Modern transformations of love, marriage and the family in colonised Korea

Korea’s integration into the modern global system in the late nineteenth century brought about transformations in women’s lives and their roles in the family and society even more dramatically than during the dynastic shift from Koryo to Chosfin. There were several major forces that unsettled and refashioned the Confucian norms and practices of the Chosfin dynasty. Beginning in the 1870s, the influx of modern ideas from Europe, North America and Japan prompted intellectuals and national leaders in Korea to rethink Confucian precepts and customs in their efforts to build a modern nation amid imminent threats to national sovereignty. Also, the emergence of a nationalist consciousness, especially during the time that Korea became a pro­tectorate of Japan in 1905 and a formal colony in 1910, significantly reconfigured the role of women in both the family and the nation (Sinha 2006; Chong 1999; Chong 2001). Japanese colonial policies relating to education and law also played a key role in altering the scope of gender roles. The system of licensed prostitution and the issue of military sexual slavery (often called ‘comfort women’) during the Asia-Pacific War is noteworthy in this regard (see Barraclough in this volume; Mackie and Tanji in this volume). Finally, the burgeoning class of educated women, who were called ‘New Women’ (sin yosong), began to participate in public discourse, radically refashioning body politics in matters oflove, marriage, sexuality and fashion (Yoo 2008: 58—94). It is noteworthy that the majority of ‘new women’ were educated at Protestant mission schools founded by American, Canadian and Australian missionaries, and thus the influence of Christian religious piety and domestic ideology was exceptionally high in the women’s world (Choi 2009b: 7—8). All of these forces — Western and Japanese modernity, Korean nationalism, Japanese colonialism and new women — conspired to dramatically change perspectives on the role of women in the domestic sphere and beyond.

The process of adopting, negotiating or appropriating new gender roles was complex and dynamic. It is generally true that when new ideas are introduced, they rarely take root immediately. Rather, they interact with existing norms and practices as members of the society negotiate their application. This was particularly true in turn-of-the-twentieth-century Korea when the transnational flow of ideas, images, capital and people significantly affected Koreans’ experience of the modern. A salient feature of the era is the way in which a new role for women was constructed through criticism of, resistance to and reform of Confucianism, which had been the backbone of the patrilineal system of the Choshn era. Especially after the Sino — Japanese War (1894—95), enlightenment-oriented male intellectuals, represented by Yun Ch’iho (1864—1945), So Chaep’il (1864—1951) and others who had studied overseas and received significant exposure to modern Western theories, offered strong opinions about how the nation had degenerated under Confucianism and why this ideology needed to be abandoned for Korea to become a modern nation (Schmid 2002: 56—60). One of the concrete results of this modern critique can be found in the reform of 1894 (kabo kyongjang), whereby old customs such as early marriage and the ban on the remarriage of widows were abolished. Yet, as historian Kyung Moon Hwang argues, the enlightenment movements in the 1890s and 1900s can still be viewed as ‘the latest in a long history of Confucian reform movements in Korea’ (Hwang 2000: 2). In other words, the critique of Confucian gender precepts and customs by enlightenment intellectuals was not necessarily a proposal to eliminate old practices entirely but rather an ongoing effort to incorporate new demands of the times into the existing practices.

One example that illustrates the dynamic interactions between old and new gender ideologies and practices can be found in the modern construction of the ideology of ‘wise mother, good wife’ (hyonmo yangch’o) as a response to rapidly changing historical and cultural realities. The ideology of ‘wise mother, good wife’ came out of transcultural encounters of Koreans with modern Japan and American Christianity. The phrase ‘wise mother, good wife’ was first used in 1906 in the mission statement of a girls’ school, Yanggyu Uisuk. The ideology was shaped by three major doctrines: Korea’s longstanding Confucian-prescribed gender norms represented by ‘womanly virtue’ (pudok); the Victorian notion of domesticity and piety that had been brought by the American Protestant missionary women who played a major role in educating a new class of women in Korea beginning in the late nineteenth century; and Japan’s Meiji period (1868—1912) gender ideology of ‘good wife, wise mother’ (ryosai kenbo), which was actively incorporated into the curriculum at girls’ schools in Korea and became prominent in print media during Japanese colonial rule (Choi 2009a: 1—34). The convergence of these three ideals in the context of the heightened sensitivity to the demands of the times created a modern gender ideology for Korea.

