What was the real intention behind honeyed propaganda about equal rights? It was to put the Koreans in the same position as the Japanese, subject to military conscription, labor service, payment of taxes, and delivery of rice quotas. It was nothing but a change from voluntary to compulsory service. (Significantly, the Pacific War soon erupted, consuming enormous numbers of soldiers.) When I became aware of this, I was appalled. I finally realized the nature of politics.
Naturally, I didn’t want to go to the front, and neither did the young men of Korea. They hadn’t started the war. How would they feel when they were told, “You are now Japanese in mind and body. Take your physical examination!”? They would have to stand naked in line and sign for the draft on red paper. Shocked, they would realize that the conversion of names concealed a hook and that equality with the Japanese meant battlefields for them. As this dawned on me, I became depressed. To urge name conversion in glowing terms was to deceive the Koreans.
“We Japanese men face conscription. When Koreans change their names, of course they should be drafted as we Japanese are. They can’t have the rights and reject the duties.” That was Ninomiya speaking. He and I had joined our section at the same time. There was logic in what he said, but to me the method was unfair. Instead of using sweet words to disguise the hook, I thought we should expose it. That would prevent both criticism from the Japanese, who thought the governor-general was spoiling the Koreans, and misunderstanding by the Koreans, who thought only of the equal rights offered.
When I looked into it, I found that the Japanese had been very shrewd in promoting name change. Some wealthy and influential Koreans were given Japanese names as though they were ranks or titles. Some of these Koreans put both their Japanese and their Korean names on their business cards; the newspapers used their Japanese names. Respect for government officials and condescension toward commoners and civilians was ingrained among Koreans, and the authorities took advantage of this trait. They first aroused a desire for Japanese names by giving them to prominent figures, and then they began to promote name conversion.
At first the Koreans, out of caution, did not comply. Then other means were devised. Special benefits were given to those who changed their names. For instance, only students with Japanese names passed the entrance examinations to get into the university. Suddenly the number of applicants for name change increased among the Korean intelligentsia. A desire for benefits is characteristic of the masses. Name conversion increased in popularity.
About that time, the Japanese authorities abandoned their soft approach and became forceful. A fisherman doesn’t offer bait to a fish already caught. After the preparatory phase in which Koreans themselves requested conversion, Governor-General Minami Jirō issued orders to each provincial governor, and government officials began to coerce name changes in every district of Korea.
According to the norm imposed by my chief, I was supposed to complete 80 percent of my assignment by the end of the year and to finish by the end of the following March. Once I knew their devices, I didn’t feel like doing my job, yet what could I do? I felt like a minister of justice who hesitates to sign an order for an execution.
To evade the draft I had no choice but to perform my duties faithfully, unless I found another job. Rumor was that Koreans were being routed out of bed in the middle of the night or seized while they worked in their fields and shipped away to labor in the mines of Hokkaido or Kyushu. If the authorities waited for the Koreans to volunteer, the quotas would never be filled, so the labor sections of the district offices began to use force. “No work, no food.”
“It’s not a joke,” I told myself. “Who can guarantee that I’ll be safe from the draft if I leave this position?” I was still young and self-absorbed. Under the circumstances I wanted not a studio and French brushes to paint with, but just a conventional attitude toward my job. If one brings no conviction or passion to his work, what can keep him going but a formal sense of proper behavior? Should a mountain climber taking shelter behind a rock in violent storm be called a coward? I wrestled with these questions as I watched my friends being shipped to the front or to labor in factories.
Sŏl Chin-yŏng was the reason my district was behind in name conversion. He was the greatest landlord in the area, and his clan had a long and illustrious lineage. Because of that, he refused to change his name. He said, “If I change my family name, what excuse can I offer to my ancestors?” Since the Sŏl clan would not change their name, neither would thousands of other families in the district. When the greatest landholder refused, why should small tenants comply?
