The Chosŏn Dynasty was a fascinating period in Korean history, characterized by Confucian ideology and long periods of peace. It also developed a system of jurisprudence with established forensic techniques.

Historians Sun Joo Kim and Jungwon Kim have offered us a window into Late Chosŏn Dynasty jurisprudence by translating and publishing inquest records (Kŏman) in their book Wrongful Deaths: Selected Inquest Records from Nineteenth-Century Korea.¹ For every suspicious or criminally implicated death, an inquest record would be compiled, including context of the death, a thorough examination of the corpse, and a transcript of the testimony offered during interrogation, sometimes under torture (Kim & Kim, 5).

As soon as a wrongful death was reported, the county magistrate traveled to the site of the death, accompanied by a coroner’s assistant, medical specialist, legal clerks, and military officers (Kim & Kim, 15; Figure 1). Together, they rounded up witnesses for a court hearing, and the coroner’s assistant would perform a meticulous physical examination of the corpse, utilizing various inquest materials to determine the cause of death. Many inquest techniques might strike us today as dated and even laughable, such as when “...the examiner first inserts a cooked rice ball into the mouth of the corpse and covers it with a paper. About an hour later, the riceball is fed to a chicken. If the chicken dies, this proves that the person died of poisoning. Yet the use of a chicken was banned in 1764 because such chickens were sold to people to eat even after being used to test for poison.” (Kim & Kim, 17) With the benefit of modern science and hindsight, we might see the chicken-riceball test as ridiculous, much as we might premodern medical techniques such as trepanation or bloodletting. However, I suggest that some Chosŏn Dynasty inquest techniques can now be validated by science as effective for their intended purpose.

SILVER TO TEST FOR POISON  

Coroner’s assistants rarely dismissed the possibility of poisoning as a cause of death. Inquest records show that during the examinations of those who were stabbed, beaten, and drowned, a silver hairpin was used to rule out fatal poisoning (Kim & Kim, 29, 51, 57). The coroner’s assistant would insert the silver hairpin deep into the mouth or anus of a corpse, and then observe the color of the silver. If the silver turned black, this indicated poisoning. Today, we call this transformation of silver "tarnishing." To understand tarnishing from a scientific perspective, let us imagine silver metal at an atomic scale (Figure 2). Each silver atom holds one of its electrons very loosely, which it is happy to part with. These electrons forsaken by the silver atoms move freely within the entire metal lattice, acting like a glue that holds the silver atoms together.² (Figure 2). While the silver atoms are quite content this way, they are also interested in sharing their extra electron with a partner rather than letting it run rampant with all the other electrons. Sulfur is an ideal partner. Instead of trying to get rid of an electron like silver, sulfur atoms want to gain two more electrons in order to complete their collection of eight electrons (Figure 3). To satisfy all parties involved, two silver atoms, each donating one electron to a sulfur atom to form a bond, fulfilling sulfur’s need to collect eight electrons (Figure 4). The resulting bond between two silver atoms and one sulfur atom is called silver sulfide (Ag₂S) and can accumulate on the surface of silver objects as tarnish³. (Figure 5). The tarnish that accumulates absorbs light differently than metallic silver, and we perceive it as being darker in color (Figure 6).

Sulfur is one of the most abundant elements on Earth.⁴ It can be mined as ore in the earth's crust, inhaled as one of the most voluminous gasses emitted from volcanic eruptions, and found in almost every living organism as a component of vital proteins⁴⁵ These sulfurous proteins release hydrogen sulfide gas when heated, as when making a hard-boiled egg.⁶ (Figure 6). Sulfur is also a key constituent of the poisonous arsenic sulfide (AgxSy) family of compounds, which vary in the amounts of arsenic and sulfur⁷.

During the Chosŏn Dynasy, arsenic sulfide was extracted from refining ores and consumed as part of sayak, a poisonous cocktail.¹⁸⁹ This was a popular method of murder and suicide amongst yangban, as the body of the victim remained whole and therefore able to receive a proper burial according to Confucian ritual norms.⁸¹⁰ Being that arsenic sulfide poisonings were common during the Chosŏn Dynasty, it is not surprising that almost every autopsy involved the silver hairpin test.¹ Some sources even suggest that Chosŏn kings ate with silver utensils to test for poisoned food.¹¹

Three forensic scientists Yun Sik Nam Sung-Ok Won and Kang-Bong Lee tested the scientific basis of the silver hairpin test. A rat was injected with arsenic sulfide and died a day later, with the symptoms of poisoning confirmed by histological analysis of the rat’s liver. A piece of silver was then placed in the mouth of the poisoned mouse and compared with a control mouse. After about an hour the difference between the silver pieces was significant, with the poisoned mouse tarnishing the silver to a dark blue color, and the control mouse having no effect on the silver.⁹ This experiment was the first to confirm the efficacy of the silver hairpin test for poison. Although the silver-hairpin test works for arsenic sulfide poisoning, there is no evidence of silver tarnishing in response to poisons that lack sulfur.

VINEGAR TO VISUALIZE BLOOD  

As described in inquest records, coroners assistants of the Chosŏn Dynasty utilized vinegar to aid in the visualization of blood on both corpses and weapons:¹⁹ "The examination of the body began with observation of the corpse in its dry condition. After that, the inquest officials washed the corpse and used various “inquest materials” (pŏmmul), such as lees and vinegar, which were sprinkled over the body as aids to make injuries more visible (Kim & Kim pg. 16)."

Red blood cells are filled with the protein hemoglobin, which is able to capture oxygen and carbon dioxide, and then release the gases where our bodies need.¹² When the iron-containing hemoglobin proteins react with an acid, a highly pigmented, dark brown form of heme called acid hematin is produced.¹³ This transformation of hemoglobin into acid hematin is the basis of using vinegar to visualize blood. When sprayed with acidic vinegar, blood darkens in color and becomes visible, revealing bruises and blood spots not previously visible. An interesting, more modern application of this phenomenon is Sahli’s method for hemoglobin estimation, developed by Hermann Sahli in 1933 (Figure 7).¹³¹⁴ Blood could be added to a glass tube within a device called a hemoglobinometer, and mixed with hydrochloric acid to form acid hematin. The darkly pigmented acid hematin could then be diluted until it matches the color of brown glass planes in the device. Because the color of the solution corresponds with the concentration of hemoglobin, the volume of the diluted blood could be used to calculate hemoglobin concentration.¹³

Forensic scientists Yun Sik Nam, Sung-Ok Won, and Kang-Bong Lee also experimented with the efficacy of vinegar to reveal blood. They replicated a method from a reference book on forensic investigation written in 1440 C.E. The book, used in Chosŏn Korea, describes how to reveal trace amounts of blood on a washed murder weapon with vinegar.⁹ The investigators added several drops of cow’s blood to a kitchen knife and then washed it with distilled water until it was no longer visible. They then heated the knife for one minute in a charcoal firepot, and sprayed the weapon with a 15% vinegar solution, as described in the forensic reference book. To their amazement, the brownish-red color of acid hematin became visible, and the bloodstains on the knife were revealed!⁹ These results were not observed with a control knife. Using vinegar in this way is very similar to the usage of luminol and other fluorescent compounds in modern forensics. Luminol reacts with hemoglobin, just like vinegar, but instead of turning brown like acid hematin, luminol fluoresces blue to appear like a glowstick (Figure 8)¹⁵¹⁶. The fluorescence can be easily observed for about a minute under dark conditions. Thanks to science and the experiments of forensic scientists, I can argue that the usage of silver and vinegar by coroners assistants of the Chosŏn Dynasty was sound and efficacious.

For more (including 8 images), view the original article.

Names are often a person’s first identifying detail. Appearing on lists, agendas, directories, and other records, they can evoke certain stereotypes or hint at one’s background or culture, shaping an impression that precedes one’s physical presence. 

Growing up, I had contradictory feelings about my Korean name. On one hand, I didn’t like how “common” my last name was, as I was always one of several “Kims” at school. My dissatisfaction was somewhat assuaged when my father revealed that there were several different Kim clans, and that our family belonged to one called the Kwangsan 광산 (also spelled Gwangsan) Kim clan.^[1] 

I began to feel an emerging sense of pride when I learned that our clan name was derived from the auspicious Chinese characters 光山, meaning “shining mountain.” My pride in my clan affiliation grew when, upon visiting the Wikipedia page for the Kwang-san Kim clan, I discovered that I was related to some famous celebrities, including BTS’s V, Jin, and Hyun-bin, the actor who plays the swoonworthy male protagonist Ri Jeong-hyeok in the record-breaking Korean drama Crash Landing on You (2020).