It is important to note that various social groups actively deployed this new modern ideal of womanhood according to their own distinct goals. For Korean nationalist reformers, the role of the wise mothers, in particular, was crucial for national regeneration because, as the prominent novelist and reformer Yi Kwangsu (1892—1950) argued, wise mothers were necessary ‘to create good citizens’ and thus ‘the future of Korea is in their hands’ (Yi Kwangsu 1925: 19—20). American women missionaries heavily emphasised a woman’s role in the domestic sphere as her proper space. Ellasue Wagner (in Korea from 1904 to 1940), a veteran missionary teacher from the American Methodist Church South, wrote, ‘the ideal woman of Korea to-day is, as it should be, the ideal wife and mother’ (Wagner 1940: 134). The ideal of ‘wise mother, good wife’ was also an expedient tool for the Japanese colonial authorities in order to ensure the reproduction and education of healthy and productive colonial subjects (Hong 2001: 254).

The gender ideology centring on domesticity was also an integral part of the discourse put forward by the ‘new women’. Up until the 1910s, male intellectuals dominated gender discourse, where they stressed a woman’s domestic role as wife and mother. However, from the 1920s, a coterie of educated women began to emerge and actively participate in the public discourse on new gender norms and practices, debating a variety of topics, including education, romance, work, social reforms and bodily aesthetics. In the early twentieth century the ‘new woman’/ ‘modern girl’ phenomenon was a global trend coloured by local particularities (The Modern Girl Around the World Research Group et al. 2008: 9—10). As in other societies, the popular portrait of the new woman in the print media was a woman who rejected domestic duties and pursued self-centred interests. Some new women, however, actively incorporated domestic duties, especially those related to motherhood, as the key to building a strong, independent nation, and thus linked themselves to nationalist goals (Choi 2009a: 22; Schneider 2009: 125—46). Others strategically accommodated the ideology of ‘wise mother, good wife’ as a way to empower themselves through the scientific transformation and professionalisation of domestic matters. They argued that the ideal wife and mother should possess scientific knowledge about health, nutrition, child-rearing and household management. In doing so, these women exerted themselves as the managers of the house and equal partners with their husbands (Yoo 2008: 85—90; Choi 2009b: 83—84). Regardless of the underlying intention in the use of the motto of ‘wise mother, good wife’, this pervasive gender ideology penetrated deeply into a variety of issues and controversies, including love, marriage, divorce, singlehood and sexuality.

At the core of the heated debates and the controversies that accompanied the fashioning of modern gender ideology was the idea that love (sarang) and romance (yonae) should serve as the basis for the ideal marriage. Print media began to circulate these terms in the early 1900s (Kwhn 2003: 15), and devoted much space in magazines to diverse opinions on love and marriage in the 1920s and 1930s. The discourse on love-based marriage effectively challenged the old custom of arranged marriage, which was regarded as a feudalistic practice whose aim was to produce children and enhance family prestige by creating strategic alliances between powerful families. Intellectuals argued that arranged marriage resulted in loveless, miserable lives for both men and women. A wide range of political and social ideologies influenced Koreans, who in turn actively imagined and proposed various forms of union between man and woman. For example, ideas like ‘companionate love’, ‘red love’, ‘proletarian love’, or ‘contract marriage’ were discussed and debated, reflecting a diversity of intellectual orientations, such as liberalism and socialism. Chu Yosfip (1902—72), a writer and cultural critic, even suggested that married couples try ‘temporary separation’ on an annual basis in order to renew their love and passion for each other (Chu 1923; translation in Choi 2013: 100-1).

Although intellectuals in Korea advocated love-based marriage, the Japanese colonial legal system created major impediments for these new modern practices. Colonial civil law, which

was based on the Meiji Civil Code of 1898, permitted men over the age of 30 and women over the age of 25 to marry without their parents’ permission. They still, however, needed to receive permission from their parents in order to register and receive a marriage certificate. This oddity arose from the colonial policy which gave priority to Korea’s established ‘customs’ (kwansiip) over Japanese civil statutes when it came to matters of family law (Kim 2012: 36—37). Colonial law also institutionalised the subordination of women to men after marriage through the adoption of the family register system (hojok in Korean; koseki in Japanese) in 1922, which required a wife to secure her husband’s consent for all important legal decisions (Kim 2012: 176; Hong and Yang 2008: 177—80). In other words, despite the popular rhetoric of love-based, equal companionate marriage, the Confucian-style authority of parents and husbands wielded the real power.

