsa 總督府廳舍 Myǒngbu siwang 冥府十王 Ch’ongdokpu Pyǒngwǒn 總督府病院 Myŏngdong 明洞 Ch’ungmuro 忠武路 No T’aeu 盧泰愚 Chǒn Tuhwan 全斗煥 P’aju 坡州 Chosǒn Chungang Ilbo 朝鮮中央日報 Pak Chǒnghŭi 朴正熙 Chu Insǒk 朱仁錫 Pak T’aewǒn 朴泰遠 Ginza 銀座 Ponjǒng 本町 Hanahoe 하나會 samppisŭi 三 B水 Hyo 孝 Sǒdaemun Hyǒngmuso Yǒksagwan 西大 Kohyǒnhak (jap. Kōgengaku) 考現学 門刑務所歴史館 Kojong 高宗 Sǒdaemun Hyǒnmuso 西大門 刑務所 Kon Wajirō 今和次学 Taehan Ŭiwǒn 大韓醫院 Kwach’ŏn 果川 Tonga Ilbo 향亞日報 Kwangju 光州 Yi Kŭnan 李根安 Kyǒngbokkung 景福宮 Yomna Taewang 閻羅大王
Daeyeol Kim
Introduction
Chŏng Yagyong (1762–1836), or Tasan, one of the representative figures from the late Chosŏn period who criticized the idealism of Chosŏn Neo- Confucian learning, looked forward to re-establishing a Confucian world- view that would be inseparably united with life and action. His deist interpretation of Sangje or ‘Lord on High’ as being moral and sensitive to human affairs provides an ontological basis to his theory on original human nature. He defines human nature, which everyone is granted, as myǒng (‘decree’), in terms of kiho (‘moral inclination’). It is the latter that gives human beings the impulse necessary to self-realization. To the Neo- Confucian theory that aims at understanding and developing li (‘pattern’)1 inherent in the universe and to the human being, he substitutes a theory that, according to him, allows us to act and realize the Confucian ideal through practices and human relations. This paper aims to present some broad outlines of Tasan’s Confucian thought around the concepts of sǒng (‘nature’) and sim (‘heart/mind’). His deistic interpretation of the Lord on High as being sensitive to moral and human affairs allows him to give an ontological foundation to his theory on sǒng, or the original ‘nature’ of the human being. In the Confucian tradition, the notion of sǒng is constantly related to the way we understand the fundamental character of the human being, on which the theory of self-perfection depends. While the Cheng-Zhu school2 proposed sǒng to be the basis of any human act, some Chosǒn scholars of
1 ‘Li is the pattern or principle connecting the natural and social worlds, the foundation for unity between Heaven and human. Li became the keynote of the philosophical, cultural and spiritual revival known in East Asia as li xue and in English as Neo-Confucianism.’ See Xinzhong Yao 2003: 354. 2 ‘The School of the Cheng Brothers and Zhu Xi: the group of Neo-Confucian scholars who developed the Learning of the Way of Zhou Dunyi (1017–1073), and the Learning of Principle of the Cheng Brothers and found its full articulation in Zhu Xi.’ See Xinzhong Yao 2003: 63.
3 The Rites Dispute of 1659 and 1674 erupted over the degree of mourning that should be held for one Chosŏn king. For further details, see Haboush 1999.
faction became embroiled in controversies, and struggled against ideo- logical dogmatism and their estrangement from the everyday affairs of the Chosŏn Cheng-Zhu school, bureaucratic orthodoxy, rigidity and political monopoly of the faction in power and corruption of the ruling class. In particular, the Noron, often in power, and the Namin, often excluded from the political sphere, differed in their views on the status of the mon- archy in relation to the class of scholar-bureaucrats. In the spirit of primi- tive Confucianism, the greatest wisdom is innate and monarchical authority is given by heavenly decree. When a scholar agrees with his monarch’s political orientation, he serves as a minister or an adviser. Otherwise, he leaves the government or even the country. But Zhu Xi’s Neo-Confucianism provided the literati class with another worldview. According to this new system of thought, it is the scholars who come to understand li, hence the myǒng, through study. Therefore the monarch should be able to point out excellent scholars and put them in charge of decision-making posts within the government. And if the monarch has strayed from the Way,4 his legitimacy can be questioned and the scholar group may consider a radical method to re-establish the correct way of governing. This means that monarchical status is no longer absolute and the crown’s authority must submit to li. Following Zhu Xi’s Neo-Confucian ideology, the Noron did not grant the king a special status even within a ritual system, while the Namin, who attempted to regain the original Confucian spirit, recognized the royal special status. During the seventeenth century the Noron were often in power, and the autocratic government by one party resulted in the weakening of royal power. Since the beginning of his reign, King Yŏngjo (r. 1724–1776) had initiated his Policy of Impartiality (T’angp’yŏng ch’aek) to reinforce the king’s authority and to suppress inter-factional disputes. However, the logic of his policy was based on the problematic situation of that time, and lacked the power or foresight to change fundamental visions concerning royal authority. It was his successor, Chŏngjo (r. 1776–1800), who applied himself to providing a theoretical base to his own Policy of Impartiality, which had a new orientation. His stance on the matter of monarchical authority was that the ideal ruler is one who is at once a sovereign prince and an accomplished scholar, because such a person is in the proper posi- tion for governing and has the necessary wisdom, like the sage kings of
4 ‘Way’ here translates the term ‘to’ which means literally ‘road’ or ‘path’, and can also indicate metaphorically a way of thought, conduct, governance, and so on. The ‘Way’ refers more expansively to a way of ultimate concern or the way the universe itself operates. See Xinzhong Yao 2003: 177.
Ancient China. If he established a special lecture programme in which young scholar-bureaucrats answered questions on Confucian classics set by the king himself, it could be used for the purpose of convincing his subjects of his theories. It was during this period that Tasan was a student at the Sǒnggyungwan (National Confucian Academy); this was before he became a young scholar-bureaucrat favoured by the king, who encouraged him in his learning and had political and academic influence on him. This initial orientation of Tasan’s thought would remain in place right up to his last work on Classics.
Tasan
Tasan was born in 1762 into a family that lived by the upper reaches of the Han River in Kwangju County, Kyŏnggi Province. In his childhood, he studied historical writings and the Confucian classics with his father, who held positions as a regional magistrate. By the time he had reached the age of twenty-one (1783), he was a student at Sŏnggyungwan, he had already attracted King Chŏngjo’s attention and had been granted special favours for his talents and knowledge of the classics. Tasan spent eleven years of his life in various public offices, eighteen years in exile and another eighteen years in retirement. From the age of twenty-seven to thirty-eight, he held several key posts in central govern- ment and was responsible for various assignments. His entourage was part of the Namin faction. This group enjoyed the protection of King Chǒngjo during his reign, and the king showed a special friendship to Tasan until his last days. But after the death of Chǒngjo, the Noron returned to power and Tasan was then sent into exile because of his involvement in scandals related to the spread of Catholicism. Despite the royal protection he had enjoyed throughout his life, Tasan was victim of political manoeuvring by some literati from the opposite faction, who prevented his promotion and opposed his recall to the court after his exile. Tasan considered that the society of his time had serious problems but the greatest of these were the tyranny and corruption of officials and the famine that was raging among the people. In several poems he wrote while living in direct contact with the people, particularly on the absurdity generated by an unjust social system and a corrupt, incompe- tent and weak ruling class, he expressed his compassion for the suffering people. Faced with a situation he considered hopeless, Tasan developed a reformist way of thinking.
During his eighteen years of exile, Tasan devoted all his time to study and wrote many books. His works focus essentially on the exegesis of the Confucian classics and on the close examination and study of the political system. His research on a theory of self-perfection was based on exegesis of the classics as well as their interpretation of the concepts of sǒng and sim. The first phase of study was for him to regain the spirit that permeated the classics in order to regain the Way. The latter served as a li for the control of sim. He also put particular emphasis on the need to return to the spirit of the classics of the pre-imperial period. Priority was thus given to the Six Classics and not to the Four Books.5 Tasan sought to restore a worldview that was closely united to life and action. Under the influence of various contemporaneous currents of thought, and by differing from the Cheng-Zhu Neo-Confucian school in some respects, he reinterpreted the concept of sǒng and sim with an approach based on the concrete and real social needs of his time. For Neo- Confucian theory, which aimed to understand and develop li inherent to the universe and the human being, he had substituted a theory that would allow man to act and achieve the Confucian ideal through practice and human relations.
The Lord on High and the Origin of Ethics
In an era of disillusionment with the ideology of Neo-Confucian Chosǒn, and first encounters with sciences and religion of the west (from the seventeenth century onwards), some scholars sought to regain the spirit of Confucian origins. They criticized the philosophy and outlook of the Korean Cheng-Zhu school, which they considered too speculative and dogmatic. They sought new interpretations of the classics and new systems of socio-political organization. Among them, some were stimu- lated by the criticism of Neo-Confucianism by western missionaries – Christianity had been known by the Korean scholars since the early seven- teenth century. Under the influence of the theory advanced by the
5 The ‘Six Classics’ include the Book of Poetry (Sigyǒng), the Book of Documents (Sangsǒ), the Book of Changes (Yǒkkyǒng), the Book of Rites (Yegi), the Spring and Autumn Annals (Ch’unch’u) and the Book of Music (Akkyǒng). The ‘Four Books’ (Sasǒ) include the Great Learning (Taehak) and Doctrine of the Mean (Chungyong), chapters of the Book of Rites, with the Analects (Nonǒ) and Mencius (Maengja). Altogether, these books are considered to contain the cornerstones of Chinese Confucian philosophy. See Xinzhong Yao 2003: 382 and 573.
6 YC (4) 2:3, ‘Chungyong chajam’ (1) 5a:7–8, which stands for: Yǒyudang chǒnsǒ 與猶堂 全書 (vol. 4), che 2 chip 第2集, che 3 kwǒn 第3卷, ‘Chungyong chajam’ 中庸自箴, kwǒn 1 卷1, 5a:7–8.
universe. The deity does not share this feature with human beings. Secondly he is of such perspicacity that he is able to penetrate the heart and mind of man. This character he shares with man and the spirits. The perspicacity of the Lord on High is immanent in human beings and contributes to shape their sǒngmyǒng (‘original nature’). The spiritual perceptiveness of Heaven penetrates straight to man’s heart/ mind. There is nothing subtle it couldn’t observe, there is nothing tenuous it couldn’t illuminate. It lights up the room and keeps watch over us here every day. By being aware, even a bold man could not fail to be fearful and rever- ential [towards Heaven]. (YC (4) 2:3, ‘Chungyong chajam’ (1) 5b:4–6) The perception of the Lord on High was in his omniscience; that of man in his morality. The Lord on High was the supreme good, and therefore the model and foundation of any moral value. He was also the one who urged man to good and punished evil. So he was a being that allowed a moral awareness, which in turn allowed people to recognize the Lord on High. What [the Lord on High] attributes to the nature of the heart/mind so that man turns to good and away from evil, it is the heavenly decree. When [he] observes here and now to reward good and punish evil, it is also the heav- enly decree. (YC (6) 2:14, ‘Nonǒ kogǔmju’ (8) 39a:10–11) When man is conceived in the embryo, Heaven gives him the immaterial potential/ability of consciousness. Its nature is to take pleasure in doing good and in having an aversion to evil, to love the virtue and to feel ashamed of vice. (YC (4) 2:3 ‘Chungyong chajam’(1) 2b:7–8) Tasan stressed the importance of ‘knowing Heaven’ and ‘serving Heaven’ through human relationships, in other words by the fulfilment of moral responsibilities (YC (4) 2:3, ‘Chungyong chajam’ (1) 19b:9–20a:3.) This can be clearly seen in this statement: ‘To search for the heavenly decree in the original heart/mind, is the study of the sage who serves the Heaven.’ (YC (4) 2:3, ‘Chungyong chajam’ (1) 4a:1–2.)
The ‘Original Human Nature Decreed by Heaven’ (Sǒng)
The founders of Neo-Confucianism such as Zhu Xi associated this ‘nature’ with Heaven and li (here it can be understood as ‘principle’) and claimed
Thus Tasan did not see original ‘nature’ in the same way as the scholars of the Cheng-Zhu school. He refuted the notion of li set down as the princi- ple by the Cheng-Zhu school and he also refuted the idea that ‘nature is principle’ (sǒng chǔk li). According to this school, what is formless is li (‘principle’) and what has a form and substance is ki (‘breath’), so ‘nature’ decreed by Heaven is ‘principle’ and the ‘seven emotions’ are the ‘breath’. For Tasan, Cheng Yi (1033–1107) was wrong to think that ‘heart/mind’, ‘nature’ and ‘heaven’ are only a single ‘principle’ (sim sǒng ch’ǒn il li). He doubted that there would be any ancient written proof that could have lent credibility to this assertion. If we tie up ten thousand differences to identify them in one and then [we separate them] to form a chaos, it would be impossible to think and discuss, divide and distinguish things and affairs of the world. We might consider as a supreme prodigious way the practice that consists of resting the ‘heart/ mind’ in the dark and indistinct, and keeping it quiet and still. Was this Confucius’ way of thinking? (YC (4) 2:6, ‘Maengja yoǔi’(2) 38a:12–38b:1) Moreover, he stressed that li could not be the foundation that provided man with his original sǒng. For him, it was impossible to speak of morality based on an impersonal cosmic principle. On the interpretation of the fol- lowing passage from the Zhongyong or Doctrine of the mean: ‘What Heaven has decreed is called sǒng’, Tasan rejected Zhang Zai’s (1020–1077) notion of Heaven that defined the ch’ǒn (‘Heaven’) as t’aehǒ or the ‘Supreme Empty’. Similarly, li or ‘the reason something is what it is’ (so i yǒn) that was for Zhu Xi the foundation of ethics, this impersonal ‘principle’ with- out conscience and sense could not judge human thoughts and behaviour. Therefore, it could be neither a model nor a foundation of morality. For Tasan, the ch’ǒnmyǒng (‘Heavenly Decree’) was the command of the Lord on High and the sǒng (‘original nature’) specific to man was not li (‘prin- ciple’) imparted to every human being but the gift of a moral potentiality, an inclination towards goodness. What is ‘li’? It has neither affection nor hatred, nor joy nor anger. It is empty, without name, without body. Although we received sǒng from this, it will be hard to see it as the Way. (YC (4) 2:6, ‘Maengja yoǔi’ (2) 38b:1–2) However, as desire and joy are chǒng (‘emotions’), one might wonder if sǒng (‘nature’) can also be interpreted as a part of chǒng. On this issue, Tasan separated sǒng from chǒng because their origins are different. For him, they differed from one another because sǒng is received from Heaven and chǒng comes from the human being.
Emotion is a product of humanity. Therefore it can be good or bad. The incli- nation of sǒng is received from Heaven and there is only good without evil. How can we put them in the same category? (YC (4) 2:6, ‘Maengja yoǔi’ (2) 21b:7–8) For Tasan only moral inclination, which every human being was invari- ably and impartially granted by the Heaven, could be deemed sǒng (‘nature’). Once the moral inclination was limited to and dependent on myǒng (‘The fate of individuals’), then it was no longer sǒng (‘original nature,’ YC (4) 2:6, ‘Maengja yoǔi’ (2) 50b:3–5). While moral values and powers were, by nature, desired by everyone, there may be circumstances or social positions that did not facilitate their implementation. Yet Tasan encouraged not using particular situations as a pretext to relinquish one’s moral vocations. Man cannot dare not to stake all his heart on the pretext of not falling at the right time, or not being in the right situation. Moral duties to be observed between father and son, and between sovereign and subject, the way to be followed in respecting guests and appreciating sages, and the rectitude of heart venerating the Way of Heaven, all come from the chǒnsǒng (‘original nature decreed by the Heaven’). We cannot change it on the pretext of not having the same fate. Therefore a good man does not refer to his fate. (YC (4) 2:6, ‘Maengja yoǔi’(2) 51a:4–7)
The ‘Heart/Mind’ (Sim)
As to the concept of sim (‘heart/mind’), Tasan generally adhered to the broad outlines of the Zhuxist tradition. The sim is the ‘original self’ (pon yu chi ki); it governs the body and provides the ability to think. It consists of two separate components: tosim or the ‘heart/mind of the Way’ and insim or the ‘human heart/mind’. The first corresponds to ‘what is great’ (taech’e) in the human constitution, linked to the idea of sǒng as decreed by Heaven. It represents desire to stay on the Way and follow its inclination towards good. The second covers ‘what is lesser’ (soch’e) in human being’s constitu- tion, linked to the ‘breath of life and matter.’ It is carnal desire, selfish desires like self-interest and the self-esteem, and follows the natural incli- nations every man has to survive. Desire is both dangerous and powerful. Man acts according to his desires, without which he would accomplish nothing in the world. When a human being feels inside himself two opposing desires, when a conflict between the ‘heart/mind’ of the Way and the human heart/mind occurs, it is the harbinger of the separation of good and evil. At this moment, thanks
to the ‘heart/mind’ of the Way, man can distinguish right from wrong, love virtue and succeed in sacrificing his life to keep intact his moral virtue. What the ‘lesser constitution’ desires and the ‘greater constitution’ pro- hibits, and when that which prohibits controls that which desires, we call it self-discipline. But the ‘greater constitution’ and the ‘lesser constitution’ form together the self. Therefore, the question of value judgments and moral responsibility becomes deeply and vitally important. If Song and Ming scholars emphasized more the moral nature of the ‘heart/mind’, its original goodness, and its cosmological valences whereby it was associated with the ‘Supreme Ultimate’ (t’aegǔk) and the movement of yin and yang, Tasan’s original approach to the concept may have rested in the fact that he put a particular emphasis on the moral responsibility that he placed on the ‘heart/mind’ (Xinzhong Yao 2003: 687). He stressed in his philosophical works that it is neither in ‘nature’ nor in the body but in the ‘heart/mind’ that the origin of moral responsibility must be sought. For if man were programmed to do nothing but good, he could achieve no merit for the good he did; if he were programmed to do only evil, he might receive no criticism for the evil that he committed (YC (6) 2:15, ‘Nonǒ kogǔmju’(9) 12a:4–11). For Tasan, a moral question arose which could be settled in the ‘heart/ mind’. Heaven has invested man not only with a ‘nature’ that prefers good but also with the ability to choose it. The human ‘heart/mind’ is given a right to decide independently. Man can do good with his original ‘nature’, but he can also set out in another way. Given his capacity to judge and his freedom to choose between good and evil, moral responsibility is incumbent upon him. Tasan dwelt on the following idea: virtue is not con- tained in original ‘nature’; good is not realized automatically by ‘nature’; instead they are commands from Heaven; and man can have his merits or commit misconduct, according to his decision to follow or disobey this command. Tasan reminded all of us about the moral responsibility of our ‘heart/ mind’, which is master of thought and able to judge, to want and to act. He blamed evil on the ‘heart/mind’ that sinks into ‘vice’ (hamyak) or succumbs to carnal or selfish desire. He put emphasis on man’s will and autonomy in relation to virtue, and on the human relationship under- stood as a way by which man realizes virtue (YC (4) 2:6, ‘Maengja yoǔi’(2) 21a:11–23b:6). This freedom of choice and of action, the possibility to be good or bad, reflects the instability and the anxiety that inhabit the human ‘heart/ mind’. In the eyes of Tasan, man in his human condition could only poorly
Virtue and Self-Perfection
Almost every moral reflection in Tasan converged on matters of ‘action and conduct’ (haengsa) which was for him as important as those of suc- cessful self-perfection. According to him, self-perfection aimed to ‘serve Heaven’ and ‘attain the heavenly virtue’, and it was realized only with the accomplishment of ethical responsibilities through human relations. This effort for self-perfection consisted of several phases: coincidence of the ‘human heart/mind’ and the ‘heart/mind of the Way’ on a concrete event, awareness of the conflict of these two hearts/minds, and choice made through moral reflection and then put into practice. With Tasan, who on this subject followed the interpretation of Yun Hyu (1617–1680), the notion of virtue was diametrically displaced in relation to other concepts in the structure of Neo-Confucian moral theory. Pivoting upon the concept of original ‘nature’ that we saw earlier, the theoretical schema on self-perfection was inverted, virtue was no longer at the level of ‘principle’ or of the original ‘nature’ of the ‘heart/mind’, but at the level of actions and their consequences. If Tasan rejected the concept that embod- ies virtue in original ‘nature’, it was also because for him the distinction between good and evil could be made only in the context of human rela- tionships. Following the interpretation of his predecessor Yun Hyu, he considered virtue as the fruit of the development of moral inclinations, acquired a posteriori. What exists in the ‘heart/mind’ is the moral desire as potential virtue. Virtue presupposes action and involves all of the fol- lowing constituent phases: the original ‘nature’ of the ‘heart/mind’, its manifestation through the ‘heart/mind of the Way’, and its choice and action. What might be called ‘virtue’ was a fulfilment, a realization or externalization of probity that was obtained through moral action. In its classical sense, the term of virtue meant nothing other than the practice of social norms, such as filial piety or fraternal respect. Confucius and
Mencius frequently compared the attainment of virtue to the task of self-perfection. Similarly, Tasan only admitted performed virtue, thus restricting the method for self-perfection to moral practice. Initially there is no virtue in the ‘heart/mind’, if not the nature of righteous- ness (or honesty). We refer to ‘virtue’ when we put into practice what the right ‘heart/mind’ decides. [The constitution of the character tǒk shows that it is a matter of implementing the right ‘heart/mind’]. The word virtue only can apply to good acts done. Before acting, how can we have our moral force shining? (YC (4) 2:1, ‘Taehak kongǔi’(1) 8a:1–2) For Tasan, li (‘moral principles’) was not a priori included in sǒng (‘the human original nature’). Where were then the notions of sadan or ‘four sprouts’ placed – or ‘four beginnings’: compassion, shame at evil, respect, discerning right and wrong - which were expressions of li? He interpreted the expression ‘four sprouts’ as follows: a ‘germ’ (tan) corresponds to the departure of the ‘heart/mind’ toward the implementation of the virtues; a thinker chooses good for himself and puts it into practice; from that point one can speak of the virtues. To highlight the effort to be made to achieve the decision of the ‘heart/mind’, Tasan distinguished moral decision from moral action, and recalled that the four Confucian virtues, in (‘humane- ness/humanity’), ǔi (‘rightness/righteousness’), ye (‘ritual/property’), and chi (‘wisdom’), designate achievements, acts of good, as mentioned above. In the expression from the Great Learning, ‘causing to shine’ is achieved not by linguistic explanation but by actions and conduct (YC (3)1 Simunjip18, ‘Sang Kamwǒn sǒ’, 40a:6–7). Tasan also redefined the idea of self-perfection in terms of social engagement through moral practice. An ancient interpretation of the character in, which is defined as the relationship between two people, allowed him to advance the idea that virtue in is achieved only in the meeting of people and it is only thanks to interpersonal relationships that one can improve oneself. The ancient Confucian disciples – disciples of the Cheng-Zhu school said Tasan, considered the Classic – Great Learning – as a [treaty on] the method to regulate the ‘heart/mind’ and the nature. But the ancient Sages had con- sidered the regulation of ‘heart/mind’ and the nature as a matter of practice, and it cannot be out of human relationships. (YC (4) 2:1 kwǒn, ‘Taehak kongǔi’ (1) 13a:9–10)
What does our Way consist of? This is nothing more than to excel in between us. (sǒn ǒ che, YC (5) 2: 13, ‘Nonǒ kogǔmju’ (7) 43b:9)
He also replaced Cheng Yi’s formula: ‘strengthen the inner life to rectify the outer life’ by this formula: ‘regulate the outside to bring peace and order inside’. (YC (4) 2: 2, ‘Taehak kangǔi’ (2), ‘Simgyǒng milhǒm’, 31b:8–10)
Conclusion
By way of conclusion, we can reflect on how these concepts we have just considered in Tasan affect the Confucian ideal. Echoing Zhu Xi’s formula- tion, Tasan described the learning of a man of virtue as ‘nothing more than to improve himself and order the state’. According to the classical idea of Confucianism, the task of ordering the state could be accomplished only through the moral strength of political leaders. The art of governing in a way that is worthy of the name of Sage is acquired by the exemplary prac- tice of virtues, which encourages men to love each other. Tasan was very committed to this idea, which is argued strongly in his interpretation of the term ch’inmin or sinmin of the Great Learning. Following Cheng Yi’s exegesis, Zhu Xi replaced the term ch’in by the sin in ch’inmin to interpret it as ‘bringing the people to a state of renewal’. But this interpretation could only emphasize the charismatic side of leadership. Wang Yangming, on the other hand, insisted on keeping the term ch’inmin in its original formulation. He understood it as ‘love the people’, which allowed him to highlight the idea of practical commitment of a sovereign who has not only to fulfil the needs of the people but also to educate them. Tasan dis- tinguished himself from these two great figures of neo-Confucianism by interpreting the expression ch’inmin as ‘ensuring that the people love each other’. For him, it was a natural result arising from the virtuous behaviour of a ruler who applies himself to his own self-perfection (YC (4) 2:1, ‘Taehak kongǔi’ (1) 11a.) In this way Tasan emphasized the interdependence of these two poles of the Confucian ideal: that self-perfection of a man of honour is not pos- sible beyond the art of ordering the state, because self-perfection is com- pleted only through the fulfilment of moral responsibilities. Both tasks must be carried out simultaneously to meet these two requirements of the Confucian ideal. This idea could provide a theoretical logic to reinforce the king’s power, allowing them to claim not only that the sovereign prince who cultivates his morals has the ability to govern but also that only the one who, directly from the seat of government, puts in practice an act of the state can really cultivate morals. However, King Chŏngjo died too early to fully comprehend this idea.