At the same time, I disliked my given Korean name for being too “uncommon.” My Korean name is 김혜중 (Kim Hye-joong), and if you are familiar with Korean names, you might note two (interrelated) things about my name: 1) 혜중 (Hye-joong) is not a very common name, and 2) 혜중 (Hye-joong), particularly the syllable Joong 중 (“Chung”), is traditionally a very masculine name. If my last name was “too common,” I simultaneously hated how my given Korean name stood out because it was so masculine-sounding. Growing up, I was surrounded by girls with pretty, “feminine,” common names that didn’t prompt a “can you repeat that?” or a “that’s a very unique name.” Names like 은혜 (Eun-hye), 지혜 (Ji-hye), 지영 (Ji-young), 지의 (Ji-eui), or 선화 (Sun-hwa). Despite yearning for a “softer-sounding” Korean given name that was more readily recognizable as one belonging to a girl, I also could not dismiss the story behind my Korean given name, one that was far more interesting than the one behind my American name, which my parents had simply picked out of a book of baby names.

My paternal grandfather had insisted on adhering to the Kwangsan Kim clan’s generational naming tradition, where a specific syllable or character is used to identify clan members of the same generation, a practice dating back to ancient Korean times. He had followed this tradition when naming my father and his sisters — 용진 (Yong-jin), 용경 (Yong-kyung), 용희 (Yong-hŭi) — and wanted his son to continue observing the tradition.

Korean names generally follow the following conventions: a one-character (or, in some very rare cases, two-character) surname, followed by a two-character given name. In the Korean tradition of generational names, each generation shares either the first or second character of their given name, and the placement of the shared character alternates from generation to generation. My father’s generation was marked by the shared first character 용/容 (Yong), and my generation is marked by the shared second character 중/中 ( Ch’ung (we spell it Joong in our family)). Ironically, despite the masculine Joong 중 being the next generational name, my parents ended up having three daughters and no sons. When brainstorming names for me (their first-born daughter), my paternal grandfather had suggested names like Kim Duk-joong 김덕중 and Kim Suk-joong 김석중. Very, very masculine-sounding names. My parents, wanting a slightly less masculine-sounding name for their baby girl, ended up naming me Kim Hye-joong 김혜중, a compromise I am very grateful they insisted on. My second sister was named Kim Eun-joong 김은중, and my youngest sister was named Kim Ye-joong 김예중.

I was born in Los Angeles as a Korean-American, but I grew up in China as a third-culture kid living between multiple cultures and languages. Perhaps this was why my parents felt the need to meticulously explain the intentionality that went into our names. They explained how our Korean names followed an ancient tradition that our paternal grandfather had insisted on despite the fact that women were normally excluded from this practice, though they themselves admitted not knowing too much about this tradition. When I asked my father what the next generational name would be, he told me he was not sure, but that there was some document in Korea that I might be able to refer to if I was interested.

This gap in my knowledge about my lineage lingered with me: I simultaneously knew so much yet so little about my origins — I felt that though my name and those of my family members gave me a few puzzle pieces, I lacked some critical bits of knowledge that would help me piece it all together. I wanted to connect to a larger lineage beyond simply sharing fun anecdotes about my name. When I took a class on Korean history at UCLA (Korea 180B: History of Korea, 1260 through 1876), I realized that it might finally guide me toward finding the missing puzzle pieces. I visited my professor during office hours, and he introduced me to the Kwangsan Kim Clan Association’s website: “광산김씨대종회/光山金氏大宗會,” an online database through which I gained access to a wealth of information (See Fig. 1).

I navigated over to the tab 인터넷족보 (Internet genealogy), which took me to this landing page, through which I learned that the Kwangsan Kim clan’s genealogy is divided into five major p’a 파 (branches): Munjŏnggong 문정공, Munsukkong 문숙공, Yanggan’gong 양간공, Nangjanggong 낭장공, and Saonchikchanggong 사온직장공 (See Fig 2).

I then shifted over to the table of contents on the left side of the page, and clicked on the first heading: Sijogong 시조공 (1-11世) (Founder (1st-11th generations) (See Fig. 3). 

I learned that the founder of the clan was Kim Hŭnggwang 김흥광, who, according to the Wikipedia page on the Kwangsan Kim clan, was the third son of King Sinmu, the 45th monarch of the Silla kingdom. According to historian Nuri Kim, the founding figure of the Kwangsan Kim clan is historically elusive. During the mid-1950s, soon after the Korean War, the clan reconstituted its genealogy, and decided to identify the founding father as Kim Hŭnggwang” However, there was still debate around how he fit into the Silla royal family, and “it was resolved to simply refer to him with the general title ‘Silla Prince,’ maintaining a deliberate sense of vagueness” (Kim N.) (See Fig 4.)

I navigated to 항렬표 (generational name list), where I was able to piece together the puzzle through the naming traditions of my and my father’s generations. 광산김씨대종회. http://www.kwangsankim.or.kr/main.html. (See Fig 5.)

I located the Ch’ung 중/中 (Joong) character that my sisters and I share, as well as the Yong “용/容” shared by my father and his sisters. I even recognized the Su 수/洗” (Soo) character from my paternal grandfather’s name. I learned that my grandfather was the 38th generation of Kwangsan Kims, that my father was the 39th, and that my sisters and I were the 40th. I was also excited to discover that the next generation, if following this tradition, would share the Sŏn 선/善” (I would spell it “Sun”) character in the first syllable, and was slightly disappointed that I wasn’t the 41st generation because Sun 선 sounds so pretty, and I could think of several beautiful girl names starting with this syllable. Sigh. (See Fig 6, 7)

I scrolled further down the page, and, with my knowledge of my name, my father’s name, and my grandfather’s name, I was able to locate the specific p’a 파 (branch) we were from: either the Mungjŏnggong branch 문정공파 or the Yanggan’gong branch 양간공파. (See Fig 8).

From a historian’s perspective, it is important to acknowledge that the early records of the founding figures of yangban family clans, such as the Kwangsan Kim clan, may not be historically accurate. As historian Sun Joo Kim notes in “Inventing Ancestors and Limited Empiricism in Choson Korea: A case of the Kigye Yu Lineage,” many Choson yangban (elites) fabricated or embellished their ancestral origins in order to legitimize and elevate their social status. Choson society was marked by rigid social stratification and very limited opportunities for social mobility. Although the civil service exam, the primary path to official positions and political prominence in Choson society (Kim J. 61), was theoretically open to non-yangban individuals, in reality, their lack of resources largely barred them from accessing these official government positions (Kim & Kim 62). Because of this, lineage became a crucial form of social capital. Sun Joo Kim explains that genealogical records were not only used to verify ancestry for civil service exams or official appointments, but also operated as markers of privilege as Choson elite culture increasingly prioritized family background over individual talent or ability (589).

Yet the significance of generational names does not end in the Chosŏn period. While historians rightly interrogate the accuracy of these early clan records, these generational names and markers play a different yet significant role for Koreans today. For example, in “Between Family, Nation, and Scholarship: Negotiating Ancestral Origins in Post-1945 South Korea,” Nuri Kim shows how clan associations took on new roles after the Korean War. As families confronted displacement, social upheaval, and competing historical narratives, many kinship groups produced their own scholarship to assert agency over how their past was understood.

For kyop’o 교포 (members of the Korean diaspora) such as myself who have access to fragments of their historical identities, these naming practices can be one of the few remaining threads connecting us to a broader lineage, offering tangible points of connection amid the ruptures of migration, displacement, and loss. For those of us navigating identities shaped by distance and displacement, these traditions can serve as meaningful anchors to a past and a cultural identity that may otherwise be difficult to access.

^[1] There are many ways to spell Korean names. Here, I provide some common spellings, even though they don’t always follow official transliteration conventions such as McCune Reischauer used by the Library of Congress in the US or Revised Romanization used by the government of South Korea.

For more (including 8 images), view the original article.

Anthropologist Marshall Sahlins has noted the frequent presence of foreign dynasties in histories and legends across many cultures. He calls these figures, who generally come from a country of higher status or even a divine realm, “stranger-kings.” By virtue of his foreignness the stranger-king is set apart from the native inhabitants, thus lending legitimacy to his status above the people. Among ancient Korean foundation myths, Kija and Chumong (Tongmyŏng, r. 37 BCE-19 BCE) are prototypical examples of stranger-kings.

For more, view the original article.