The requirement for parental consent posed a series of challenges, particularly to new women, or for that matter, new men. While ‘early marriage’ was officially abolished in the reform of 1894, some tradition-bound parents continued to marry off their children at an early age. As a result, many of the male intellectuals who would have been considered appropriate marital candidates for educated women (‘new women’) had already been married off to women chosen by their parents. Thus, many ‘new women’ had no option but to become, in effect, concubines or ‘second wives’ without legal recognition. The phenomenon of the ‘second wife’ as a social problem prompted public debate in such places as the journal New Woman (Sin yosong 1933: 19—22; translation in Choi 2013: 120—22). In particular, those women who opted to become second wives out of a desire for a life of luxury or monetary gain were subjected to harsh criticism, while those who ended up as second wives in an attempt to support their impoverished parents garnered some sympathy. The system of concubinage and secondary wives had existed in the Choshn dynasty to ensure the continuity of the family line or to satisfy men’s sexual desire. However, in the case of ‘new women’ who became second wives, it is ironic that their desire to marry for the modern ideal of ‘true love’ frequently trapped them in the very old system which they critiqued. In a significant way, they were caught between the old practice of parent-initiated early marriage and the new model of love-based marriage between two autonomous individuals.

Continuing the institution of the second wife was one way to bypass the requirement of monogamy. The practice of concubinage became controversial, however, because monogamy was a defining characteristic of modern marriage. Another mechanism that emerged in modern Korea was a variety of entertainment businesses for those men seeking sexual engagement with women other than their wives. The traditionally state-owned kisaeng (women entertainers) group was reorganised, beginning in 1908, following the Japanese model. In addition, thriving new entertainment industries emerged in the form of cafes and bars (So 2008). While visiting a kisaeng house was reserved for men of wealth and privilege, ‘ero-service’ (erotic service) from cafe girls was available at relatively low cost and could be accessed by a wide range of men (S. S. 1932: 60—64). As these examples suggest, the ideal of monogamy was more rhetorical than real. The monogamous ideal also contributed to the rise of a new trope in the discourse on marriage whereby the wife had a duty to serve as her husband’s carnal partner and satisfy his sexual desires (Kim 2009: 354—55). A wife’s obligation to provide sexual satisfaction was discussed openly both in the general public and in women’s magazines as a vital duty that a woman needed to fulfil, along with her role as a virtuous wife and mother (Kim 2009: 354—61). This combination of virtue and sensuality characterised a new kind of wifehood in response to the modern idea of monogamy.

The recognition of woman as a sexual being also led to major debates about a woman’s chastity both before and after marriage. Confucian-prescribed norms mandated that women strictly comply with social codes of chastity, purity and modesty. Leading women intellectuals like Na Hyesfik (1896-1948) and Kim Wfinju (1896-1971), however, openly rejected chastity. Na famously declared: ‘Chastity involves neither morals nor laws. It is merely taste. Just as we eat rice (pab) when we want to eat rice, and we eat rice cake (ttok) when we want to eat rice cake, chastity depends on our will and practice’ (Na 1935: 74-75. Translation in Choi 2013: 147-48). Female (and occasionally male) intellectuals questioned why chastity was demanded from women only. If men expect women to remain chaste, they argued, they should have the same expectation of themselves. In a significant way, the debate over chastity fundamentally challenged the legitimacy of patrilineal control over a woman’s body in Chosfi n Korea. It heralded a new body politics, rejecting the idea of a woman’s body as property belonging to her husband and his family and instead recognising women as sexual beings with free will and desire. Still, the ideology of chastity continued to be powerful in regulating women’s bodies and the dynamics of marriage. In contrast to lenient attitudes toward men who engaged in extramarital relationships, women who violated the marital pact of chastity were harshly criticised, as shown in the case of Na Hyesdk, whose extramarital relationship created a sensation in the media and eventually led her husband to divorce her (Na 1934: 84-94; translation in Choi 2013: 123-37). Challenges to the notion of chastity and the increase in divorce caused deep anxiety about the stability of the family system (Choi 2013: 94-138).