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Glossary
Akkyǒng 樂經 chǒng (emotions) 情 ch’inmin 親民 Chŏng Yag-yong 丁若鏞 ch’ǒn (heaven) 天 Chŏngjo 正祖 ch’ǒnmyǒng (Heavenly Decree) 天命 ch’ǒnsǒng (original nature decreed Ch’unch’u 春秋 by the Heaven) 天性 chayǒn (natural) 自然 Chungyong chajam 中庸自箴 Cheng Yi 程頤 Chungyong 中庸 Cheng-Zhu 程朱 haengsa (action and conduct) 行事 chi (wisdom) 智 hamyak (to sink into vice) 陷溺 ch’in 親 Hong Tae-yong 洪大容 chip 集 in (humaneness/humanity) 仁 Ch’ǒe Han-gi 崔漢綺 insim (human heart-mind) 人心 chon tǒksǒng (to exalt morality) 尊德性 ki (breath) 氣
Michael J. Pettid
Legend has it that there is a night spirit that sneaks into the house on the first night of the New Year and tries to put the shoes of the family on – if it finds a matching pair, it steals the shoes and their owner suffers bad luck all year. Thus families take all their shoes into the living quarters on that night, putting out the lights and sleeping early. To ward off this bad spirit, people hang a sieve outside the front gate. When the spirit comes to the house it begins counting all the holes in the sieve, and inevitably has to count again and again since it surely confuses what needs to be counted with what has been counted. This continues until the night grows long and the day breaks, and then the spirit must depart. (Hong Sŏkmo, Tongguk sesigi 6)1
Introduction
It is not so much ghosts and spirits that haunt Korean customs, but more the Korean vision of the next world that dictates a strong influence on what we can now describe as Korean folk custom. Today we can examine this lore, but what does it tell us of how Koreans lived and how they might have viewed the world? Perhaps more than a little. If we lose our shoes on Sŏllal (lunar New Year) does it doom us to a year of bad luck? Having lost my own shoes once in Korea, albeit not on the lunar New Year, I wonder about such a situation and what drives such beliefs. My own studies and interests led me long ago to pursue more knowl- edge of the customs of pre-modern Korea. Many of these customs are per- haps founded in the shamanic worldview, but just as many are influenced by Buddhism and Confucian beliefs as well. One of the first things that stands out when examining the customs of the Chosŏn dynasty is how they tend to be a blend of numerous worldviews.2 Such a mingling of
1 Citations for pre-modern source materials are given in the following fashion: volume (kwŏn), page number, and, if so subdivided ‘a’ or ‘b’ for the right and left side of the page respectively. Other source materials in diaries are given by the date of entry. 2 The term ‘shamanism’ is not easily defined nor a Korean term. In this paper I use the term to indicate the group of practices that would have been part of the customs of the
Shamans as Keepers of Order
I went down to see my son; Sukkil was uncomfortable and his diarrhoea severe, purging his bowels five or six times. My daughter-in-law summoned a shaman (munyŏ) in order to save my son from his illness. (Mokchae ilgi, 1552-01-29) In the above account from 1552, we can see one aspect of the historical roles of the shamans. While there were certainly medical specialists in Chosŏn Korea and before who were trained in arts such as acupuncture, moxibustion, the use of herbal and other medicines and so on, for many consulting a shaman in times of serious sickness was also highly impor- tant. In Korean folk customs the idea that many serious illnesses were caused by injurious spirits was very strong, and a lingering illness was something that many believed required the intervention of a shaman. Such practices continued well into the twentieth century when the colo- nial government made a concerted effort to eradicate such ‘superstitions’.3 However, the strength of customs made such a programme very difficult to
people and that could include beliefs that today might be classified as shamanism, anini- mism or other diverse practices. 3 The Japanese colonial government criticized the role of shamans in preventing the spread of modern medicine and hygienic practices as the people sought out shamans when ill rather than proper medical treatment. See Chijun Murayama 1932: 521.
enact as the age-old view of the cosmos was thoroughly ingrained in the customs of the people. Perhaps before heading into the ongoing battles waged by shamans with the spirits of the next world we should look at who these shamans were. Shamans, known in Korean by various names such as mudang and mansin, grace the pages of Korean history as far back as we can trace. Practices that we now conveniently lump together as shamanism are also as old as records of the people on the Korean peninsula, and help us gain a good understanding of how life might have been thousands of years ago. Various ancient documents inform us that shamanism once held a prominent place in early Korean societies. For example, the following pas- sage in the ‘Dongyi chuan’ (Section of the eastern barbarians) of the Sanguo zhi (History of the Three Kingdoms; third century ad; Chen Shuo 1973: 842) tells us that early political leaders were expected to control the forces of nature: An old Puyŏ custom dictates, Floods, droughts and irregular weather, Causing the five grains to not ripen. Whenever this comes about, the fault lies with the king. Some say it is appropriate to replace him, Others say it is fitting to kill him. From records such as this, we can understand that the leaders of these early states were akin to shaman-kings, acting as both political leaders and interveners with the forces of nature. Such a situation seems logical, as the early ruling families of ancient Korean kingdoms invariably claimed a link with the supernatural through divine founders. The ability of one lineage to rule over other groups was enhanced by the belief that the rulers had bonds with the supernatural, even if only through a distant ancestor. Thus, early foundation myths of kingdoms on and around the Korean peninsula tell of founders with supernatural powers such as Tan’gun (Kojosŏn), the son of a god and a bear-turned-woman, Chumong (Koguryŏ) the son of a god and born from an egg, and Hyŏkkŏse (Silla) also the son of a god and born from an egg. But fairly early on in history a separation between the specialists of the sacred and profane occurred in these states. Religious specialists appeared, and it fell to them to control or predict the forces of nature. While these individuals might have been members of the royal family or in positions of power at the court, they were no longer political leaders but advisers. Historical works such as the Samguk sagi (History of the Three Kingdoms, 1145) contain detailed descriptions of the types of rites carried out at a
4 The bulk of an entire volume of this work is dedicated to the types of rites carried out in each of the Three Kingdoms. See Kim Pusik 1997: 2.167–188. 5 The following description of shamans is based in part on Pettid 1999: 22–6.
The hereditary sesŭp mudang are known by various appellations such as tan’gol, mudang, hwarang, munyŏ and paksu among others. Tan’gol refers to the shaman who has an area in which she has the exclusive right to practise (tan’gol p’an), and is generally reserved for female shamans. Mudang is a generic term used for any shaman, while munyŏ is used only for females and paksu only for males (Howard 1989: 161). The term hwa- rang or hwarangi is reserved for male shamans in the south-western regions (Yu Tongsik 1978: 88). There are also honorific terms for mudang such as mansin; however, this term is not specific to sesŭp mudang. Sesŭp mudang were traditionally lowborn females who learned their trade from both their maternal mother and their mother-in-law. These young girls learned shaman songs (muga) by repeating them after their mothers and then memorizing each song one phrase at a time (Kim T’aegon 1981: 274–5). Through this arduous process, the young girls were able to memorize a sizeable repertoire of muga over a period of years. After marriage and moving to their husband’s household, they would then learn the ritual processes for conducting various shamanistic rituals from their mother-in-law by accompanying her throughout her tan’gol p’an and acting as her assistant at the rituals (ibid.). Finally, after a number of years as her mother-in-law’s assistant, the daughter-in-law would gradually assume her mother-in-law’s tan’gol p’an as the mother-in-law slowly retired. The daughter-in-law would first perform the simpler shamanistic rituals without her mother-in-law and then progressively undertake the larger, major rituals. The destined kangsin mudang are selected by the gods of shamanism through a sickness known as either sinbyŏng (spirit sickness) or mubyŏng (shaman sickness). This condition has been the subject of various studies, and while definitive conclusions have yet to be reached, some scholars suggest that past religious encounters, along with adverse life experiences play a role in this sickness (Park Sun-hee 1997: 32). Among adherents to shamanism, however, it is believed that this sickness can only be cured through the medium of becoming a shaman and serving the gods. The symptoms of sinbyŏng are initially manifested by mysterious dreams, unusual eating habits and a gradual weakening of the body. As the initial symptoms intensify, other indications, such as visual and auditory hallucinations arise (Kim Inhoe 1983: 78). The only method for relieving the symptoms is holding a naerim kut (initiation kut), which inaugurates the one afflicted into the ranks of the mudang (ibid.). Unlike hereditary shamans, kangsin mudang are vested with spiritual power (yŏngnyŏk) which is directly bestowed upon them by their patron
medicine and went back [to my quarters]. The monk slept in the detached room. A shaman prayed and praised the gods: this was because of the divina- tion of Kim Chasu. (Mokchae ilkgi 1551-04-04) Shamans and the shamanic worldview continued to thrive in Chosŏn Korea because of the perceived efficacy of these practices. This was true for all social status groups as well: when illness plagued the wife of an upper status yangban as in the above account, his course of action was the same as those of lower social status. Despite the harsh criticism levelled at the customs of the people in the dynastic record, there are numerous accounts of the mysterious powers attributed to shamans as seen in the following early eighteenth-century account:
Song Sangin (1569–1631) had an upright and righteous character and greatly disliked shamans. When he was appointed magistrate of Namwŏn he did not even order the shamans to all wear tags on their feet, but rather ordered them to leave the prefecture and go to another place. One day as he was sit- ting at Kwanghan Pavilion, a mudang leisurely rode by on a horse loaded with a changgu drum. He ordered the mudang seized and to be brought before him; he shouted at the mudang, ‘I ordered that all the mudang be caught and killed–are you not aware of this order?’ The mudang was aware of the order, but added, ‘there are real mudang and there are fake mudang; what my Lord caught and killed were all fake mudang, but I am unafraid and still living.’ Song asked, ‘How can I know you are a real mudang?’ The mudang said to give any test. Thus Song asked for him to call forth the spirit of a close friend who had died not long before. The mudang agreed and asked that liquor and side dishes be prepared, along with Song changing into old clothes and he would then summon the spirit. Not long after that Song’s friend appeared: the ghost spoke in detail to Song of what had happened since his death, of games that they played long before, of studying under the same teacher, and also about life as an official. He also spoke of things no else knew; with tears flowing, Song declared that his friend had really come and offered him the liquor and side dishes. Not long after that the ghost said he had to leave and vanished. Song knew the mudang before him was a true mudang and gave him a reward. After that, he gave no more orders to eradicate mudang. (Ch’ŏnye-rok, 493) A main function of shamans is to achieve balance between sacred and profane spaces. However the very act of conducting a shamanic ritual causes all sorts of sundry spirits to ‘visit’ the area. These unwanted visitors can cause great harm to the living, so shamanic rituals necessarily begin
Folk Customs, Ghosts, and Hobgoblins
It is an old custom in our country to put a talisman on one’s main gate on the lunar New Year with the names of Sinta Ullu in order to drive off the multi- tude of evil spirits. (Tongguk sesigi, 7) The above account tells of the very common practice in past times of put- ting up a talisman of some sort to keep baleful spirits at bay. In the above, Sinta and Ullu are said to be brothers who lived long ago; as they both pos- sessed great strength and brightly shining eyes, they excelled in destroying
6 Wandering spirits are those spirits not offered rites by their ancestors and are thus still present in the profane world. 7 Baleful directions (sangmun) are those places from which evil influences are thought to emanate. A white ribbon was, and often still is, worn in the hair of women who were in mourning. Thus, the impurity referred to is that of death.
ghosts. Other common tales tell of the people of Silla and Koryŏ posting a likeness of Ch’ŏyong – the son of a dragon king – on their gates to keep the spirit of pestilence away and also of eating p’at chuk on the winter solstice since ghosts disliked the colour red. All this and more anecdotal evidence clearly demonstrates the dread of the people at being plagued by ghosts and taking significant measures to ensure they can keep these beings at bay, as seen in the following: A Cheju custom dictates that for all the spirits of the mountains, marshes, streams, ponds, ocean, flatlands, trees, rocks and so on to have shrines erected on their behalf. Then from the lunar New Year until the first full moon of the lunar New Year (Taeborŭm) shamans receive these powerful spirits and carry out rites in their honour. This is known as a hwaban [flower table]. (Tongguk sesigi, 6–7) Why do we find such a morbid fascination with ghosts and spirits in pre- modern Korea? Unlike the present age, perhaps, in pre-modern Korea death was not always seen as a clear break with the physical world. Rather, the influence of the dead remained after their physical bodies had ceased to carry on life’s functions, and such influence could be either beneficial to the living or harmful. The spirits of the dead were to be respected and treated properly lest one suffer a calamity. And it certainly seems that ghosts and spirits were commonly believed in as seen in the following account: During the reign of Kwanghae, the song Tongdong-gok (Song of the drum) was very popular. In those times, famous people would gather for all sorts of merriment; they would sing and also wail, while shamans [mugyŏk] would invoke the spirits of the dead. (Maeong mun-rok 12.b) In the shamanic worldview eschatological rituals (sayŏng-je) carried numerous functions, such as marking the passing of the dead to the next world and allowing the living to grieve; however, the most important func- tion of these rituals was aimed at eliminating the baleful influence of the dead (sal) from the world of the living (Yu Tongsik 1978: 215–16). Within shamanic eschatological rituals we can find the belief that spirits are potentially dangerous to the living if not properly honoured and removed from the profane world; moreover, we can also note the belief that the spirits of the dead continue to regulate the conditions that prevail in the world of the living.8 Spirits not properly honoured and sent off are thought
8 The description of ghosts is based partly on Pettid (forthcoming).
9 The enumeration of the types of ghosts is based on Han Chaegyu 2004.
died. Thereafter any time a major celebration or event occurred at the Grand Prince’s palace, Tŭgok appeared day and night. Sometimes she would be on the wall and at other times on the roof; sometimes she would even smash the earthenware jars on the condiment terrace. After some time, there was an incident in which the Grand Prince’s sons, Chŏng and Nam, were tied to a treason plot and this was a great calamity for the entire house; perhaps this was the doing of Tŭgok. (Isun-rok 2. 20b) The above account demonstrates that deaths that were understood by people to be unjust would result in the spirit of the deceased possessing anger or rancour that would not simply die with their physical death. Rather, the ghosts remain in the human world and vent their anger for unjust or untimely deaths. Such a situation demonstrates a worldview that acknowledged a close connection between the cause of death and the ability of the deceased to move towards the next life. In short, one who dies unjustly or before his or her life is fulfilled would not join the next world but remain in this world instead until the spirit was satiated. Such a view reflects a sense of supernatural justice or reciprocity among the liv- ing: the wrath of one unjustly killed would not simply die with the physi- cal body, but rather remain in this world. One of the most famous narratives of a ghost that would not leave the human world for the next because of an injustice is that of Arang. The beautiful sixteen year old daughter of the magistrate of Miryang is mur- dered while resisting a man trying to rape her. As her body was hidden by the attempted rapist, it is assumed by her father that she had simply run away, and he resigns his post in shame, returning to Seoul. The ghost of the young girl appears before a succession of new magistrates, but all are frightened to death; finally, an honourable man is appointed and when confronted by the ghost, hears her sad story and brings the guilty parties to justice. After this time the ghost is no longer seen (Kogŭm so ch’ong, 9.28–30). It is notable that the shrine to Arang still stands today in Miryang and rites are offered to her spirit for three days every year beginning on the 16th day of the fourth lunar month (Han Chaegyu 2004: 241). Other spirits or ghosts seem not to have human origins but rather come from elsewhere. Consider the following account recorded by Yi Ik (1681– 1763) in Sŏngho sasŏl: There are many stories of trees and rocks being possessed by supernatural entities. Since trees are living things with vital energy (ki), many more ghosts depend on them, and as many old trees are hollow inside odd entities are fostered there.
Recently a sŏnbi by the name of Sin cut down a tree near a grave and a female ghost (yo kwi) followed after him. Thus every night they slept together just like people, and every attempt to drive the spirit off was unsuccessful. Sin inevitably became ill and died. This was undoubtedly the result of the ghostly love of a fox. From long ago we can see that ghostly things bewitch and sleep with people; ghosts change into men and foxes transform into women. Not long ago, the Duke of Wangsŏng, Yi Man (1605–1644) was made Governor (Kwanch’alsa) of Chŏlla Province. Within the city walls an ancient tree was cut down and from within the hollow of the tree appeared a hairless beast like a horse, but about the size of a cat and with a single eye. When the sun shone upon its body, it quickly died; if it had grown fully, it would have been some sort of supernatural being. (Sŏngho sasŏl, 2: 400–401; 6: 50a-50b) Other strange creatures include the tokkaebi. Tokkaebi or hobgoblins can take a variety of forms and are thought to have great strength and be given to jealousy of the trappings of the human world. While ghosts live in the same areas as people, tokkaebi generally live in remote areas such as forests and marshes, or in mountain valleys. They enjoy makkŏlli, ssirŭm matches, chatting, and songs, but dread the colour red. Legends tend to show that they are not the brightest of beings, and can sometimes be tricked into giving riches to humans. While their outward appearance is said to be fearful, their foolishness often makes them objects of affection in narratives. Nonetheless, as in the following narrative they are often cited as the source of problems for humans:
Rats and tigers scurrying here and there are being driven by tokkaebi. Even nowadays, north of the Han River these sort of supernatural entities (kwi mul) are gathered and cause great misfortune. We know this is the handi- work of the tokkaebi. (Ibid., 2: 409; 6: 55a) The fear of being bewitched or possessed by a ghost was quite strong, and even inanimate objects that were very old – such as a wooden pestle – were thought capable of becoming possessed by a harmful spirit. Houses provided places for not only people to live, but also spaces for a legion of spirits to lurk. Virtually every part of the house is either inhabited by guardian spirits or a potential harbour for dangerous spirits. There are dei- ties of the kitchen, soy sauce crock stand, main beam, the eaves, and even the privy. All of these are beneficial to humans as long as they are properly honoured. For example, the well-being of the kitchen, and thus the family, was regulated in the folk beliefs of pre-modern Korea by the kitchen god
(chowang kaksi). The kitchen was seen as a woman’s space, emphasized by the fact that the deity of the kitchen was female. Keeping this deity sati- ated was an important task that the womenfolk of a household would attend to daily by simply offering a bowl of clear water and placing it on the kitchen hearth while praying a simple prayer. As the deity was believed to govern the fortune of the family, making such an offering was an event that was not neglected nor taken lightly, and generally the charge of the eldest woman in a household. The bond between food, in this case the place of preparation, and the fate of the family is seen vividly in the prac- tices surrounding this deity. We can also find more elaborate rituals to deities in other parts of the house that were thought to influence the well-being of the family. One such spirit is the ch’ŭksin (the god of the privy) who is said to be tempera- mental and oftentimes wild, thus causing people to greatly fear her. As a result, when repairing the privy one should do so with great care, and moreover one should never use the wood from the privy for firewood in order not to anger this spirit. There is even a short shaman song that petitions this deity for her help: Ch’ilmok kaksi, in the outhouse, Let your fifty-cha hair dangle down, and frolic as you please on the toilet boards. Please grant that the bowels and stomachs of our descendents are free from Diarrhoea, bloody stools and stomach pains. (Akiba Takashi and Akamatsu Chijō, 2.245)10 The fear of injurious spirits is not only a fear of something that can hurt people, but one that extended to the preparation of food and other activi- ties. Many families even went so far as to offer small rituals to the house- hold gods when making soy sauce (kanjang) as a means to appease the gods and ensure a successful batch. Other customs such as hanging gold- coloured thread, traditional socks, or red peppers – all thought to repel malevolent spirits – around the earthenware pots of kanjang were done to keep malicious spirits at bay. As these condiments were essential to the taste of a family’s foods, various customs were followed to protect them. Sometimes, a rope tied with charcoal and red chili peppers was wrapped around each jar; this was believed to keep impurities and malevolent
10 Ch’ilmok kaksi is one of the female deities of the outhouse. A cha is a traditional unit of measure and is equal to 0.303 metres.
