The summer of 1945 was a season of liberation from Japanese colonial rule. However, it was also a season marked by the end of the war, with countless lives lost on the front lines, and the dropping of atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, which brought about an irreversible tragedy in human history.
The result of sacrificing countless civilians to end the war was not merely the conclusion of the conflict. It marked the beginning of another war, one that entangled narratives of perpetration and victimization, even dividing the very ways in which memory is constructed.
Thus, the memories of August 1945 were layered on top of each other, with Korea's liberation, Japan's defeat, and the destructive power of nuclear weapons witnessed by the world. Japan commemorates this period as “memories of war damage” and emphasizes the atomic bomb damage in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. These memories mainly emphasize the horrors of war, while at the same time obscuring the responsibility for the war of aggression. The responsibility and apology for the Japanese imperialism's long-standing aggression and colonial rule over its Asian neighbors, as well as the numerous atrocities committed under the name of the Greater East Asia War, remain vague.
The argument that we should forget the pain of the past and move toward reconciliation for a better future is also problematic when power inequality is at play. In particular, when forgiveness is forced upon victims without regard for the context and conditions of forgiveness, it is tantamount to another form of violence.
Christ's forgiveness is often misunderstood in this context. In fact, there are reports that among victims of domestic violence, it is Christians who suffer the deepest inner pain. This is because even within the church, the “theology of forgiveness” has functioned as a tool to force victims into silence. Victims are too often told, “We must forgive the perpetrator as Jesus forgave us” and “We must accept our suffering as Christ suffered.” However, these words serve as a means of justifying the continuation of violence and can become a double burden of pain for victims, silencing them on top of their wounds.
On the other hand, do we have the courage to break away from the familiar narrative of seeing ourselves only as victims? Korea was certainly a victim that endured a long history of colonialism, but at some point in modern history, it also stood in the position of the perpetrator. For example, the massacre of civilians by the Korean military in the villages of Phong Ni and Phong Nut in Quang Nam Province, Vietnam, has yet to be properly investigated and apologized for to this day. When we acknowledge that we cannot simply be victims before the court of history, and when we accept that anyone can be both a victim and a perpetrator, then the process of forgiveness and reconciliation based on honest memory will finally become possible.
Forgiveness is not about covering up the past, but about making a commitment to ensure that such a past is never repeated. Remembering the summer of 80 years ago, which was both liberation and another form of oppression, light and darkness at the same time, we must ask again: How do we forgive, what do we apologize for, and why must we remember?
