When My Name Was Keoko

The diminishment and dehumanization of Koreans continues, even in the army. This provides an impetus for Tae-yul’s decision to demonstrate courage for not only himself, but his nation. Tae-yul’s choices reflect his desire for Japan to respect Korea, and he becomes a symbol for Korean pride and resistance in a way that his Uncle never envisioned: by becoming a kamikaze. But he has ulterior motives, something he learned from observing Uncle operate as a shop owner under the guise of being chin-il-pa in order to tactically position himself for a greater purpose.

Though Tae-yul has placed himself in a dangerous situation, he seems to have a secret mission, perhaps one that the Japanese are not expecting—similar to how his Uncle taught him. His “act” as a soldier continues to deceive his Japanese officers just as Japan’s Empire continues to deceive the Korean people (161). This inversion of power shows how characters must be flexible in desperate circumstances in order to combat their suppression. Though it seems that Tae-yul has flown to his death, there are foreshadows and clues that perhaps he is planning something else. It’s unclear, but there is hope. In this way, the narrative emulates the secretive coded language that the characters must use to survive their environment; they aren’t always able to say what they really want, and the audience must sometimes read between the words like Sun-hee deciphering letters from her brother (144).

Still, there is sadness in Tae-yul’s actions. Perhaps the most revealing moment is when he confronts his potential fate and realizes he might never see his family, nor create his own. The harsh reality of a young man’s life cut short sinks in, and the reader witnesses an innocent teenager coming to terms with the possibility of his own death:

Then I think about other things. Girls. I’ve never had a girlfriend. Hee-wo, Jung-shin’s older sister—I wish I could have gotten to know her better. Maybe we could have talked about things, about her family being chin-il-pa, about me joining the army, how life gets so complicated sometimes. Now the simplest things seem the best. Marriage, a family of my own, children. I never thought before about being a father—it seemed too far in the future (160).

Tae-yul’s maturity and growth in the face of adversity underscores his character’s evolution and sense of community. He is thinking of fatherhood, and being the head of his own family, just as his father raised him in the world. Though he struggles to express himself fully—most likely a result of being a young male raised under violent occupation—it is clear that his tone is appreciative and thankful for his family. What he cannot say in words, he says in his actions and in his sacrifice. Though mostly indirect, he tries to reassure and comfort his family’s worries. In his potentially final moments, he gains ultimate agency by giving them his life under his own will, an act that he considers to be a privilege: “My last gift to you all is the knowledge that I have chosen the way of my death, which is something few of us are privileged to do” (195). For many, this would seem like a horrible fate, but for Tae-yul it is an honorable and autonomous choice that will benefit his family because they will gain honor and support from the Japanese Empire as a result of Tae-yul’s service. 

The theme of community in the face of struggle emerges as a critical element as the story progresses. Nearing the end, the family overcomes any of their differences and begin to appreciate one another like never before. But their love and unity extends beyond blood relatives, evidence that their community is more than just a single household, but an entire neighborhood, an entire nation. This camaraderie appears in small and large ways, like when Tae-yul becomes a pilot and his fellow Korean soldiers salute him as both a joke and an honor. Or, like when Sun-hee functions as the emotional support for her parents when they can’t comprehend the reported death of their son. Or, when Mrs. Ahn is there to pick Sun-hee off the floor when she cannot overcome her grief. In the closing image of Chapter 29, every Korean comes out to celebrate, leaving behind their fears that they previously kept hidden indoors and joining the community they have been—and will continue to be—a part of before, during, and after the war. A rare moment of celebration, Korean pride, and unity flourishes at the news of the Japanese army’s defeat:

Suddenly, everyone around me was shouting, throwing their arms in the air, hugging one another, laughing, crying. A man grabbed the megaphone and began singing in Korean; most of the crowd joined in. People who had not been at the accounting came out of their houses to find out what was going on and quickly joined the raucous celebration (196).