Conclusion: Keeping the Cosmos and People in Balance
The shamanic worldview strives to maintain a balance between gods and humans, between harmful and beneficial spirits, and also between the individual and the community. Folk customs based on this worldview fol- low the same pattern, and strive to keep the cosmos in relative balance. Shamans are the primary keepers of that balance: they maintain harmony by satiating or driving away angry or harmful ghosts, encourage poten- tially beneficial spirits to give blessings, and help humans to understand how to best coexist with the supernatural. While some of their efforts to rid the human world of dangerous spirits seem almost superhuman, at other times their simple songs ask for the most basic of wants such as the following short song wishing a new mother well: Birth goddess Chiyang ensure that the mother of the baby eats her soup properly, eats her rice properly, and that if she takes medicine, the medicine will have effect,
so that the weariness of her body disappears melts away like ice, melts away like snow. (Walraven: 2007: 309–10) The harmony that shamans seek to achieve is mirrored in Korean folk cul- ture as well. The balance between the wishes of the individual and the com- munity is a continual meeting point for Korean folk customs. One only needs to take a cursory glance at the customs of past times to see the emphasis on fostering harmony in the community. The major customs of the Lunar New Year, for example, are heavily aimed at sharing and reciproc- ity. Ogok pap (five grain rice) or yak pap (medicinal rice) was painstakingly prepared and then shared with neighbours. Likewise, the copious confec- tions prepared for a baby’s one-hundred day celebration were in theory to be shared with one hundred houses as a means of spreading the good for- tune of this auspicious event to the community. We also see the same reci- procity and harmony in other aspects of pre-modern Korean culture, such as the communal labour pools (ture, p’umasi) and even the making of kimch’i in the fall (kimjang). The one was always a part of the larger whole. Shamanic ceremonies are a microcosm of this attempt at harmony. While the clamour of the drums and gongs beginning a shamanic rite might be a call for harmful spirits to take their leave, it is also a call for members of the community to come forth and take in the spectacle. Notwithstanding the reason for a kut, the community is an essential part of the process. The healing of an individual is related to the entire com- munity, and thus the community takes part in such events. The plethora of ghosts, spirits, and hobgoblins in Korean culture reflects the interrelation between the human world with that of the spirits. A world without these supernatural entities is not imaginable in Korean cul- ture, as their influences explain both hardships in human life and also aus- picious events. The blending of spirits and humans is how the cosmos operates, and for fortune and success one necessarily should pay homage to the other residents of this world.
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Secondary Sources Akiba Takashi 赤松智城 and Akamatsu Chijō 秋葉隆 1937–1938: Chōsen fuzoku no kenkyū 朝鮮巫俗の 硏究 [A study of shamanism in Chosŏn]. Tokyo: Osaka yagō shoten 大阪 屋號書店. Han Chaegyu 한재규 2004: Kwisiniyŏ ije taerorŭl hwalbohara 귀신이여 이제 대로를 활 보하라 [Ghosts! Go now and strut about the streets!]. Seoul: Pukk’amp’u 북캠프. Howard, Keith 1989: Bands, Songs, and Shamanistic Rituals: Folk Music in Korean Society. Seoul: Royal Asiatic Society. Kendall, Laurel 1981: ‘Wood Imps, Ghosts, and Other Noxious Influences: The Ideology of Affliction in a Korean Village.’ Journal of Korean Studies 3: 113–45. Kim Inhoe 金仁會 1987: Han’guk musok sasang yŏn’gu 韓國巫俗思想硏究 [A study of Korean shamanic thought]. Seoul: Chimmundang 集文堂. —— 1983: Hwanghaedo naerim kut 황해도내림굿 [The initiation rite of Hwanghae Province]. Seoul: Yŏlhwadang 悅話堂. Kim T’aegon 金泰坤 1983: Han’guk min’gan sinang yŏn’gu 韓國民間信仰硏究 [A study of Korean folk beliefs]. Seoul: Chimmundang, 集文堂. —— 1981: Han’guk musok yŏn’gu 韓國巫俗硏究 [A study of Korean shamanism]. Seoul: Chimmundang, 集文堂. Murayama Chijun 村山智順 1932: Chōsen no fugeki 朝鮮の巫覡 [Shamans of Chosŏn]. Keijō: Chōsen Sōtokufu, 朝鮮總督府. Park, Sun-hee 1997: ‘An Empirical Study of the Physical Changes Exhibited in Korean Shamans during Spirit-possession.’ Korean Journal 37 (Spring): 5–34. Pettid, Michael J. forthcoming 2014: ‘Ghostly Encounters: Perceptions of Death and the Afterlife in Koryŏ and Early Chosŏn.’ In Death, Mourning, and the Afterlife in Korea: Critical Aspects of Death from Ancient to Contemporary Times, Charlotte Horlyck and Michael J. Pettid (eds.). Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press. —— 1999: ‘From Abandoned Daughter to Shaman Matriarch: An Analysis of the ‘Pari kongju muga’, A Korean Shamanistic Song.’ (PhD diss., University of Hawai’i). Walraven, Boudewijn 2007: ‘Shamans, the Family and Women.’ In: Robert E. Buswell Jr. (ed.), Religions of Korea in Practice. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Yi Pokkyu 이복규 1999: Chosŏn chŏn’gi ŭi minsok: Mukchae ilgi-e nat’anan 조선전기의민 속: 묵재일기에 나타난: [Folk practice in early Chosŏn: As found in Mukchae ilgi]. Seoul: Minsŏg’wŏn 민속원. Yu Tongsik 柳東植 1978: Han’guk mugyo ûi yŏksa wa kujo 韓國巫敎의歷史와構造 [The form and history of Korean shamanism]. Seoul: Yŏnse taehakkyo ch’ulp’anbu 延世大學 校出版部.
Glossary
Arang 阿娘 naerim kut 내림굿 Ch’ilmok kaksi 칠목각시 Namwŏn 南原 ch’ŏnyŏ kwi 處女鬼 ogok pap 五穀밥 Ch’ŏyong 處容 p’at chuk 팥죽 ch’ŭksin 측신 p’umasi 품앗이 changgu 장구 paksu 박수 chap kwi 雜鬼 pujŏng kŏri 不淨거리 chayŏn sin 自然神 pujŏng 不淨 Cheju 濟州 Puyŏ 夫餘 Chisin palgi 地神밟기 runo-t’ang 漏蘆湯 Chiyang 지양 saet’ani 새타니 Chowang Kaksi 조왕각시 sal 煞 Chumong 朱蒙 sangmun 喪門 hwaban 花盤 sayŏng-je 死靈祭 hwarang 花郞 sesŭp mudang 世襲무당 hwarangi 화랑이 sinbyŏng 神病 Hyŏkkŏse 赫居世 Sinta Ullu 神茶鬱壘 in sin 人神 sin 神 Inp’yŏng 麟坪大君 Sŏllal 설날 insaryŏng 人死靈 sŏnbi 선비 kaek kwi 客鬼 Song Sangin 宋象仁 kangsin mudang 降神무당 sonnim 손님 kanjang 간장 ssirŭm 씨름 ki 氣 t’aeja kwi 太子鬼 kimjang 김장 Taeborŭm 대보름 kiuje 祈雨祭 tan’gol p’an 단골판 Kwanch’alsa 觀察使 tan’gol 단골 Kwanghae 光海君 Tan’gun 檀君 Kwanghan Pavilion 廣寒樓 tokkaebi 도깨비 kwi mong 鬼夢 Tongdong-gok 㲇㲇曲 kwi 鬼 Tŭgok 得玉 makkŏlli 막걸리 ture 두레 mang kwi 亡鬼 Wangsŏng 完城 mansin 만신 yak pap 藥밥 Miryang 密陽 yangban 兩班 mongdal kwi 몽달귀 Yi Chŏng 李楨 mubyŏng 巫病 Yi Man 李曼 mudang 무당 Yi Nam 李枏 muga 巫歌 yo kwi 妖鬼 mugyŏk 巫覡 yŏksin 疫神 mul kwisin 水鬼 yŏngnyŏk 靈力 munyŏ 巫女 Yŏngp’a 映波亭
PART FOUR
MUSIC, HERITAGE AND ART
Andrew David Jackson
SOAS has always had a strong musical pedigree, and is one of very few institutions that embraced World Music before World Music as a concept ever existed. While other institutions focus on theoretical or ethnocultural enquiry into music from other temporal or geographical contexts, SOAS stresses the performative side in equal measure. One result of this differ- ent stress is the lunchtime concerts, at which music students and academ- ics bring the fruits of their research to the SOAS student body, and the tones of the kayagŭm, yangqin (both instruments similar to the zither) or some other obscure and unusual-sounding instrument rise up the main stairwell of the SOAS Philips building. Like Durham University, which boasts an Oriental Music festival that has run since the 1970s, SOAS main- tains strong links with Korean music, and even has its own samulnori (tra- ditional Korean percussion) society. In April 2012, a workshop was held entitled ‘Past, Present and Future: The Diversity and Distinctiveness of Korean Music and Dance.’ Organized by Professor Keith Howard, the event brought in some of the most prestigious authorities on the subject from the UK, North America, continental Europe and Asia for two days of dis- cussion and performance. The two music papers in this collection come from that workshop, and both are unified by their investigation into musi- cal origins. The first paper concerns an epic song performance, p’ansori, that has seen a remarkable growth in popularity since the revival of folk culture by the minjung (or repressed people’s) opposition movement in the 1970s and 1980s. P’ansori, as well as other musical and cultural forms, was seen as pivotal by activists searching for what they believed was an authentic form of national culture that challenged the cultural discourse of the military dictatorship (Robinson 2007). The popularity of p’ansori also experienced a peak after the phenomenal success of film director Im Kwŏnt’aek’s magnum opus Sopyonje, the story of a family of p’ansori per- formers during the decline in popularity of the form in the aftermath of the Korean War. While some might consider the form to be a cultural prac- tice representative of the Korean nation itself, this sudden and more recent elevation in the status of p’ansori since the 1970s has brought charges of objectification and even distortion of the form by cultural
leading to research of them, and some of the artefacts can now be seen on display in the Foyle Special Collections Gallery of the Brunei Gallery on the main SOAS campus. This reflects a rising global interest in Korea’s past and contemporary artistic practices that are increasingly recognized as contributing significantly to the cultural environment of East Asia. The SOAS artefacts include rare prints, paintings and ceramics that in their manufacture and iconography characterize key aspects of Korea’s cultural traditions. In her paper, Charlotte Horlyck also reveals some of the fasci- nating stories that lie behind the acquisition of the many Korean artworks SOAS holds. These are treasures that speak volumes about the develop- ment of Korean Studies at SOAS over the past sixty years, and the paper can thus be considered as symbolic of how far the CKS has evolved, and how successful and all-encompassing it has become during the compara- tively short time it has existed.
Bibliography
Robinson, Michael 2007: Korea’s Twentieth-Century Odyssey: A Short History. Honolulu, University of Hawai’i Press. Stringer, Julian 2002: ‘Sopyonje and the Inner Domain of National Culture.’ In: David E. James & Kyung Hyun Kim (eds.), Im Kwon-Taek: The Making of a National Cinema. Detroit, Wayne State University Press.
Glossary
kayagŭm 伽倻琴 Samulnori 四物놀이 yangqin 揚琴 p’ansori 판소리
THE FIVE SURVIVING P’ANSORI REPERTOIRES: THEMES, ISSUES AND THE CONNECTION TO INDIA
Dorothea Suh
Introduction
P’ansori expresses dramatic feelings such as happiness, pain, joy and virtue through music, mimicry, movement and words – it is truly one of a kind. Painting a scene before our eyes, it takes us on a journey through different worlds and lets us experience the stories together. It cannot be compared to any western art form. (Yoo Young-Dae)1 P’ansori is traditional Korean folk music. Performed by a solo singer accompanied by a drummer on the puk barrel drum it can be described as an epic song. P’ansori is today a refined art of storytelling that uses folk tales and fables that have been handed down orally from teacher to stu- dent over generations. The perceived value of p’ansori is reflected in the high national and international honours it has achieved, such as having been proclaimed Important Intangible Cultural Asset number five in Korea in 1964, and a UNESCO Masterpiece of the Oral and Intangible Heritage in 2003. The exact origin of p’ansori is still an ongoing debate among scholars, but it can be said with certainty that it arose from non-elites, the sŏmin, and became popular when it captured the interest of the elite groups, the yangban. Patronage from elites led to the popularity of p’ansori through- out Korea. P’ansori is significant as a form within the Korean performing arts in that it went from being played and watched only by non-elites to a highly refined performance art loved by elites and non-elites alike. The aim of this paper is to provide an insight into the wide range of p’ansori studies while showing the value of and need for further research. My paper will describe the core socio-cultural messages of the surviving five madang (repertoires), namely Ch’unhyangga (The Song of Ch’unhyang), Shimch’ŏngga (The Song of Shimch’ŏn), Hŭngbuga (The Song of Hŭngbu), Sugungga (The Underwater Palace) and Chŏkpyŏkka (The Red Cliff), and
1 Yoo Young-Dae [artistic director of the changgeuk department of the National Theatre of Korea], personal communication, June 2011.
I will also discuss the possible influence of Indian Buddhist Jataka tales on p’ansori.
The Five Surviving P’ansori: Character and Significance
The five surviving repertoires each present different themes and, like a kaleidoscope, respectively display different characters that commonly appear in Korean literary and musical forms; for example, rapacious usu- rers, chaste lovers, dedicated subjects or patriotic warriors. These five p’ansori are the only remaining songs of a larger repertoire that existed in an earlier period, and each one of them is meant to represent Confucian virtues. Ch’unhyangga is the story of a lower class woman, Ch’unhyang, who marries a local official. The story showcases her love, virtue, faith and chastity, displaying an ideal vision of how women were perceived in Confucian thought as paragons of virtue, in this case standing against the despotism of authority. Many novels, movies and TV series have been inspired by the story of Ch’unhyang, which emphasizes the love between a low status woman and an aristocrat. The journey of Ch’unhyang, who is transformed from being the daughter of a kisaeng (kind of courtesan) to a respectable woman, is of great interest. Her torture and hardships provide a way for her to repent her sins as a free-spirited woman and justify her social advancement as she rises in status and becomes the concubine of a nobleman. Modern interpretations see Ch’unhyang as the wife of an aris- tocrat, but because of the difference in their social status this would not have been possible when the story was created. The woman, capable of being influenced and receptive to status and money, endures unspeakable pain while she steadfastly holds to a promise made in love and faith. The love is shown from the woman’s viewpoint, and the story illustrates her firm resolve and the trust she places in her lover, Yi Mongryong. Also important is the display of corrupt power and the restoration of the right- ful order through adherence to the law. Hŭngbuga is the tale of an impoverished but honest man, Hŭngbu, with many children, who discovers a swallow that he nurses back to health. The swallow rewards his kindness by providing him with a seed that produces gourds of treasure. The Hŭngbuga is humorous yet deeply touching and shows how excess and greed will be punished harshly; it is the only story of all the p’ansori in which money and inheritance are direct reasons for conflict. Unwavering loyalty towards family, especially siblings, and the
maintenance of the hierachical system inside the family even in difficult times are important facets of Confucianism. The family stands as a meta- phor for the government, and Confucianism teaches how subjects should love and worship the king in the same manner as they would their parents. The rigid hierachy cannot be changed or broken and, instead of aspiring to a higher rank, the Hŭngbuga encourages people to accept their place in society. Another part of the message of Hŭngbuga is that good deeds can- not be forced, and that even after doing a noble deed, one should not expect thanks. Hŭngbuga is similar to Shimch’ŏngga, in that it stresses the idea of sac- rifice. In Shimch’ŏngga, it is Shimch’ŏng herself who offers her life to save the eyesight of her father, while in Hŭngbuga the sacrifice is a matter of caring for others, particularly the injured swallow, even though Hŭngbu and his family are on the brink of starvation. Shimch’ŏngga provides an example of how Confucian ideals and Buddhism connect with each other. The blind father, who raised his daughter through hardship, begging for food and even mother’s milk, receives the ultimate sacrifice from his daughter who through this act shows her gratitude. The duty of children towards their parents, filial piety up to self-abandonment, provides the main theme and is one of the main principles in Confucian teaching (De Bary and Chaggee 1989). Shimch’ŏng is rescued after having been sac- rificed to the water god and reaches the surface safely inside a lotus, which can be seen as a Buddhist influence: the rebirth to a better life, as queen, with the lotus symbolizing divine birth and purity, thanks to her good deeds in her past life, and this story demonstrates the eternal circle of creation. Sugungga, is the tale of the sick dragon king, who needs the liver of a hare to cure his illness. The turtle Pyŏlchubu lures the hare into the under- water palace, but the hare fools the king into thinking that he forgot his liver on land and escapes. It is the only animal fable among the five extant repertoires and opens itself to greater degrees of interpretation than other p’ansori as it explores and interprets the story. Finally, Chŏkpyŏkka, the song of the battle at the Red Cliff, which tells the story of a decisive battle at the end of the Chinese Han dynasty between powerful warlords, offers the ideal display of the spirit of chivalry, and illustrates how honouring the social code will move the enemy. It dis- plays the qualities of worthy men, with their unwavering will and loyalty towards the king. The portrayal of the rough life of soldiers and their morals in times of war directly intertwines with Chinese historical chron- icles, as the title Chŏkpyŏkka, translated as ‘The Red Cliff,’ indicates.
This repertoire also resembles Sugungga in its portrayal of obedience and dutifulness. In a rather controversial statement, one informant told me that Chŏkpyŏkka could not be sung by women because their understand- ing of male chivalry and bonding would greatly differ to that of men – who would not have to imagine it at all. Sugungga, too, is thought to have been performed for men by men due to its crude language. The five p’ansori show different sides of life but are connected through a single topic: risking one’s own life for the benefit of someone else. In Ch’unhyangga the heroine endures torture and almost gets beaten to death; in Shimch’ŏngga life is offered as a sacrifice. In Hŭngbuga, the younger brother almost starves to death due to poverty, while in Sugungga a hare is threatened with the loss of his life-maintaining liver and Chŏkpyŏkka is about war. But each story has a happy ending; although dif- ficulties make life hard to endure, overcoming obstacles will be rewarded with riches as in Hŭngbuga, love and status as in Ch’unhyangga and Shimch’ŏngga, and the fulfilment of duty, as in Sugungga and Chŏkpyŏkka. Testimonial evidence suggests that there is a chronological order for learning each repertoire.2 The first to be studied is Ch’unhyangga, followed by Shimch’ŏngga, Hŭngbuga, Sugungga and lastly Chŏkpyŏkka. A level of maturity and wisdom, which only comes with age, is said to be needed to understand the meaning behind each p’ansori. Some singers, for example, show restraint in teaching young children certain songs before adoles- cence. The famous song, ‘Sarangga’ from Ch’unhyangga, is popular with talented child singers, as I observed during the Namwŏn Ch’unhyang Festival in 2011 – on first glance it is a playful song, full of the innocence of first love, but it can also be interpreted as remarkably perverted and dar- ing. This demonstrates that p’ansori can be interpreted in many ways and, depending on the audience, absorbed in different ways, as entertainment for children and the elderly, an escape from hard labour and housework for women, or enjoyment of community in the company of others outside a home for men. As Heather Willoughby in her 2002 study of p’ansori and Korean culture argues, the element of deep, heartbroken feeling embodied by Korean han, an aesthetic which is hard to translate completely into a western lan- guage but which is generally thought to be a sense of ‘unresolved resent- ment,’ is inevitably linked to performance and the history of p’ansori.3
2 Song Sunsŏp [master p’ansori singer], personal communication, 2011 & 2012. 3 For more on the notion of ‘han’ see the work of Heather Willoughby 2002.
There are contradictory views regarding han. Some Korean cultural commentators state that only a Korean can experience han, and that one cannot sing p’ansori without han; others disagree. It can, though, be said that p’ansori evokes intense emotion in and through the singer and in the audience, and that singing itself is an outlet to express such feelings. Korean oral narrative specialist Chan E. Park puts it like this: ‘For the ancient working people on the Korean peninsula, singing was not only an integral part of life, but also its reflection’ (Park 2003: 36). Singing was, then, a contemplation on existence and the environment. Because p’ansori is an oral tradition, it has been able to adjust to social change quickly, not only modifying its music but also its performers. P’ansori thrives on the ability of a performer to convey contrasting feelings after, ideally, experiencing them firsthand; for that reason, renewal brings new challenges. Park cites her teacher Chŏng Kwŏnjin: ‘Fulfil your duty to your parents first. I’d rather you be a good daughter than a skilled singer’ (Park 2003: iv). For Chŏng Kwŏnjin, the ideal comes from the past; in our fast-paced, mechanized world it is impossible to maintain identical feel- ings or go through the same hardships as singers in the past did. For instance, the concept of ‘family’ has changed drastically, and family cohe- sion is not as prominent as it used to be. The family is no longer an obliga- tion for survival but a choice; children have a lesser sense of duty. Regarding the importance of experiencing and understanding the required emotions, master singer Song Sunsŏp argues that it is beneficial to make students learn Chinese characters (hanja), to gain a better under- standing of the p’ansori text.4 To bring the past to life in the right setting he has created his own summer academy in the countryside, and to his mind an uneducated p’ansori singer is inadequate; his ideal is a well educated singer, well versed in music, aesthetics, literature and philosophy. P’ansori performer Cho Sanghyŏn states: ‘Joy, anger, sorrow and pleasure though are all part of life in all its colours through our voice’ (Howard 2006: 65). The joy, anger, sorrow and pleasure felt hundreds of years ago differed greatly from our present understanding, not least because whereas in the past, one could have felt joy simply by listening to a bird’s twittering, in the present it is difficult to filter out natural sounds from the noise of the city. How, then, can a modern artist convey such feelings in a performance if such experiences are based on imitation and imagination alone? Can a modern singer still empathize with feelings and beliefs from the past?
4 This was in a personal interview with master Song in October 2011 (Suh 2012).
By no means should the past be idolized in a changing world, and inter- pretation changes during transmission as well, since p’ansori was not and is still not something meant to remain always the same. Development may, then, be inevitable, as not only do musicians and their music trans- form over time but so do the audience and the performance space. Today’s audience tends to be well educated, and except for a few westerners, the majority will be Korean with prior knowledge of the genre. They come to a concert with high expectations. Previously, p’ansori was performed in open settings, such as market places, but today it is performed on western- style concert stages, which create an invisible barrier that distances per- former from audience. The balance between singer, drummer and audience has shifted as p’ansori has moved onto stages. This was made clear when I visited the Chŏnju Sori Festival in autumn 2011. I observed how an elderly man stood up, walked to the front of the stage and danced to the artist’s singing. He didn’t disturb the audience but within minutes he was escorted away. I saw how he was overcome by his emotions and wanted to express them by dancing, but he was stopped by today’s com- prehension of how a concert should be appreciated. The preservation of culture should not result in static and untouchable performances. Preservation in Korean music is an ongoing debate, as noted in the 2009 colloquium titled ‘Korean Culture and p’ansori’ held dur- ing the forty-first anniversary of the International Cultural Foundation of Korea, and as has been argued by Keith Howard in Preserving Korean Music (2006) and Nathan Hesselink in Contemporary Directions – Korean Folk Music Engaging the Twentieth Century and Beyond (2001).
