Seoul and Taipei: Life in Colonial Capitals

Episode Narrative

In 1910, a new era dawned for Korea. Japan, having wrested control from the Korean Empire, officially annexed the territory, renaming its capital Seoul to Keijō. This name change was not merely a superficial rebranding; it marked the beginning of a significant transformation. The city, once a vibrant center of Korean culture and autonomy, was now a tool of Japanese imperial ambition. Urban planning and infrastructure were meticulously overhauled to serve the interests of the Japanese state, laying the groundwork for a colonial administration that sought to suppress Korean identity while elevating a puppet regime.

As the years cascaded into the 1920s, Keijō experienced a remarkable demographic shift. By 1930, the population had surged to over 300,000. Japanese settlers poured into the city, taking up privileged positions in the administration, commerce, and education. The construction of schools and government buildings reflected a vision where Japanese culture would dominate, and the very essence of Korean life would be systematically erased. Live music faded into silence, and the streets that once echoed with the sounds of local dialects now resounded with the Japanese language — the national anthem reverberating through the air, a constant reminder of the occupier's presence.

Meanwhile, geopolitics brewed in the shadows. In 1927, deteriorating relations between the Soviet Union and the Kuomintang in China began to ripple through East Asia. This shift reverberated into Keijō, stirring anxieties within the Japanese authorities. Tensions escalated. In response, the colonial government tightened its grip on the population. The establishment of the Keijō Police Department marked a new chapter of oppression. Surveillance intensified, informants became commonplace, and dissent, both cultural and political, was met with swift and often brutal suppression.

The firestorm of conflict that loomed over Asia ignited fully in 1937 when Japan launched a full-scale invasion of China. The ramifications were felt acutely in Keijō. Factories formerly dedicated to civilian needs were repurposed to manufacture war materials, a grim transformation that reflected the reality of a nation preparing for total war. Conscription drives targeted Korean men, forcing many into military service against their will. From a city striving to assert its identity, Keijō became a base for imperial conquest, a site where the ambitions of the Japanese Empire reshaped lives and futures.

By 1940, the educational system in Keijō transformed entirely, reflecting the regime's resolve to Japanize the population. Schools enforced the compulsory teaching of Japanese language and culture, with students required to salute the emperor as an act of loyalty. The ritualistic nature of these practices was both chilling and stirring. Young minds were molded to believe they were not Koreans but subjects bound to a foreign ideology.

With the attack on Pearl Harbor in December 1941, marking the beginning of the Pacific War, Keijō’s role intensified. Mobilization efforts escalated, and the drafting of Korean laborers and soldiers surged. Families were ripped apart as men were conscripted into the war machine, serving a cause they did not believe in. The city, now a crucible of conflict, faced severe food shortages as the Japanese government prioritized supplies for its military and Japanese residents, leaving many Koreans to suffer the consequences.

In 1943, a dark chapter unfolded as the Japanese government began conscripting Korean women as “comfort women.” This abhorrent practice reflected the depths of human depravity in wartime. Women, many of whom were coerced or deceived, became victims of sexual slavery, forever haunted by their experiences. The legacy of this tragedy still lingers, a challenging truth woven into the fabric of history that demands recognition and remembrance.

As 1944 arrived, Keijō had morphed into a city of over 1 million inhabitants, a bustling hub of logistics and administration for Japan’s war effort across the Pacific. Streets once steeped in history were now lined with factories pumping out war materials, while the skies occasionally darkened with the ominous sound of bombers. As the war progressed, though, the tides began to shift. The once invincible Japanese Empire started to recoil from the advancing Allied forces.

The early months of 1945 saw Keijō facing the grim reality of war's end. Allied bombing raids, though not as devastating as those on other Japanese cities, became a reality. The air was filled with dread and uncertainty, as inhabitants wondered how much longer they would endure under such oppressive conditions. The war had turned against Japan, and the promises of empire were now unraveling before their eyes.

Amidst this turmoil, our story extends to another colonial capital — Taihoku, present-day Taipei. In 1915, Japan established Taihoku as the colonial capital of Taiwan. Similar to the changes in Keijō, urban development, education, and cultural assimilation were aggressively implemented. The Japanese colonial government sought to implant its vision within Taiwanese life. The echoes of this ambition were felt far and wide, creating a narrative of control interlinked with resistance.

By the 1930s, Taihoku’s population had burgeoned to over 300,000. Japanese settlers occupied key posts in government and commerce, shaping an environment where Taiwanese voices were muted amidst a foreign crescendo. Policymakers, echoing their counterparts in Keijō, established the Taihoku Police Department. Security measures increased and dissent was quickly snuffed out, creating an atmosphere of fear and compliance.

The march of war swept through Taiwan as well. Following Japan’s invasion of China, Taihoku too experienced militarization in 1937. Factories diverted their attention to the production of war goods. The call for conscription echoed in the streets, targeting young Taiwanese men for the front lines. This process turned communities into factories of war, stripping families of their sons while reinforcing the empire's violent ambitions.

By 1940, the educational systems mirrored those in Keijō. Schools indoctrinated children into a culture of unquestioned loyalty to the emperor. Saluting the flag, learning Nipponese history, and participating in patriotic rituals became the norm. The children of Taihoku were molded not only through educational curricula, but through an oppressive atmosphere that sought to erase their identity.

With the attack on Pearl Harbor in 1941, Taihoku experienced heightened mobilization. The fabric of society altered further as Taiwanese men were drafted into the military effort. The shadow of war enveloped daily life. Food shortages mirrored the hardships faced in Keijō. Resources prioritized for the military left civilians scrambling for sustenance, and the echoes of hunger became a painful part of the daily struggle.

In 1943, Taiwan’s women, too, were drawn into a harrowing chapter, similar to their Korean counterparts. The Japanese administration began conscripting Taiwanese women as “comfort women,” perpetuating a tragedy that would haunt generations. This relentless cycle of abuse left scars that communities would grapple with long after the war’s conclusion.

As 1944 unfolded, Taihoku's population soared to over 500,000. It became a critical logistical and administrative hub directed by Japan's military strategy in the Pacific. Streets teemed with life, but the life they led was fraught with uncertainty, simmering resentments, and suppressed identities. The people of Taihoku lived under the banner of an empire that insisted on their loyalty, yet weighed down by the knowable realities of their existence.

As the war drew closer to its inevitable conclusion in 1945, both Keijō and Taihoku found themselves in turmoil. The ghosts of the past, the memories of lives changed irrevocably, lingered in the air. After years of conflict, policies rooted in oppression were stripped away, leaving vacant spaces filled with unresolved histories.

In the aftermath of war, as the dust settled, these cities would become mirrors reflecting their tumultuous pasts. The legacy of Japan’s imperial ambitions is woven into the very foundation of modern Korea and Taiwan. What remained were stories — stories of survival, of trauma, of resilience. As we reflect on this chapter, we must ask ourselves: how do we confront the legacies of colonial rule? How do we remember not only the victims but the systems that perpetuated such pain? The echoes of Keijō and Taihoku compel us to seek understanding and recognition. They remind us that history, while a narrative of the past, continues to resonate in our present, urging us to learn, to honor, and to heal.