Phonetics/Phonology

It is natural to observe cross-linguistic influence between two languages, not only from L1 (first language) to L2 (second language) but also vice versa. Here are three features of Korean produced by the immigrants in Paraguay and Argentina that are distinct from the Korean used in the homeland:

1. Voicing of voiceless stops

Korean is unique in the way that it has a three-way contrast among voiceless stop consonants: lenis (i.e., ㄱ /k/, ㄷ /t/, ㅂ /p/), aspirated (i.e., ㅋ /k^h/, ㅌ /t^h/, ㅍ /p^h/), and tense (i.e., ㄲ /k’/, ㄸ /t’/, ㅃ /p’/). In Spanish, there is a two-way contrast among stop consonants: voiced (i.e., b, d, g) and voiceless (i.e., p, t, k). Voiced sounds are produced with vocal cord vibration. That is, if you can feel the vibration of vocal cords by touching your throat, it is a voiced sound (Compare the first sound of “Sue” and “zoo”. Place your hand on your throat to feel the vibration. Do you feel more vibration when you say “Sue” or “zoo”?).

Korean stops become voiced between vowels, but they remain voiceless in word-initial positions. Possibly due to influence from Spanish, Korean immigrants residing in Latin America produce Korean voiceless stops as voiced in word-initial positions.

For example, 그[kɯ]런데 is produced as [gɯ] and 강[kaŋ]아지 as [gaŋ]. In a similar manner, 독[tok]도 is produced as [dok], 더[tʌ]워 as [dʌ], 보[po]러 as [bo], and 박[pak]물관 as [bak].

2. Monophthongization of diphthongs

A monophthong is a single vowel sound that does not undergo changes in tongue position throughout its production. In contrast, a diphthong consists of two vowel sounds in a single syllable. Korean has 11 diphthongs (ㅑ, ㅕ, ㅛ, ㅠ, ㅒ, ㅖ, ㅘ, ㅝ, ㅙ, ㅞ, ㅢ), each involving a change in tongue position during pronunciation. For instance, ㅑ sounds somewhat like the rapid sequence of the vowel ㅣ and the vowel ㅏ, in a way that the two sounds are produced in the same syllable. Immigrants in Latin America tend to simplify these diphthongs by making them monophthongs.

For example, 환[hwan]자 is produced as [han], 전화[hwa] as [ha], and 의[ɯj]사 as [ɯ].

3. Transfer of Spanish assimilation rule

In Spanish, /n/ is realized as a velar nasal [ŋ] before velar sounds (e.g., cinco [siŋko]). Velar sounds are produced using the velum and include consonants like [k, g, ŋ, x]. It is observed that Korean immigrants seem to apply this Spanish phonological rule when speaking Korean.

For example, 큰[khɯn] 극장 is realized as [khɯŋ] and 친[tɕʰin]한 as [tɕʰiŋ].

Lastly, while this study is invaluable in that it is one of the very few studies that examined the speech of Korean immigrants in Latin America, I would like to point out that these observations were based on perception. Therefore, a follow-up study using acoustic analysis is needed to confirm these findings.

Lexicon

The vocabulary that Korean immigrants use can tell us a lot about the Korean diaspora community. The Korean language that G1 immigrants brought to Latin America with them in the 1970s has developed over the past few decades to reflect their community. They tend to use some old words or expressions that are no longer used in the homeland and some new words have entered their lexicon.

1. Archaism

The Korean language in Latin America has its roots in the Korean of the 1970s, and some words from that era continue to be used in Latin America even though they are no longer used or are avoided due to their negative connotations in the homeland. For instance, the term 식모, signifying a housemaid, is no longer in use. Nowadays, alternative expressions such as 가정부 or 가사도우미 are used instead. Likewise, Koreans in Latin America use the word 원주민 to refer to the local population (i.e., latinx in Latin America), but in Korea, the word 현지인 is preferred. 원주민 is now used in a more restricted context, specifically referring to indigenous people. Lastly, the word 국민학교, meaning elementary school, has not been used in Korea after 1996 when the government officially transitioned to the term 초등학교.

2. Hybrid words

Many words were created as a result of language contact between Korean and Spanish/Portuguese. The Korean verb affixes such as -하다 (to do), -되다 (to become) are used quite productively. Similarly, the Brazilian progressive tense form -endo (-ing form) demonstrates productive usage as well. You will notice that some words reflect the Korean society, where a significant number of immigrants work in the clothing industry.

· 벤데하다 (vender+-하다): to sell

· 꼬세하다 (coser+-하다): to sew

· 쎄라되다 (cerrar+-되다): to be closed

· 피피하다 (pipí+-하다): to urinate

· 피에스타장 (fiesta+장(場)): festival venue

· 걸어간두 (걸어가다+-endo): to be walking

· 먹는두 (먹는다+-endo): to be eating

3. Loan words (pp. 187-210 in 원미진 et al. (2015) for the complete list of loan words)

There are many borrowings from Spanish or Portuguese, some of which are related to the clothing industry.

· 꼬세 (coser): to sew

· 비쥬테리아 (bijuteria): accessory shop

· 빠씨야 (passear): to take a walk

· 깜비오 (cambio): change

· 휘르마 (firmar): to sign

· 꼬시나 (cocina): kitchen

The Korean language in Latin America continues to change and develop, in contact with Spanish/Portuguese. According to a 2021 report by the Korean government, there are 90,289 Koreans residing in Latin America. Regardless of how small the number of immigrants in Latin America is compared to those in the United States, in Japan, or in China, it is important that we document and understand how the Korean language is developing and being passed down to the next generation in Latin America. However, the literature on how Korean descendents speak the Korean language is very limited. Few studies that have examined the Korean language in Latin America focus on the importance of Korean education and methods to promote teaching and learning of the Korean language, rather than on the documentation or analysis of the language itself.

Conducting studies on the sounds and the structure of the Korean language spoken by Latin American immigrants will not only benefit the field of Korean linguistics but also contribute to the broader field of bilingualism and language contact. Future studies may include acoustic analyses of stop consonants (i.e., ㄱ/ㅋ/ㄲ, ㄷ/ㅌ/ㄸ, ㅂ/ㅍ/ㅃ) and vowels or qualitative analyses of pronoun usage.

For more, view the original article.

History and Social Linguistics¹

The first group of 1,014 immigrants arrived in Yucatan, Mexico in 1905. Contrary to their expectations, they were forced to work at henequen (i.e., agave plants) plantations under extreme conditions. Most of these early immigrants have assimilated into Mexican society and have not maintained the language of their motherland. A bigger wave of immigration occurred in the 1960s and 70s, as individuals sought new opportunities. However, the majority of these immigrants arrived to Central and South American countries with little knowledge of Spanish (or Portuguese in the case of Brazil), and as a result, many of them ended up working in the textile and clothing industry. Moreover, Korean immigrants maintained a homogeneous community by building close ties among themselves rather than interacting with the local community. This aspect of Korean diaspora community in Latin America is reflected in their attitude towards Korean and their vocabulary usage.

Unfortunately, we could not find any studies that investigated how the first immigrants in Yucatan speak Korean. The short film “Yo Soy coreana” (2018) provides a glimpse of how much Korean has been lost among Korean descendants. They seem to enjoy Korean culture and food, but they barely speak any Korean. Considering that there were very few immigrants before the 1960s and that the transmission rate of Korean is very low, the information summarized below is based on questionnaires and interviews with those who immigrated in the 1970s or later (i.e., first-generation (G1)) and their children (i.e., 1.5-generation (G1.5) or second-generation (G2)). The term G1.5 refers to immigrants who were born in Korea and received some formal schooling there. G2 includes those who were born in Latin America or those who were born in Korea but moved to a Latin American country before entering school.² Moreover, the respondents resided in Brazil, Argentina, Mexico, Paraguay, or Chile, and this provides a good representation of the Korean immigrant population, as approximately 90% of Korean immigrants in Latin America reside in these countries.

Language Use and Attitude

Koreans in Latin America reported relatively high usage of the Korean language. 86% responded that they watch Korean TV shows everyday, and speak Korean with their family members at least 50% of the time. Specifically, 88% of the respondants said they use more Korean than Spanish/Portuguese when speaking to their elders, and 62% responded that they use more Korean than Spanish/Portuguese when speaking to their siblings. Furthermore, the majority of the respondants (88%) had a positive attitude toward the Korean language, and they expressed that it is important for them to be competent in the Korean language. With regards to their proficiency in Korean, their self-report indicates that G1 (4.83-4.89) is the most fluent in Korean, followed by G1.5 (4.22-4.49), and then G2 (3.50-3.96). The reverse was true for their proficiency in Spanish/Portuguese (Figure 1).

