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The Positivist Historian’s Dilemma in Post-Liberation Korea

The Korean peninsula was ‘liberated’ following the defeat of Japan at the end of the Second World War. Military occupation and the division of occupied territory between the USA and Soviet Union was originally only put in place to secure the transition of Korea into a peninsula controlled by an international administration. The complex politics of the Cold War prevented this [1].

The developments of post-liberation politics were complicated by various political alliances and domestic issues, and so an American-backed colonial elite came back into power in the South. There was no clear break in political structure in the South in the pre- and post-liberation periods, so the “legacy of collaboration” remained a political issue [1]. Ceuster states that public opinion maintained that, “in order to secure a future for an independent Korean state, former collaborators had to be excluded from an active role in post-war politics.” [1]. However, no comprehensive attempt was made at defining who was actually a collaborator. Many Korean administration workers for the Japanese colonial government general remained in high positions by painting themselves as “crusaders against the communist threat.” [1]. Moreover, historical discourse on collaboration became complicated when political convictions interfered and steered historical research.

For positivist historians, who emphasised the objectivity of empirical research in history writing, the idea of having to apologise for their role during colonial occupation was problematic. The concept of writing a positivist history rested on the notion that the facts told the story, and that the story was inherently embedded in themselves as fact. No historian who submitted to rigorous research of the facts could produce an alternative narrative that was not already present in the historical sources themselves [2]. As long as a historian conformed to this scientific, empirical method, then the histories they wrote were ultimately objective.

Considering this, what then would positivist historians in Korea have to apologise for post-liberation? [2]. If they acknowledged their role in furthering Japanese historical narratives, such as toyoshi, then they would be admitting that their positivist histories were not as objective as they claimed. The idea of disavowing their previous work and engaging in a systematic critique of their positive historiographies, and the narrative strategies immanent within them, was not popular. This kind of critique would come later in South Korea, starting in 1961 and developing into historiographies on cultural history [2].

.

[1] Ceuster, Koen de, (2001) ‘The Nation Exorcised: The Historiography of Collaboration in South Korea,’ Korean Studies, Vol. 25, No. 2. pp. 207-242

[2] Em, Henry H. (2013) The Great Enterprise: Sovereignty and Historiography in Modern Korea, Duke University Press, London and Durham

Differences in Textbooks

It should surprise no one that different countries have different perspectives on historical events – particularly their own history. This can be due to several factors, ranging from wanting to whitewash their history (making it seem more pleasing towards their side) to making them seem like the victim of a particular tragedy to flat out acceptance of any blame in the event. This post will look at two historical events and the points of view adopted by three major countries – China, Korea, and Japan – in their history textbooks, before stating an overall opinion on the altering of one’s history.  

The first historical event to look at is the Nanking Massacre, which was committed in 1937, during the Second World War. The Chinese textbooks tell of a rampant Japanese force, one that pillaged and looted with no consideration for the people they murdered and mistreated. The 2004 copy of Chinese World History goes so far as to state that “they carried out a well-organized and planned six-week long slaughter of the innocent residents and Chinese troops who had already put aside their weapons. The victims numbered more than 3000.”1 As for the Korean textbooks, their account is brief, only mentioning it within the bounds of Japanese imperialism, thus showing the disconnect from the event. It did not concern them, directly, and as such, they did not place as much emphasis as the Chinese. The true surprise comes from the Japanese textbooks. One would think, given the described horrors from the Chinese texts, that the Japanese texts would flat-out omit the Nanking Massacre. Yet, the Japanese have several textbooks that not only mention this, but fully admit to the actions described above, as well as others not mention, such as numerous cases of rape, biochemical warfare, and other such atrocities. This admittance is not a problem, but that is only the case in one textbook. There is another, the Yamakawa Japanese History B, that does not even bring up the massacre or other terrible actions. ((Shin and Sneider, History Textbooks, p.29)) It only mentions Nanking as a place that the Imperial Army operated for a time. This is a problem that will be explored later.  

The second event that warrants mention is the atomic bombing of the Japanese cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Due to the fallout – both radioactive and other – the Japanese textbooks make frequent mention of this event. Aside from detailing the deaths and destruction caused by the bombs, the textbooks also point the finger at the United States and the Soviet Union, believing them to be the primary aggressors, with each seeking to gain a foot up in the upcoming Cold War. ((Ibid, pp.33-35)) This point of view is more detailed than the Chinese perspective, which only details the bombings as a result of Japan failing to surrender following the Potsdam Proclamation, not very much going into detail about the aftermath. ((Ibid, pp.32-33)) They do mention, that as a result of Japan ignoring the proclamation, the Soviet forces fought Japanese ground troops within Northern China. (Ibid, pp.32-33)) Finally, the Korean textbooks examined do not bring up the atomic bombing. ((Ibid, p.35)) This is most likely due to it not being affected by anything as a result of the bombing, though this is rather confusing, as they do become affected by it in the years after the Second World War.  