In addition to the changing body politics focusing on heterosexuals, a growing concern emerged in the early 1920s about intimate relationships between girl students. There was a suspicion that young girls in school dormitories might develop unusually intimate bonds with each other (Yoo 2008: 73). Such female bonding, called ‘same-sex love’ (tongsongae), was generally treated as deviant behavior and was seen as a sign of moral decline. However, in reality ‘same-sex love’ seems to have been nothing more than intense female friendship. One commentator argued that as long as the relationship between the girls did not result in ‘sexual gratification’, same-sex love was acceptable, maybe even useful because such intense loving relationships might actually prevent girls from being lured into sexual relationships with boys (Soch’un 1923: 58). Still, some incidents of companionate suicide by same-sex lovers in Japan (Robertson 1998: 191—92) and Korea made for sensational reports in newspapers (Tonga ilbo 29 October; 22 January 1926; 15 March 1928; 11 June 1929; 16 April 1931; 17 March 1932).

By the early 1930s, a public discourse on homosexuality appeared in the print media, offering accounts from medical, literary and historical viewpoints. Writers offered examples of homosexual behaviour in the Chosfin dynasty, the Tokugawa period in Japan (1603—1868), the Roman Empire and contemporary Europe (Tonga ilbo 17 and 19 March 1932; 5 June 1936. See also Kim and Hahn 2006: 59—65). The coverage of homosexuality in newspapers or women’s magazines remained very sketchy, though. Indeed, it is challenging to find any written documents detailing the practices of homosexuality in premodern or modern Korea. To be sure, there are clues that are suggestive of other than heterosexual relationships. George Clayton Foulk (1856—93), an American naval attache who was in Korea from 1884 to 1887, observed that ‘[s]odomy is widely practiced in Korea: indeed, it may be said almost openly’ (Eckert 2009: 244). As historian Carter Eckert points out, ‘if we turn our attention to practice rather than propriety, there are some tantalising hints of an alternative Choshn sexual universe’ (emphasis added) (Eckert 2009: 239). Perhaps more importantly, some literary expressions implicitly referring to homosexual desire reveal an ‘almost blase naturalness’ without ‘the slightest tinge of Neo-Confucian moralism’ (Eckert 2009: 240—41). Against this background, there was a notable shift in the modern discourse on homosexuality during the 1930s in Korea whereby homosexuality was seen as a deviant pathology that had to be cured (Tonga ilbo, 24 October 1938). This pathologisation has continued to the present time, only recently being challenged (see below).

The new body politics discussed above largely concerns individual choices about love, marriage, divorce or sexual preference. However, the sexual violence that was perpetrated against women before and during the Asia-Pacific War (1941—45) manifests something much darker, not only the unspeakable atrocities done in the service of imperial expansion but also the deeply ‘masculinist sexual culture in colonial Korea and imperial Japan’ to use Sarah Soh’s term (Soh 2008: 3). Approximately one hundred thousand women throughout the Japanese Empire in Asia and the Pacific were either taken by force or lured by false promises of well-paying jobs in factories to serve as sex slaves for Japanese soldiers. They are commonly known by the euphemism, ‘military comfort women’ (chonggun wianbu in Korean; jugun ianfu in Japanese). The vast majority of the sex slaves were Korean women, mostly in their teens. The atrocities of the Japanese imperial war effort did not end with the Second World War. In a society where a woman’s chastity was often considered more precious than life itself, when these women returned home after the war, they were shamed and disparaged, disowned by their families and communities. These former sex slaves suffered in silence for decades, breaking their silence only in the 1990s to tell their stories and demand apologies. Even then, in contemporary South Korea the discursive construction of sexual enslavement by the military has often revealed patriarchal norms of chastity with a strong tone of Korean nationalism (Yang 1998; Soh 2009). The issue of military sexual slavery is still hotly debated and contested on the geopolitical stage as part of feminist movements and international human rights activities (Barraclough in this volume; Tanji and Mackie in this volume). Regardless of the various representations by and divergent standpoints of scholars, politicians and activists, the painful memories still haunt the women who were forced to work as sex slaves. Kim Haksun (1924—97) was a survivor and the first woman to come forward to tell her story in public and reveal the history of sex slavery during the Pacific War. In her testimony she lamented:

I find it very painful to recall my memories. Why haven’t I been able to lead a normal life, free from shame, like other people? When I look at old women, I compare myself to them, thinking that I cannot be like them. I feel I could tear apart, limb by limb, those who took away my innocence and made me as I am. Yet how can I appease my bitterness? Now I don’t want to disturb my memories any further. Once I am dead and gone, I wonder whether the Korean or Japanese governments will pay any attention to the miserable life of a woman like me. (The Korean Council for Women Drafted for Military Sexual Slavery by Japan 1995: 40)