Personal Narrative-Destruction Of Japanese Culture

Even though none of my relatives were killed or tortured by the Japanese, I am still afraid. I am afraid that my vicarious wounds still linger inside me, affecting everything I do.

I know that they destroyed our cultural and spiritual circle that we maintained for five thousand years. They just had to leave a natural trace that actually became part of us. I don't know if I should hate them. It is ignorantly and unwittingly buried deeply in our unconsciousness. Natural hatred and attraction, like two inseparable sides of a coin, had confused me for so long. Because the scar still remains unhealed and too painful to ignore, and because I hesitate to hate what's part of me.

Broken wings were all over the country. They were forced to tear

Restless slavery. Dusky ashes were fallen, suffocating and sad.

"The use of Korean language was at first discouraged and later forbidden. The study of Korean history was forbidden and the Koreans were forced to abandon their traditional family and given names and adopt Japanese style names" (Nahm 224).

I, too, am attracted to Japan, a country that is so close and so far. Their fantastic and dreamy animations fascinate me. Luscious sushi satisfies my fastidious tongue. It drew me closer and closer as I consciously and awkwardly tried to resist the appeal. I wanted to understand the reason. Later I found out that I didn't have to understand it at all. It was all inside of me.

My grandmother attended Japanese schools that were set up to educate the Koreans in Japanese language, with Japanese spirits, and she of course spoke perfect and old-fashioned Japanese. My father studied abroad in Japan after receiving his degrees and spoke flawless Japanese. My Mom, being taught by her Mom, also could carry out basic conversations though not as fluently as my grandmother and my father. My best friend Erri is a hundred percent Japanese and only speaks Japanese in her

Victims getting buried alive. Decapitated Korean heads with cigarettes in the stiff lips, a truculent and brutal humor played by the Japanese soldiers. A raped Korean woman with bloody intestines, a wretched and pathetic death. How can you forget this? these pictures asked. A big title in red was knocking my heart furiously. How can I forget this? With my watery eyes and flushing anger trying to escape my heart, I had touched my hidden inherited wounds. They were bleeding in pain again, exposed to the bitter air, open as though it were 1910.

On August 15, 1945, Korea was finally liberated. Exuberant happiness swept the peninsula. People everywhere held the Korean national flag and shouted "Long Live Korea! Long Live Korean Independence!" They stood there with bitter and empty victory that made them wonder deep inside. We are free, free at last, but without our families, what are