After demonstrating these examples, it can be said that nations change or omit their history – or the history of the world – for various reasons. Yet, the question remains: is this justified? Do any reasons justify the removal or omissions of atrocities in history? A conclusion can be drawn from the Japanese example – their history textbook makes mention of the Nanking Massacre, even stating that Japan was in the wrong by admitting to the horrific actions that the Japanese troops undertook. They took responsibility for their part in the atrocities and have ensured that their people are taught this. Therefore, one can say that the altering and revision of one’s history to make oneself look better is a practice that needs to be stopped.  

  1. Shin, Gi-Wook and Sneider, Daniel C., History Textbooks and the Wars in Asia: divided memories, p.25 [↩]

Culture and Memory: Did China ‘forget’ the Great Famine?

Susanne Weigelin-Schwiedzrik discusses how trauma affected people’s memory regarding the Great Famine (1959-1961) in the People’s Republic of China (PRC). I think her article was fascinating because firstly, she used other examples from Germany and the Holocaust to enrich her argument about the Great Leap Forward and its effects on Chinese society, thus highlighting a global trend that trauma can affect individual and collective memories. Moreover, her argument was intriguing because she discusses the politics behind the ‘taboo’ topic of the Great Leap Forward and the Great Famine.1

Firstly, the Great Leap Forward occurred between 1958 and 1962. It was the PRC’s Second Five Year Plan. This plan focused on turning China into a primarily agrarian country into an economically prosperous, industrial and communist society. Communes for agriculture cultivation was a central feature of this plan. The Chinese Communist Party (CCP) created collective farming associations that aimed to increase productivity and make farming more efficient. This part of the plan failed because of outrageous goals that were set, and no one could keep up with their goals, and thus people were over-worked, and weather problems also occurred; therefore, many people ended up starving due to this policy. Another policy during the Great Leap Forward that led to an economic downturn was the use of backyard furnaces. Backyard furnaces were a tool the CCP used to make steel in people’s backyards out of scrap metal. This did not work because of labour division and ended up being a total failure for the CCP. Eventually, these policies and more led to the Great Famine, which is estimated to have caused 45 million deaths.2

Because this issue highlighted the CCP’s incapacity, the party banned criticisms of the CCP and banned people from talking about the Great Leap Forward and the Great Famine at all.3 Moreover, Weiglein-Schwiedrzik discusses the fact that the Great Leap Forward was a topic amongst party members that led to in-fighting; therefore, emphasising the ‘taboo’ nature of this topic.4 However, she discusses the idea of ‘collective memory’ and how despite the efforts of the CCP to have people ‘forget’ the Great Famine by banning the discussion on the topic (to stop ‘communicative memory’), people still remembered because of Famine’s direct effect on people as well as the inability of the CCP’s policies to reach ‘grass-root levels of Chinese society’. This means people living in the countryside.5

I believe this is important because Weiglien-Schwiedrzik highlights that the collective memory of a specific traumatic event (such as the Great Famine) cannot be forgotten because of the individual’s experience and their memory. The individual’s memory will continue to remember the traumatic event, even if some details are altered. Moreover, if the individual memory becomes the collective memory, and then thus the ‘communicative memory’, it can become a ‘cultural memory’.4 This is significant because the ‘cultural memory’ highlights that an individual remembering the Great Famine will make others who have ‘forgotten’ the event remember (the collective memory). Its discussion (the communicative memory) will illuminate the cultural importance of the event. That is why she argues that the result of a 2000 poll in Mainland China, people named the Great Leap Forward and the Great Famine as one of the most important events of the twentieth century.6 Thus, China and its people did not forget the Great Famine.

  1. Susanne Weigelin-Schwiedrzik, ‘Trauma and Memory: The Case of the Great Famine in the People’s Republic of China (1959-1961)’, Historiography East and West 1: 1 (1 January 2003), pp. 39-67. [↩]
  2. Frank Dikötter, Mao’s Great Famine: The History of China’s Most Devastating Catastrophe, 1958-1962 (London, 2010), p. xiii. [↩]
  3. Weiglein-Schwiedrzik, ‘Trauma and Memory’, p. 50. [↩]
  4. Ibid. p. 49. [↩] [↩]
  5. Ibid. pp. 47-52. [↩]
  6. Ibid. p. 41. [↩]

The growth Chinese nationalism in cinema: Hero (2002) vs. Mulan (2020)

The concept of Chinese nationalism is not a recent development. The term Zhongguo or ‘Middle Kingdom’’ has its origins in the 3rd century CE and was used to denote the lands China occupied.[1] Sometimes translated as ‘all under heaven’, it separated Chinese citizens from the barbarians which surrounded them.[2] Since the Song era, China has developed a stronger form of nationalism that can now be seen in present day culture. This is especially true for the country’s cinema which has increasingly seen films being used for political messages. In order to show how this is the case, I will analyse Hero (2002) and the recent Mulan (2020).

