When My Name Was Keoko

For the first time in the narrative, the alternating narrator sequence between Sun-hee and Tae-yul changes. Instead of the usual Sun-hee/Tae-yul repetition, a Sun-hee chapter follows another Sun-hee account. Though seemingly arbitrary, it is a purposeful shift in the structural narrative, reinforcing the absence of Tae-yul after his reported death. Just like the news of his death leaves the family feeling absent and empty in their regular lives, his missing chapter leaves readers feeling a sense of loss and interruption in expectations. Just as Sun-hee and her parents never expected to lose their brother, readers never expected to lose out on Tae-yul’s perspective, having grown so accustomed to his presence and voice in the novel. This break in the narrative is more than a stylistic choice, it is an enforcement of the thematic losses endured throughout the novel.

After Tae-yul’s possible death and Uncle’s disappearance, Sun-hee loses all of the optimism she has managed to build up during the war. Her sense of hope crashes whenever thinking about Tae-yul’s plane crash. More than ever, the psychological and emotional burden of the war has knocked her down, and for the first time in the whole narrative, her character seems utterly defeated. Juxtaposed with the celebration of Korean victory after the US drops an atomic bomb on Hiroshima, Sun-hee is unable to express joy, instead saddened by her family’s losses. It’s a contrast to the imagery of happiness in her neighborhood at that moment, when even the hidden family members come outside to rejoice. The tone is bittersweet, exemplifying how even for many Korean families during Japanese occupation, even victory carries defeat. Yet, Sun-hee manages to regain her leadership and confidence with the help of community—another important theme in the story. Mrs. Ahn aids her in that moment. The narrative later reveals that Mrs. Ahn worked in a secret escape system for resistance fighters like Uncle, highlighting how even someone as unsuspecting as a lonely and ignored widow found a way to create and assist those in her community during an oppressive regime.

Tae-yul’s return reveals more about the complexity of life and sacrifice during war. His return is a tremendous boost for the family’s morale, yet he is still unhappy and unclear about his own future. Having lost the opportunity to study like a normal teenager—enlisting to train for battle and learning how to fly airplanes as a kamikaze instead—he feels as if he doesn’t fit easily back into civilian society. This is an intentional look from the author into how soldiers suffer from post-war stress and how many simply cannot integrate back into regular living after training to kill enemies—one of the many negative outcomes from war. That said, as the family has shown strength and resilience throughout, Tae-yul is able to find purpose when he decides to take over Uncle’s printing shop. Once again, Korean legacy, family, and community save a character from the traumatic effects of Japanese imperialism, allowing him to continue his Uncle’s traditions. The symbolism of Korean pride, community, and language intersect as he chooses to use his Uncle’s birth name, “Kim Young-chun,” for the printing shop’s reopening as a way to honor his family’s past. This understanding of the past allows him to endure the pain of the present while envisioning a path for the future. It is at the core of this novel’s message, and it’s quite fitting to end with this moment.

But there’s more to the story than the overarching themes suggest. Uncle and Tae-yul and Sun-hee each represent the courageous leaders who acted courageously in whatever ways that they could, even if forbidden or dangerous. But the beauty of the story is in the sheer variety of resistances that the Korean characters were able to develop, suggesting that there is more than one way to be heroic, and that heroes might not arise solely from individual efforts as much as they grow from community networks. Abuji is a clear example of this, as Park largely portrayed him as a silent and even “cowardly” man throughout the text, but his children later discover his involvement in the Korean resistance movement in a much more subtle and nameless way (217).

Though the story never confirms his involvement, it strongly suggests that he was writing articles for the resistance newspaper, which reflected his political and intellectual ideologies. The fact that his involvement is never known for sure is indicative of how many Koreans had to live in those years—not knowing who to trust, what to believe, or what was real. But in this case (just as with Mrs. Ahn) it seems likely that many community members—otherwise seen as uninvolved, unthreatening, or useless—like Abuji had secret involvements that they kept hidden for safety purposes. Up until the very end of the narrative, characters are still learning about themselves, about their parents, about their neighbors, and redefining what is possible.

In this sense, Tae-yul’s faux resurrection is the perfect way to end When My Name Was Keoko. His return to himself, to his family, to his reality is a metaphor for how every community member is able to return—in some way—to who they are. Whether it’s using their Korean name, revealing that they were involved in the resistance, or simply being able to live with their family members again, every character transforms individually and collectively to signal a new chapter in their nation’s history. An often overlooked or forgotten perspective when discussing World War II, Linda Sue Park reminds readers that it wasn’t only Jewish families who suffered at the hands of the Nazis during this time period, but many others around the world, including Asia. And just as the world has suffered from these tragic events, it has also learned how to regather and rebuild. In the closing pages, Sun-hee realizes this when she says, “Tae-yul had come back from the dead. That made it seem as if anything was possible. I felt myself start to smile” (220). Linda Sue Park implores sympathy and empathy with Sun-hee in this moment as she fleshes out a collective sense of wonder, hope, and possibility that hopefully increases after experiencing the worst.