Figure 1. Self-rated Proficiency of Korean/Dominant Language (i.e., Spanish or Portuguese) (원미진, et al., 2015:129)

Interestingly, the questionnaire responses demonstrate that G2s in Latin America use Korean more frequently and express a stronger desire to be good at Korean compared to their G2 counterparts in the United States.³ That is, those residing in Latin America use Korean much more often than Spanish/Portuguese when communicating with their family members, in contrast to second-generation Koreans in the US who tend to use English more often than Korean. Furthermore, it appears that G2s in Latin America have a higher need for the Korean language (4.07) than their counterparts in the US (3.95).⁴ Moreover, G2s in Latin America also exhibit better proficiency in Korean (3.50-3.96) than their counterparts in the US (2.46-3.49). Similar results were reported by 이재학(2006). G2 immigrants in Latin America tend to have higher proficiency in Korean, and show a stronger preference for using Korean when communicating with other Koreans compared to those in the US. Based on this data, we can conclude that the Korean language is maintained more effectively in Latin America than in the US.

For more, view the original article.

The ideology of kinship established the foundation for the social and political spheres of  Chosŏn life-influencing the everyday choices and actions of the people, including the king. Thus,  learning about kinship helps us in the modern world understand the motives and actions of the  people living during the Chosŏn era. But what is kinship? Ksenia Chizhova’s Kinship Novels of  Early Modern Korea: Between Genealogical Time and the Domestic Everyday (Princeton  University Press, 2021) gives us a look into the origin and impact of kinship in Chosŏn through  kinship novels. In early Chosŏn, the kinship system was brought along with the introduction of  Neo-Confucian ideas and “embodied a moral, state-endorsed vision of idealized human bonds”  (Chizhova, 5). A person who understands their role in familial relationships develops both  domestic harmony and lays the foundation for their role in society. For example, the relationship  between father and son sets up the relationship between ruler and subject. 

As described by Ksenia Chizhova, kinship novels, or vernacular Korean lineage novels,  “elaborate the intricacies of the kinship system of late Chosŏn Korea” (Chizhova 2). They are  aptly named so for being novels written in vernacular Korean by elite women, which often  circulate within a family or lineage. Although each novel is unique, they follow a common  pattern: they open up with the hereditary moral excellence of the lineage members, the patriarch  plays a minor yet important role, and the stories often revolve around kinship norms.  

The novels state the lineage’s moral excellence because a person’s lineage played an  important role in Chosŏn society. Chosŏn was a low social mobility society. Belonging to a strong and prestigious lineage granted high social status, which enabled an individual to obtain high-ranking jobs and better prospective partners.  

Meanwhile, the patriarch, who represents the identity of the lineage, is never the  protagonist of the novel. Instead, he acts as a representation of ancestral virtues and a guiding  figure for the protagonist who is usually a young person who struggles to conform to kinship  norms while harboring unruly, selfish feelings. These unruly, selfish feelings threaten the  harmony created by the kinship system and the protagonist must learn to balance these personal  feelings and the social order to protect the harmony. 

Marriage and Desire in Kinship Novels 

Brothers Hyŏn 

This comic follows the lineage novel, Brothers Hyŏn, the first novel in a kinship trilogy  of the Hyŏn lineage. The trilogy’s central theme is desire and marriage. Brothers Hyŏn follows  two brothers, Hyŏn Sumun and Hyŏn Kyŏngmun, who are on opposite spectrums of desire.  Sumun is described as “the quintessence of virility and lust” while Kyŏngmun focuses on his  work as a scholar and is “uninterested in the affairs of the bedchamber” (Chizhova, 131). This  comic follows Sumun and his wife, Yun Hyebing. Sumun rapes Hyebing to consummate their  marriage. After the traumatic event, Hyebing initially tries to escape, but because she and Sumun  already had sex, both her own parents and her in-laws see her as belonging to Sumun and push  her to exemplify the female virtue of obedience towards the husband. This story is an example of  how kinship novels deal with the consequences of unruly emotions. Although Hyebing’s  suffering is acknowledged and Sumun’s transgression is recognized, ultimately the social and  human problems of unruly emotions are resolved through a reaffirmation of kinship in this story.

A Woman’s Role 

The relationship between husband and wife is one of the three fundamental Confucian  moral bonds. Marriage signified the passing of the woman’s subservience from her father to her  husband. In the end, Hyebing must submit herself to her husband to uphold kinship norms.  Following the rules of patriarchal lineage, Hyebing married Sumun and must now follow her  father-in-law and her husband. Hyebing’s actualization of the role of the wife brings back the  domestic harmony of the kinship system.

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In modern Western culture, most agree that certain jobs should be given to the most qualified, regardless of birth or parentage. However, in Chosŏn Korea (1392 - 1910), this was not the case. Chosŏn society “tended to emphasize aristocratic birth rather than bureaucratic skill and moral stature” (Kim, 3). Although Chosŏn society was largely governed by Confucianism, a Chinese philosophy that emphasized ability over birth and “idealized the Confucian prescription of employing men of talent,” many Chosŏn Koreans still overlooked merit in favor of inheritance (Kim, 3).

Interestingly, the secondary status groups, people who were ranked below the elite yangban class in the social hierarchy, relied on both lineage and merit. For these groups, which include the muban (military officials), chungin (technical specialists), sŏŏl (illegitimate children of concubines), hyangni (clerks), and northern elites, “heredity remained the indispensable feature in determining status.” However, because “the bureaucracy, in fact, was the institution in which achievement and merit could most affect the social hierarchy,” the secondary status groups used their employment in the government bureaucracy to gain upward mobility in the social hierarchy and secure their status (Hwang, 27).

To become a member of the muban early in the Chosŏn dynasty, men from non-yangban status groups could take the mukwa, or the military examination. By passing, they could raise their status by becoming military officials. Military officials and yangban families intermarried, but by the early 17th century, they separated into different groups. Certain muban families married only within their class and “monopolized” the top military posts. Simply put, the lower status men “took advantage of the increasing accessibility of the mukwa military exam and military posts to gain a measure of upward mobility” (Hwang, 33). Initially, lower status men were able to elevate their status through merit by passing the mukwa military exam to the point where they could marry with yangban, but later they secured their status using their lineage later in the Chosŏn era by marrying exclusively within their own group. 

The sŏŏl group had an ambivalent relationship with ascriptive status, social status acquired from birth. Although their fathers were of higher, yangban status, their mothers were their secondary wives (or concubines) and therefore women of non-yangban backgrounds. This pedigree doomed them to a lower social status because they were considered “illegitimate.” This meant that all descendants of concubines were socially ruined because no one wanted to marry them and they were legally excluded from the highest rungs of the civil bureaucracy (Hwang, 34). The sŏŏl group was unhappy with this system and sought to “be recognized as members of the yangban elite” since they descended from yangban fathers (Kim, 15). To protest their lack of yangban privileges and inability to participate in the civil bureaucracy, the sŏŏl group quoted Mencius (372-279 BC ), an ancient Confucian philosopher, who argued that kings should “employ men of talents and virtue regardless of their origin” (Kim, 15). Nevertheless, Chosŏn society still limited peoples’ advancement based on birth. Consequently, as the number of sŏŏl grew, so did their discontent. They “became truly forceful” as a result of their “campaigns to escape their legal and societal stigmata” (Hwang, 54). For example, in 1823 they gathered nearly ten thousand signatures on a petition submitted to the king. This resulted in political reforms that came slowly, but, discrimination against the sŏŏl remained until the end of the Chosŏn dynasty (Kim, 12). Ultimately, the sŏŏl had to work against and with their heritage as they fought to gain the privileges that their yangban fathers had in order to overcome the barriers that came with their mother’s lower status and obtain opportunities that merit could grant them in the bureaucracy.

Similar to the sŏŏl, the chungin class also disputed discriminatory practices based on lineage to obtain opportunities through merit. The chungin had their own exam (chapkwa) which allowed them to become technical specialists such as astronomers, painters, medical officials, and so on. Despite their importance, the chungin had a “subordinate standing in the hierarchies of both the bureaucracy and the society” (Hwang, 34). Unlike the sŏŏl, they didn’t really participate in many movements to gain privileges for their status group, “possibly because the number of technical specialists was relatively small” (Kim, 22). Nevertheless, in 1851, the chungin organized a movement against the discriminatory policy that kept the chungin from prestigious positions. The chungin reasoned against this policy by “[emphasizing] merit and talent, rather than pedigree” (Kim, 22). However, they didn’t hesitate to put forth their prestigious ancestry as another justification, claiming that they “originated from the pure scholar official class” (Kim, 23). 