Hero is a film directed by Zhang Yimou and centres on an assassination plot intended for the emperor. Through it’s uses of martial arts and prominent actors, it became a wild success both in Asia and the USA. At the end of the film, Zhongguo is an integral plot point. In order to prevent the emperor’s assassination, Broken Sword (Tony Leung Chiu-wai) uses this term to dissuade Nameless (Jet Li) from carrying out his mission. This ends up working as Nameless decides against the killing as he preaches a message of unity to the ruler whilst knowing this would mean his eventual death. This has a clear nationalist undertone ‘all under heaven’ encourages a China which is stronger as a united-state. Despite this apparent message, Zhang did not suggest the film was political. In an interview in 2004 he said,

 ‘The objective of any form of art is not political. I had not political intentions. I am not interested in politics.’[3]

Whilst this does not necessarily mean that the director was not intentionally leaving nationalism as a prevailing message in the film, it does show that it was a subtle approach. Whether accidental or not, the director does not openly suggest the purpose of the film was for political reasons nor involve himself in politics whatsoever.

This marks as a stark contrast from Disney’s Mulan (2020). First off, lead actress Liu Yifei openly supported Hong Kong police against the city’s protestors.[4] Then the film openly credits the help of the government agencies in Xinjiang where Uighur Muslims are currently being detained.[5] The film also removes itself from historical reality by placing the figure in Chinese territory despite the original poem suggesting she was a barbarian.

What is so striking with the difference of Mulan to Hero is the obvious political intent of the film. The lead actress is openly discussing her support of Chinese political actions and the film itself even thanks the government’s help. Whilst each movie clearly has a theme that centres around promoting nationalism, one is much more upfront and obvious about it than the other. The fact that Zhang steered clear about making comments on politics shows the lack of acknowledgement of the governments involvement or if it even took place at all. Mulan, on the other hand, is very clear in the fact that Chinese authorities had a large influence on how the film was made and how it would be promoted.

What this goes to show is a growing use of political messages in Chinese films that have become more apparent during the 21st century. Whilst it is not a new thing for Chinese cinema to have an undercurrent of propaganda, there has been an increasingly obvious change in how important this has become. Mulan demonstrates how Chinese cinema has become increasingly political and used for messages the government support instead of films getting made for the enjoyment of the viewer which I believe Hero is much more capable of doing.

[1] Wai-Yee Li, ‘Anecdotal Barbarians in Early China’ in Paul van Els and Sarah A. Queen (eds.) Between history and philosophy: anecdotes in early China (New York, 2017) pp. 113-5

[2] Nicolas Tackett, Origins of the Chinese Nation: Song China and the Forging of an East Asian World Order (Cambridge, 2017) p. 175

[3] https://www.theguardian.com/film/2004/dec/17/1 (accessed 26/11/20)

[4] https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-asia-china-49373276 (accessed 26/11/20)

[5] https://www.newyorker.com/culture/cultural-comment/the-new-mulanandnbsps-uncomfortable-relationship-with-chinas-past-and-present (accessed 26/11/20)

Confucianism: China and Japan

Throughout China’s long history, the country has had to deal with numerous repeated attacks from those they call barbarians. For the most part, these barbarians have come from the North, and this has created a duality between the North and South of China. This duality can be clearly seen in the historiography of China, and it is a cornerstone of Shiratori’s argument about the evolution of Confucianism in China and Japan, and how, because of this dualism and conflict, the Confucian beliefs of China were inferior to those of Japan, thus justifying Japanese superiority, at least in terms of Confucius history as it applies to the ideal of toyo. This post will discuss this North-South duality that Shiratori discusses, first by discussing his viewpoint on China’s Confucian growth, then Japan’s, all of which will be from Shiratori’s perspective.  

First, we must discuss Shiratori’s perspective of Confucian growth in China throughout the country’s history. Shiratori describes that, as a result of the constant attacks from the North (discussed above) the Chinese needed to do something to better live as a society.((Tanaka, Steven, Japan’s Orient: Rendering the past as history, 1993, p.116)) They turned to Confucianism as a system of values that might provide social cohesion.1 However, it was this very belief that led to their corruption. Shiratori claims that, as the values of Confucianism became more and more institutionalized in China, then the Confucian ideals lost their substance and value, instead becoming a prop used by the nation.2 Because of this, the nation and its Confucian ideals were unable to progress, a failure to change that Shiratori uses to justify the “decline of China”. ((Ibid, p.116)

