Hwangudan, hidden in the center of Seoul

Hwangudan (Temple of Heaven), located in downtown Seoul, was meant to hold memorial tablets of heaven gods. / Courtesy of Richard Pennington

By Richard Pennington

The high-handed way in which the Japanese took economic, political and military control of Korea in 1910 and held it until their defeat in World War II is well-known. A key part of that effort was a drastic reordering of the cityscape of the capital, the name of which they changed from Hanseong to Keijo. The name I will use here, of course, is Seoul.

Japan's physical alterations of Seoul included tearing down most of the ancient city walls; destroying Seodaemun Gate; demolishing entire neighborhoods; razing Yongyangbongjeojeong Pavilion and replacing it with a spa and restaurant; turning part of Changgyeong Palace into a zoo; dismantling most of Gyeonghui Palace and converting its Heunghwamun Gate into a shrine for Ito Hirobumi (the resident-general assassinated by Korea's An Jung-geun in 1909); and worst of all, obliterating the front gate of Gyeongbok Palace and replacing it with the massive Government-General building.

These things and many more were done by the Japanese in the rush to modernize, and the best way to show their hegemony was to demean the Korean royal throne. The colonial period was a time of light and shadow as Koreans resisted, grudgingly went along with and sometimes collaborated.

Having lived in Seoul for nearly 12 years, I thought I had seen most of its key historical landmarks. But this old and sprawling city always has more to reveal. When I read about Hwangudan Altar ― also known as Wongudan, Wondan and Jecheondan ― I was intrigued and simply had to see it myself. After a subway ride, I emerged and soon found it, crowded on all sides by the Hotel President, the Westin Chosun Hotel, a Starbucks and a parking garage.

A reconstruction of the main gate stands across from City Hall and Deoksu Palace, reduced to 30 percent of its previous size during the Japanese occupation. This was formerly the site of a palace called Nambyeol which accommodated visiting Chinese dignitaries. Nambyeol Palace either burned in a large fire in 1619 or was torn down during the 1623-1649 reign of King Injo; sources differ.

The central figure in building and using Hwangudan was King Gojong, who had been through a lot in his life ― Japan, the United States and European countries forcing their way into Korea, the Imo Mutiny, peasant revolts and the assassination of his wife, Queen Min, by Japanese agents. Indicative of his and the country's weakness, he once had to seek refuge in the Russian Legation. From Deoksu Palace in 1897, he announced the Korean Empire with himself, naturally, as the emperor. After he ordered the construction of Hwangudan, 1,000 men built it by working day and night for a month.

The main parts were the Coronation Hall, where Gojong had his enthronement ceremony, and Hwangnungnu, or “Temple of Heaven.” This three-story octagonal building was meant to hold the memorial tablets of the heaven gods. I must confess that I do not know who the heaven gods were or what their memorial tablets consisted of. Three stone drums were set up in 1902, to be used when offering sacrifices to heaven, along with two sets of doors (sammun and hyeommun).

Hwangudan seems to have gotten little use after those momentous ceremonies. In 1910, Gojong was forced to abdicate by the Japanese, and his empire ― such as it had been ― was declared null and void. Three years later, the government-general had the Coronation Hall demolished to make way for a hotel. Needless to say, the Japanese governors-general (Terauchi Masatake,?Hasegawa Yoshimichi, Saito Makoto, Ugaki Kazushige, Yamanashi Hanzo, Minami Jir?, Koiso Kuniaki and Abe Nobuyuki) were loath to allow the natives to use a complex whose main purpose was the assertion of national autonomy.

The detested Hinomaru (the rising sun flag of Japan) was pulled down all over Seoul and indeed all over the peninsula in August 1945. Hwangudan was largely forgotten or at least rendered irrelevant to a country whose northern half had just been cut off, was about to be engulfed in civil war and was desperately poor. Twenty-two years passed before Hwangudan re-emerged in Korea's consciousness. In 1967, it was designated Historic Site No. 157.

I had a pleasant visit on a cool Sunday afternoon in the fall of 2020. A series of plaques stating its historic and cultural value were barely adequate, at least in the eyes of this foreigner. Only after I had done a few hours of research on my computer was I able to get a grasp of Hwangudan's significance ― that is, the significance it might have had if Korea had been allowed to continue on its path as an independent nation.

I could not help feeling sympathy for Gojong, this little man who often wore a quizzical expression on his face. The Japanese shunted him aside but named him an honorary member of their royal family. His death and funeral in 1919, it is worth noting, helped spark the March 1 Independence Movement.

Richard Pennington (raput76@gmail.com), a native of Texas in the U.S., works as an editor at a law firm in southern Seoul. He has written 22 nonfiction books, including “Travels of an American-Korean, 2008-2013.” He is the director of an NGO, the Committee to Bring Jikji Back to Korea.