The elites from the northern Py’ŏngan province also argued for meritocracy when faced with discrimination. The origin of discriminatory practices against northern elites is somewhat unknown but according to Paek Kyonghae (1765–1842), a P’yŏngan literatus, regional discrimination rooted itself in the social environment during the Chosŏn dynasty (Kim, 27). Unfortunately for the northern elites, this meant that they were “effectively barred northerners from obtaining prestigious positions” despite the fact that this policy “contradicted the Neo-Confucian prescription for a meritocracy” (Kim, 27). Eventually, they grew sick and tired of discriminatory practices and took advantage of reforms that improved life for other secondary status groups. In 1823, northern elites organized themselves to collectively protest against the unfair policies and in their argument, “invoked the Confucian principle of meritocracy” (Kim, 32). 

In an ideal Confucian society, meritocracy would be celebrated over aristocracy. On the other hand, Chosŏn was far from an ideal Confucian society and unfortunately for the secondary status group, factors out of their control, such as heritage, often kept them from equal opportunities. Overall, something that all of these groups had in common was their intent to elevate their status based on meritocratic achievement. Whether or not they used their prestigious lineage to justify their calling for a better social standing depended on the group and the situation. In the end, the struggle to climb the ladder of social hierarchy demonstrates the neverending endeavor for better opportunities in Chosŏn society.

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For my high school history class back in 2014, I vaguely recall learning about the Japanese mainland's isolationist principles and America's imperialistic attempts to forcibly open up trade with the island nation in 1853  (“Office of the Historian”). In the 1850s westerners might have thought of Japan as a true isolationist nation. But, what westerners at the time might have thought of as “isolationist”  might simply have been how they interpreted a country’s stricter border protection policies.

 I found it Interesting that the Chosŏn dynasty also implemented its own set of strict border protection and maritime policies in 1392. I learned it was important to know that there are two primary reasons for the stricter border controls in Chosŏn Korea as compared to those in the western world. The first has to do with Korea's place as a tributary state of China, and the second has to do with anti-piracy policies against the Japanese (Siu 27). The key to understanding Korea’s border policy is how Chosŏn Korea’s decision-making was influenced by its relationship with foreign powers, an issue that persists in Korean even today with the splitting of North and South Korea in relation to America due to its previous rivalry with the now defunct U.S.S.R. 

I think I can safely say there are a variety of opinions regarding what influenced the Chosŏn dynasty’s border protection policies. What we do know is that one of the biggest contributors was the Ming Dynasty.  One reason for modeling Korean law after China’s own laws was that the Chosŏn dynasty became a vassal state of Ming China. Becoming a vassal state was a survival strategy because China had invaded Korea repeatedly over the past millennium (Wang 17). That being said, Chosŏn also looked to Ming China for ideological reasons, given that Chosŏn Korea was also a newly emerging Neo-Confucian state (Park 118). These factors, Korea becoming a tributary state of China, and the ideological similarities, encouraged Chosŏn Korea to implement parts of the Great Ming Code, along with many of the trade restrictions that came with it (Siu 9). I will discuss Korea’s maritime restriction policies and compare them to what we know about China and Japan around the same period by drawing on a study titled, “Maritime Exclusion Policy in Ming China and Chosŏn Korea, 1368–1450,” a dissertation written by Yiu Siu in 2022.

The Great Ming Code was a law book which governed China from 1368 to 1644. In line with the Ming Code’s border policies, people residing in the country were punished for many crimes involving maritime activities, such as export restrictions and high sea trade (Siu 9). Not only that, but private navigation was also almost completely banned until 1568. A good example of the influence of the Great Ming Code in Chosŏn Korea is the legal provisions against private sailing (Siu 11). Another example are the restrictions on private navigation, though Chosŏn did not completely ban it as Ming had done. (Siu 12).

While there are similarities between Chosŏn Korea, Japan, and Ming China, there are also differences that should be noted. For example, Japan’s kaikin policy, which is a well-known trade restriction policy implemented by Japan, was very restrictive on both exit and entry with regards to maritime border activity. The term kaikin was first discovered in 1633 (Siu 17). On the other hand, China and Korea mostly sought to prevent its own population from trading and going out to sea without a permit. This did not mean that the Chinese and Koreans did not control foreign activity, but rather the terms haijin, and haegŭm meant something very different from Kaikin, even though all three are words represented by the same Chinese characters and can be translated as “sea ban.” (Siu 16). It is useful to think of haijin and haegŭm only in reference to border exit policies, which the Chosŏn dynasty enforced with lesser emphasis than the Ming had done (Siu 3).

In some cases, Chosŏn placed maritime restrictions to protect the Chosŏn people from piracy. It imposed restrictions that required ships to sail out in groups of at least five in order to ward off potential pirates (Siu 10). It also required that vessels engaged in coastal shipping be under the supervision of the coastal guard because Chosŏn ships were frequent targets of Wako pirates, a term originally used to describe pirates of Japanese origin. Because of the tension with Japanese pirates, the government also implemented various trade restrictions against the Japanese which sought to regulate border entry into the country. The main idea was to create policies that transformed potentially hostile Japanese sailors into friendlier traders (Siu 25-26).  Initially, it was really hard for the Chosŏn government to implement trade restrictions on the Japanese. For example, yhere was a lack of communication between the upper and lower levels of government command with regards to restrictive Japanese trading activity in the Chŏlla Province (Siu 9). The communication issue prompted King T’aejong to ramp up awareness of the law in 1413.

I think the best way to describe Korea's maritime border controls is as a mix of anti-excursion and piracy prevention policies. The story of Chosŏn Korea’s border policy is one of geopolitical strategy, Ideology, and maritime security. Therefore, it might be useful to think of these border policies as a response to Japan and China's relationship with Korea itself.

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Towards the end of the sixteenth century, feudal Japan, unified under its leader Toyotomi Hideyoshi, invaded Chosŏn Korea in 1592. The resulting Imjin War was a conflict on a uniquely monumental scale, entailing hundreds of thousands of combatants. It also marked a turning point in the geopolitical situation in East Asia. The massive force of Japanese ashigaru (foot soldiers) and their leading samurai cut down droves of unprepared Chosŏn soldiers, and occupied large swaths of the Korean peninsula. Despite this initial success, the Japanese war machine soon ground to a halt, with Ming China also joining the conflict to aid their Korean allies. Interrupted only by a short period of negotiation, the Imjin War ended after the Japanese withdrew their troops from Korea in 1598.

On the eve of the Imjin War, the Chosŏn government was put to the ultimate test. Open threats by Toyotomi Hideyoshi and overall hostility from the Japanese government had already led to Chosŏn being wary of a potential invasion. It was this pivotal moment where a capable leader would be expected to channel Korea’s resources into an effective defense in depth that could hold back the coming storm. King Sŏnjo proved woefully unfit for the task at hand. The Chosŏn government at the time was beset with extreme factionalism that the weak Sŏnjo could do little to rectify. The two main factions, known as the Easterners (Tongin) and the Westerners (Sŏin), bickered endlessly over the correct Neo-Confucian interpretations of the classical texts. Their rivalry hindered a streamlined policy of defense against the looming Japanese threat (Wagner 1-4). The resulting preparations for warfare were pitiful: the timorous Korean government’s construction of land fortifications was limited in scope and crudely built (Kim 18). There was no attempt to modernize the Korean army’s weapons; the adoption of muskets would only come about after the Japanese demonstrated its effectiveness in mass slaughter. The appointment of civil service officials to military positions was another unfortunate blunder, as it was commonly believed that knowledge of the Classics superseded tactical experience in the heat of battle (Wagner 18). The officers on the front-lines in turn proved to be more indicative of factional corruption than military competence. The collapse of the Chosŏn defense in the initial stages of the war would accentuate these glaring problems with Korea’s martial policy.

It would not be fair to put all of the blame on the reigning monarch in Chosŏn, as the Korean court was guilty of these sins as a whole. However, King Sŏnjo was the ultimate person of authority that could conceivably address these deep-rooted issues directly. His weak and debilitated performance as a leader indicated his inability to properly reconcile the national interest of Chosŏn with the squabbling Easterner and Westerner cliques. Indeed, when King Sŏnjo was forced to flee his capital after the Japanese laid waste to the southern half of the Korean peninsula in 1592, he composed a poem that encapsulated his failure to quell the factional strife that had ruined his small nation. 

