By Richard Pennington
I had been warned that the weather on Aug. 15, 2012 would be bad. Heavy rain and high winds were forecast, but that would not deter me. It was an important day, and I needed to be out.
My first destination was Seodaemun Prison History Hall. This place, where Japanese colonialist soldiers and others had held, tortured and killed so many Koreans between 1908 and 1945, is dark and terrifying. I had come to ponder the joy the prisoners must have felt upon learning that long-sought and ― delayed independence ― and thus their freedom ― was a reality.
From Seodaemun, I walked no more than 200 meters to reach Independence Gate, built in 1896 to symbolize Korea’s movement away from tributary status with China. Such a big brother-little brother relationship had existed for more than 1,000 years. The gate, modeled after the Arc de Triomphe in Paris, came to have a quite different meaning after the Japanese officially took over in 1910. (They had been encroaching on Korean sovereignty for three decades before that.) In light of all the things they razed during their 35 years in power here, I am surprised they let it stand.
That is where I met a young woman named Julia Jung of the Munhwa Broadcasting Corporation who was gathering footage for an Independence Day report. She gave me a microphone while she stood back, camera in hand, and asked me to say a few words. As I held an umbrella over my head to ward off the driving rain, I stated that ― regardless of my foreigner status ― I very much sympathize with the Koreans in their struggle to get the Japanese boot heel off their necks. I said that I simply had to come out to honor those hardy men and women. Whether Julia used my little speech in her TV segment, who knows? We exchanged cards, and I headed off to the next stop in my tour.
I rode the subway to Jonggak Station and hurried to a large pavilion, the second floor of which holds Bosingak. Originally constructed in 1396, this huge bell has been destroyed and rebuilt numerous times over the centuries. They rang it repeatedly to commemorate liberation day. The belfry was packed with people, mostly Korean students wearing yellow for some reason. Following the direction of an adult, three times they raised their hands and shouted, “Man sei!” ― essentially “Hooray for Korea.” One girl handed me a taekgukgi flag which I carried the rest of the day.
I went next to City Hall, built by the Japanese in 1926 when they fully expected to rule Korea in perpetuity. A major event had been planned, but the weather cut attendance to a fraction. Seeing one dignitary after another issue a curtailed speech while holding an umbrella was sad and yet inspiring. If history has shown anything, it is that the Koreans are a resilient people. Just across the street, on the sidewalk outside Deoksu Palace was a protest exhibition about North Korea. One wonders ― is Aug. 15 celebrated in the DPRK? Only if a way is found to glorify the “Great Leader,” his son and grandson.
Soaked through and through, I then traveled to Seoul Station. It, too, had been built on a large scale by the Japanese and was tangible proof of their political, economic and cultural domination. A ceremony had been held there too, but it was over when I arrived. Exactly 67 years ago, Seoul Station had been thronged by delirious Koreans upon hearing news of Japan’s capitulation. A young woman wearing black Doc Martens boots took a photo of me in front of a statue of Kang Woo-kyu. At the railroad station in 1920, he had thrown a bomb intended to kill Japanese Governor-General Saito Makoto. Unsuccessful in his valiant endeavor, Kang was seized and soon executed. Makoto may have survived that attempt, but he was assassinated by some of his own men in Tokyo in 1936.
I had two more places to visit before I could call it a day. I went east to Dongdaemun Design Plaza & Park, a futuristic urban development project, but my interest was in its past. Let us go back to 1926. A portion of the Seoul Fortress wall was destroyed by the Japanese so they could erect a sports stadium, the original purpose of which was to celebrate the wedding of the crown prince. It was called Gyeongseong Stadium, and no pretty-boy royals were present on Aug. 15, 1945. Instead, a crowd estimated at 250,000 packed the place to celebrate their independence and the vanquishing of the Japanese. A week earlier, the United States had dropped atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, hastening Emperor Hirohito to cry uncle. World War II was over.
My final stop of the day was the Chungmuro district, just north of Namsan. This had been the core of the Japanese community in Seoul. Honmachi was the most modern and fashionable street in the city. Schools, banks, shops, homes ― nearly everything was Japanese until the late summer of 1945. I have seen a photo of several Japanese people gathered around a radio, weeping as they listened to Hirohito explain that all resistance should stop. They (and their German allies) had lost the war in a most catastrophic way. Defeated and humiliated before the entire world, the Japanese in Korea would soon be leaving and heading east to their home islands.
Richard Pennington has been residing in Daegu and Seoul for nearly five years. He works as an editor at a law firm in southern Seoul.