It would have been easier for us if Sŏl Chin-yŏng had refused to change his name because of Korean patriotism or feelings against Japan. I could have converted hatred of Japan toward the righteous cause. But he was staunchly pro-Japanese and had been making annual donations of a hundred thousand bushels of rice to the Japanese army in Korea.
A year after the war with China began, Sŏl heard that the Japanese army needed rice. His offer to donate rice was greeted with skepticism, but the next day the quantity of rice delivered to the Yongsan depot left Chief of Staff Ohara breathless. A hundred thousand bushels of rice would feed three divisions for a year. A surprised journalist asked Sŏl, “How can you manage if you give up the tenant fees for the whole year?” He answered, “I can pay my taxes and cover my living expenses out of my savings. The soldiers are risking their lives. I am just doing my part.” Because he was so clearly pro-Japanese, even the district office could not force him to change his name. Not knowing how to handle him, they had to accept the situation.
Respect for one’s ancestors was easy to understand. It was doubtful that taking Japanese names would make the Koreans happier. Had the situation been reversed, would the Japanese have changed their names to Yi or Pak and been loyal to Korea? Would the feelings of a people robbed of their country, their language, and even their names be so easily pacified?
It seemed to me that the Koreans’ blood and emotions were thicker and deeper than my section chief could fathom. Governor-General Minami had given a party to honor the aged. He had invited some influential elderly Koreans and attended in Korean costume. The newspapers played it up with photos of him under banner headlines like “He Himself Demonstrates the Unification of Japan and Korea.”
I realized that the unification of Japan and Korea was not going to be achieved by Governor-General Minami’s attending a party in Korean costume or by the Koreans’ speaking Japanese and taking Japanese names, but to my profound regret I was engaged in polluting this nation by enforcing those policies. Yet though I was clearly aware of the misfortunes that would result from the conversion of names, I hesitated to leave my job. The mountain climber seeking shelter behind a rock in a storm finds an unexpected obstacle; to save himself he must close his eyes and kick the obstacle to the bottom of the valley. It was really not my fault. Working in First Section, General Authority, I was just following orders. Still, I wandered in a dark valley of doubt, frustrated and feeling guilty. I was under tremendous pressure. A leaf fallen into a rushing stream has no chance to stop, think, or look back; it is just tumbled down the stream, hoping that it will not be crushed by rocks or sucked into a whirlpool. When I left the chief’s desk, I felt like such a leaf, helpless to escape the current. I made a decision: “I will visit Sŏl Chin-yŏng. He can’t be so obstinate if he is so pro-Japanese.”
The next day I took the Kyŏngbu line from Seoul, my first trip in the line of duty. To get to Sŏl Chin-yŏng’s, I was told to get off at a small station called Pyŏngjŏm and walk for half an hour along the highway.
The dusty road ran along a small stream lined with poplar trees. The leaves of the poplars and the grass on the banks were turning brown, and the hands of the peasant women washing their laundry in the cold stream were red. In the weak sun of early winter, the white jackets and skirts spread on the dry grass looked chill. The broad rice fields were striking, stretched along the highway with their neatly stacked
rows of straw. I should have come earlier, I thought, visualizing golden rice rippling in the autumn breeze as far as the eye could see, red dragonflies gliding over the noisy locusts. The half hour stretched to an hour, and I began to feel uneasy among these endless fields. Finally, at the foot of the mountain on my right, I saw a village. At its center there was no mistaking the big Sŏl residence, old, stately, surrounded by an earthen wall.
As I came closer, the earthen wall turned out to be a row of small houses, tenements built around the main building. I stepped inside the gate. White-bearded old men sat on the thresholds of their houses, leisurely smoking in the sun. In a clump of trees there was a spring, rare in this landscape, and to the rear were persimmon trees hung with ripe fruit.
The old men ignored me, an intruder. Without changing their position, one knee drawn up, they continued to smoke. In this country it was customary for a rich family to take care of their relatives within the family compound. The little houses were for the dependents of Sŏl Chin-yŏng. The indifference of these old hangers-on amused me. They reminded me of the relaxed old Korea, untouched by the war outside.
