By Olivia Han
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Strangely, it was only after moving to Seoul that I felt like I was not truly Korean. It was only after meeting "real" Koreans that I realized my Korean was tinged with a Western accent.
I also did not feel a "oneness" with Korea, whereas in the past I always did. For several years, I felt this way. Surprisingly, it was a sporting event that allowed me to narrow this cultural gap and take the first steps towards knowledge and understanding.
During the 2012 Olympics men's soccer bronze medal match between Korea and Japan, I couldn't fully understand the animalistic, feverish excitement, and almost bloodlust desire to win and to dominate the Japanese team on the part of the Koreans.
With loud cheers of "Dae han min guk," interspersed with smartly choreographed claps and body movements by spectators, I thought it was an unnecessarily overt expression of patriotism and nationalism.
I leaned towards my grandfather on the couch and innocently asked him why people were so excited over a bronze medal match, when a more exciting gold medal match would soon follow. He glanced at me irritably and said that we needed to "get them back" for having once given us the name Nishihara.
My name was Nishihara? I was shocked when my grandfather told me Nishihara was our family name during the 1910-45 Japanese colonial period. It was as though I was punched in the solar plexus. In 1940, almost all Koreans living on the peninsula had to take Japanese surnames.
Out of curiosity, I asked my friends and relatives if they knew what their Japanese surnames were, but none did. Growing up, there are certain moments or experiences that made me realize I was slowly leaving childhood behind and surreptitiously entering the adult world, and this was one of those surreal moments.
My name was Nishihara. Until that epiphany forced me to take a hard look at Korea's past, I honestly did not understand the animosity Koreans felt toward the Japanese. During my monthly calls with my grandparents living in the U.S., I asked them what it was like growing up during the colonial period.
The usual, polite 10-minute monthly call turned into a two-hour conversation where I learned what it was like to grow up hungry, forced to speak Japanese even at home, worrying about neighbors informing on them to the police for "unpatriotic" behavior, and most importantly, living without hope.
My talks with others of their generation provided different variations of the same suffering. It slowly dawned on me why people became so upset when the Japanese prime minister visited Yasukuni Shrine, when the Japanese government made attempts to change their history books regarding World War II, and the sudden outpouring of grief when another "comfort woman" grandmother passed away.
A soccer match led to an awareness of my personal history, as well as to understanding the sufferings of countless people ― many of whom I disrespectfully once considered just "old people."
Now, when I glance upon shriveled hands and faces lined with creases looking like well-furrowed farmland, I know I must continue to learn about my past and help others know as well. Through this process, I no longer feel apart from other Koreans, as I realize that I am a part of living history. My name is not Nishihara.
Olivia Han (ohan20@bu.edu)is a Korean-American junior studying history and French at Boston University.