Shiratori contrasts this with the evolution of Confucianism in Japan. Due to Japan being an island, it did not have to deal with constant barbarian encounters like the Chinese did. ((Ibid, p.116) This was the nail that separated Japan and China and said nail that allowed for the nation of Japan to grow. Shiratori describes this growth as progressive in nature, as it allowed for the acceptance of ideas and objects from other cultures. ((Ibid, p.116) Shiratori claims that it is this ideal that allowed for the separation of Japanese Confucianism and Chinese Confucianism, which was central to his own ideas about the superiority of Japan. ((Ibid, p.116)

In conclusion, Shiratori’s analysis of Confucianism for China and Japan centers on the idea that, despite the similarities between the two, they operated quite differently. The main cause for this difference was the North-South dualism in China, caused by numerous barbarian invasions, which corrupted their Confucian ideals and caused them to stagnate, while Japan did not have this issue, and thus was progressive.  

  1. Tanaka, Japan’s Orient, p.116 [↩]
  2. Ibid, p.116 [↩]

China and the ‘Other’: Chinese narratives in Taiwan textbooks

For thousands of years, China has been a powerful nation, emphasising its power over the ‘other’. The ‘Other’ refers to what China previously thought of as anyone just outside the central state, Zhongguo, that is ethnically and culturally different from them. According to David Schaberg, the idea of the ‘Other’ is incredibly useful for understanding Chinese historiography.1

Although most historians discuss the term of the ‘Other’ in the historical context of the Zhou dynasty and the interactions between kingdoms in the Zuozhuan (in the Chunqiu, the Spring and Autumn Annals).2 However, I believe this idea extends into the modern-day, especially regarding how China views Korea, Japan, Hong Kong, and Taiwan. I will discuss a brief history of Taiwan and its fight for independence from China. I will then highlight the controversy on whether China presents the idea of Taiwan as the ‘Other’ in Taiwan textbooks or whether Taiwan reverses this and views China as ‘the Other’ in an attempt to highlight their national history as independent from China.

Taiwan’s history is complex. However, to summarise Japan colonised Taiwan following the Sino-Japanese War in 1895. Japanese imperial education was implemented in this era. Shortly after World War II, Chiang Kai-Shek and the Chinese national government, the Republic of China (ROC) took control of Taiwan through the Kuomintang (KMT). In 1949, after losing the Chinese Civil War against the Chinese Communist Party (CCP), Chiang fled to Taiwan and declared martial law. The KMT governed Taiwan until the 1980s where the Taiwanese were striving for democratisation and indigenisation.3

Therefore, during the period of democratisation and indigenisation, many sought to construct a historical narrative that reflected Taiwan’s own national history (and thus, identity), that de-centred both China and Japan from the narrative. Wei-Chi Chen highlights certain controversies that were faced in Taiwan regarding history textbooks and the history curriculum. He argues that there were three distinct phases of textbook reforms starting in the late 1980s when criticisms against old textbooks started to emerge and ending in 2002, with the ‘nine-year integrated curriculum’.4 One particular textbook that caused bitter controversy was the supplementary history textbook, Getting to Know Taiwan in 1997.5 This textbook was a supplement to the official textbook, which was China-centred, it emphasised the KMT’s role in modernising Taiwan and the rapid economic development that followed.6 The Ministry of Education responded to the backlash it faced from the official textbook, such as it ‘lacking a comprehensive and multi-faceted representation of Taiwan’s history and culture’, and thus created Getting to Know Taiwan.7 However, Getting to Know Taiwan was still controversial because of its emphasis on Japanese colonial rule and its effect on Taiwan.6

Chen highlights the debate on whether China sees Taiwan as the ‘Other’, or whether Taiwan sees China as the ‘Other’. He argues that through these textbook reforms, it is apparent that the answer to this debate should be neither as ‘[these] two manifestly opposed national-history narratives are mutually dependent on each other’s existence’.8 I agree with this statement because I believe, in order for Taiwan to highlight a national narrative and a national identity, it must embrace its historical past, which was colonised by Japan and ruled over later by China (in its most recent history). After embracing this narrative, Taiwan can look towards a national identity that came from these events but moved towards democratisation.

  1. David Schaberg, A Patterned Past: Form and Thought in Early Chinese Historiography, (Massachusetts, 2001), p.130. [↩]
  2. Ibid. pp. 130-135. [↩]
  3. Wei-Chi Chen, ‘The History of an Alien-Nation, or the Alienation of History? The Controversy of History Textbook Reform in Taiwan in the 90s’ (PhD Thesis, New York University 2005), p. 91. [↩]
  4. Ibid. p. 90. [↩]
  5. Ibid. [↩]
  6. Ibid. p. 93. [↩] [↩]
  7. Ibid. p. 94. [↩]
  8. Ibid. p. 97. [↩]

Zhuge Liang’s changing representation in Chinese culture: Romance of the Three Kingdoms to Red Cliff

Zhuge Liang is a figure that is revered throughout the entirety of East Asia and has often served as a lesson for many young students. His depiction in history, however, has varied even up to the present date. By first looking at his original literary role in the Romance of the Three Kingdoms, written around the 14th century, he is a striking presence in the book. In time, his position as Liu Bei’s advisor becomes accentuated in importance and his character changes to reflect contemporary values in other pieces of literary work. In order to show this development, this article will focus on the two versions of the play Bowang shao tun and then John Woo’s film Red Cliff.