As I wail to the moon over the border mountain, / The winds of Amnok [Yalu] wave pierce my bowels for aye; / O, my courtiers, do not say again / East or West from today!

(Ha 2)

By July of 1592, the Japanese had already abandoned any thought of invading China and were focused on consolidating their gains in Korea (Hitoshi 104-111). It was here when the first confrontation between the Ming and the Japanese occurred, with General Zu Chengxun leading a combined force of his Chinese troops from the Liaodong province and Chosŏn government troops against Japanese-occupied Pyongyang. The resulting battle was an unmitigated disaster, with Zu Chengxun barely escaping with his life and the sole Chinese presence in Korea being routed by Japanese forces (Turnbull 124-126).  Although Zu Chengxun bitterly blamed the Koreans for the defeat, there is ample reason to disregard this, as Chinese generals were notorious for assigning blame to the Koreans when they suffered defeat to avoid punishment. It would take more than four months for Ming forces to set foot again in Chosŏn to contend with the Japanese.

Nevertheless, King Sŏnjo saw the value in using Ming soldiers to bolster the Korean war effort. His own Korean government troops had been defeated time and time again by the more experienced and well-equipped Japanese. His continuous petitions to the Ming court for aid eventually bore fruit: additional Ming forces were sent to the Korean peninsula, partly because of Sŏnjo’s exaggeration of the Japanese threat against China (Yeon 523). However, by this point, the Japanese had already become bogged down and were experiencing difficulties inland because of a new kind of Korean resistance.

The Korean righteous armies, known as ǔibyŏng, were bands of guerilla fighters that took a very different approach to the war. In contrast to the Korean government troops that confronted the Japanese army directly, these civilian volunteers focused upon disrupting supply lines and ambushing foraging parties. These raids even extended into attacks on enemy strongholds within Chosŏn, with their efforts frustrating the overall offensive (Hawley 291-292).  Despite the fact that over half of the peninsula was under Japanese control, its occupation was tenuous due to the severe logistical difficulty of supplying more than a hundred thousand troops in a foreign land. These problems were exacerbated due to constant harassment by these Korean irregular troops, which Hideyoshi referred to as the ikki rebel forces (Hur, “The Politics of Food and Governance in the Imjin War”). By 1593, Hideyoshi’s goal of subjugating Chosŏn was already in doubt.

It was in January when the Ming Chinese arrived in significant numbers, with thirty thousand fresh Ming troops, headed by General Li Rusong. This massive force, assisted by a few Chosŏn regiments, sought a rematch at Pyongyang, where an intense battle ensued. Although the Ming–Korean forces penetrated the outer walls, the Japanese inflicted severe casualties on the allied forces and continued to put up a ferocious defense. General Li, shocked by the number of losses, ordered a withdrawal of his men and sent a secret message to the Japanese stating that he would let them evacuate without a fight (Gale 161). Later that night, the Japanese left Pyongyang, and the city was retaken.

It is important to note Ming China’s reluctance to commit to an all-out fight against the Japanese invaders. Time and time again, their conduct would demonstrate that they were more interested in pushing them back to the south than eliminating them entirely. This was partly because of China’s economic instability, poor weather, and supply issues of their own (Hawley 303-305). More importantly however, it was also recognized that the Japanese were already losing grasp on their conquered territory. Rather than needlessly waste Chinese lives, they hoped that the enemy could be induced to retreat through a show of force. The Koreans, of course, were deeply irritated by this, and constantly worried that the Chinese were not as dedicated as them to destroying the enemy.

Why then, were the Koreans so generous with their praise to Ming China in official documents? The answer is because of the underlying power structures that defined their diplomatic relationship. Chosŏn Korea was a tributary state to the Ming empire, and received safety and security in exchange for acknowledging the mighty Celestial Kingdom as the pinnacle of civilization. Appealing to China as an honorable and all-powerful empire was Korea’s ultimate political strategy during the late sixteenth century (Wang 246-247). To openly disparage their closest ally was thus not an option. Instead, King Sŏnjo and his fellow courtiers gritted their teeth and continued to cajole the Ming to be more aggressive in the fight against the Japanese barbarians. Although Ming involvement steadily increased from 1592 to 1598, its role in changing the tide of war was ultimately secondary. It was staunch Korean resistance, first and foremost, that was the most pivotal in damaging the logistical capabilities of the Japanese occupation.

The war was not only limited to land. In fact, the greatest military victories that Choson achieved was through its navy, particularly under the command of the famous admiral Yi Sun-sin. Despite the Japanese enjoying superiority in pitched land battles, the Korean navy proved to be much more effective at sea due to their modernized strategy of distanced combat. The development of advanced naval artillery allowed the Koreans to concentrate cannon fire on the enemy from afar, and stay relatively safe. The Japanese conception of naval warfare was considerably more medieval, and depended on close combat via boarding parties (Hawley 204-206). The Korean panoksŏn (board-roofed ships) and kŏbuksŏn (turtle ships) were the most advanced battleships of the East Asian naval sphere and greatly outclassed their Japanese counterparts.

Under Admiral Yi, the small Korean navy won a string of naval victories in 1592 against Japanese ships venturing into the Yellow Sea at Okpo, Sach’ŏn, and Tang’p’o, without the loss of a single vessel. It was then when Hideyoshi ordered his daimyos to pool their naval resources and completely eliminate the Korean navy for good. The momentous battle would take place at Hansan Island, where Yi found himself facing a numerically superior Japanese force of seventy-three warships, headed by the daimyo Wakizaka Yasaharu. The cunning Korean admiral rearranged his battle line into his famous crane-wing’s formation, which capitalized on the power of his naval artillery. Nearly all the Japanese ships were smashed to pieces, with Yasaharu’s fleet being completely decimated. Following the disaster, the horrified Hideyoshi ordered all naval operations to cease for good (Turnbull 55-78).

These outstanding victories by Yi occurred in tandem with the terrible losses that were taking place on land in 1592. It's important to emphasize that these were not merely flashy tactical victories that boosted Korean morale. Rather, they were a blow to the very core of the Japanese war effort. The initial invasion of the peninsula had certainly been tremendously successful, but after months of fighting, provisions began to dwindle. Keeping over a hundred thousand soldiers well fed and supplied proved an exceptionally difficult task, especially with the involvement of guerilla resistance movements inland. Korean naval dominance added yet another problem for the Japanese, as it prevented the resupply of their forces through the Yellow Sea. The Korean prime minister Yu Sŏngnyong recognized the value of this achievement, stating:

The Japanese had now taken Pyongyang, but they did not dare advance any farther without first receiving reinforcements via the Yellow Sea. Thanks to this one operation led by Yi Sun-Sin, such reinforcements would never arrive. By denying their navy entrance to the Yellow Sea, Commander Yi effectively cut off one arm of the Japanese advance … Indeed, it must have been an act of divine providence.

(Hawley 237)

 

Hideyoshi had not anticipated this, as he no doubt expected the easy vanquishing of the Chosŏn navy, just as he had done to their army in 1592. His soldiers would now face two critical threats to their logistics, without which an occupation would be impossible: the ǔibyŏng armies that harassed the inland supply routes, and Admiral Yi’s panoksŏns and kŏbuksŏns that thrashed supply ships coming into the Yellow Sea. Faced with these overwhelming problems, it is not surprising that the Japanese pursued efforts for negotiation by 1593.

King Sŏnjo on the other hand, achieved little. He failed to prepare the nation adequately for the brutal assault on his kingdom. He failed to unify his own court and fled the capital when the Japanese swarmed through his own country. His only accomplishments were his desperate calls for help, whether it was to Ming China, or to the Buddhist warrior monks that his own government had persecuted for centuries (Haboush 53–54). The war was not won by the Korean state, but rather the Korean people themselves. Far from becoming subservient to Hideyoshi like many of his other defeated foes, they resisted his conquest and fought back against the largest amphibious invasion in the history of the world at the time.

The enemy army did not melt away immediately. The Japanese, after all, were not willing to go quietly and wished to save face in the wake of their stalled offensive. By 1593, Hideyoshi was forced to reassess his goals. It was now certain beyond a doubt that Chosŏn could not be fully conquered. However, he hoped that Japan could still obtain some concessions from his initial gains. After intense deliberation and negotiation that lasted several years, he agreed to a settlement in 1596 with the Ming–Chosŏn coalition under the conditions that he would be granted a special royal title by the Ming. As a show of gratitude, Hideyoshi pulled the bulk of his force to a select few fortresses in the south (Hur, Works in English on the Imjin War 69). Despite King Sŏnjo and his court being loath to negotiate with the hated Japanese, especially when the enemy hadn’t even left the Chosŏn territory, Ming China dictated most of the diplomatic correspondence due to their higher status, and were eager for the war to come to a swift end. Their hopes would soon be dashed.