P’ansori: The Indian Connection
The cultural contact had such influence that Korean culture cannot be inter- preted without understanding Indian elements in it. Every aspect of Korean life bears trails of Indian culture. (Lee Kwangsu 1998: 48) The renowned Professor of Indian History Lee Kwangsu suggests deep cul- tural connections between Korea and India. The shared heritage of Buddhism is not only a religious and social connection but involves other areas. There are possible similarities and relationships between the 547 Jataka Tales and p’ansori stories, especially the Sugungga. Needless to say, the main basis of p’ansori is Korean myths and folk tales, but additional factors can be considered. Although few studies address the connection
between India and Korea beyond their common Buddhist heritage, the connection is mentioned in the Samguk yusa or the Memorabilia of the Three Kingdoms (an account of the period of dominance of the kingdoms of Paekche, Koguryŏ and Silla), when King Suro, who founded the Kaya tribal federation some 2,000 years ago married a princess named Hwangok who came from the Indian kingdom of Ayutha. Ayutha is not given any clear description, and so Ha and Mintz (cited in Lee 1998: 162) suggested that the city was Ayutthia, the former capital of Thailand – an erroneous suggestion, as Ayutthia was founded later, and was named after Ayodhya in India, known from the Sanskrit epic, Ramayana. Before Buddhism was introduced to Korea in the fourth century ad, Sino-Indian relations had been established through frequent trade along the Silk Road, com- mencing in perhaps the second century bc (Lee 1998: 23). The exchange of luxury goods such as silk, incense and gemstones had been occurring long before Buddhist monks arrived in Korea. While it has been suggested that Buddhism found its way to Korea directly from India,5 most consider it came to Korea via China. However, direct communication between Korean kingdoms and Indian monks might have existed, as three monks are known to have visited the Korean peninsula, Ado in 374 to Koguryŏ, Maranant’a in 384 to Paekche and Ado Mukhoja in 417 to Silla (Lee 1998: 31). It has been suggested that they were either from India or from Central Asia. Korean historian Han Young Woo names a monk called Sundo, who travelled from China to Koguryŏ in ad 372, as the first Indian visitor (Woo 2010: 164). The exact names of these monks are still the subject of research, since the original sources have been lost. Nevertheless, the impact of Buddhism on Korean society, as well as on politics and daily life over the centuries, is unquestionable. Monks and merchants would have carried Indian legends to Korea, which may explain the similarities between Jataka Tales and the Korean p’ansori repertoire Sugungga. The 547 Jataka Tales are one of the most important early works in Buddhist literature, retelling the past lives of the Buddha. It can be assumed that Chinese translations would have been introduced to Korea (Pratt and Rutt 1999: 449) and that they facilitated an exchange of knowl- edge with India, as Indian monks visited Korea and Korean monks trav- elled to India to enrich their studies. It is known that much Asian folklore is descended from Indian legends, for oral traditions know no boundaries,
5 For further information see Santosh Kumar Gupta, 2012.
answer me today?’ ‘Oh!’ thought the crocodile. ‘The rock’s in the habit of answering the monkey. I must answer for the rock today.’ Accordingly, he shouted, ‘Yes, monkey; what is it?’ ‘Who are you?’ said the Bodhisattva. ‘I’m a crocodile.’ ‘What are you sitting on that rock for?’ ‘To catch you and eat your heart.’ (Chalmers 1895)
The monkey agreed to jump into the crocodile’s open mouth, but seeing that when his mouth was open the crocodile had to close his eyes, the monkey stepped on its head and made his escape. The defeated crocodile praised the monkey for his cunning and withdrew. Monkeys are sacred animals in South Asia, portrayed as noble and sup- portive, as in the epic, Ramayana, where the king of monkeys assists the hero, Rama. Animal fables work by using characters that can be translated into human form. So the monkey with his strong features and clever mind stands for the people while the creature of the water, the crocodile, repre- sents a powerful person consumed with greed. Transformed into Sugungga, the hare on the land represents non-elites, while the residents of the untouchable underwater palace, including the turtle Pyŏlchubu and the dragon king are members of the upper class. Where tradition would put commoners at the bottom and the king on top, Sugungga reverses this hierarchy and has the commoners above (on the land) and the upper class and king below (under the water). Just as the royal palace was hidden from the eyes of common citizens, the underwater palace represents an untouchable mystery. Just as they were in reality, upper class and com- moners are shielded from each other. The initial failure of the hare, who was lured to the underwater palace with the promise of promotion to sec- retary of state, stands for the reality of the common people who, in a moment of self-conceit, might try to grasp for the unreachable but who would inevitably meet with disaster because it was not their place in soci- ety to aspire to a higher position in the neo-Confucian state system. Both stories also describe a situation in which the subject of desire for the antagonist is the vital organ of the main character, the heart of the monkey (symbolizing power, energy and vigour) and the liver of the hare (representing adventure, bravery and courage). The Korean saying, ‘you have a big liver,’ is used to describe bold and fearless feats that may not be clever but are gutsy in execution. Although there is no sign of illness in the Vanarinda Jataka but there is in Sugungga, greed itself is a form of illness according to Buddhism. The incorporation of the crocodile could relate to the hybrid sea creature Makara from Hindu mythology, which in Sanskrit means ‘Sea Dragon.’ Hence the crocodile from the Indian tale could be
Sugungga the loyal turtle Pyŏlchubu gets ridiculed by the hare after carry- ing him back to the shore in a similar fashion. The key elements of the Sumsumara Jakata No. 208 are: the female crocodile craves the heart of the monkey, she claims to need it to live; the male crocodile deceives the mon- key to get his heart; the monkey realizes his life-threatening situation and tricks the crocodile; the male crocodile releases the monkey, who escapes after mocking the crocodile; the male crocodile returns, defeated. Depending on the version, Sugungga can end differently, but the most common conclusion features the appearance of a supernatural being who presents the turtle with heavenly medicine in appreciation of its devotion to the Dragon King. In both tales the antagonists, the crocodile and the Dragon King, are not fundamentally evil; external circumstances have pro- vided a reason for their actions. There is, then, no good or bad involved, as every character fights its own battle – be it to save its own or somebody else’s life, or to follow orders. Hence, Pyŏlchubu, the turtle, receives medi- cine from a sage to cure his king, because of his commitment to his task, even though he deceived, lied and coaxed the hare to archieve his goal. From a political viewpoint, the Dragon King represents a nation rotten at the core, and the appearance of mystic medicine manifests the hopes and wishes of powerless commoners for a cure to their hardships. The story becomes a metaphor for social criticism at a time in the Chosŏn period when criticism could not be voiced openly – the wish to bend boundaries and outwit the inevitable. The female protagonist, the wife of the crocodile, disappears from view in Sugungga; this might reflect the low status of women in Korean house- holds in the Chosŏn dynasty, who would have little part to play in the pur- suit of the hare. They were replaceable, but the king, as the centre of the nation, had to be protected to prevent the collapse of the government. Sugungga, then, might not have the same motivation as the South Asian tales, but it is as powerful a satire as other allegorical works such as Orwell’s Animal Farm or Aesop’s fables. It entertains, and it remains a popular work enjoyed by children and adults alike while simultaneously providing a les- son about morality. Sugungga shows how South Asian culture influenced Korean life through Buddhism, fusing with local folk culture, shamanism, and neo-Confucian philosophy.
Conclusion
In this paper I have travelled far, from the Indian Jataka Tales to Korea. This indicates the broad range of possibilities that p’ansori possesses.
Some scholars might claim that p’ansori research has already been exhausted, but my paper suggests that p’ansori still has great potential. Further studies are necessary to raise awareness beyond Korea, because p’ansori keeps tradition alive, and thereby transmits beliefs and the pas- sion ancestors once had while being both entertaining and educational. Showing many facets of tradition, p’ansori can be equally important as a contribution to Korea’s economic power as the popularity of Korean wave (Hallyu) music, TV dramas and movies. Korean traditional Music, espe- cially p’ansori, might not be as readily commercial in reaching out to the world to promote Korea, but it certainly has undertaken its first steps; one hopes that there will be more innovative projects and performances inside and outside Korea.
Bibliography
Ball, Joseph J., Linda van de Vijver & Hermine E. Engel 2005: Sugungga Bak Choweol Version. Seoul, Minsokwon. Chalmers, Lord Robert 1895: ‘Vanarinda Jataka No. 57’, Sacred Texts,
Glossary
Cho Sanghyŏn 趙相賢 madang 마당 Chŏkpyŏkka 赤壁歌 Muyŏl 武烈王 Chŏng Kwŏnjin 鄭權鎭 myŏngch’ang 명창 Chŏnju 全州 p’ansori 판소리 Chŏnju Sori festival Paekche 百濟 세계 소리 축제 puk 북 Ch’unhyangga 春香歌 Pyŏlchubu 별주부 Hallyu 韓流 Samguk sagi 三國史記 han 恨 Samguk yusa 三國遺事 hanja 漢字 Shimch’ŏngga 沈淸歌 Hŭngbuga 興夫歌 Silla 新羅 Hwangok (許黃玉) 黃玉 sŏmin 庶民 Kaya 伽倻 Song Sunsŏp 宋順燮 Kim Ch’unch’u 金春秋 Sugungga 水宮歌 King Muyŏl 武烈 Sundo 順道 King Suro 首露王 yangban 兩班 kisaeng 妓生 Yi Mongryong 李夢龍 Koguryŏ 高句麗
1910–1911: YEARS THAT CHANGED SEOUL’S MUSIC
Sung-Hee Park
Figure 1. Musical distribution by style in Korea.
Figure 2. Musical distribution by performance venues in Korea.
Introduction
In Korea, performance venues have long been concentrated in Seoul.1 According to the Korean Arts Council (Han’guk Munhwa Yesul Wiwŏnhoe 2011), 42.7% of all western music concerts held in the country during 2010 took place in Seoul, while 62% of Korean music concerts took place there (Figure 1). 31% of the country’s venues that focus on western music are located in Seoul, along with 48% of those that showcase Korean music (Figure 2). Most organizations that create and broadcast contemporary Korean popular music are also based in Seoul. As the above figures indi- cate, Seoul is the hub of Korea and its music culture in terms of produc- tion, performance and consumption of popular, classical and traditional music. Surviving historical sources from the fifteenth century such as the Chosŏn wangjo sillok (Veritable records of the Chosŏn dynasty) and poetry anthologies indicate that in the past, Seoul was also the centre for much musical activity. In this paper I will explore what the musical environment of Seoul might have been like 100 years ago, around 1910. 1910 is commonly understood as a pivotal year in modern Korean his- tory – the year when the Chosŏn dynasty was dissolved and Japanese colo- nial rule officially began. However, most musical scholarship relating to the colonial period focuses on the 1920s and 1930s, because that was when new genres, record industries and broadcasting technologies were intro- duced, instigating profound changes in people’s tastes. There is little published relating to the 1910s, although Chang Sahun (1988) and Song Bang-song (1991) deal with four issues that occurred in 1910 and 1911 which I shall focus on in this paper: the dissolution of the Royal Music Institute (Changagwŏn) in 1910, the establishment of associations for female enter- tainers (kisaeng chohap) in 1911, the founding of the Chosŏn Chŏngak Institute (Chosŏn Chŏngak Chŏnsŭpso) in 1911, and the publication of a songbook called Song Collections for General Education (Pot’ong Kyoyuk Ch’anggajip) in 1910. Chang and Song describe these four incidents in a rather peripheral way and do not stress their importance. However, I believe they are central to an understanding of why and how music in Seoul (and Korea) was transformed.
1 The city now known as Seoul has been the capital since 1394, near the beginning of the Chosŏn period. Since that time, there has only been one short period when another city has functioned as capital – specifically, Kaesŏng from 1399 to 1405. The name for the capital city has changed a number of times over the years, from Hanyang to Hansŏng to Kyŏngsŏng (Jap. Keijo) to Seoul.
Urban administrators’ homes Royal palaces Gates, big and small
Wealthy merchants and Aristocrats’ homes, also amongst Government buildings professionals’ homes and work private merchants (spots) Changagwŏn Sagyech’ uk area School of confucian Studies (Royal Music Institute) Royal sta /high-ranking enforcers Kibang (entertainment rooms Institue for ŭinyŏ (o en involved in kibang) where kisaeng worked) (medical women/performers)
Low-ranking army o cers’ homes Communities where Sŏnsori Ch’ilp’ae: a large market area (o en also working as farmers) sant' aryŏng groups lived/sang O cial merchants’ homes/shops Small private merchants Butchers for the upper class Famous poetry (black) Han River marchants’ work places Homes of court eunuchs and song (yellow) societies
Figure 3. A reworked nineteenth-century map of Seoul (c.1830), showing where patrons and musicians lived or performed and including significant other build- ings and locations. The original of this map, the Susŏn chŏndo by Kim Chŏngho, is the property of Korea University Museum.
A Brief Summary of Music Culture in the Late Nineteenth and Early Twentieth Centuries
It is important to understand what music culture was like before 1910 – at the end of the nineteenth century and in the early twentieth century, focusing on patrons, musicians, and the performance venues in Seoul. The map in Figure 3 is from the nineteenth century,2 showing where different types of people lived and worked. Patrons of the musical arts included aristocrats, urban administrators, merchants, farmers, profes- sionals, Han River merchants and riverside-dwelling commoners. Meanwhile, the performers ranged from female entertainers, court musi- cians, riverside singers and semi-professional commoner singers in the south-west area to semi-professional middle-status singers (Park Sung- Hee 2011). The most common venues for musical performance were the home – in the traditional gentlemen’s guest room (sarangbang) or back garden, song society venues, mountains and rivers (for picnicking or boat- ing parties), entertainment rooms (kibang), farmers’ dugouts (umjip or kip’ŭn sarang), the royal courts and market places. From the beginning of the twentieth century, when imported stage- performance culture began to make itself felt, new relationships were introduced between musicians, theatre owners, sponsors and audiences. These relationships were more complicated than those of the previous era. The first stage theatre was established for the use of the royal family in 1902 (although unfortunately they were not able to see any performances until 1904 because of a smallpox epidemic). Then, in 1907 and 1908, the first theatres for use by the general public were established, called Kwangmudae and Wŏn’gaksa. From that time, the audience no longer shared the same space as the performers but instead watched musical per- formances from a distance: music became a staged art. Another change in the early twentieth century came with the intro duction of western music. Early influences took the form of hymns,
2 This map is taken from Park Sung-Hee 2011:330. The additions to the professional car- tographer Kim Chŏngho (c.1804-c.1866)’s woodblock printed map (see
disseminated by Christian schools in the capital such as Paejae in 1885 and Ewha Girls’ School in 1886 (Pratt and Rutt 1999: 113). The next major influx of western music began in 1901, in the form of military band music under the German conductor Franz Eckert (1852–1916). Military bands played a variety of anthems and marches, folk song and hymn adaptations, as well as newly created works (Song Bang-song 1991: 565). In 1907, when the Korean military was dissolved, the Eckert band changed from a military band into a private concert band, performing in this role until 1915. The Japanese government had been preparing for the takeover of Korea well before 1910. Following its victory against Russia in the Russo-Japanese War (1904–1905), Japan began to intervene more actively in Korean poli- tics, adopting a forceful advisory role. In conjunction with political reforms, the Japanese also enforced regulations to disempower perform- ers. In 1905, they imposed a ban on performances by female entertainers in the court and made it illegal for shamans to perform their ritual arts in any context. Later that same year, the Ŭlsa treaty (Ŭlsa Choyak) was drawn up between five Korean politicians and the Japanese government, signing away Korea’s diplomatic rights and enabling a Japanese administration to be based in Korea. In 1907, the Korean military was dissolved and a Japanese police force was introduced in Seoul and, in 1908, court rituals were reduced in number from 792 per year to 201. All publications had thereafter to be granted permission by the Japanese authorities, and from 1908 onwards performers were obliged to show their performance pro- gramme to the authorities prior to every show. Three years later, it became illegal for Buddhist monks to perform ritual dance or vocal music in any temple (No Tongŭn 1995: 561–7). This is the historical setting that immedi- ately preceded the years 1910 and 1911.
The Dissolution of the Royal Music Institute (Changagwŏn)
In 1910, the Royal Music Institute was dissolved. From that time on, musi- cians no longer performed for court ceremonies and continued their exis- tence only as a private performance group, sponsored by those remaining members of the disempowered Yi royal3 household. The Institute’s name was eventually changed to the Yiwangjik Aaktae (Aak band of the Yi royal office). However, in the years leading up to 1910, the Institute had already
3 The Yi were the ruling dynasty of Chosŏn Korea.
New Associations for Female Entertainers (Kisaeng Chohap)
Very soon after the official prohibition of female entertainers’ court per- formances in 1908, the Japanese government introduced a set of regula- tions to control the activities of kisaeng – female entertainers and prostitutes in all contexts.5 The exact same regulations were applied to all groups, regardless of specialism. They all had to visit the main police
4 Some musicologists such as No Tongŭn (1995) and Kim Suhyŏn (1999) insist that Hisao’s report, based on his fieldwork in 1921, needs to be reassessed because his trip to Korea was related to political purposes. 5 Kisaeng were female entertainers who could interact socially with members of any group (depending on their skills, official status, and connections) and who acted as musi- cal performers, well-educated companion women (poets), or prostitutes.
station to receive permission to perform in the form of a licence – which again was identical regardless of specialism. Naturally, the indiscriminate application of this same system encouraged the general populace to regard all performing women in much the same light. In 1909, an association for prostitutes was established in Shigung- dong – today’s T’eogyero area. This served as a training institution and a mutual support centre. Two years later, equivalent associations – the Tadong chohap and Kwanggyo chohap – were established for those kisaeng who performed the arts. All of the kisaeng who joined these two associations had once been employed in the court as medical women or seamstresses, but at the same time they had worked as entertainers, receiving tuition from famous musicians. In 1917, all associations were revised into so-called kwŏnbŏn (Jap. kenban), closely based on equivalent institutions for geisha in Japan. It has often been said that the kisaeng went on to perform a crucial role in the preservation of Korean musical tradition during the Japanese colonial period (for example, Kwŏn Tohŭi 2001 and 2002), but it is also true that there are many references to the kisaeng’s role as prostitutes or hired companions (for example, McCann 1974; Kawamura Minato 2002; Pak Chongsŏng 2003). Since the regulations for controlling kisaeng were first defined and applied equally to all kisaeng, a particular set of associations was forged: ‘kisaeng’ equalled ‘music, dance, drink and prostitution’. This has had enduring implications for the status of Korean traditional music, as peo- ple unconsciously began to recognize it as low status music for people with questionable morals.
The Founding of the Chosŏn Chŏngak Institute (Chosŏn Chŏngak Chŏnsŭpso)
Korean musicologists use the term chŏngak [correct, right, or proper music] to denote music that was previously enjoyed and supported by the aristocracy and urban middle class people from the late eighteenth to the late nineteenth centuries. This term chŏngak was actually originally intro- duced by the Chosŏn Chŏngak Institute, founded in 1911 (Hahn Man-young 1990: 68; see also Lee Hye-ku 1993: 17; Chŏn Chiyŏng 2004: 299). The Institute not only introduced the category but also determined which forms were to be included within it and which were not. While zither- centred ensemble music and various vocal genres such as kagok (classical lyric songs), kasa (narrative songs), and sijo (sung short poems) were
6 In 1905, Korea lost diplomatic rights and officially became under the Japanese protec- torate but in 1910, Korea lost sovereignty and became a colony of Japan.
repertoires. However, in 1930, the Yiwangjik Aakpu – the remnants of the Royal Court Institute which had changed its name from Yiwangjik Aaktae in 1925 – took on the role of fostering these genres in addition to aak court rituals. In this way, aak and chŏngak came to be closely associated in peo- ple’s minds even though the genres, forms, styles and aesthetics between them are different.
Song Collection for General Education (Pot’ong Kyoyuk Ch’anggajip)
A fourth event which was to have a profound and enduring influence on music in Korea was the publication of the Song Collection for General Education in 1910. From 1911, the Japanese government decreed that this book should be used in all schools in Korea to educate children musically, and this was stated in the book’s preface (No Tongŭn 1995: 604; Pak Ŭn’gyŏng 1999: 43–9). The book presents twenty-seven songs, all translated from Japanese into Korean. Twenty-one are ch’angga songs, using the yonanuki scale (a type of pentatonic scale used in Japan) and 2/4 or 4/4 time signatures. The remaining six are a selection of western folk songs and hymns. These same songs have since been republished in numerous reprints, entering the musical consciousness of millions of Koreans to the present day. For example, a tune called Nabiya nabiya (Butterfly), which I have known since kindergarten, was one of those songs included in the original collection.