Zhuge Liang was an important literary figure in the Romance of the Three Kingdoms. Liu Bei’s three visits to the ‘Nangong’s Sleeping Dragon’ are central to the Shu-Han’s turning of the tide. With his promise of serving Liu like a ‘hound or a horse’ Zhuge Liang is immediately set up to be an immense and fearsome figure throughout the book.[1] His impact is immediately made in the fight against Cao Cao and is demonstrates when he promises Zhou Yu the acquisition of 100,000 arrows in three days which he fulfils thanks to his weather predictions and strategic mastery.[2] His intelligence is central to his character and is the definitive influence on the rest of the book. In proceeding centuries, his character would be developed into a much more nuanced figure in Chinese literature.

This is shown in the play Bowang shao tun which was written in two versions, the first residing in the period of the Yuan dynasty and the other during the Ming dynasty. Part of the zaju genre, the plays use the characters from the Three Kingdoms story cycle are written to encourage the use of orthodox Confucian values which is evident in the manner in which they are portrayed and how the story develops.[3] The Yuan and Ming version hold an important distinction in the way they depict Zhuge Liang. The former uses no dialogue but stage directions show how Yuan scripts made him seem just as intelligent but much less polite and decorous.[4] When compared with the Ming version, which includes a script packed with written dialogue, Zhuge is treated with much more nuance and reflects an idealised version of the renowned character. Instead of focusing solely on his intelligence, these works depict this historical figure in a way which reflects the values of contemporary society instead of making it akin to prior depictions.

This continues to be the case today as is demonstrated in the film Red Cliff directed by John Woo which was made in 2008. In the film, Zhuge Liang is played by Takeshi Kaneshiro and features prominently in the battle plans and strategy. His polite and knowledgeable appearance in the film are central in many of the scenes which proceed in this new Chinese epic. When doing an interview with the Japan Times, Woo mentions how he wished demonstrate Zhuge heroism through his restraint and mild manners.[5] He continues this says,

‘That was part of his strategy, part of the art of war. If the enemy underestimates you, you become that much stronger, which is something Zhuge taught the generals. He was also a romantic and a cultured man who thought his thoughts in poetry and played music; his presence transformed the battlefield and altered the course of history.’[6]

Whilst the medium of film presents a different spectacle from the other works I’ve analysed, this quote shows how Zhuge has been represented in modern day cinema compared to older forms of literature. He is no longer just a man of intelligence, but one who’s very demeanour and virtues reflect politeness to the upmost. The values of Confucianism and the importance of decorum have become much more central to the character of Zhuge Liang and Woo’s version of the strategist is but one of many that reflects this development.

[1] Luo Guanzhong, Romance of the Three Kingdoms trans. Moss Roberts (California, 2004) p. 140

[2] Ibid pp. 222-6

[3] Kimberley Besio, ‘Zhuge Liang and Zhange Fei: Bowang shao tun and Contemporary Masculine Ideals within the Development of the Three Kingdoms Story Cycle’ in Kimberely Besio and Constantine Tung (eds.) Three Kingdoms and Chinese Culture (New York, 2007) p. 74

[4] Ibid p. 76

[5] https://www.japantimes.co.jp/culture/2008/11/06/films/war-as-wisdom-and-gore/ (accessed 20/11/20)

[6] Ibid

Remembering the War Dead: Issues of Memorialisation at the Yasukuni Shrine

The importance of war memorials and shrines in honouring the war dead in Japan is a central issue to the themes of historical remembrance and narratives. Yasukuni Shrine is a Japanese Shinto shrine housing the souls or Kami of the war dead who laid down their lives for the Emperor of Japan extending back to the shrine’s creation in 1869. 1 The shrine has become increasingly controversial due to its militaristic implications, I will evaluate these central issues to contemplate the politics of remembrance and memorialisation. 

The Yasukuni Shrine remains one of the most contended aspects of Japanese post-war memorialisation, and this alludes to how the shrine is identified as a representation of reviving Japanese militarism and also a symbol of Japan’s reluctance to redress its wartime atrocities.  2   One of the prominent arguments of critics is that the souls of war criminals who were found guilty by the International Military Tribunal for the Far East are enshrined at the Yasukuni Shrine. 3 Consequently, rather than the shrine being simply a memorial to the Japanese war dead, it has become symbolic as a nationalistic centre for the right-wing by holding the souls of Class A war criminals. The right-wing referred to here tend to glorify Japans wartime past, and therefore they regard the shrine as a symbol of the continuity of Japans national identity and tradition, allowing them to remember those who died for the Japanese nation. 2 In Japan, this issue is prominent, as since the end of World War Two there have been differing opinions over how to represent, memorialise and compensate for Japan’s deeds across Asia and the Pacific.