When the Ming envoys came to Osaka to grant Hideyoshi the official title of ‘King of Japan,’ all seemed to be going as planned. A ceremony of investiture was carried out, with him receiving lavish regalia and an official seal from the Ming emperor. In this way, the Ming hoped to grant him an ultimately meaningless title to appease Hideyoshi and end the war at the least cost to themselves (Xing 5030-5032). Following the ritual, a letter was sent ordering that he fully remove his troops from Chosŏn now that he was an official vassal of Ming China.

Hideyoshi was furious. He had understood that the Korean peninsula would not be his and had long since abandoned any idea of invading China. Through a long series of negotiations he had slowly whittled down his demands to something that barely resembled his original ambitions. By going through the process of investiture, he had hoped that the Ming would gracefully exit the conflict and allow him to continue to press the Koreans for concessions (Hwang and Matsuda 321-322). It now became clear that the Ming and the Koreans were not going to give him anything, with the supposed title being a complete sham. Hideyoshi immediately ordered a second invasion of the Korean peninsula. His main goals would be twofold: to enact vengeance against Chosŏn, and obtain the concessions he so desired to exit the conflict under the guise that he had won.

The Japanese returned in 1597 with the explicit understanding that Korea could not be conquered. Hideyoshi accordingly ordered his troops to focus upon controlling the southern provinces of Chosŏn rather than attempting to retake the capital. In order to stave off the logistical problems that had plagued the first invasion, he hoped that his forces could live off the land and secure food from the Korean population (Hawley 423-424). To do this, he would have to quell the guerilla resistance, an objective he pursued by ordering his soldiers to be even more brutal. Mass atrocities were carried out, including the slaughter of entire villages and the collection of Korean noses as proof of his daimyos’ contributions to the war effort (Hur, “Atrocity and Genocide”). Despite the devastation that the Japanese inflicted, Korean resistance continued, with the terror only fomenting more anger towards the invaders. The land campaign of 1597, in turn, was marked with particular savagery and violence.

Hideyoshi also demanded the destruction of the Korean navy, which had been so effective during the early invasions of 1592. This began with the carefully plotted sabotage of the capable Yi Sun-sin. Using a double agent, the Japanese damaged Yi’s reputation and used the chaos of Korean factional politics to turn the government against him (Hawley 409-417). He was imprisoned and tortured. The court replaced him with the incompetent Wŏn-Kyun, who proved grossly inadequate as a naval tactician. At the Battle of Ch’il’-ilch’ŏnnyang, almost the entire Korean navy was decimated, which took the lives of all the senior naval commanders including Wŏn-Kyun himself. King Sŏnjo and his court had no choice but to reappoint Yi Sun-sin to high command. In the subsequent Battle of Myŏngnyang, Admiral Yi used the remnants of his naval force, numbering only thirteen warships, to fight a last stand against one hundred thirty-three Japanese vessels. The Japanese suffered a humiliating defeat after being unable to break through the Korean battle line, and were consequently blocked from entering the Yellow Sea for the rest of the war (Hawley 455-463).

            What did the Ming think of the second invasion? For starters, they were astonished and outraged that Hideyoshi would break the truce. They immediately ordered a battalion of fresh troops under the command of General Yang Hao to Chosŏn to deal with the barbarian threat once and for all. The arrival of Ming reinforcements in even greater numbers forced the Japanese to retreat further south. In late December 1597, the entirety of the Ming force, coupled with a few Chosŏn divisions, advanced upon the stronghold of Ulsan (Swope 168-195). The defenders put up a desperate fight, using their musketeers and the cover of pouring rain to make a siege untenable. Even after wave after wave assaulted the walls, the Japanese managed to hold back the combined attack until Yang Hao gave up and lifted the siege.

Hideyoshi approved of his army’s performance. The punishment that he had inflicted upon Chosŏn, particularly in the Chŏlla and Ch’ungch’ong provinces, had upheld Japan’s military strength and honor. However, the obstinate Koreans still refused to give him concessions, whether it was one of their princes as a hostage, or even some loose gifts as a sign of their submission. Faced with his military position slowly becoming weaker and his own health failing him, Hideyoshi ordered an evacuation of his troops in 1598 (Hur, “The Politics of Food and Governance in the Imjin War”). He would die later that year in August. A poem he composed on his deathbed embodied the futility of the war he would never see end.

I am as / The dew which falls, The dew which disappears. / Even Osaka Castle / Is only a dream.

(Hawley 501)

 

Keeping in line with their behavior in 1593, the Chinese were not as willing as the Koreans to pursue the retreating Japanese. From the Ming’s perspective, the Japanese had given up the fight and were returning home. For the Koreans on the other hand, it was not enough that the Japanese were fleeing. They desired revenge, something that could feasibly be carried out by the one force that had proven to be consistently effective throughout the war: Admiral Yi’s navy.

Yi had not been idle following his victory at Myŏngnyang, with him increasing the size of his fleet to roughly a hundred during the later months of 1597 and even playing a supportive role at the Battle of Ulsan through naval bombardment.When the Japanese forces began to evacuate, he attacked their supporting navy with the reluctant aid of Chinese general Chen Lin at Noryang Strait. The combined fleet annihilated the enemy armada, though tragically, Admiral Yi was killed by a Japanese sniper (Haiying 165-203). The Battle of Noryang would be the last major battle of the Imjin War. The rest of the occupying force would limp back to Japan, never to return to Korea again.

In seven years of war, the Koreans had endured much hardship. The violence and chaos brought upon by the Japanese invasions of 1592 to 1598 wreaked havoc upon the small nation-state. And yet, they had survived. The Chosŏn dynasty under King Sŏnjo was kept intact, and his countrymen had successfully pushed back the enemy into the sea.

Japan, meanwhile, achieved nothing. Their conquest yielded little in terms of material wealth or political gains. Hideyoshi’s demand for concessions went unanswered by the Koreans, who refused to grant him even the most insignificant forms of tribute that he could use to justify the bloody conflict. The Imjin War weakened Hideyoshi’s regime, with his death only marking the beginning of the end. His son, Hideyori, would not live long. Following the return of Japanese troops to the mainland, a rival daimyo by the name of Tokugawa Ieyasu murdered Hideyori and established himself as the ruling shogun of Japan (Eisenstadt).

The outcome of the war is then clear: Korea, with the assistance of the Ming, successfully defended their kingdom against Japan, which was ultimately forced to withdraw. The logistical difficulties that Japan faced were compounded by local guerilla resistance on land and by the Korean navy at sea. These factors alone were able to stop the Japanese advance. The addition of the Ming forces accelerated the decline of the Japanese occupation and aided the Koreans in pushing the Japanese out of Chosŏn. Although Hideyoshi made the order to evacuate in 1598, the war had already become a lost cause far earlier. It was this fiasco that would earn the conflict’s name in Japan: the Dragon’s Head-Serpent’s Tail campaign, alluding to the conflict’s initial gains that ended in abject failure.

While only spanning seven years, this period captured the Korean consciousness and would be remembered as the first time that Japan had invaded its shores. It would not be the last. Over three hundred years later, in the nineteenth century, Imperial Japan made another attempt to control the Korean peninsula, culminating in Korea’s occupation as a Japanese colony from 1910 to 1945. Although this period is undeniably more prevalent in the minds of modern Koreans today, the 1592 to 1598 invasions are nevertheless an important episode in the tumultuous relationship between these two countries. It is apt then, that the Imjin War is becoming more well-known in English language circles, and it is the hope of the author that more people choose to engage with its history.

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Cultural ideas surrounding mental illness are always changing and evolving. However, an understanding of how different cultures and time periods viewed and treated mental illness can help further the current understanding of mental illnesses.

