When My Name Was Keoko

Despite the ever-present onus of war, the family continues to generate hope. Old friendships endure, characters make bold decisions, and Tae-yul’s plan to join the army—once seen as reckless—begins to yield benefits. The characters are learning how to deal with loss, and are even able to transform their pain into power. For example, when Tae-yul must crush the flower that Sun-hee gives him, he simply blows the ashes and promises to remember her intentions. It displays that physical objects may be restricted by the Japanese, but the emotional and spiritual value of them does not diminish: “I crumble the flower in my fist. Then I open my hand and blow the little pink pieces away. It’s OK, Sun-hee, I say to myself. I don’t need the flower. I’ll remember without it” (149). This transcendence of the material world is a sign of Tae-yul’s growth and ability to grasp the symbolic weight of Sun-hee’s subversive intentions.

However, there are still instances of pain and suffering. Omoni—a quiet character in both voice and physical presence—struggles with her son leaving for war. Abuji—a typically calm and practical man—yells and becomes angry for the first time. Sun-hee—a deeply thoughtful young girl—cannot comprehend the amount of abuse perpetrated by the Japanese. Perhaps the cruelest scene is when soldiers strip Abuji’s father of his hard-earned scholarly titles and treat him like a dog in his own house. The complete lack of agency in moments like these are lessons to Tae-yul about how dehumanizing and belittling Koreans feel, and how powerless each individual actually is.

His anger builds, but he is able to harness it to empower himself and his community, as he grows determined to fight back: “They’re doing it again. Taking whatever they want. Grandfather’s hair, Omoni’s jewelry, Sun-hee’s diary. My bicycle. And we can’t do anything to stop them. Now it’s Uncle they want. And they want me to stand there and do nothing again. This time, I have to do something” (141). His family’s legacy of loss goes from a painful history into a hopeful future, as he galvanizes himself to action by joining the military. The novel largely documents how humans must constantly evolve and shift their morals, beliefs, and ways of being in order to endure tragic history—even it if means risking one’s life. Their understanding of themselves as individuals—but also as community members, as friends, as role models, as men and women—changes as often as new information about the war arises.

The bootcamp shows how physically brutal—and downright desperate—Japanese imperialism has become. Tae-yul witnesses and tolerates abuse as a soldier recruit in order to increase his family’s chances of comfort and survival. It’s a strange territory for anyone to be in: serving the country that imprisons you, but doing so out of love for your real country’s honor. The concept of “acting” appears in these chapters, as Tae-yul begins to understand that his external image may not necessarily reflect his true intentions, and he begins to play this game of pretending to advance his and his family’s situation.

However, it comes at a psychological price, as he must code every decision and trust that Sun-hee will be able to decipher his message: “I’ll be allowed to write letters, but I’m sure they’ll be censored. I won’t be able to put down the truth as I see it. I’m counting on you to read between my words and uncover their true meaning” (144). The heightened sense of codes, secrecy, and clandestine efforts are a reminder of the many shapes and forms that resistance can take. In this case, Tae-yul leverages his sister’s intelligence to use her as a tool for communication in an otherwise “censored” arena. It largely represents the dual lives of Koreans having to adopt two personalities and two existences just to maintain their one purpose of maintaining a respected and safe existence.

This schism of dual selves is amplified in the army, where Tae-yul must be sure to divide his two conflicting roles (Japanese soldier and Korean resistance fighter), and must even sign his legal documents with two names: “We have to sign both our names—Japanese and Korean: Japanese because we’re citizens of the Empire, Korean so they can keep track of us, of the ones who aren’t really Japanese” (149). Just like Tae-yul is pretending to serve the Japanese army, the Japanese army is pretending to serve Korea, but both sides are withholding the truth about their intentions.

Tae-yul’s letters epitomize the struggle of restriction: from speaking out but learning how to navigate barriers of communication to reach an intended audience. A character who once resisted education and school—preferring instead the use of his hands for technical skills—he has shifted his approach and learned the value of the mind over the body. This, like many other moments in this text, prove how malleable and resourceful communities become during times of distress.