Many supporters of the Shrine have articulated that the government, alongside Japanese citizens, have a duty to contribute to the commemoration of the military war dead. 4 This is highlighted by how the act of remembering those who gave or lost their lives in war has traditionally been an act of citizenship and is often deemed a social responsibility, mutually “affirming the community at large and asserting its moral character”. 5 This explains why Japanese statesmen believe it is crucial to “normalize the post-war state’s relations with its war dead, even if this should strain bilateral relations with neighbouring countries”. 3 However, whilst the Japanese right-wing and conservative politicians have maintained that “Yasukuni is no different from the war cemetery at Arlington, Virginia, or the Cenotaph in London”, I would argue that there is a clear distinction. 6 

Other nations have formed similar historical narratives that are resolute within public memory to venerate the war dead and to keep their memory alive. Yet the Yasukuni Shrine focuses on projecting a one-sided national identity and historical narrative. What makes the Yasukuni Shrine so different from the other multitude of Shinto shrines across Japan and other nations memorials is that “the Japanese war dead—including the Class A war criminals sentenced in the Tokyo trials—are revered as divine heroes”. 7 Therefore, the shrine lies at the centre of the deliberation over whether nations have the right to choose how they commemorate their historical past.

The politics of memory and remembrance continues to be disputed with regards to the Yasukuni shrine and its representation of World War Two, especially as it is debated that the shrine upholds the glorification of Japan’s past and its war dead. 3 The Yasukuni Shrine exposes and symbolises the contentious issues surrounding Japanese historical memory which continue today, as exemplified by current textbook divisions in Eastern Asia and the tension still associated with Japan’s approach to its wartime atrocities, all of which make the Yasukuni Shrine politically charged.

  1. John Breen, Yasukuni, the War Dead, and the Struggle for Japan’s Past, (New York, 2008), p.8 [↩]
  2. Daiki Shibuichi, “The Yasukuni Shrine Dispute and the Politics of Identity in Japan: Why All the Fuss?”, Asian Survey 45 (2005), p.198 [↩] [↩]
  3. Yongwook Ryu, “The Yasukuni Controversy: Divergent Perspectives from the Japanese Political Elite”, Asian Survey 47 (2007), p.706 [↩] [↩] [↩]
  4. Ibid., p.90 [↩]
  5. Jay Winter, Sites of Memory, Sites of Mourning: The Great War in European Cultural History, (Cambridge, 1995), p.85 [↩]
  6. Ian Buruma, The Wages of Guilt, (London, 1994), p.219 [↩]
  7. Sebastian Conrad, “Japanese Historical Writing” in Axel Schneider and Daniel Woolf (Eds.) The Oxford History of Historical Writing: Volume 5: Historical Writing Since 1945, (Oxford, 2011), p.650 [↩]

The “discovery of minjok”: a historical force or a modern construction?

“If one dismisses the minjok, there is no history.” – Sin Ch’ae-ho

Korean ethnic nationalist historiography is based on the idea that the Korean people have existed as an ethnic group – minjok – throughout the entirety of history since around 2000 B.C. The idea of minjok developed primarily during the period of Japanese colonialization (1910-1945) among leading nationalist historians. It was a way to emphasise the uniqueness and superiority of the Korean people in the face of subordination from the Japanese. This sense of Korean ethnic (and cultural) superiority was reinforced by popular nationalist histories published mainly in the 1930s, including the works of Sin Ch’ae-ho and Choe Nam-son, as representative of the Korean people’s “spirit of survival and struggle.” [1]. Yet, the time at which minjok is said to have existed, or been introduced into intellectual thought, is a key source of debate and there are significant conceptual consequences depending on which argument you agree with.

The idea of the Korean people as a single ethnic race first entered Korean vocabulary in the late-1890s under the term minjok. The precise origins of the term are difficult to identify, but it appears only sporadically in various Korean nationalist texts in the ten years prior to the Protectorate Treaty of 1905. Prior to the 19th century, there was a very limited sense of loyalty towards the idea of Korea as an abstract ‘nation’ or towards ‘Koreans’ as a people [3]. The use of the two characters ‘min’ and ‘jok’ – which derived from terms associated with ‘popular’ and ‘familial’ – combined to produce a useful term that intellectuals could use to naturally refer to the nation in Korea. This also helped to blur the recent origins of the term, suggesting a much further reaching claim of nation stretching into the “distant past.” [2].