I pushed open the squeaking, moss-covered doors of the inner gate and mounted stone steps to the main building. I gave my name card to a man who looked like a butler and told him I wanted to see Sŏl Chin-yŏng.
Sŏl Chin-yŏng was, I suppose, about fifty-four or fifty-five, a gentle-looking man whose round face and mild manner told me that the people of his area placed great trust in him. He introduced the young woman who brought us ginseng tea. “This is my daughter Ok-sun. She graduated from a girls’ school just last spring.” Still holding my name card, he went on, “Excuse me, Mr. Tani, but aren’t you an artist?”
His question, coming before I had stated my business, disconcerted me. For the past few years I had been painting scenes of Korea. One of my works had received an award in the Korean Exhibition, and it must have caught his attention. At that moment I hated the title on my name card: Tani Rokurō, First Section, General Authority.
With a smile, Sŏl Chin-yŏng said that since his Japanese was not very good, his daughter would act as interpreter. The outer appearance of the house was traditionally Korean, but the drawing room where we sat was as modern as a fine hotel. The floor was covered with a thick carpet, and a costly leather sofa had been placed casually in the middle of the room. Somehow the father and daughter in their Korean costumes fit beautifully in that room.
“My daughter likes to paint, and the art teacher at her school, Mr. Hayashi, has encouraged her. Thanks to her, I often go to art exhibitions. If I remember correctly, Mr. Tani, you painted a scene of nŏlttwigi last year.”
Nŏlttwigi is a kind of seesaw game that Korean girls play on a long board balanced on a bundle of straw. Young girls in colorful New Year’s dress, jumping up and down with their long skirts flying in the cold air, are an ideal subject. I had painted such a scene and entered it in the exhibition.
“You remember it well,” I replied, and felt a little happier. I turned to Oksun. “You must be a graduate of F Girls’ High School, since you studied with Mr. Hayashi.” Hayashi had attended my alma mater.
Sŏl Chin-yŏng put his hands on his gray hair and looked at his daughter with deep affection. Quietly, I took time to savor the flavor and fragrance of the tea. For a moment I relaxed, but then my mood darkened. I had presented my official name card: I couldn’t leave without discussing official business.
“The fact is,” I began, in a voice that seemed to stick in my throat, “that I came here to ask a favor with regard to the conversion of names.” It seemed that both Sŏl Chin-yŏng and Ok-sun had already guessed why I was there, yet they appeared to listen carefully.
I began to speak. My memory has faded and I can’t recall exactly what I said. I must have been very tense, trying to be persuasive. I could only put forth government propaganda, and I was too poor a salesman to sell inferior merchandise.
Sŏl Chin-yŏng listened, nodding. Ok-sun’s calm brown eyes seemed to see through me, and I couldn’t hide my distraction. I concentrated my gaze on the master of the house; words tumbled out in a frenzy. My heart pounded. I sounded as if I were trying to persuade myself rather than Sŏl Chin-yŏng. I told how in European hotels even Chinese guests signed their names in Japanese to make it appear that they were Japanese; how Koreans and Japanese shared blood and ancestors although the Japan Sea lying between us made us feel different; and how Koreans everywhere now wished for conversion of names, for, as the proverb put it, “Names reveal physique.” I sounded possessed.
“Mr. Tani, I quite understand you, but no matter what you say, I cannot change my family name of Sŏl. If I change my given name to Japanese, won’t that do? If in my generation the family name is abandoned, I can give no excuse to my ancestors. . . .” As he spoke, he left the room, soon returning with a large box of documents: the clan records.
In Korea the first son, the senior member of the clan, was obliged to record in detail every event concerning clan members, including marriages, births, and deaths. Those documents chronicled the noble history of the Sŏl over seven hundred years. I had heard of clan records, but for the first time I saw them.