Conclusion
In this paper, I have looked at four music-related developments that took place in 1910 and 1911, and considered what came before and after them. These developments were closely linked, being concerned with musical education. They introduced new ways of transmitting music within insti- tutional settings and were instrumental in establishing a new set of musi- cal values. The Chosŏn Chŏngak Institute set out to establish exactly which styles and repertoires constituted ‘high art’, promoting the values of the high status sponsors. Meanwhile, the kisaeng institutions encouraged people to associate both the kisaeng and her art with ‘low living’, and as a result many people chose to avoid Korean traditional music for decades afterwards. The Royal Music Institute, which from 1910 mainly performed music without court ritual and ceremony, encouraged the perception of
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Glossary aak 雅樂 Kwangmudae 光武臺 Ayang Kŭmbo 峨洋琴譜 kwŏnbŏn 券番 Ch’oe Namsŏn 崔南善 Kyobangsa 敎坊司 Changagwŏn 掌樂院 Kyŏngsŏng 京城 Changakkwa 掌樂課 Nabiya nabiya 나비야 나비야 Changakpu 掌樂部 Namhun T’aep’yŏngga chapka 雜歌 南薰太平歌 Chŏngak Yujihoe 正樂維持會 No Tongŭn 魯棟銀 Chosŏn Chŏngak Chŏnsŭpso ojŏk 五賊 朝鮮正樂傳習所 Paejae 培材 Chosŏn Sangshik Mundap Sokp’yŏn Pot’ong Kyoyuk Ch’anggajip 朝鮮常識問答 續篇 普通敎育唱歌集 Chosŏn wangjo sillok 朝鮮王朝實錄 sarangbang 사랑房 Ewha 梨花 Shigung-dong 시궁洞 Hansŏng 漢城 sijo 時調 Hanyang 漢陽 T’eogyero 退溪路 Hong Nanp’a 洪蘭坡 Tadong chohap 茶洞組合 kagok 歌曲 Tanabe Hisao 田邊尙雄 kasa 歌詞 Ŭlsa Choyak 乙巳條約 kibang 妓房 umjip 움집 Kim Chŏngho 金正浩 Wŏn’gaksa 圓覺社 kip’ŭn sarang 깊은사랑 Yi Chiyong 李址鎔 kisaeng 妓生 Yiwangjik Aakpu 李王職雅樂部 kisaeng chohap 妓生組合 Yiwangjik Aaktae 李王職雅樂隊 Kwanggyo chohap 廣橋組合 yonanuki ヨナ抜き
Codruţa Sîntionean
Introduction
During the dictatorial regime of Park Chung Hee (Pak Chŏnghŭi, 1961– 1979), the administration charged the Office of Cultural Properties (Munhwajae Kwalliguk, hereafter the OCP)2 with the management of national heritage. This paper examines the heritage practices of the Park Chung Hee era and argues that Korea’s national heritage was appropriated as a political resource, instrumented and used by the state in order to legit- imize itself and consolidate its power through constant reference to a shared national past. Heritage designation and promotion, among other cultural practices, was meant to inspire a sense of unity in the conscious- ness of the people, a unity embodied by shared values and the feeling of historical continuity. Patrimonial sites and artefacts codified history in a way that made it easily available for national consumption. Of course, this was just one of many rhetorical tools, next to official historiographic dis- courses on Korean racial identity, innate independent spirit and the pro- motion of national heroes. I argue that while it adopted the stance of a saviour of Korean culture and represented it as embedded in heritage, the Park Chung Hee government deliberately made use of heritage in order to convey political, social and economic ideas and values. My discussion of identities and national values invested in Korean heritage creates premises for a better understanding of the systematic construction of meaning attributed to, but not intrinsic in, heritage. Moreover, the focus on heritage-related sanctioned discourse illuminates the often neglected politics of communicating heritage to the people. In order to shed light on the formation of official heritage discourse, this paper first examines the OCP’s management practices and approach to heritage as reflected in the official publication of the Office, the journal
1 This work was supported by the Academy of Korean Studies Grant (AKS-2012-R78). I am grateful to the Academy for its generous support. I also want to thank Dr Andrew Jackson for his valuable feedback on this paper. 2 Since 1999, called Cultural Heritage Administration (Munhwajaech’ŏng, CHA).
Cultural Properties (Munhwajae, first published in 1965).3 It contains sum- marized activity reports of the OCP and scholarly articles written by and for bureaucrats and academics in the heritage field. Although it is intended mainly for an informed public, it reveals trends in heritage management and definition, which no doubt were further reflected on museum displays and site interpretations. Examining the journal I have discovered that introductory articles are regularly written by high ranking bureaucrats within the hierarchy of OCP and always comment on the mission of the Office, the role of cultural heritage and its definition. Therefore I highlight the influential standpoints of these bureaucrats and present them in a unitary view of what I call the official discourse of the OCP on the mean- ing of heritage. Moreover, this paper investigates the process through which heritage is attributed meaning by considering several ‘historic sites’ (sajŏk) that were designated and intensely promoted during the Park Chung Hee era. I argue that through sanctioned on-site interpretations, military heroes, martyrs and mythical founders of the ancient kingdoms become vehicles communicating values relevant for the present, such as patriotism, loyalty, independent spirit, national solidarity. The government considered that the formation of an educated citizenry would improve the economic development of the country, and was aware that heritage is a persuasive medium to convey edifying messages.
The Office of Cultural Properties
President Park Chung Hee acknowledged the major importance of cul- tural heritage and its potential use as a powerful and influential political tool. Official discourse on the meaning and role of heritage proved a con- venient medium for conveying ideas about national identity, appeals for solidarity and unity, or messages fostering popular action in areas of eco- nomic development. Given the potential impact of heritage-related dis- course, a series of reforms and methods were employed in order to take control of the meaning and management of national heritage, culture and arts.
3 The journal can be accessed in electronic format in the archives of the Cultural Properties Research Information Portal (Munhwa yusan yŏn’gu chisik p’ot’ŏl),
One such controlling tool was the Office of Cultural Properties, an insti- tution responsible for all processes related to heritage management from selection, investigation and designation to protection, restoration, conser- vation, and the promotion of heritage. The OCP was founded on 2 October 1961 as an agency within the Ministry of Education (from 1968 under the supervision of the Ministry of Culture and Information). The mission of the office was to encompass all aspects and actions related to national heritage, exercising a monopolistic control over it. The power of the OCP was enhanced by the fact that it was not only the authority in charge of designing management and promotional strategies, but also the budget administrator and the legislation promulgator in the field of heritage man- agement. The OCP represented a dominant group which had the author- ity to define national culture, tradition, or the nature of all things ‘Korean’. In doing so, it favoured ‘the monumental, the grand, rare or aestheti cally impressive’, neglecting the ordinary and the commonplace (Smith 2006: 49) when selecting the symbols of national identity.4 An additional, slightly more subtle form of power and control exer- cised by the OCP over heritage was done through discursive practices. Interpretations on sites and official publications (particularly the journal Cultural Properties) conveyed a certain view of the meaning of heritage, its role and mission within Korean culture. It was no coincidence then that the OCP’s definition of national heritage and statements about its impor- tance converged with the views expressed by president Park Chung Hee in his public speeches, in both wording and content. Such a unified view sug- gests that the government was exercising a strong hold on the definition and management of heritage for the public, and the communications of the OCP simply reflected this view. Controlled by the government, the OCP sought to legitimize the power of the regime and reinforce its authority, particularly in the early 1960s, when the economic crisis was worsened by political tensions arising from the establishment of a dictatorship and insecure relations with North
4 For example, royal palaces and Buddhist temples feature prominently in representa- tions of ‘Korean’ culture, much more so than thatched commoners’ houses. Under the Park Chung Hee administration, the OCP’s interest in traditional houses was quite low: only seventeen houses (kaok) were listed as ‘important folklore cultural heritage’ (chungyo min- sok munhwajae) during 1961–1979, see CHA 2, 2011: 877–82, as compared to 270 historic sites, see CHA 2, 2011: 730. The interest in ordinary houses has increased in the 1980s, as they were on the verge of extinction due to industrialization and urbanization. In the 1960s–1970s, ‘Korean-ness’ was highlighted primarily in the majestic architecture of pal- aces, temples and fortresses.
Korea. The OCP respected the guidelines, measures and even the rhetoric of Park Chung Hee’s cultural policies. Given the fact that President Park had seized power in an illegitimate fashion, through a coup d’état, he wanted to strengthen his authority and legitimize his regime by posing the Korean people as the sole beneficiaries of a great heritage from the forefa- thers who had built the nation in ancient times. The goal was to inculcate a sense of social cohesion and solidarity among the citizens by giving them a shared past, identity and culture: Over the five thousand years of our history, our ancestors have left us a unique cultural inheritance. Thus, we are right to take great pride in the fact that we have many cultural properties we can preserve. But heritage is not infinite, it has limits. Therefore, the responsibility and duty to preserve heri- tage must become mandatory, along with taking pride in having many ‘cul- tural properties we can preserve’. If we cannot preserve this limited heritage, we will lose the quality of a civilized people. Besides, we must invest a lot of significance in the development of heritage while preserving it. We notice how many cultural properties are lost forever because we do not have enough specialists yet, and, despite the fact that heritage is valuable, citizens’ interest is poor, heritage is not receiving enough recognition, and even occasions to preserve it appropriately have been lost. (Sŏng 1966)5 This extract from the official journal Cultural Properties summarizes the most pressing tasks at hand to be adopted by the OCP in the 1960s: to make up for periods in which heritage was neglected and also ensure the con- tinuing support of the population. The objectives set by the OCP are reflected in the measures and projects undertaken in its early stages, after the creation of the office in 1961. The first goal was to preserve and, where necessary, restore cultural properties already listed as part of the national heritage. A list of classified items had been inherited from the Japanese colonial government, which conducted the first registration and classifica- tion of Korean cultural properties from 1916.6 Interestingly, the OCP
5 All translations from OCP journal Munhwajae are mine. 6 In 1916, the Japanese colonial government enforced the Law on the Preservation of Historic Remains and Relics (Kojŏk mit yumul pojon kyuch’ik), which permitted the investi- gation, classification and designation of relics under the strict supervision of Japanese authorities, who prohibited unauthorized excavations and requested the report of any relic discovery to the police. The OCP’s position regarding these first measures, reflected in the commemorative Munhwajaech’ ŏng 50 nyŏnsa (‘The Fifty-Year History of the Cultural Heritage Administration’), is that, in effect, they were part of a conspiracy between high rank bureaucrats, the police and art collectors, that resulted in the plundering and illegal trade of Korean cultural properties, see CHA 2, 2011: 23–4. This view, reinforced by CHA, has not changed since the publication of the first issue of Cultural Properties, where Japan
adopted the colonial register and heritage classification and built on those pioneering efforts to preserve heritage, while at the same time accusing the Japanese of attempts to destroy Korean heritage and culture. Although the OCP does not openly recognize the Japanese colonial government’s creation of the first records of Korean heritage, the OCP started its inven- tory in 1961 by adding to the lists created by the Japanese, even preserving the classification system, with minor modifications. How strong the legacy of the colonial period was can be viewed in other aspects as well. Some high-ranking bureaucrats of the OCP, who were in charge of designing policies, had been schooled in Japanese universities, and the specialized jargon in the heritage management field was of Japanese origin (and is still used today). Chŏng Chae-hun, one of the presidents of the OCP (1986– 1993), confessed in an interview that in the 1960s, when he entered the OCP, half of the daily meetings were conducted in Japanese because of the bureaucrats’ educational background. The most challenging thing for them was to reset their understanding of national history, as they had studied the colonially-imposed version of it. (Chŏng 2011) Another important goal of the OCP was to expand the inherited regis- try, so it began to identify cultural properties it considered worthy of designation and proceeded to restore and conserve them. This was a com- plex and important task, involving a process of selection not devoid of error and subjectivity. From the vast number of cultural properties pro- duced through Korean history, only a limited number were to be desig- nated as national heritage sites, while others were to be rejected as less valuable or not sufficiently representative. The committee in charge of the selection process established the criteria that defined national heritage, such as cultural, historic and artistic importance, economic value, state of preservation and representativity of Korean culture. This was a very important enterprise, as heritage was to embody the essence of Korean culture, and even to define what it meant to be distinctly Korean as can be seen in the following extract from the Cultural Properties journal: Generally, a people has a national feature that cannot be found in other peoples, and this feature originates in the national tradition, at the basis of which lies the heritage of the people. (Sŏng 1966)
is accused of ‘obliterating the culture of our people’ (Yi 1965). However, Pai (2001) has con- vincingly pointed out that the Japanese colonial government can be credited with the foundation of heritage management in Korea, because colonial practices have been assumed and perpetuated by the OCP in its choice of designated cultural properties and its absolute bureaucratic control of the heritage field.
The decision-making committee ensured that the items to be registered in the national patrimony would be symbolic and meaningful enough to convey a sense of national identity to the citizens, and consequently another task assumed by the OCP was the promotion of heritage tour ism. Monuments, historic sites and museums were to be marketed for consumption by local patriotic citizens, and also by foreign tourists who would be persuaded to acknowledge the cultural force of a new Korea.
An Essentialist View of National Heritage
Due to a restricted budget, the OCP focused on the preservation of build- ings in their original form, site investigations, and isolated restoration projects in the first decade of its existence. The vestiges of the ancient capitals of Kyŏngju, Kongju and Puyŏ – tombs and temple sites in deplor- able shape – were simply designated as national heritage sites,7 without being restored. In other regions, historical remains had been displaced by houses and agricultural fields, fortress walls had fallen and disintegrated, in dire need of restoration. In the 1970s, the focus shifted onto historic sites that had been neglected, and the systematic designation of sites that reflected the ideal of defending the country (kukbang yujŏk).8 In parallel with economic development plans, the Park Chung Hee government cre- ated a legal and institutional framework for the implementation of a series of reforms centring on the arts and culture. (CHA 1, 2011: 880) The 1960s were dedicated to making up for the insufficient measures taken by the colonial government, which was accused of deliberately neglecting and destroying the Korean heritage. The Japanese government was often blamed, in both OCP communications and historical writings,
7 A statistic record of heritage items designated since 1962 until 2011 shows that, in cer- tain categories, the largest number of items per category per year were designated at the very beginning of OCP activity. For example, the largest number of ‘national treasures’ (kukpo) ever recorded in a single year is 116 (in 1962). Also in 1962, an unsurpassed number of 154 ‘natural monuments’ (ch’ŏnyŏn kinyŏmmul) were designated; in 1963, 400 ‘treasures’ (pomul) and 125 historic sites. This statistic reflects the first goal of OCP after its creation: to quickly compensate for the previous neglect of heritage and accumulate a considerable number of items in the national patrimonial registry. These figures also include the items designated by the Japanese colonial government, although OCP operated slight changes in the designation category. 8 Terms in Korean are keywords recurrent in OCP official publication Cultural Properties and the speeches of president Park Chung Hee. For a list of keywords in Park’s speeches, see Yim Hak Soon 2012: 164.
for having plundered the patrimonial assets of Koreans in an attempt to destroy their national identity (CHA 2, 2011: 18–32). I argue that in the 1960s, the OCP took on the role of a saviour of Korean identity and culture in the wake of the trauma of Japanese colonial occupation. Assuming the task of rescuing and recreating Korean culture, the government agency set to redefine Korean and Korean-ness by constantly referring to an irrecon- cilable enemy and situating the nation in opposition to it. In 1960s South Korea, just as in nineteenth-century Europe, ‘the nation-state required national heritage to consolidate national identification, absorb or neutral- ize potentially competing heritages of social-cultural groups or regions, combat the claims of other nations upon its territory or people….’ (Graham, Ashworth and Tunbridge 2000: 183). In the post-colonial era, the alterity represented by Japan was a necessary counterpoint for creating the con- sciousness of a distinct and independent Korean national identity. Consequently, many of the cultural properties chosen by the Park Chung Hee regime systematically emphasized the value of sovereignty and edu- cated citizens in the spirit of patriotism and sacrifice for the defence of one’s country. In official rhetoric, the independent spirit of the nation was identified as the source of cultural creation; in other words the existence of an auton- omous self and a history of self-determination were prerequisites for the evolution of a distinct Korean culture. In the second half of the 1960s, the government and media started using the concepts ‘our things’ (uri kŏt) and ‘things Korean’9 (Hangukchŏgin kŏt) for designating elements of national culture and history that would best define Korean identity (Kim 2012: 187). Cultural reforms, institutions and academic programmes were designed to identify symbols of culture that embodied some kind of essence labelled uniquely Korean. This search mirrors very well the task undertaken by the OCP: the detection of cultural properties worthy of being designated national heritage, itself definable as a Korean thing. It appears that Korean- ness was equated with an inherent essence residing in objects, places and customs, and this quintessence was passively awaiting recognition from government bureaucrats, heritage experts and academics involved in selection committees: it simply needed to be discovered by expert eyes. This has been the dominant view of heritage, due to the emphasis on
9 I chose this translation instead of ‘Korean things’ because the expression ‘things Korean’ is the English title of a book by former Minister of Culture Yi O-young’s (Yi Ŏ-ryŏng), presenting the character of the Korean people through symbolic objects (Translator John Holstein, Charles E. Tuttle Company, 1994).
10 In her analysis of the use of the National Museum of Korea as a political tool, Yun Shun Susie Chung quotes President Kim Young Sam saying Kyŏngbokkung is ‘the most important symbol of legitimacy in our national history’ (on Liberation Day, 15 August 1995), see Chung 2003: 229.
(chairman 1972–1973), insisted on engaging citizens as active players in the management of heritage:
But the management of heritage is not done by a single state institution; we, the people, all of us, are the owners and managers of our heritage. Even faraway overseas Koreans, brothers with blood of this land, all of them are owners. That is why we expect the love, support and participation of all citizens. (Hŏ 1969: 8) The protection of countless cultural properties scattered around the whole country cannot be completed solely by the National Treasury or the admin- istration. A nationwide participation campaign is necessary for the safety of heritage. Citizens themselves must make heritage protection a part of their life, form voluntary protection organizations, and create a new cultural climate assuming the role of safeguarding heritage. (Kim 1972) These appeals to popular involvement appear to have multiple underlying agendas: firstly, the emotional inclusion of citizens could prevent the loot- ing and damaging of heritage sites, so the messages carry a practical and educational factor. Secondly, a partnership with the people created a form of recognition for the benefits offered by the measures undertaken by the OCP and the government. Thirdly, the national support and consumption of heritage was expected to create a sense of unity, because people would see reflected in heritage the same culture, shared history and values; a col- lective memory. Furthermore, if citizens started to participate in manag- ing heritage, the government could efficiently use heritage as a controlled means to convey the dominant narrative of what the past was and, most importantly, what it meant. Finally, these messages not only appeal to the civic awareness of the people, but imply a material element and an economic agenda as well: to love and to be involved in the protection of heritage is to consume it through tourism, in commodified forms. On the basis of this distinguished Korean cultural tradition, the govern- mental emphasized the necessity to develop a ‘new culture’ (seroun mun- hwa) that would support and accelerate modernization and economic development. This new culture had to be ‘sound’ (kŏnjŏn han ch’angjo) and purified of the vulgar elements of popular culture, considered inferior to traditional culture (the ideal of the ‘spiritual purification of citizens’, kungmin chŏngsin sunhwa) (Park 1965). The desired result was the produc- tion of a group of people with a cohesive national identity, who took pride in their culture, history and the values promoted by the government, thus reinforcing its authority.
Didactic Uses of Heritage
Another major theme in official rhetoric was the ‘revival of the nation’ (minjok chunghŭng), which was a multifaceted concept widely used by the Park Chung Hee government. It referred to the impoverished state of the country, still suffering the social and economic consequences of the Korean War, and also to the re-emergence of the Korean people as a sover- eign entity with a homogenous identity. The ‘spirit of independence’ (chaju chŏngsin), weakened by the colonial occupation of Korea and by the interference of the western powers at the end of the nineteenth cen- tury and again after liberation, had to be restored to its original, primordial state. No doubt the need to re-assert the autonomous national spirit was also a reaction to the inflow of foreign cultural elements pervading Korean society, an inherent part of modernization: Under the image of the modernization of the fatherland, today we are heav- ily engaged in creating a new national culture. But here lies a fear we cannot let go: unfortunately, our spirit is absorbed only in the imitation of western culture and we have lost self-respect. Of course, we cannot but imitate the things we do not have, but we have to find our own characteristic things and straighten ourselves; it is necessary to create a system to accommodate western culture and place the basis of the modernization of the fatherland on the development of our tradition under any circumstances. (Ha 1966) On the one hand, the government responded to the threat represented by excessive imports from western culture by stressing the uniqueness inher- ent in being Korean. On the other, a powerful, long-lasting self-image that filled the discourse of the Park Chung Hee era was that of a people with ‘a history of overcoming national difficulties’ (kungnan kŭkpoksa) (Chŏng 1977). History was equated with a long row of vicissitudes, a series of trials and battles in which peace-loving Koreans participated for the sole pur- pose of self-defence. What is more, this self-representation emphasizes the ability of the Korean people to survive and rise above all the struggles, to emerge as a vigorous, triumphant force, always aiming towards freedom and sovereignty. There is an implicit didactic message in this view of ‘a his- tory of overcoming national difficulties’: contemporary Koreans have inherited from their ancestors a quintessential spirit encompassing unde- feated bravery and the courage to endure ordeals and survive them. Often invoked in the official rhetoric, the ‘national spirit’ (uri minjok-hon) enables citizens to successfully confront the present critical conditions and the social, economical and political challenges of the post-colonial setting.
In other words, this view of history instructs Koreans that they are innately prepared for overcoming hardships and their inborn fighting spirit should be put to work for the current battles of the time – the ‘modernization of fatherland’ (choguk kŭndaehwa) and ‘economic development’ (kyŏngjae palgyŏn). The official discourse presenting the meaning and role of heritage is closely connected to the view of an obstacle-ridden history. Heritage bears the function of substantiating this view through material evidence, in the form of memorialized battlefields, shrines, statues and monuments com- memorating the sacrificial spirit of national martyrs. These serve as visual, palpable testimonies to the hardships endured by the Korean people over time, and more importantly the sites and monuments can be consumed by citizens. What they consume is actually an interpretation of the past, not the objects themselves (Groote and Haartsen 2008: 181), and this interpre- tation is carefully constructed and presented by the OCP through site explanations, and signboards. An issue of the journal Cultural Properties from 1977 quotes Park Chung Hee saying: ‘I believe that heritage comprises the spirit of our ancestors and our national soul. If we get in contact with the heritage of old times, we can feel the aura of the ancestors. To cultivate this as something valuable and to preserve [heritage] is to enlighten the spiritual culture and the national spirit of our country in a very effective way.’ Thus from our history we learn the spirit of patriotic martyrdom and we master the course of history development, the root of loyalty and filial piety, the awareness of self-construction, and cul- tural creation. (Kim 1977) ‘The spirit of our ancestors’ (uri chosangdŭl ŭi ŏl) needed to be personified in order to be persuasive, therefore the Ministry of Culture and Information (Munhwa Kongbobu) undertook a careful selection of representative heroes. Certain model warriors, loyalists and martyrs considered appro- priate to embody the ‘national soul’ and the valiant spirit of ‘overcoming national difficulties’ had to be brought to the fore. One such case is Ch’ilbaek Ŭich’ong (Tomb of the Seven Hundred Martyrs), the tomb dedicated to the Seven Hundred Righteous Soldiers of Kŭmsan. The soldiers constituted a volunteer army led by Commander Cho Hŏn (1544–1592) and General Monk Yŏnggyu Taesa (?–1592) in the battle of Kŭmsan in 1592, at the beginning of the Imjin Wars. Earlier that year, this guerrilla force recaptured the Ch’ŏngju Fortress from the Japanese invaders, but perished while trying to regain Kŭmsan. Their remains were
11 The enlargement project went on in the 1970s. See CHA 2, 2011: 142, 182. Today, the entire heritage complex measures around 40,000 p’yŏng and twenty-five facilities.