Andre Schmid notes that the important primary texts in the period 1895-1905 were all written without the use of minjok, despite all individually discussing nationalist concepts [2]. As the term became more commonly used in popular newspapers and writings of the early 20th century, such as in the Hwangson sinmun, its definitional boundaries became more concrete. In a four-part editorial published in June 1907 entitled ‘Minjok-ism’, the editors referred to the minjok as the basis of the state (kuk), and maintained that all of the people must “work together for the benefit of the minjok.” [4]. The term was vital in the determining of nationhood in Korea, acting as an objective entity which, when combined with the features of nation – territory, language, people etc. – presented an argument for the continued existence of Korean autonomy. Understandably, it became a key force in nationalist writings that stood in opposition to the common Japanese narrative of the Korean nation as subordinate. Thus, minjok developed as a key conceptual tool through which the nation could be considered, and therefore placing it either as a 20th century construction or as something that existed throughout the entirety of Korean history furthered different arguments about Korean national sovereignty, intertwining with the colonialist politics of the period.

Named the father of Korean nationalist historiography, Sin Ch’ae-ho was the first historian to combine the idea of minjok with the Korean national founding myth surrounding the figure Tan’gun. The earliest account of the myth of Tan’gun appears in the Samguk yusa (Memorabilia of Three Kingdoms), which was a collection of myths compiled by the Buddhist monk Iryon in the thirteenth century [5]. The story of Tan’gun recalls:

                “Tan’gun descended from Heaven in the year 2333 B.C. and landed under a sandalwood tree on Mount Paektu. According to this account, Tan’gun taught the people more than 360 arts, such as agriculture, medicine, and law, as well as offering them a new set of moral principles.” [5].

Sin took the myth of Tan’gun and aimed to separate its mythical elements from its historical actuality, tracing the Korean ethnic national origin, and by association Korean traditional culture, back to Tan’gun as a founding historical figure [6]. Sin’s writings are arguably more widely read now than during his lifetime, and the message behind his claims of minjok as an unconscious and perpetualconcept were deeply political and anti-Japanese. Sin concerned himself with issues of Korean identity in his writing of national histories, contributing towards the Korean self-strengthening movement [8].

Sin’s intrinsic claim concerning minjok was that its emergence into mainstream histories written at the beginning of the 20th century was not the product of a modern construction, but rather a discovery of an objective historical entity that had always been present amongst the Korean people. Regardless of whether Koreans were conscious of minjok as constituting their nation, Sin argues that its introduction signified a recognition of an objective unit that prior historians had failed to observe. It did not “signify a new conceptualisation” of what ‘nation’ meant in Korea but revealed an alternative axis on which empirical inquiry could be completed [9]. In presenting minjok as an ahistorical entity, Schmid states that it “transcended the very history that produced it.” [15]. Sin’s historical narrative based on this ‘discovery of minjok’ legitimises it as an eternal concept and was key to nationalist anti-colonial discourses of the 1920s and 1930s. Sin’s distinctive historiography set the agenda for later nationalist historiography during the colonial period, insisting on Korea’s uniqueness within world history and testifying to Korea’s long history of resistance to “foreign aggression.” [10].

Later criticisms of this aspect of nationalist historiography from Marxist historians such as Paek Nam-un argued that in emphasizing Korea’s uniqueness, and therefore it’s apparent inherent nationhood in resistance to colonialism, fed into the narrative that their isolation meant they needed to be incorporated into the wider nation-state system. This incorporation, Japan argued, should happen through their imperial framework [11]. Equally, the idea of Korea as a sovereign nation did not exist prior to its introduction to the international system [12]. This paradox within nationalist thought meant it had to continue to differentiate itself from colonialist discourses, and even as it writes about resistance and post-colonial developments it does so through the rational models of knowledge that came from colonialism. Thus, the narratives found in nationalist historiography and the narratives found in colonialist historiography served to mutually constitute one another.

However, Henry Em insists that minjok was a modern construction, and that it is important in examining later democratic developments in Korea, and how they relate to nationalist movements, to identify it as such [7]. A similar argument is furthered by Eugene Weber who states how the French peasant was “nationalised” – ie: made French – only in the latter decades of the 19th century through a strategy of standardisation of national language and customs [13]. Thus, the prevalence of modern state structures was a prerequisite to the formation of a ‘national’ culture. Em links the assertions of Sin’s nationalist historiography to new democratic modes of thought that imagined Korea as an autonomous subject with an inherent sovereignty present from the inception of Tan’gun, and with continuous possibilities into the future of Korea as an independent nation [14].

.