According to Soo Jin Kweon’s thesis Cripping Hwabyung: A Cripqueer Analysis of Korean Historical Drama Films, which discusses Theodore Yoo’s work on the history of psychiatry in colonial Korea, “colonial authorities and [Chosŏn] era (1392-1910) Confucianism enforced an ‘emotion regime’ where ‘emotional suffering’ was also noted as the cause of emotion-related mental illnesses'' (Kweon 2). Chosŏn Confucianism associated the development of mental illness with pre-existing emotional suffering, rather than viewing emotional suffering as a result of mental illness.  While Theodore Yoo explains these emotion-related illnesses as a cause of suicide in the colonial period, in Chosŏn Korea, there were other associations with suicide. Suicide was often treated as a means of escape from arranged marriage or sexual assault, or as a result of extreme anxiety and loneliness (Lee 117). Anxiety and loneliness tie into the colonial Korean idea of suicide as a means of ending emotional suffering, but suicide as a means of escape from arranged marriage or sexual assault, or as a means of demonstrating one’s loyalty and piety are distinctly Chosǒn beliefs. Janet Yoon-sun Lee writes in her article “Lovesickness and Death in Korean Literature” that “suicide used to be, and still is (...) sometimes necessary to acquire filial love” (Lee 117). Suicide acted as a way to prove one’s morality, according to Confucian standards, and thus was glorified at times, while being a disgraceful and unspeakable action at other times. The contrary attitudes towards suicide provide a view of Chosǒn Confucian attitudes towards mental illness. Whether emotional suffering was the cause of suicide or the result of suicidal thoughts and mental illness, suicide and emotional suffering are both parts of mental illness that must be discussed and explored.

Mental illness, as we view it today, played a major role in Chosǒn period novels. Themes such as suicide and self-harm are prevalent in many well-known Korean novels from the time. According to Lee’s paper, female suicides were common in stories from the time; about 92% of all suicides described in Chosǒn novels were of women. There are three main reasons why female characters committed suicide are: to escape sexual assault or arranged marriage; the result of struggling with anxiety due to loneliness; and voluntary deaths, usually with a moral cause such as filial piety (Lee 117). Female suicides were often linked to female martyrdom and a desire to do what is right according to the rules of filial piety. 

Members of Chosŏn royalty could be considered to exhibit traits of what we would call mental illness today. One example was the Deposed Queen Yun, the second wife of King Sŏngjong and mother of Prince Yŏnsan. She was known for her intense jealousy and harmful behaviors resulting from that jealousy, such as scratching King Sŏngjong and attempting to poison her husband’s concubine; her jealousy and actions led her to be dismissed as queen, thus why she is known as the Deposed Queen Yoon. According to one study titled, “Deposed Queen Yoon Might Have Suffered From Bipolar Disorder” from the Journal of Korean Neuropsychiatric Association, she exhibited many traits which today would be considered hypomanic, or a milder form of mania (a state of mind marked by extreme excitement, delusions, overactivity, and euphoria); hypomania is a symptom of bipolar disorder. While one cannot fully diagnose someone who has been dead for centuries, there are many similarities between the deceased’s behavior and the diagnostic criteria for bipolar disorder. According to King Sŏngjong’s Annals, which was examined by this study, Queen Yoon’s hypomania might have been first triggered just after she had given birth to her son, Prince Yŏnsan (Seo and Kim 160). Her symptoms became noticeable to King Sŏngjong, but they reduced and temporarily went away. 

However, bipolar disorder is marked by periodical swings from emotional highs to emotional lows. Queen Yun relapsed badly again soon. Once she was dismissed as queen and King Sŏngjong remarried, she directed these intense emotions at the new queen, the Queen Dowager, as well as King Sŏngjong. The article points to a record from the Annals of King Sŏngjong dating from August 11, 1482 to suggest that  “Queen [Yun] curses and threats toward [King Sŏngjong] and the Queen Dowager intensified, and that she exhibited manic symptoms, including aggressive behavior and hypersensitivity to stimuli” (Seo and Kim 161). These symptoms caused a lot of disruptions to King Sŏngjong’s life even after he had dismissed Queen Yun. Her behavior would again go through periods of remission and relapse, over and over again, as is common in bipolar disorder. 

Her son, Prince Yŏnsan, shared some symptoms of bipolar disorder as well. Seo and Kim write, “[Yŏnsan’gun] showed symptoms suspected of hypomania or mania, such as sexual promiscuity, extravagance, obsession with entertainment, excessive punishment, excessive excitement, and expression of anger” (Seo and Kim 162). According to a paper titled “Genetics of Bipolar Disorder” published in the National Library of Medicine, bipolar disorder “has a strong genetic component” (Escamilla and Zavala). Given that both Queen Yun and her son show symptoms of bipolar disorder, it is not unlikely that Queen Yun would be diagnosed with bipolar disorder today. Additionally, Seo and Kim write, “Considering the episodic clinical course in which these manic and depressive symptoms last for several months or more and then go into remission and relapse repeatedly, it is highly likely that [Yŏnsan] also suffered from bipolar disorder” (Seo and Kim 162). The influence of genetics on the development of bipolar disorder cannot be understated; Prince Yŏnsan’s symptoms also support Queen Yun’s diagnosis.

Mental illness continues to be a difficult subject to speak about. Understanding Chosŏn attitudes towards mental illness requires an understanding of Chosŏn beliefs, just as understanding mental illness requires an understanding of an individual’s beliefs. Learning about the past can often be a way to improve the present; perhaps increased access to this knowledge about how mental illness was viewed and how those with symptoms of mental illnesses were treated will further destigmatize mental health and encourage more openness surrounding the topic.

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I chose to write a historical fiction screenplay based on an 1897 documented Korean Legal Case from WRONGFUL DEATHS: Selected Inquest Records from Nineteenth-Century Korea, published in 2014, edited and translated by Sun Joo Kim and Jungwon Kim. 

The case I chose to focus on occurred three years after the Kabo reforms in 1894, which included many changes to Korean law. Among the legal reforms were the abolition of slavery and permission for widows to remarry. One example of the Kabo reforms going too far and facing resistance was the cutting off of the top-knots, a male hairstyle that was a symbol of life gifted by parents to their children.

My work is also inspired by Korean lineage novels written about in Kinship Novels of Early Modern Korea, Between Genealogical Time and the Domestic Everyday, by Ksenia Chizhova. Women had been writing lineage novels passed down through generations (mothers to daughters) to express emotions and tell their side of stories. These novels usually featured idealized yangban families (civil servants close to the top of the social and political hierarchy) who quickly faced moral challenges. The storylines of these novels exposed the tension between idealism, public appearances, and human reality.

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• Soju Bear presents!! Your favorite Soju drink now has a New Soju flavor. Rice soju developed and produced locally. Support your local village distillery!!!

Although alcohol was not typically sold this way before the modern period, this piece is meant to emphasize how versatile alcoholic beverages were throughout Korea’s history. By the Late Koryŏ period (1250s–1392s) there were over 25 varieties of liquor, rice being the most popular (75). The lettering of the word soju in the artwork is written in Korean letters. This artistic choice has many implications. While the Mongol period influence on alcoholic beverages in the East Asia peninsula was immense, soju eventually became a Korean product produced with techniques developed in Korea and made from resources in Korea. Moreover, in premodern Korea, Korean lettering, now known as hangul, occupied an informal written space and was reserved for household use (as opposed to Chinese lettering, which was more formal). Therefore this artistic choice alludes to the production of alcohol in households.

Historical Context:

The artwork was inspired by Hyunhee Park’s book, Soju: A Global History (Cambridge, 2021), which uses soju’s development through history to understand the first stages of globalization in world history. During the thirteenth and fourteenth century, the Mongols conquered Korea and China, spreading their dietary customs. Among one of these was the consumption of new varieties of alcoholic drinks. One of the first alcoholic beverages introduced by the Mongols was called, “kumiss” or “shobat,” made from the fermented milk of mare and camel, and contained low alcohol content, less than 10% (43). Soon after, they introduced imported liquors made of grapes. As new alcoholic drinks were introduced into the Eastern Asia peninsula, Korea also adopted new distillation methods that could create drinks with stronger alcohol content (47). They made their own versions of this stronger alcohol made of grains.

Before the introduction of distillation, the most popular drink in Korea was rice wine. As described on p.70, Korean rice wine (which is different from soju) was “milky, off white, slightly sweet, tangy, bitter, astringent taste.” After distillation practices were introduced, Koreans began to make, aralgil (the word is derived through Mongolian and Turkish the Arabic word arak, meaning “perspiration” 80), a distilled liquor made by portable stills. As a result, the new alcohol lasted longer and was more concentrated at 40% or higher alcohol content.

Koreans adopted these new technological advances. Korean stills are called “soju kori”  and in the Chosŏn period, many families typically owned a still. Alcohol was used for medicine, spiritual and other social practices. As its popularity grew, drinking became more frequent, some even attended several drinking parties in one day (76). In conclusion, changes in the uses of alcohol and the evolution of techniques for making alcohol give us an understanding of the relationships that pre-modern Korea had with its neighbors as well as how soju became what it is today, Korea’s National Drink. 

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