(designated a historic site in 1967),12 the shrine dedicated to Admiral Yi Sunsin, well documented by Park Saeyoung (2010). She examines the metamorphosis of Hyŏnch’ungsa from one of the several shrines dedi- cated to the Admiral during the Chosŏn period to a national monument where annual state ceremonies have been performed since the 1960s, the process being a reflection of the systematic canonization of Yi Sunsin, engaging ‘claims of historicity and authenticity’ (Park 2010). Despite the fact that most of the facilities in Hyŏnch’ungsa are twentieth century cre- ations,13 the site has been successful in conveying and propagating the forceful image of a patriotic, heroic Yi Sunsin, an image still potent today. Authenticity has become secondary to the site’s efficiency to incorporate identity, a process carefully designed and closely monitored by state insti- tutions like the OCP. The historical vision of ‘overcoming national difficulties’ persists today and is reiterated in heritage discourse, in the interpretation of historic sites such as the tomb of King Munmu (Historic site no. 158, designated 1967), the fortress Hangp’aduri, commemorating the anti-Mongolian resis- tance in the thirteenth century (Historic site no. 396, designated 1997), the shrine for Im Kyŏngŏp, a hero during the Manchu invasions (Historic site no. 189, designated 1969), and the birthplace of Yun Ponggil, activist for Korean independence during the colonial occupation (Historic site no. 229, designated 1972). An enumeration of such heritage sites creates an outline of Korean history, a master narrative that illustrates the cen- trality of self-sacrifice. Every historical challenge is represented through at least one site, in a network of heritage sites encompassing the history of ‘overcoming national difficulties’.14
12 The fourth chairman of OCP, Ha Kapch’ŏng (1964–1969), advised in the second issue of Cultural Properties: ‘Heritage, which is our soul and concern, should be known and pro- tected by all citizens. At the same time, as an act of creating culture independently, we established a general museum – a model institution of national culture, and started the project of Hyŏnch’ungsa, for the veneration of a representative national hero’ (Ha 1966). 13 Park Saeyoung (2010) provides evidence for the complete transformation of Hyŏnch’ungsa: originally dedicated to Yi Sunsin and two other military officials, the altar was entirely rebuilt and redesigned as a site of national importance, solely dedicated to Yi Sunsin. Besides, the original reliquary with the Admiral’s personal effects was demol- ished and replaced with an enlarged building, refashioned several times, until it reached the desired ‘traditional’ appearance. Additionally, the Hyŏnch’ungsa Management Office was created on the grounds, to suggest that, from now on, the site is managed exclusively by the state. 14 One of the websites administered by CHA (formerly OCP) presents a historical sec- tion of ‘overcoming national difficulties’, ‘a history of many cries’ (manŭn oech’im ŭi yŏksa). The presentation suggests that the strength of the ancestors to face this harsh history is still
The insistence on emphasizing righteous warriors (ŭibyŏng),15 martyrs and loyal heroes who sacrificed themselves for their country is meant to create and propagate the image of the ideal citizen: devoted, ready to place the national interest higher than his own salvation, capable of fight- ing against the odds and overcoming all difficulties. In a contemporary context, such a citizen would be fully involved in and dedicated to the ongoing battles of the 1960s and 1970s, namely national modernization and economic development, even if this means that he has to abandon his own wishes and individual needs. This insistence on military heroes reflects president Park Chung Hee’s desire to present himself as a great martial leader, the descendant of brave, loyal soldiers, all connected in a spiritual genealogy. But apart from the political implications of such a message, the promotion of heroes makes a didactic point, often over- looked. More than posing as the successor to military leaders, Park Chung Hee aimed to create a powerful, compelling model to be emulated by the Korean people. The memorials built for national heroes were destined to be visited by large numbers of tourists, the eloquent message consumed and internalized – a form of modern, edifying pilgrimage that was designed to shape the citizens into something that the country needed: righteous, devoted, hard-working and self-sacrificing patriots.
The Memorialization of the Mythical Founding Fathers
During the presidency of Park Chung Hee, several sites were designated as historic because they were considered vestiges of the foundation of ancient Korea; places connected to the mythical founders of the ancient Korean kingdoms, Tan’gun (founder of Kojosŏn) and Pak Hyŏkkŏse (founder of Silla), or the legendary ancestor of the Silla Kim clan, Kim Alchi. The sites relating to the mythical founders were identified as traces of the past, thus becoming valuable markers of South Korean identity in the second half of the twentieth century. It is my contention that these traces of the past are authenticated not so much by the mythological nar- ratives they relate to, but by the politics that invested meaning and com- municated national identity, both inherent in heritage. In the classification of state-designated heritage, which is regulated by law, historic sites denote places with a great historical and scholarly value, alive and is very meaningful for the new generation. See
such as prehistoric sites, shell mounds, dolmens, ancient tombs, kilns, temple sites, fortresses and palaces. Such places must be connected to a historical event or be emblematic for a historical era (CHA 2009: 24). However, there are several sites classified as historic even if their designa- tion as such is justified through references to mythological accounts from Kim Pusik’s Samguk sagi (Tales of the Three Kingdoms) and Ir’yŏn’s Samguk yusa (Memorabilia of the Three Kingdoms). Ch’amsŏngdan, an altar erected on the top of Manisan on Kanghwado, is one such example. Classified as Historic site no. 136 on 11 July 1964, it was allegedly built by Tan’gun himself, the founder of the first Korean kingdom Kojosŏn, in order to perform sacrificial rites (chesa) dedicated to Heaven. The altar was first mentioned as related to Tan’gun only in the fifteenth century,16 in Koryŏsa (The History of Koryŏ, 1451) and then in the geograph- ical section of the Sejong wangjo sillok (Veritable records of King Sejong, 1454). (Suh 2008: 122) The independence movement of the colonial period has led to a nationalist reinterpretation of Tan’gun as the historical founder of the first Korean state, and the symbol of a uniracial, homogeneous peo- ple. The foundation of the nation by Tan’gun is commemorated as National Foundation Day (Kaech’ŏnjŏl, [Opening of Heaven Festival]) on 3 October. Yearly rituals are performed at Ch’amsŏngdan on this day, in honour of Tan’gun. The role of these ceremonies is to repeatedly and ritually validate and reinforce the power of the state through representations of the past, and also disseminate certain controlled interpretations of history. Also associated with Tan’gun, Kanghwa Samnangsŏng is said to have been built by Tan’gun himself in order to protect his three sons17 (hence the name ‘Fortress of Three Sons’). Dated from the Three Kingdoms Period because of its style, it was classified as Historic site no. 130 on 10 June 1964. The designation might have been influenced by the fact that a division specializing in safeguarding copies of historical records and royal genealo- gies (sago), established on Mani-san in 1606, was moved to Samnangsŏng in 1660.18 However, it is most likely that the association with Tan’gun was decisive and is an integral part of the site’s interpretation.19
16 However, the first mention of Tan’gun dates from the thirteenth century, when Samguk yusa was completed. An unnamed altar is mentioned in this source. Ir’yŏn 2007: 35. 17 The geographical section of ‘The History of Koryŏ’ (Koryŏsa, 1451), volume 56. 18 Chosŏn wangjo sillok (Annals of Chosŏn Dynasty), entry in the first year of King Hyŏnjong’s reign, 1660. 19 See entry for Samnangsŏng on Cultural Heritage Administration website,
The designation of the two sites associated with Tan’gun – Ch’amsŏngdan and Samnangsŏng – is conspicuously close enough (just one month apart) to suggest a deliberate plan to historicize the mythical figure of Tan’gun.20 Similarly the mythical founder of Silla, King Pak Hyŏkkŏse, is memori- alized at the Najŏng Well (classified as Historic site no. 245 on 20 November 1975), where he was born from an egg brought to the ancestors of the six clans by a divine horse, in 69 bc (Ir’yŏn 2007: 73). The mythical account from Samguk yusa also mentions the tombs where people put the remains of King Pak Hyŏkkŏse and his wife, divided in five parts, now memorial- ized as the Five Tombs of Silla (Silla Orŭng, officially changed to Kyŏngju Orŭng) and classified as Historic site (no. 172 on 27 August 1969). However, circular burial mounds like the Five Tombs of Silla have appeared in Silla only after the fourth century, so it is certain that these tombs cannot have been built in the first century ad, when Pak Hyŏkkŏse allegedly died. Kyerim Forest (Kyŏngju Kyerim, Historic site no. 19 since 21 January 1963) commemorates Kim Alchi, the founder of the Kyŏngju Kim clan, who descended from heaven in a golden box and was found in this box in the forest of Kyerim (Ir’yŏn 2007: 87). These mythological narratives have undergone a slow process of histo- ricization that highlighted the identifiable geography and the temporal details which offered the myths a semblance of verisimilitude. The memo- rialization of the mythical founders accentuates these verifiable details and disregards the supernatural elements which cast a shadow of scepti- cism over the actual existence of those who are memorialized. When places vaguely connected to the mythical founders are identified and codified as emotionally charged symbols of the past, it is implied that mythology is history. The established view of mythology as disguised his- tory (in archaic, religious form) is reiterated at the beginning of national histories even today, and propagated through national education policies and means of collective consumption such as heritage tourism. This indi- cates that the justification for certain selections for the national patri- mony relies more on the way history is defined, written and used, and less
20 It is significant to note that in more recent times Tan’gun related heritage sites have been designated as ‘important folklore cultural heritage’ (chungyo minsok munhwajae), not ‘historic sites’. One example that readily comes to mind is the altar on T’aebaek-san (T’aebaek-san Ch’ŏnjedan, designated in 1991 and classified as religious material). The asso- ciation with Tan’gun bestowed historic status on heritage sites in times when national identity was still developing and needed to be expressed through familiar symbols such as the national founders; but in more recent times OCP/CHA seem less willing to reinforce the historicity of Tan’gun.
on historical facts or authenticity. An ‘invented’ historical and ritual tradi- tion (Hobsbawm and Ranger 1983) legitimizes the creation of mnemonic sites and the performance of commemorative rites dedicated to the national founders. In the Park Chung Hee era, the heritageization of mythical sites com- plemented a sweeping process of historical re-evaluation, in order to iden- tify ‘a correct sense of national history’ (Park 1974: 191). The history of the Korean people had to begin with narratives of ethnic ancestry, and the foundation myths of the ancient Korean kingdoms provided such an eth- nic framework. The historian Anthony D. Smith has drawn attention to the importance of myths of descent for the creation of national solidarity and communal identity:
By placing the present in the context of the past and of the community, the myth of descent interprets present social changes and collective endeavours in a manner that satisfies the drive for meaning by providing new identities that seem to be also very old, and restoring locations, social and territorial, that allegedly were the crucibles of those identities. (Smith 1999: 62) The role of heritage sites related to foundation myths is precisely to con- struct mnemonics that connect present-day identities with the proclaimed origins of the Korean people in tangible, patrimonial forms. Besides, the reference to the ancient founders qualifies these sites as being identified as ‘Korean’ markers of identity, which project ‘Korean’ values such as hero- ism, independence and the self-awareness of a unique people. The desig- nation as historic sites, beyond issues of authenticity, is designed to spatialize identity and collective memory in forms that can be visited, consumed, and venerated. This Korean selfhood is also constructed with the purpose of challeng- ing North Korea’s claim of holding the sole legitimate Korean identity. While seeking legitimacy and strengthened authority internally, the Park government paid considerable attention to the message it conveyed on the international scene, particularly towards its brotherly neighbour, North Korea. Heritage and history played key-roles in this dialogue, and historic sites related to the mythical founders are illustrative of the way the Park government appropriated the true Korean past. The OCP identi- fied the sites mentioned in historical sources as related to the mythical founders and equated them with the historical roots of the Korean people. But the designation of these sites as part of the heritage of the Republic of Korea implies that the traces of the historical origins were inherited only
Conclusion
Shortly after seizing power in 1961, Park Chung Hee understood the poten- tial power inherent in heritage, as proved by the creation of the OCP in the same year and the promulgation of the Cultural Properties Preservation Act in 1962. Beside the cultural and economic benefits deriving from the consumption of heritage, he envisioned the possibility of conveying social, ideological and political content through heritage. The designation and management practices of the OCP suggest that the investment of national identity was a major concern under the Park government. I have shown that while adopting the stance of saviour and protector of national heritage, the OCP also assumed the role of an omnipotent authority that
was legitimized to decide what is Korean culture and tradition, what is worth preserving, how to interpret heritage and what to convey through it. The stress accorded to military heroes, martyrs and founders of the ancient Korean kingdoms during the Park Chung Hee era reflects the ideological uses of heritage: it was a convenient tool to transmit the ideals of patrio- tism, self-sacrifice, independence, and to shape the citizens into a state- defined body. OCP rhetoric, following guidelines from the government and reflected in official publications and site interpretations, makes apparent the process of constructing meaning. The OCP posits national heritage as intrinsically valuable simply because it is connected to the past, without questioning authenticity. Eliminating argument in this way, it then controls the meaning of heritage by advancing authoritative inter- pretations, a dominant narrative that can only be changed from within the system, when times require it. It is important to understand that the Park Chung Hee administration was not only very aware of the potency of heri- tage, but made full use of it in order to communicate with the people. Further research in this direction could show that the ideal of a unified Korea was also advocated in the official discourse on the meaning of heri- tage, because heritage embodied a shared culture and history that tran- scended artificial borders. However, at the same time, the Republic of Korea was constantly asserted as the rightful inheritor of Korean culture and Korean values in dominant discourse, an idea which subtly delineated between two political identities and suggested a cautious attitude towards North Korea. That heritage can be used in multiple ways, according to the meanings and values projected upon it, is a constant reminder of the ver- satile character of heritage.
Bibliography
Chung, Yun Shun Susie 2003: ‘Object as Exhibit: legitimising the building of the National Museum of Korea.’ International Journal of Heritage Studies 9.3. CHA (Cultural Heritage Administration) 문화재청 2007: Kyŏngbokkung pyŏnch’ŏnsa. Kyŏngbokkung pyŏnch’ŏn kwajŏng mit chihyŏng punsŏk haksul chosa yŏn’gu yongyŏk 景福宮變遷史(上). 경복궁 변천과정 및 지형분석 학술조사 연구용역 [A history of the changes undergone by Kyŏngbokkung. A scientific investigation of the changes undergone by Kyŏngbokkung and its topography 1]. Seoul: Munhwajaech’ŏng 문화재청. —— 2009: Sajŏk chijŏng chedo ŭi kaesŏn pangan yŏn’gu 사적 지정제도의 개선방안연구 [The improvement of the designation system of historic sites. A study]. Seoul: Munhwajaech’ŏng 문화재청. —— 2011: Munhwajaech’ŏng 50 nyŏnsa 문화재청50년사 [The Fifty-Year History of the Cultural Heritage Administration], 2 vols. Seoul: Munhwajaech’ŏng 문화재청. Chŏng, Chae-hun 정재훈 2011: Interview by Yi Kŏng-hŭi 이경희. “Munhwa yusan p’aioniŏ – Minjok chŏngch’esŏng ch’atki 50 nyŏn. 1. Chŏng Chae-hun chŏn Munhwajae
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Park Sang Mi 2010: ‘The Paradox of Postcolonial Korean Nationalism: State-Sponsored Cultural Policy in South Korea, 1965–Present.’ The Journal of Korean Studies 15, no. 1: 67–94. Smith, Anthony D. 1999: Myths and Memories of the Nation. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Smith, Laurajane 2006: Uses of heritage. London: Routledge. Sŏng Tongjun 成東準 1966: ‘Sokkansa’속간사 續刊辭 [Continuation Address]. Munhwajae 文化財2.
Glossary
Ch’amsŏngdan 塹星壇 kukbang yujŏk 國防遺跡 Ch’ilbaek Ŭich’ong 七百義塚 kukpo 國寶 ch’ŏnyŏn kinyŏmmul 天然記念物 Kŭmsan 錦山 chaju chŏngsin 自主精神 kungmin chŏngsin sunhwa 國民精 chehyang 祭享 神純化 chesa 祭祀 kungnan kŭkpoksa 國難克服史 Cho Hŏn 趙憲 Kyerim 鷄林 choguk kŭndaehwa 祖國近代化 Kyŏngbokkung 景福宮 Chosŏn 朝鮮 kyŏngjae palchŏn 經濟發展 Hangp’aduri Fortress 缸坡頭里城 Kyŏngju 慶州 Hangukchŏgin kŏt 韓國的인 것 Manisan 摩尼山 hoguk chŏngsin 護國精神 minjok chunghŭng 民族中興 Hŭngsŏn Taewŏngun 興宣大院君 minjok-hon 民族魂 Hyŏnch’ungsa 顯忠祠 Munhwa Kongbobu Im Kyŏngŏp 林慶業 文化公報部 Imjin Waeran 壬辰倭亂 MunhwajaeKwalliguk 文化財管理 Ir’yŏn 一然 局 Kaech’ŏnjŏl 開天節 Munhwajae 文化財 Kanghwado 江華島 Munhwajaech’ŏng 文化財廳 Kim Alchi 金閼智 Najŏng Well 蘿井 Kim Pusik 金富軾 Pak Hyŏkkŏse 朴赫居世 King Kojong 高宗王 Park Chung Hee 朴正熙 King Munmu 文武王 pomul 寶物 Kojosŏn 古朝鮮 Puyŏ 扶餘 Kongju 公州 sago 史庫 kŏnjŏn han ch’angjo 健全한 創造 sajŏk 史蹟 Koryŏsa 高麗史 Samguk sagi 三國史記
Samguk yusa 三國遺事 sunŭi chehyang 殉義祭享 Samnangsŏng 三郞城 Tan’gun 檀君 Sejong wangjo sillok 世宗王朝實錄 ŭibyŏng 義兵 Silla Orŭng (Kyŏngju Orŭng) 新羅 Yi Sunsin 李舜臣 五陵 (慶州 五陵) Yŏnggyu Taesa 靈圭大師 Silla 新羅 Yun Ponggil 尹奉吉
Charlotte Horlyck
Introduction
Since its foundation in 1916, the School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London (SOAS)2 has acquired valuable artefacts donated by dignitaries, academics, artists and others. As a result, it now houses a sub- stantial number of precious manuscripts, prints and paintings which it holds in the Archives and Special Collections of the SOAS Library, as well as 400 non-archival artworks from Asia, Africa and the Middle East. Included among the non-archival as well as the archival collections are several artworks that were either made by Korean artists or depict Korean scenes. Little was known about the non-archival collection until 2005 when SOAS began to compile an inventory of the artefacts. In the process several significant works of art were discovered, and in 2007 they were shown to the public for the first time in an exhibition titled ‘Objects of Instruction: Treasures of the School of Oriental and African Studies’ that opened at the Brunei Gallery – an exhibition space within the Brunei Building on the main SOAS campus. Curated by Dr Anna Contadini, Professor of the History of Islamic Art in the Department of the History of Art and Archaeology, the exhibition numbered around 120 artefacts from a wide range of regions that the School focuses on: East Asia, South East Asia, Central Asia, the Middle East and Africa. The objects were illustrated in the accompanying exhibition catalogue that summarized highlights of the exhibition (Contadini 2007). This included some of the School’s Korean artefacts which will be examined here in more detail alongside others that were not displayed in the exhibition.
1 I would like to extend my thanks to my colleagues at SOAS: Anna Contadini, John Hollingworth, Andrew Jackson, George Manginis, Jiyeon Wood and Yoshiko Yasumura for their comments and insights. All errors are, of course, my own. This work was supported by the Academy of Korean Studies (KSPS) Grant funded by the Korean Government (MOE) (AKS-2011-BAA-2104). All photographs of artefacts in the SOAS Collection as well as in the PDF Sherd Collection were taken by Glenn Ratcliffe. 2 The School was originally named the School of Oriental Studies (SOS). It took its pres- ent title in 1938, by which time it had also established itself as a centre for African Studies.
SOAS holds around thirty manuscripts and works of art that relate to Korea, either through manufacture or subject matter, and they signify the School’s long-standing and strong links with Korea. Some of the artworks were made by Korean artists while others were produced by individuals of non-Korean descent who took a keen interest in depicting and recording Korea’s distinctive national characteristics and idiosyncrasies. The arte- facts are of important artistic and historical value, and cement the posi- tion of SOAS as a keeper and disseminator of knowledge in its broadest sense. Many of the artworks are beautiful and worthy of study simply for their aesthetic appeal. But it is the stories they tell that make them fasci- nating subjects of enquiry. The library’s collection of Korean manuscripts is discussed in the introduction to this volume and so this chapter centres on works of art; the iconography and manufacture of these works will be placed within a broader artistic, cultural and historical framework. Additionally, the chapter will also address the stories that surround these artworks and how they ended up at SOAS.
Korean art in Europe
SOAS is probably the only academic institution in Europe to hold Korean works of art. Some of them seem to have been given as gifts to the School in the early twentieth century, when British curators and collectors of Korean art were actively purchasing objects, often through dealers in London or in Korea itself. It was around this time that the British Museum and the Victoria and Albert Museum acquired large numbers of Korean artefacts and they now hold two of the most significant Korean collections in the West in terms of the breadth and quality of objects. However, they are not the only museums in the UK with Korean collections. The National Museums Scotland in Edinburgh, the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford and the Fitzwilliam Museum in Cambridge have also acquired Korean art- works over the years, and they each include public gallery spaces devoted exclusively to their displays, signalling a rising interest in Korea among museum curators and visitors. Within a European context the UK is unusual for its strong and well- researched collections of Korean art. However, in terms of the number of Korean artefacts, the UK is surpassed by Germany, where more than 6,000 Korean objects are spread over more than ten museums, including the Linden-Museum in Stuttgart, the Museum of East Asian Art in Cologne, the Museum of Ethnology in Hamburg and the Museum of Applied Arts in
Frankfurt. Little was known about the nature and scale of the German collections until 2011, when the Korea Foundation sponsored a project that brought together highlights in a travelling exhibition titled Korea Entdeckung – Korea Rediscovered (Kim Byungkook 2011: 6–8). However, the UK and Germany are by no means the only countries in Europe with good Korean artefacts. One of Europe’s largest and most important collections of Korean art is housed at the Guimet Museum in Paris. Artefacts date from the Bronze Age (circa 1000–300 bc) through to the late Chosŏn period and include a vast range of artworks, from Three Kingdoms bronze sculp- ture to celadon ceramics and Buddhist paintings of the Koryŏ period, as well as Chosŏn secular and religious paintings, porcelains, lacquer wares and paper articles (Cambon 2000). The National Museum of Denmark in Copenhagen was the first museum in the West to install a yangban3 schol- ar’s study (sarangbang) in its Korean gallery. The sarangbang was donated by the South Korean Government in 1966 and frames a collection that comprises around 900 Korean artworks. This year the newly refurbished Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam opens its East Asian wing which includes a space devoted to Korea. Korean artefacts in Europe signal the continent’s long-standing links with Korea. By studying the history of these collections, as well as the arte- facts themselves, we gain insight into the relations between European nations and Korea at national and individual level, and such relations con- tinue to shape cultural projects. Over the past ten or twenty years many museums have refurbished their Korean galleries and several large-scale exhibitions of Korean art have been held in Europe. More recently, muse- ums have striven to showcase their Korean collections online, thereby making them available to an ever-increasing audience.