[1] Pai, Hyung Il, (2000) ‘The Formation of Korean Identity,’ in Constructing “Korean” Origins, Harvard University Asia Centre, p. 2

[2] Schmid, Andre (2002) ‘Narrating the Ethnic Nation,’ Korea between empires, 1895-1919, Colombia University Press, New York, pp. 173-174

[3] Em, Henry H. (1999), ‘“Minjok” as a Modern and Democratic Construct: Sin Ch’aeho’s Historiography,’ in Shin, Gi-wook; Robinson, Michael (eds.), Colonial Modernity in Korea, Cambridge: Harvard University Asian Center, pp. 337-338

[4] Schmid (2002) p. 174

[5] Schmid (2002) p. 175

[6] Em, Henry H. (2013) ‘Nationalizing Korea’s Past’ in The Great Enterprise: Sovereignty and Historiography in Modern Korea, Duke University Press, London and Durham, p. 80

[7] Em (2013) p. 77

[8] Robinson, Michael (1984) ‘National Identity and the Thought of Sin Chae’ho: Sadaejuui and Chuch’e in History and Politics,’ The Journal of Korean Studies, Duke University Press, Vol. 5, p. 122

[9] Schmid (2002) p. 182

[10] Em (2013) p. 97

[11] Em (2013) p. 84

[12] Em (2013) p. 100

[13] Em (2013) p. 78

[14] Em (2013) p. 83

[15] Schmid (2002) p. 198

Themes of hero in ‘The Romance Of The Three Kingdoms’

Popular readings of The Romance Of The Three Kingdoms are a key example of the historical novel being interpreted as the historical truth. Often described as part-historical, part-fiction, part-legend, the book situates itself at the centre of the debate over how much historians can truly learn from novels written in the past, about the past. While The Three Kingdoms can definitely tell us about the ideals valued at the time it was published/made popular, the extent which it can be considered historically accurate is questionable.

In particular, the style of writing of the ‘heroes’ in the novel, especially of Guan Yu, is clearly emphasised for literary purposes. Chinese men consistently view the three protagonists, Lui Bei, Guan Yu, and Zhang Fei as models of masculine behaviour [1]. Yet, the patterns of masculine behaviour taken from these emphasised ‘hero’ characters have not remained fixed but rather differ depending on the time of reading, and the qualities seen to be associated with each character have changed over time. For example, contemporary popular opinion of Guan Yu was very positive at the time of writing, and so descriptions of him as a hero were emphasised to fit this.

C. T. Hsia analyses Luo’s use of literary techniques in his writing of heroes. He identifies a key flaw in Guan Yu’s heroism: namely, his arrogance. Hsia asserts that this was a purposeful literary technique in order to bring together the historical descriptions and the mythic qualities of the character and provides an emotional attachment to an otherwise unemotional historical text.

“The arrogance and simple-mindedness are essential to Lo’s concept of a hero cursed with the tragic disease of hubris; without this flaw, a storybook hero of divine prowess would have been insufferable.” [2]

Following the deaths of the two characters Guan Yu and Zhang Fei, Liu Bei is turned into a tragic hero seeking vengeance. Hsia describes the actions that follow in the novel as “Lui Bei the man” standing in the way of “Lui Bei the politician-idealist.” [4] Furthermore, the relationship between Lui Bei and his minister shortly before his death is painted as “friendship fortified by a common ideal,” and Hsia argues that in combining both political and emotional undertones in Lui Bei’s final scene, it turns him into a character of “historical credibility.” [5].

Hsia further comments how most protagonists in the novel are seeking fame, but a number of marginal characters exist to ridicule the protagonists for this. Hsia suggests that in examining official histories during writing, Luo felt “duty-bound” to include all notable men mentioned [2]. However, Hsia is enthusiastic to emphasise the historical accuracy of the novel, naming it “popular literature with a difference” [3]. He compares Luo Guanzhong to Sima Qian in his scholarly efforts and continuation of historical tradition, and praises Luo Guanzhong for achieving an “impersonal objectivity” in his writing [3]. Hsia’s analysis of the novel is purely literary, however, emphasising the novel as a novel of ‘human nature’ whilst claiming its historical validity. Furthermore, his focus solely on themes of hero and lack of commentary on the female characters in the novel, who teach striking lessons in their own right, reveals his analysis as shallow and too focused on the aspects of masculinity found in the novel.

[1] Besio, Kimberly, ‘Zhuge Ling and Zhang Fei: Bowang shao tun and Competing Masculine Ideals in the Development of the Three Kingdoms Story Cycle’, in Besio, Kimberly Ann, and Constantine Tung, eds. Three Kingdoms and Chinese Culture, State University of New York Press (2007) p. 73

[2] Hsia, C. T., ‘The Romance of the Three Kingdoms’ in The Classic Chinese Novel: A Critical Introduction, The Chinese University Press, Hong Kong (2015) p. 46

[3] Hsia, (2015) p. 37

[4] Hsia, (2015) p. 55

[5] Hsia (2015) p. 58