As I thought of how those records had been diligently kept for the past seven hundred years and how they would be continued into the future, the history of the Sŏl clan swelled in my mind. I had heard that the royal clan, the Yi, many of whose records had been destroyed in warfare, had documents for only three hundred years. Sŏl Chin-yang said that the box before me held the records for only the past hundred and fifty years. Four more boxes were stored away.
“You see, Mr. Tani,” Sŏl Chin-yŏng opened parts of the documents and explained that he was showing me only the records that he had compiled since becoming head of the clan. “My father, my grandfather, and my greatgrandfather faithfully maintained these records with pride in the tradition of our clan. If I change my family name, no longer will anything be recorded under the name of Sŏl, which means that the Sŏl clan will end with my generation. I cannot do that, Mr. Tani. Please allow us to keep the surname Sŏl.”
“Do you mean that the Chinese character for Sŏl should remain unchanged? If so, that is not changing your name, Mr. Sŏl.”
“Some Japanese names are written with one character. Yours is, Mr. Tani. The character for the name Sŏl cannot be changed.”
“I’m afraid that won’t do, Mr. Sŏl. The Japanese authorities do not have a sense of humor. They will not magnanimously permit you to keep the single character of your Korean name but pronounce it in the Japanese way.”
“In that case, Mr. Tani, I cannot change my family name or my given name. It may sound ridiculous to you, but my ancestors are very important to me. I cannot permit myself to put an end to seven hundred years of clan history. I won’t do it. I will do anything else—I will donate rice and money. But not change my name. My ancestors would lament and my descendants would be embittered. When I think of this, I must refuse. . . . I can do nothing but refuse. . . .” His voice broke and there were tears in his eyes.
Grasping the old records with both hands, this notably pro-Japanese Korean landholder silently wept and shook his head. I was speechless. I wanted to find words to console him, but I wavered. Unless he changed his name, his tenants and neighbors would not change theirs. Once more I appealed, rubbing my hands so hard I chafed them.
“I understand, Mr. Tani. I will speak to my tenants and tell my relatives to change their names. But please excuse my case. Exempt the main family of the Sŏl clan.” Sŏl Chin-yŏng wiped away his tears.
I had no confidence that he could carry out his aim. If he could prevail upon his tenants to change their names, the district officials who were close to the situation could have done it long ago. It was understood that he cherished his clan records, but no one in this area was going to change his name unless Sŏl Chin-yŏng did. “He is a cancer in this effort,” I said to myself.
I tried to convince myself. I whispered to
my conscience: “I can’t let sympathy sway me. I must carry out my mission to survive. I must be a heartless government official, dedicated to duty.” Straightening my back to hide my lack of confidence, I focused on Sŏl Chin-yŏng’s lowered countenance and began again. “The conversion of names is a benefit especially designed for the Koreans,” I repeated as if reciting an incantation. It was no use. Every empty word turned on me like an arrow in my heart.
Must I survive by harming others and deceiving myself ? I felt a spiritual pain sharper than the torment of forced labor. Although I mistrusted the conversion of names, I had a duty to enforce it. Step by step I was approaching tragedy. Loneliness invaded my heart. I was seized by an impulse to scream like a madman. I was utterly miserable.
Suddenly the room was lighted. Unconsciously I sighed. I was weary. With the lamps lighted, the room seemed darker. I thought I should leave. I would give in. I would let him go through the procedure of changing his name by retaining the character for Sŏl but pronouncing it Japanese-style, as Masaki. But though I came to this decision, I was dejected, not from a sense of failure, but from a premonition of disaster.
When Sŏl Chin-yŏng refused to change his name, the seeds of disaster were planted in his family; but the pretext that the conversion of names was voluntary on the part of the Koreans robbed me of power to coerce him. Letting him keep the character for Sŏl but pronounce it in the Japanese fashion was my only way of paying respect to this father and daughter who had liked my painting. Perhaps it was also the only way I could show resistance to the conversion of names.
The Columbia Anthology of Modern Japanese Literature: From Restoration to Occupation, 1868-1945: vol. 1 (Modern Asian Literature Series) Page 103