History of the SOAS Collection
The ways in which Korea-related and other manuscripts and artworks were acquired by SOAS were at best eclectic, as they were never collected in a systematic manner. It was rather through gifts and purchases by individuals who over the years had established links with the School that a relatively small but important collection began to take shape. Some works were bequeathed by SOAS staff, such as Sir Reginald F. Johnston
3 Elite status group in Chosŏn.
(1874–1938), Professor of Chinese from 1931 to 1937 and tutor of the last emperor of China, Puyi (1906–1967). Among the 16,000 volumes that Sir Reginald donated to the library was an album of ten paintings that he received in 1926 from Puyi, whose inscription can be found on the verso of the front cover (Contadini 2007: 11). Other objects were gifted by visiting dignitaries including the fourteenth Dalai Lama (who gave Tibetan thang- kas in 1977), heads of state like H.M. Queen Elizabeth II and the King of Siam, visiting scholars and former SOAS students. At one point or another, SOAS also acquired the collections of scholars, diplomats and members of the School’s Governing Body, including Lord Harlech, who was the Body’s chairman and who offered more than seventy Japanese prints and book illustrations (Rayner and Yasumura 2007: 6–7). In addition, donations from missionary organizations and individuals have resulted in a signifi- cant collection of missionary archives that includes the personal papers of well-known individuals, among them David Livingstone (1813–1873) and Gladys Aylward (1902–1970) (Rayner and Yasumura 2007: 7). The manu- scripts and artworks in the SOAS Collection serve as rich research material and as important tools of instruction, highlighting the School’s dual emphasis on research and teaching. Currently the School also houses the Percival David Foundation (here- after PDF) Sherd Collection, which numbers hundreds of ceramic sherds and complete ceramic objects from China, as well as from other parts of the world, including Korea. This collection was formed by Sir Percival David (1882–1964) who is better known for his large and comprehensive collection of over 1,400 Chinese ceramics, most of them in imperial taste, and dating from the Song to the Qing dynasties. Sir Percival was a self- taught sinologist who began acquiring Chinese pieces in 1927 when eunuchs and other members of the Imperial Household Department were selling off artefacts from the Forbidden City (Krahl and Harrison-Hall 2009: 8; Lady David 1989: 10). Other imperial pieces were sold to service the debts of the Dowager Empress Cixi (1835–1908). Sir Percival purchased several of these imperial ceramics and they laid the foundations for a col- lection that is widely regarded as being one of the most important in the world (Lady David 1989: 9). It was first displayed in 1931 at the Dorchester Hotel in London where it remained until the outbreak of the Second World War, when it was evacuated to the countryside. Towards the end of his life, Sir Percival decided to keep the collection together and make it available to the public. To this end, he began negotia- tions with the University of London. A Foundation attached to SOAS was established and the Chair of Chinese Art and Architecture that Sir Percival
initially set up at the Courtauld Institute was moved to SOAS (Lady David 1989: 22–3). The collection of the newly established Percival David Foundation of Chinese Art was displayed within a town house in Gordon Square, Bloomsbury, close to the SOAS main building, and opened to the public in 1952 (Krahl and Harrison-Hall 2009: 9). Unfortunately the School had to close the building in 2007 and the collection was lent to the British Museum, where it is now exhibited in the Sir Joseph Hotung Centre for Ceramic Studies, a newly established space located next to the Korea Foundation Gallery of Korean Art. Although the collection’s relocation represented a big loss for SOAS, it has indirectly increased the profile of Korean art for the British Museum’s public. Many visitors wander from the Sir Joseph Hotung Centre for Ceramic Studies into the adjacent Korean gallery. In the process, they effectively circumambulate the sarangbang that divides the two spaces and serves as a reference to the influence of Chosŏn yangban values and way of life. The yangban constituted a rela- tively small segment of the population of Chosŏn, but they monopolized the political process, economic wealth and Confucian learning. Their Confucian thinking and way of life had a big impact on the arts, which in their materials, colours and patterns often reflect yangban ideals of auster- ity, modesty and simplicity. Symbolic of this is the ‘moon jar’, an example of which is in the PDF Sherd Collection as will be discussed below.
Korean Ceramics in the Percival David Foundation Sherd Collection
While the core of the PDF Collection was lent to the British Museum, the PDF Sherd Collection is still kept at SOAS and is used by teachers and
Figure 1. Set of miniature burial vessels (myŏnggi) – Korea, Chosŏn dynasty, sixteenth-eighteenth century. Various heights, ranging from 5 to 10 cm. Percival David Sherd Collection, © SOAS.
4 For a diagram detailing the types of myŏnggi specified in the Sejong sillok, see Kwak Tongsŏk & Kang Kyŏngnam 2010: 49.
be seen in the PDF set, and they reflect the standardization of burial wares, a result of the significance attached to following correct funeral etiquette to the letter. Myŏnggi were normally made of porcelain, although some examples of punch’ŏng stoneware also exist. The PDF myŏnggi are typical of the period, with rough forms and plain, undecorated surfaces. However, there are also examples of finely potted porcelain myŏnggi, decorated with underglaze pigments of cobalt, iron or copper. Considering the added expense of applying such decoration, not to mention the cost of the pigments them- selves (in particular cobalt which was imported from China) it must be assumed that such pieces were only made for the elite. Examples exca- vated from tombs belonging to members of the Chosŏn royal family verify this assumption. Myŏnggi from the tombs of Prince Ŭiso (1750–1752), Crown Prince Munhyo (1782–1786) and Royal Concubine Wŏnbin (1766– 1779) are all of finely made porcelain, painted elaborately with cobalt blue and copper red (Kwak Tongsŏk & Kang Kyŏngnam 2010: 50–3). There are no archaeological finds of myŏnggi pre-dating the sixteenth century but records in the Sejong sillok (Veritable records of Sejong) indi- cate that they were used in royal funerals from the early fifteenth century onwards. The Sejong sillok includes detailed information on the large numbers of myŏnggi prepared for the funeral of Queen Wŏngyŏng (1366– 1420), the wife of King T’aejong (r. 1400–1418), where fifty-three myŏnggi were put in her grave (Sejong sillok 9: 17a-18a). However, many myŏnggi in museum collections are from unspecified contexts, making it difficult to date them accurately. The shapes of the PDF examples, as well as their potting and glaze, indicate that they may have been made as early as the sixteenth century. The PDF Sherd Collection also includes a large white porcelain jar which, with its simple form and undecorated body, is a representative example of Chosŏn porcelain tradition (Figure 2). Porcelain sherds of ves- sels of this kind have been found at kiln sites in Sŏndong-ri, Sŏngjŏng-ri and Kŭmsa-ri at Kwangju, where ceramics were manufactured for the royal office Saongwŏn which administered wares used at the court (Kim Young-won 2005: 94). This evidence indicates that the PDF jar was also made for the royal household. Plain, round jars like this were popular from the latter half of the seventeenth century until the mid-eighteenth cen- tury. Their colloquial name, ‘moon jars’, derives from their shape, which in some cases is evenly spherical. However, most jars are asymmetrical, denoting that they were made by potting their two hemispherical halves separately and luting them together before placing them in the kiln.
Figure 2. Moon Jar – Korea, Chosŏn dynasty, seventeenth or eighteenth century. SOAS Library; H45 x Diam 31 cm. Percival David Sherd Collection, © SOAS.
During firing, the upper and lower halves of the body would not always expand or shrink at the same rate, resulting in a visible joining line, or sometimes in a distorted shape.5 It is not known where Sir Percival purchased his ‘moon jar’ but it may have been from one of several dealers in London who sold antique Korean
5 The joining line is easily visible on a ‘moon jar’ in the British Museum. The jar is well- known as it originally belonged to the famous British potter Bernard Leach (1887–1979), who bought it in Seoul in 1935 (Portal 2000: 18–19; Horlyck 1999: 9–11).
ceramics in the early to mid-twentieth century, when he was actively col- lecting. At this time it was not unusual for collectors of Chinese ceramics to also acquire representative examples of Korean ceramics. It was widely believed that the study of Korean ceramics furthered the understanding of Chinese ceramics, since pottery manufacture in the two countries shared many stylistic and technological traits (Horlyck & Priewe forthcoming). In the early to mid-twentieth century, wares from China and Korea were sometimes displayed alongside one another so as to offer viewers the opportunity to draw visual comparisons between the two traditions. Sir Percival adopted this approach as he displayed a celadon dish from the Koryŏ kingdom alongside Chinese green-glazed wares (Horlyck 2013; Horlyck & Priewe forthcoming).6 It is largely due to the writings of the influential Japanese artist and art historian Yanagi Muneyoshi7 (1887–1961) that the ‘moon jar’ has become a representative symbol of Chosŏn aesthetics and by extension Korean art as a whole. During the Japanese colonial period (1910–1945), Yanagi and his contemporaries wrote at length about Korean artworks, often compar- ing them to the character of the Korean people. For Yanagi, the beauty of Korean ceramics lay in what he defined as a ‘beauty of sadness’ and a ‘qui- etness of spirit’. He was especially struck by Chosŏn ceramic wares which he argued were great works of art. He detected in the vessels a ‘dignified beauty’, and to him, their paucity of colour, their irregular forms and sim- ple lines epitomized the essence of Korea as sorrowful and spiritual (Brandt 2000: 725; Nakami 2006: 339–40). Writing during a time when Japan was undergoing rapid modernization, Yanagi saw Korea as a place where traditions and the ‘Oriental spirit’ were still much in evidence, as embodied in Chosŏn ceramic art. Yanagi’s argument that the aesthetics of Chosŏn ceramics reflect Korean culture as a whole continues to have much impact in Korea and abroad. The ‘moon jar’, with its modest white colour and plain shape, has been likened to the ideal of the white-robed Confucian yangban scholar, who lived a simple and modest life. As a result, the ‘moon jar’ has become an exemplar of Koreanness, and has led to its iconic status in contemporary Korean society. For example, for the artist Kang Ik-joong [Kang Ik-chung] (born 1960), the ‘moon jar’ not only evokes reflections of the past but also hopes for the future, as he compares the joining of the two halves of the jar
6 Accession number of the Koryŏ celadon dish: PDF 59. 7 Also known as Yanagi Sōetsu.
Elizabeth Keith
Another individual who, like Yanagi, spent time in Korea during the early twentieth century was the Scottish-born artist Elizabeth Keith (1887– 1956). SOAS has four coloured woodblock prints she made of Korean peo- ple and architecture, along with several other prints and etchings of scenes from China, Japan and the Philippines.9 She executed the studies for the prints on one of her many visits to Korea, often accompanied by her younger sister Elspet. Elspet was married to J.W. Robertson-Scott, pub- lisher of the Tokyo-based magazine The New East. They had lived in Japan for many years and invited the unmarried Elizabeth to join them. She arrived in 1915 and during her nine-year stay she travelled extensively in China, Korea, Japan and the Philippines where she produced pencil sketches and watercolours of her travel impressions. She returned to England in 1924 but continued to travel throughout her life. It was during her first stay in Japan that Elizabeth fulfilled a ‘long-felt desire’ and with her sister journeyed to Korea in 1919, arriving shortly after the March First Movement when the Koreans marched in protest demand- ing independence from Japan (Keith & Scott 1946: 11, 13). From their writ- ings it is not clear what lay behind their interest in the peninsula, its people and its history. Their friend, the Canadian missionary Dr James S. Gale (1863–1937), had by then lived and worked in Korea for more than twenty years and it may have been him who enticed them to visit.
8 Meyer (n.d.). 9 SOAS has twelve of Keith’s works, of which the following have Korean themes: A Game of Chess, Korea; East Gate, Pyeng Yang, Korea; Morning Mists, Korea; Marriage Procession, Seoul. Anna Contadini [Director of the ‘Treasures of SOAS’ project], personal communica- tion, 12 March 2013.
Figure 3. Elizabeth Keith, The East Gate, Pyeng Yang, Korea. Published by Watanabe Shōzaburō, 1925. SOAS Library; coloured woodblock print on paper. Height 51.3 cm. Width 64 cm. SOASAW 2010.0154.01, © SOAS.
Irrespective of their initial motives, there is little doubt that Elizabeth, in particular, came to love the country, often referring to it as her ‘beloved Korea.’ Though she went to Korea many times, her first stay left a lasting impression of the country and its people, whom she greatly respected. Later she wrote of this first trip: Everything we heard made us admire the fortitude of the people. Their land had been taken from them by trickery; their queen had been murdered; they were forbidden to wear their native dress; the school-children were forced to speak Japanese […] We heard many stories of heroism. Not a few people were killed. Yet in the calm faces of the Koreans there was nothing to show what they were thinking and suffering. (Keith & Scott 1946: 7) During their first stay in Korea, the sisters travelled the length of the peninsula, from Pusan on the south-eastern coast to Hamhŭng in the north-east.10 Throughout their journey Elizabeth made sketches in pencil
10 Elspet stayed for three months, but Elizabeth remained for longer to do more sketch- ing (Keith & Scott 1946: 57).
11 Fiorillo (n.d.).
Figure 4. Scene from Chōsen shisetsu gyōretsu zukan (Procession of Korean Ambassadors). Japan, Edo period, mid-seventeenth century. SOAS Library; hand- scroll, ink, colour and gold on paper. Height 33.3 cm. Length 1246 cm. SOAS, MS 86566, © SOAS.
around Seoul in search of interesting scenes and individuals. She initially drew two separate sketches of the chess players that were later combined to make a larger composition. Elizabeth commented of the sketches: ‘The models are typical countrymen. It is common to see men playing chess, often in the street. Koreans have many games, but I have seen only one for women. They have the swing – which goes far higher than ours’ (Keith & Scott 1946: 63).
Paintings in the SOAS Library Special Collections
Several hand-painted precious manuscripts are held in the Archives and Special Collections of the SOAS Library. One of rarest and most valuable among the Japanese examples is a twelve-metre handscroll depicting a procession of Korean ambassadors to Japan (Figures 4–6). The scroll was purchased in 1950 when SOAS received special funding from the British government to buy research and teaching materials in Japan. Dr. Frank Daniels, a pioneer of Japanese studies in the UK and Professor of Japanese at SOAS, went on a book-buying trip to Japan, where he acquired the scroll, among other precious manuscripts, all of which are now in the Library. It is likely that he bought it from Sorimachi Shigeo, a prominent
Tokyo-based dealer of Japanese rare books and manuscripts, as indicated by the seal found on a paper slip that accompanies the scroll (Carpenter 2007: 62–3). The significance of the scroll was unknown until the late 1980s when the scholars Shin Gisu and Nakao Hiroshi published an extensive study of paintings depicting Korean embassies to Japan. They identified the SOAS scroll as one of the earliest known artefacts of its kind, as well as one of the finest surviving examples. In 2006, the scroll was lent to the British Museum where it was exhib- ited in the newly re-opened Japanese Galleries in a display case dedicated to international relations between Japan and the Korean peninsula. Fortunately, staff from the Sumitomo Foundation were visiting the Museum at the time, where they were researching Japanese artefacts eli- gible for the Sumitomo Grant for ‘The Protection, Preservation and Restoration of Cultural Properties Outside Japan’. Among other objects, they selected the SOAS scroll, which was badly in need of restoration. Dr John Carpenter, Reader of Japanese Art at SOAS, secured a generous grant from the Foundation that enabled the Library to send it to Japan for re-backing and restoration. Other work was carried out on it too. For example, the ivory rollers at either end of the scroll were deemed to be of the wrong material for the period and the type of handscroll, and were therefore exchanged for wooden rollers. In addition, the brocade mount- ing at the opening of the scroll had completely disintegrated and needed replacement. The original green brocade was in Chinese style and, as it was thought to be inappropriate for a Japanese scroll, it was replaced by Japanese silk brocade.12 The scroll was returned to SOAS in 2009, where it is periodically exhibited in the Foyle Gallery. Colourful and meticulous in execution, the handscroll serves as an excellent tool for telling the story of official communication between Korea and Japan in pre-modern times. In East Asia, the despatch of embas- sies formed an integral part of foreign policy. Chosŏn sent embassies to Ryūkyū at irregular intervals and embassies always went to China at New Year and other occasions. Similarly, embassies were usually despatched to Japan whenever a new shogun was appointed. Over the course of the Edo period (1603–1868), Chosŏn sent embassies to Japan on twelve occasions between 1607 and 1811 (Toby 1986: 415). For the Koreans, the incentive behind engaging in official relations with Japan lay in the gathering of intelligence. When the Japanese warlord Hideyoshi Toyotomi (1536–1598)
12 John Hollingworth [SOAS exhibitions manager], personal communication, 18 March 2013.
invaded and occupied the Korean peninsula between 1592 and 1598, his armies caused huge devastation and loss of lives. In a concerted effort to avoid further aggression, the Chosŏn rulers tried to pre-empt the shogun’s next moves. Through ritual and decorum they also tried to civilize the Japanese barbarians. For the Japanese, Chosŏn embodied a truly Confucian and enlightened nation, and official contact with the Koreans enabled the Japanese to become part of a larger ‘civilized’ world (Lewis 2010: 54). Therefore they welcomed the embassies and spent vast sums to host them. The Korean embassies were public spectacles that drew large audiences throughout the archipelago, leading to numerous illustrations of them in various pictorial forms, from court-sponsored scrolls to cheap woodblock prints (Toby 1986: 415–17). Carpenter has suggested that the SOAS scroll is a depiction of the 1655 Chosŏn embassy to Tsushima, a government outpost in southern Japan. From Tsushima, the Korean delegations went by sea to Osaka and then proceeded along the Tōkaidō highway to Edo (present-day Tokyo) (Carpenter 2007: 62; Toby 1986: 419). The scroll is not dated or signed, but Shin Gisu has attributed it to Kanō Tōun Masunobu (1625–1694), who is
Figure 5. Scene from Chōsen shisetsu gyōretsu zukan (Procession of Korean Ambassadors). Japan, Edo period, mid-seventeenth century. SOAS Library; hand- scroll, ink, colour and gold on paper. Height 33.3 cm. Length 1246 cm. SOAS, MS 86566, © SOAS.
Figure 6. Scene from Chōsen shisetsu gyōretsu zukan. Japan, Edo period, mid-sev- enteenth century. SOAS Library; handscroll, ink, colour and gold on paper. Height 33.3 cm. Length 1246 cm. SOAS, MS 86566, © SOAS.
Kim Ŭnho had studied under An Chungsik (1861–1919) and Cho Sŏkjin (1853–1920) who were of the last generation of Chosŏn court painters. During the early colonial period Japan offered the only gateway for Korean artists who wished to study what was then conceived to be modern art in media like oil painting and sculpture. Kim Ŭnho, too, went to Japan and in 1923 he enrolled at the Tokyo School of Fine Arts, where he learnt nihonga [Japanese-style paintings]. Nihonga are paintings that have been made in accordance with traditional Japanese artistic conventions, techniques and materials. Executed on paper or silk with ink or mineral pigments, nihonga are typified by their subdued tones and flat renditions of colour. In 1927 Kim Ŭnho returned to Seoul where his paintings received high praise, and he founded a tradition of Korean interpretations of nihonga. Kim Kich’ang was one of his most successful students. Though Kim Kich’ang later turned away from nihonga and focused on traditional ink-paintings, it was his nihonga paintings that first brought him official acclaim. In 1931, a year after becoming Kim Ŭnho’s student and at the young age of eighteen, Kim Kich’ang’s work was selected for inclusion in the prestigious government- sponsored Chosŏn Art Exhibition (Kor. Chosŏn misul chŏllamhoe) (Kaellŏri sang 2006: 28). It marked the beginning of what was to be a long and illus- trious career.
Figure 7. Kim Kich’ang, The Moonlight. Early 1970s. SOAS Library; watercolour on paper, mounted as a hanging scroll. Height 98 cm. Width 81 cm. SOAS, MS 381154, © SOAS.
Over the course of his life Kim Kich’ang experimented with a broad range of different styles. Following the end of the Colonial period, nihonga fell out of vogue with the Korean arts establishment and Kim Kich’ang turned to different modes of expression. Korean artists and critics of the 1950s were particularly concerned with how to merge Korean cultural traditions with modern artistic trends. Kim Kich’ang argued: ‘The vogue of abstract art is becoming the goal of world trends; not only is this no time for us to sit deep in our ivory towers, but more than anyone else, now that our Eastern tradition of painting is fading, we must fall into pace with the times and progress’ (Kim Young-na 2005: 26). Though he continued to use so-called traditional modes of brush and ink, he embraced new, and for Korea ground-breaking styles. In the 1950s he was drawn to cubism along with a number of other artists, most famously Park Soo Geun [Pak
Sugŭn] (1914–1965) and Pak Raehyŏn (1921–1976), Kim Kich’ang’s wife. In the 1960s he turned to abstraction, culminating in his ‘babo sansu’ [idiot landscapes] that he began to produce in the mid-1970s. These works were modernized variations on traditional Chosŏn paintings. They often featured natural landscapes, deep green mountains, rivers, animals, birds and flowers, drawn in an energetic and free-flowing hand (Choi Byungsik 2000: 83). Kim Kich’ang’s painting in the SOAS Library probably dates from the early 1970s and coincides with his interest in merging the philosophy and subject matters of traditional Korean painting with modern styles of expression. Titled in English The Moonlight,13 it depicts a lone scholar, standing deep in thought next to a street lamp. Next to him is a hanok [traditional Korean wooden house] with a tiled roof, irregularly shaped wooden pillars and lattice windows. The street is bathed in light from the full moon that sits high in the sky. In the lower right hand of the painting are the painter’s seal and the two characters 雲甫 (Unbo) of his sobriquet. An annotation on the back of the scroll reads ‘To School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London. The Moonlight by Ki Chang Kim. Presented by Won Ko.’ Ko Wŏn was the pen name of the poet and scholar Ko Sŏngwŏn (1925–2008). Ko had studied at Queen Mary’s col- lege in 1956, before pursuing a career in the United States. Ko’s relation- ship with Kim Kich’ang is unknown but they may have met in the States. In 1970 Ko was appointed assistant professor at City University of New York, where he taught for seven years. Around this time Kim Kich’ang exhibited widely in the States, including at the New York Cultural Center in New York in November of 1970 (Pak Myŏngja 2000: 122–3). Perhaps their paths crossed then. How and why Ko presented the painting to SOAS is not known.
Conclusion
SOAS is often described as a remarkable institution, unique for its special- ized focus on Africa, Asia and the Near and Middle East. Its staff and stu- dent body has grown immensely over the years and contribute to the School’s diverse and vibrant environment. From its place in Britain’s colo- nial and imperial past to its present position within a changing academic environment, its role as disseminator of regional knowledge has remained
13 The painting does not carry a title in Korean.
Bibliography
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Kim, Byungkook 2011: ‘Preface.’ In Kim Byungkook et al., Korea Entdeckung – Korea Rediscovered. Seoul, The Korea Foundation. Kim, Young-na 2005: Modern and Contemporary Art in Korea. Seoul, The Korea Foundation. Kim, Young-won 2005: ‘Dalhang-ari, der ‘Vollmondtopf’ – Symbol der Gelassenkeit des Joseon-Volkes.’ In: Kim Young-won et al., Eleganz und Verzicht. Weiße Keramik im Korea der Josen-Dynastie. Frankfurt, KOGAF. Krahl, Regina & Jessica Harrison-Hall 2009: Chinese Ceramics: Highlights of the Sir Percival David Collection. London, The British Museum Press. Kwak Tongsŏk 곽동석 & Kang Kyŏngnam 강경남 (eds.), 2010: Paekcha hangari, Chosŏn ŭi in kwa ye rŭl tamda 백자 항아리, 조선의 인과 예를 담다 [White Porcelain Jars, Embracing Chosŏn Ideals and Rituals]. Seoul: Kungnip chungang pangmulgwan 국립 중앙박물관. Lady David 1989: ‘Introduction.’ In: Rosemary E. Scott (ed.), Percival David Foundation of Chinese Art. London, School of Oriental and African Studies. Legge, James 1885: The Sacred Books of China: The Texts of Confucianism. Part III, The Li ki, I-X. Oxford, The Clarendon press. Lewis, James B. 2010: ‘A Scroll of the 1748 Korean Embassy to Japan Preserved in the British Museum.’ In: Acta Koreana 13.1. Meyer, Ruth K. (n.d.): ‘Ik-joong Kang 2008.’
Glossary
An Chungsik 安仲植 hanok 韓屋 babo sansu 바보산수 Hideyoshi Toyotomi 豊臣 秀吉 Cho Sŏkjin 趙錫晋 Idang 以堂 Chosŏn misul chŏllamhoe 朝鮮美術 Kanō Tōun Masunobu 展覽會 狩野洞雲益信 Crown Prince Munhyo 文孝世子 Kim Changsaeng 金長生 Hamhŭng 咸興 Kim Chip 金集
Kim Kich’ang 金基昶 Saongwŏn 司饔院 Kim Ŭnho 金殷鎬 sarangbang 舍廊房 Ko Sŏngwŏn 高性遠 Sennyūji 泉涌寺 Kwanghwamun 光化門 shin hanga 新版画 Kyŏngbokkung 景福宮 Sorimachi Shigeo 反町茂雄 Li chi 禮記 Tsushima 対馬 myŏnggi 明器 ukiyo-e 浮世絵 nihonga 日本画 Unbo 雲甫 Pak Raehyŏn 朴崍賢 Watanabe Shōzaburō Pak Sugŭn [Park Soo Geun] 朴壽根 渡辺庄三郎 Prince Ŭiso 懿昭世孫 Yanagi Muneyoshi 柳宗悦 Puyi 溥儀 yangban 兩班 Queen Wŏngyŏng 元敬王后 Zhu Xi 朱子 Royal Concubine Wŏnbin 元嬪洪氏 Zhuzi jiali 朱子家禮
A Record of Buddhist Kingdoms. See ch’ǒn Gaoseng Faxian Zhuan Heaven as the Supreme Empty 195 Abang kangyŏkko (Historical Geography of ch’ǒnmyǒng (‘Heavenly Decree’) 195 Korea) 73 ch’ŭksin (the god of the privy) 215 AKSE. See Association of Korean Studies in Ch’unhyangga (The song of Europe Ch’unhyang) 227, 228, 230 alcohol 38 chakravartin (Ideal Monarch) 42, 50, as a commodity 38 55, 58 An Chŏngbok 66, 67, 73, 75–7 Chalmers, Lord Robert 234 An Hamgwang 109, 110, 121, 122 Chan E. Park 231 Anham (monk) 46 Cheju 74, 77, 176, 211, 219 Arirang Festival 104, 125 Cheng Yi 200 Arirang Mass Games 104, 123, 124, 127–31 Cheng-Zhu school 187–9, 191, and nation-building programmes 127 192, 195 precursors to 124 chi (‘wisdom’) 199 Ariyabalma 46, 58 Chinese characters (hanja) Ashberry and their importance to p’ansori 231 John 162 Chinese Communist Party 80, 81, 88, 90, Association of Korean Studies in Europe 6 92, 94 Augmented Survey Geography of Korea Chinese People’s Political Consultative (Tongguk yŏji sŭngnam) 66 Conference (CPPCC) 95 Ayutha 233 Chinhŭng, King 48, 49, 51, 57 Chisin palgi [treading down the earth Balcom, John 159 gods] 216 Bombing campaign Chiyŏn (1864–1921) 74 American, during Korean War 118 Cho Hŏn 263, 273 Book of Documents, the 191, 192 Cho Sanghyŏn 231 Book of Odes, the 194, 192 Chŏkpyŏkka (The Red Cliff ) 229, 230, 239 Bouchez, Daniel 4 Chǒn Tuhwan 182 Buddhism chǒng (‘emotions’) 195 in p’ansori 229 Chong Insŏp. See Zong In-sub Chŏng Yagyong 67, 71, 72, 73–7, Caldwell, Malcolm 5 154, 187 Capital Administrative Bureau. See Chŏng Yagyŏng Hansŏngbu and location of Kija Chosŏn 72 Catholicism 190 Chŏngjo 189, 190, 201 CCP. See Chinese Communist Party Chŏnju Sori Festival 232 and more sophisticated ethnic Chosŏn Chŏngak Institute (Chosŏn platform 94 Chŏngak Chŏnsŭpso) 242, 247 reports on old nationalities’ Chosŏn munhwaŏ sajŏn (‘Dictionary of vocabulary 93 Cultured Korean Language’) 137 Centre of Korean Studies 1, 10, 155 Chosŏn period ‘middle class’ technical Ch’amsŏngdan 267, 268, 273 specialists. See Chungin Ch’ilbaek Ŭich’ong (Tomb of the Seven Chosŏn Yangming 188 Hundred Martyrs) 263, 264, 273 Chosŏnmal sajŏn (‘Dictionary of Ch’oe Ch’iwŏn 47, 48, 58 Korean’) 137 Ch’oe Inhun 169, 170, 175–8, 183, 184 chowang kaksi or kitchen god 215 Ch’oe Namsŏn 41, 58, 248, 250, 252 Chu Insǒk 169, 170, 179, 183, 184
Chungin (Middle class of technical ghosts of infants 212 specialists) 56 ghosts of the drowned (mul kwisin) 212 and pipe smoking 31 ghosts of the unmarried 212 Chunqiu (Spring and Autumn human deities (in sin) 212 Annals) 53, 58 miscellaneous ghosts (chap kwi) 212 CKS. See Centre of Korean Studies natural deities (Chayŏn sin) 212 Community of soldiers people who died away from home in North Korean wartime literature 119 (kaek kwi) 212 Confucian ideals spirits of unfortunate deaths in p’ansori 229 (Insaryŏng) 212 Confucius 158, 159, 160, 194, 195, 198, 280 Gift-giving 30 and Analects (Lun Yü) 158 and the Pak Clan accounts 30 Confucius and Mencius Gorky, Maxim on self-perfection 199 The Mother (1906) 113 Cultural Properties Journal Government-General Hospital (Munhwajae) 254 (Ch’ongdokpu Pyǒngwǒn) 173 Cultural Properties, Great Democratic League of the Yanbian OCP official publication 260 Peoples (Yanbian renmin minzhu da tongmeng) 94 Daniels, Dr Frank 287 Great Tang Records on the Western Regions. Datang xiyu qiufa gaoseng chuan (Buddhist See Datang Xiyuji Monks’ Pilgrimages of the Tang Great War Dynasty) 46, 58 French patriotic novels during 108 Datang Xiyuji (Great Tang Records on the guard students 47 Western Regions) 44, 51, 58 Guild markets 29 Deuchler, Martina 1, 8, 9, 10, 13, 201 Guild of Domestic Silk Merchants (Seoul). Durham University 11 See Myŏnjujŏn
Eastern History 62, 67, 71 Haedong Kosŭng Chŏn (The Lives of and An Chŏngbok 67 Eminent Korean Monks) 43, 45, 46, and Chosŏn intellectuals 62 56, 58 and Han Ch’iyun 68 haengsa and Sin Kyŏngjun 67 as Tasan’s view of ‘action and and Song Kiho 69 conduct’ 198 and Yu Tŭkkong 67 haiku 165, 168 Chŏng Taham 70 Hamel, Hendrik 31, 176 Eastern Kingdom Han Chŏng Yagyong’s view 67 as an ethnic designation 80 English Han Chungmo 113, 122 as a stressed language in verse 161 Han Hyo 114, 121, 122 Ewha Girls’ School 245 Han Shu (History of the Han dynasty) 43, 58 Fadeev, Alexander 119 Han Sŏrya 16, 108, 111–7, 122 ‘five enemies’ (ojŏk) 248 Han Sŏrya foundation myths 205, 269 Jackals (Sŭngnyangi, 1950) 108 Four Books 191 Han Young Woo 233 French patriotic novels 108 handscroll of Korean Ambassadors to Japan 287–9 Gale, Dr James S. 284 han’gŭl 136, 137, 157 Gaoseng Faxian Zhuan (A Record of hanja 10, 136, 137, 231, 239 Buddhist Kingdoms) 43, 58 Hansŏngbu (Capital Administrative geisha 247 Bureau) 29, 40 Ghosts Han Young Woo 233 deities (sin) 212 Happiness (Hwang Kon, 1953) 118 ghosts (kwi) 212 Historic sites (sajŏk) 254
History of the Jin Dynasty (Jinshi) 66 kalpa 48 History of the Liao Dynasty (Liaoshi) 66 Kando 82, 83 Hong Kyŏngmo (1774–1851) 75 Kang Ik-joong 283 Hong Taeyong 188 Kang Sint’ae 89–93 Hou Han Shu (History of the Later Han) 43 Kang Tongju 88–90 Hŭngbuga (The song of Hŭngbu) 228, Kanghwa Samnangsŏng (‘Fortress of Three 229, 230 Sons’) 267 Hwang Chini 157, 158, 160, 165, 167, 168 kanjang (Soy sauce) 215, 219 Hwich’an yŏsa (A Compiled History of Karak kukki (Records of Karak State) 51, Koryŏ) 73 52–4, 58 Hyech’o (monk) 46, 58 kasa (narrative songs) 247 Hyeryun (monk) 46, 58 Kaya 49, 51, 53, 54, 57, 58, Hyŏn’gak (monk) 46, 58 233, 239 Hyŏndae chosŏnmal sajŏn 137, 138 Keith, Elizabeth 284, 285, 294 Hyŏndaebŏm (monk) 46, 58 A Game of Chess 286 Hyŏnyu (monk) 46, 58 The East Gate, Pyeng Yang 286 Kenkyusha’s New English-Japanese Imjin Wars 260, 263, 264, 266 Dictionary 135, 139 in (‘humaneness/humanity’) 199 Khitan 62, 71, 72, 73, 77 Indian monks ki (‘breath’) 195 visiting the Korean peninsula 233 kiho (‘moral inclination’) 187 Ir’yŏn 48, 49, 52–8 267, 268 Kija Chosŏn 62, 65, 72, 75 Iryongch’aek Kim Chŏngil. See Kim Jong Il Main Office 32 Kim Hongdo 17 Kim Hunggyu 164, 168 Jackals Kim Il Sung 5 American missionaries in 115 Kim Imyong (OCP Chairman) 260 author speaking directly to the reader Kim Jong Il 5 in 116 Kim Kich’ang 290, 292, 293, 294 lack of Japanese presence in 115 ‘babo sansu’ 293 narrative strategies in 116 Nihonga 291 setting of 112 Kim Mansŏn 117, 122 story’s finale 114 Kim Namch’ŏn 109, 122 Jackals – Han Sŏrya 111–3, 115, 117 Kim Pusik 56, 66, 206, 218, 267 Japan 8, 9, 31, 39, 46, 54, 73, 76, 84, Kim Yusin 51, 52, 54, 56, 58 104, 128, 140, 169, 175, 178, 234, kimch’i 217 242, 245–9, 256, 278, 283, 284, King Chŏngjo 200 288–91, 294 King Kojong 178, 260, 273 Japan Foundation 8 King Pak Hyŏkkŏse 268 Japanese lexicographers King Yŏngjo and Dutch 145 Policy of Impartiality 189 Jataka Tales 233 kisaeng 157, 168, 228, 239, 242, 246, 247, and similarity to p’ansori repertoire 249, 251, 252 Sungungga 233 in poetry 165 date of compilation 234 Kodae Sosŏl 4 Jehol Diary (Yŏrha ilgi) 66 Kōgengaku. See Modernology Jiandao 82, 86 Koguryŏ 24, 42, 46, 48, 50, 53, 57, 58, 61, as a major issue in Sino-Japanese 62, 66, 68, 69, 71, 75, 77, 205, 206, 233, relations 82 234, 239 Johnston, Sir Reginald F. 277 Kohyǒnhak. See Modernology Juche doctrine 110 Kongju 258, 273 Jurchen 61, 62, 64, 65, 70–4, 76, 77 Korea Foundation 8, 15, 277, 279 Korea Research Foundation 8, 10 Kabo-Ŭlmi Reforms 29 Korean Art collections kagok (classical lyric songs) 247 in European museums 276
Korean Arts Council (Han’guk Munhwa lexicographers Yesul Wiwŏnhoe) 242 and calques 143 Korean land grabs 84 and hybrid words 143 Korean migration to Manchuria 83 and loan words 143 Korean national heritage sites 257, 258 li (‘pattern’) 187 selection process 257 li (‘principle’) 195 Koryŏ 14, 39, 66, 67, 77, 206, 211, 218, 267, Liaodong 49, 61–4, 66, 67, 71–7 277, 280, 283 in Qing ideology 64 Koryŏ sa (History of Koryŏ, 1451) 206 view of Chŏng Yagyong 74 koyuŏ (home-grown Korean words) 137 view of Hong Kyŏngmo 75 Kubo 169–186 Lord on High 187, 191–3, 195, 201 and Ch’anggyŏngwŏn Zoo 176 Tasan’s perception of 193 and his mother’s body 180 loyalty towards the king and North and South Korea 176 in p’ansori 229 and postmodern society 181 and Sǒdaemun Prison 180, 181 Malgal 62, 68–71, 73, 74, 77 and the dominating gaze 174 Manchu 41, 62, 64, 65, 66, 76, 265 and the P’aju camp town 179 Manchuria 41, 61–7, 71, 74–6, 79, 82–5, and Yi Kŭnan 182, 186 87, 89 and Ch’oe Inhun 169 mansin (shaman) 205, 207, 219 and Chu Insǒk 169 Man’yōshū, the 2 and Pak T’aewǒn 169 Maranant’a (Mālānanda) 45 and psychological search for Korean Matchil Village. See Gift-giving identity 173 Meditation (Sŏn) School 47 and resemblance to his actual Memorabilia of the Three Kingdoms. See creators 170 Samguk Yusa left-handed 183 Mencius 191, 194, 199, 201 self-diagnosis 163, 174 and his view on original nature 194 the wanderer 175 Metrical units Yama, King of the Dead (Yomna in verse 164 Taewang) 182 Ming China 61 Kubo self-diagnosis 174 Ming-Qing transition 64, 65 Kubo’s house Minzoku kyōwa 86 as a metaphor of pre-colonial Korean missionaries and criticism of culture 171 neo-Confucianism 191 Kŭmsŏng yŏnghan taesajŏn (Kŭmsŏng Modernology 170 English-Korean Dictionary) 140, 149 Monkeys kŭn as sacred animals in S Asia 235 as unit of weight in tobacco moon jar 279, 281–3 economy 37 mudang 205–10, 219 kut 207, 208, 210, 217–9 Myers, Brian Kwangmudae (theatre) 244, 252 analysis of Jackals 112 kwi 214, 219 myǒng (‘decree’) 187 kwŏnbŏn 247, 252 myŏnggi kye porcelain 281 mutual aid syndicates 32 myŏnggi [spirit objects] 280 Kyerim Forest (Kyŏngju Kyerim) 268 myǒng (‘The fate of individuals’) 196 Kyŏngbokkung (Kyŏngbok Palace) 260, Myŏnjujŏn 27, 29, 31, 32, 36–40 271, 273, 284 Kyŏngju 48, 68, 77, 258, 268, 273, 274 Nabiya nabiya (Butterfly) 249 Najŏng Well 268, 273 Land relations Nakao Hiroshi during the Manchukuo era 84 Studies of handscrolls 288 Lewis, Bernard 4 Namin (the Southerners) 188–9, 202
Namwŏn Ch’unhyang Festival 230 Paejae 245, 252 National Confucian Academy. See Paekche 45, 50, 51, 56, 59, 206, 233, 239 Sǒnggyungwan Paektu Mountain 64, 72, 74, 75 National Football League 123, 124, 126, 129 and Qing ideology 64 National Foundation Day view of Pae Usŏng 74 (Kaech’ŏnjŏl) 267 Pak Chiwŏn 66, 77 NFL. See National Football League Pak Chŏnghŭi. See Park Chung Hee No T’aedon 42, 57 Pak It’aek 30, 35, 39 No T’aeu 182 Pak T’aewǒn 169, 170, 172–4, 179 Nonggat’a 46 Palhae Noron (the Old Doctrine) and Malgal as founders 61 Factionalism 188, 202 Pang hoegyech’aek Northeast Assisting Office 32 as disputed borderland 79 p’ansori definition of ethnic designation 80 performance space 232 North Korean wartime literature 108, 119, p’ansori 120, 121 as a UNESCO Masterpiece of North Korean dictionaries the Oral and Intangible and ‘cultured words’ 143 Heritage 227 Sino-Japanese words 140 Five repertoires (madang) 227, 239 North Korean lexicographers Parhae 61–77 and clarity 147 and Yi Tŏngmu 69 and native Korean words 142 and Yu Tŭkkong 73 and Chinese characters 141 view of Chŏng Yagyong 71 North Korean literature 103, 107, 109 view of Yi Ik 71 as a way of maintaining morale 115 Park Chung Hee 169, 224, 253–6, as propaganda 111 258–60, 262–4, 266, 269, 270, 272, 273 form and function of 108 and heritageisation of mythical Northern Learning 188 sites 269 illegitimate seizure of power 256 O Kyǒngbok 169, 170 view of overcoming national OCP (Office of Cultural Properties) 253, difficulties 262 255, 256, 258–61, 263, 265, 268, PDF. See Percival David Foundation 270, 272 Percival David Foundation art collec- and its designation of tion 278, 281 ‘Korean-ness’ 259 Philips, Sir Cyril 4 and national heritage sites 259 Pictures of the Five Relationships in and preservation of buildings 258 Practice. See Oryun haengsilto as saviour of Korean identity and Pimachinch’e 46 culture 259 Pipes. See Tobacco smoking cultural tasks during 1960s 256 Problem of Korean Nationality in designation of defensive sites 258 Yanbian 84 items inherited from Colonial pujŏng kŏri (ritual) 210 Japanese Government 256 puk mission of the office 255 barrel drum in p’ansori 227 shift of focus in 1970s onto Puyŏ 53, 59, 64, 73, 74, 77, 205, 219, 258, 273 neglected historical Pyŏlchubu 229, 235–7 sites 258 Pyongyang [P’yŏngyang] Ŏm Hosŏk 110–14, 122 dialect of 137 Orientalism (Edward Said) 4 Pyongyang University of Foreign Oryun haengsilto 16, 17 Studies 135
p’at chuk 211, 219 Qing 61, 63, 64, 65, 76, 77, 81, 82, 278 Pae Usŏng 65, 73, 74, 77 Qing dynasty (1644–1912) 61
South Korean wartime literature 121 Five day allowance (O-il namch’o) 34 Southerners faction. See Namin Special tobacco (pyŏl namch’o) 34 Soviet literature of the Second World use as a form of money 38 War 110 Tobacco smoking stupa 48, 51 and Portuguese traders 31 sug’wisaeng. See Guard Students tokkaebi (hobgoblin) 212, 214, 219 Sugungga (The Underwater Palace) 229, Tomb of the Seven Hundred Martyrs. 230, 232–9 See Ch’ilbaek Ŭich’ong a lesson about morality 237 tongsa. See Eastern History as a metaphor for social Tongsa kangmok (Annotated Account of criticism 237 Korean History) 73, 75–6 Super Bowl 123 Tsushima 70, 74, 76, 289 and American values 125 Twenty-One Demands. See and dramatic narratives 128 Sino-Japanese Treaty of 1915 and myth-making 125 and private commerce 127 ǔi (‘rightness/righteousness’) 199 and the Cold War era 126 Ŭlsa treaty (Ŭlsa Choyak) 245 and the US Military 126 Supreme Ultimate. See t’aeguk Vanarinda Jataka No.57 Suro (King) 49, 51–5, 59, 233, 239 and its resemblance to Sungungga 234 venues t’aegǔk (Supreme Ultimate) 192, 197, 202 for musical performances 244 taesajŏn (‘Grand Korean Dictionary’), 138 Vinaya 45 Taeborŭm (Lunar New Year) 211, 216, 219 Taedong chiji (Geography of Korea) 73 Wang Yangming 200 Tan’gun 62, 67, 69, 70, 205, 219, 266, 267, Wartime 268, 273, 274 function of literature during 110 Tanabe Hisao 246, 251, 252 Watanabe Shōzaburō 286 Tanaka Memorial 85 Wŏn’gaksa (theatre) 244, 252 Tang China 46, 47, 52 Tasan 76, 201, 154, 187, 188, 190–202 Yanagi and his interpretation of the Great Yanagi Muneyoshi 283, 295, 296 Learning 200 Yanbian 79–95 and ideas of self-perfeection 199 antagonism in the Sino-Korean border on ‘li’ – moral priniciples 199 region 87 self perfection through moral as a frontier region 80 fulfilment 200 Soviet Red Army liberation of 86 Tasan and desire (yok), joy (nak) and Yang Chinsŏk 31, 38, 39 nature (sǒng) 194 ye (‘ritual/property’) 199 Tatŭmŭn mal (‘Refined words’) 138 Yi Ik 67, 71–4, 77, 192, 202, Textiles 213, 218 and the Seoul Guilds 29 and view of Paektu mountain 72 The Hunter (Sanyanggun, 1951) 117 Yi Manyŏl 68, 73, 77 American cruetly in 118 Yi Mongryong 228 The Young Guard (1945) See Fadeev, Yi Pyŏngdo 41, 59, 218 Alexander Yi Wŏnjo 109, 122 Tianzhu (Heavenly centre) 43, 44, 59 Yiwangjik Aakpu (Royal Court Toa-Keizai Chosakyuku (East-Asiatic Institute) 249, 252 Economic Investigation Bureau) 83 Yiwangjik Aaktae (Aak band of the Yi Tobacco royal office) 245, 249, 252 Accounting tobacco yonanuki scale (hoegye namch’o) 34 pentatonic Japanese music and social consumption 38 scale 249 Courtesy tobacco (munan namch’o) 34 Yong Wentao 91, 92, 93
Yŏngjo taesajŏn (‘Grand English-Korean Zhou Baozhong 84, 89, 90, 93 Dictionary’) 135 and report on Chinese-Korean Yu Tŭkkong 67, 68, 73, 77 relations 93 Yun Hyu 198, 202 Zhu Xi 187, 189, 193, 195, 200, 201, 280 Yun Sŏndo 157, 158, 160, 162, 163, 167, 168 Zong In-sub 2