The Korean Mind. Boye Lafayette De Mente
of the presence of Japanese occupation forces, Korean actor-director Un Gyu Na somehow managed to produce a movie entitled Arirang that was a powerful protest against Japan’s colonial oppression of Korea. The title of the movie was taken from a famous folk song by that name that is said to have originated in Chongson gun (Chongson County) in Kangwon Province.
According to local folklore, a young girl from the village of Yoryang fell in love with a young man who lived in the nearby village of Auraji, which was separated from Yoryang by a river. On the pretense of picking camellia flowers that grew on the other side of the river, the girl would cross the river on the daily ferry and secretly meet her sweetheart. A fall flood caused ferry service to be suspended for several days. The girl composed a beautiful, sad song to express her longing. The song eventually came to be known as “Chongson Arirang.”
The movie was a huge hit with Korean audiences and has since become a classic, but it was the song, “Arirang,” which reminded Koreans of their suffering under Japanese rule and their longing for freedom, that was to have the most lasting influence. In 1995, Korean writer Jung Rae Cho rekindled interest in the popular folk song and its connection with the colonial period by publishing a twelve-volume novel called Arirang, which recounts in painful detail the crimes of the Japanese colonial administrators as well as those of Koreans who collaborated with the Japanese. The book sold more than one million copies during the first year following its publication. Cho said the book was built on the anger and hatred that the Japanese colonial rulers left in their wake and that his purpose for writing it was to correct historical distortions and help relieve the feelings of disgrace suffered by so many Koreans.
Foreigners who would like to ensure themselves of a permanent place of honor among older Koreans need only to learn how to sing “Arirang” with all of the passion and soul that is so dear to Korean hearts. Unfortunately, since the 1990s the role of this poignant song has waned significantly among Korea’s younger generations. They are more attracted to popular foreign songs.
Chaebol 재벌 Chay-buhl
The Industrial Colossi
One of the most powerful forces contributing to Korea’s astounding economic transformation between 1953 and the 1980s was the emergence of a number of corporate conglomerates patterned after Japan’s pre-World War II zaibatsu (zighbaht-sue). Japan’s zaibatsu, epitomized by Mitsui, Mitsubishi, and Sumitomo, were owned by individual families and together dominated Japan’s economy. All of them were used as instruments of the Japanese government in carrying out its expansion-ist political policies from the 1880s on, including the annexation of Korea in 1910 and its administration as a colony until 1945.
Korea’s post-World War II zaibatsu -like enterprise groups are called chaebol (chay-buhl), which is the Korean pronunciation of the same Chinese ideograms that are pronounced zaibatsu in Japanese—meaning “financial clique” or “group.” (A group of affiliated companies as well as financial groups are collectively known as a jaebul [jay-buhl]). More than one hundred Korean enterprise groups are labeled as chaebol by the government, with the largest and best known being Daewoo, Hanjin, Hyundai, Kia, LG Group (formerly Lucky Goldstar), Samsung, Ssangyong, and Sunkyong. Like their Japanese counterparts, Korea’s chaebol had government support in their early years, but unlike the Japanese firms the support they received from the government was generally unofficial—and, according to their critics, often illegal.
Another significant difference between Korean chaebol and Japan’s pre-World War II zaibatsu is that the Japanese groups had their own banks to arrange financing for them, while the Korean chaebol did not. This made the Korean groups more dependent on the government and therefore more susceptible to pressure from the various agencies and ministries controlling finance, manufacturing, importing, and exporting. One of the results of this difference is that the larger and more successful the Korean companies became, the more independent their decisions and actions.
Like their Japanese zaibatsu role models, however, Korea’s chaebol were motivated by an urge to diversify and to control every aspect of their operations, from the sourcing of raw materials and manufacturing to marketing finished products. Most of the groups also entered totally unrelated businesses, taking advantage of their financial resources and government contacts. In many cases they were able to monopolize the categories they entered by emphasizing market share rather than profits. This compulsion to diversify included becoming major stockholders in other companies.
By the 1970s the chaebol were often referred to as muno (muu-noh), or “octopuses,” because they had their “tentacles” in many things. Part of this negative image arose from the general public opinion that the combines profited unfairly from their close ties with government officials and agencies. There were numerous accusations of pujong chuk chae (puu-johng chewk chay), or “illicit wealth accumulation,” that not only involved illegal activity but went against the Confucian concept of morality and virtue that went with political power.
The Vietnam War was a boon to the growing Korean chaebol, especially Hyundai and Hanjin. With the backing of the U.S. Army, Hanjin became virtually the sole operator of the key Vietnamese port of Qui Nhon and provided both marine and land transportation for the American forces in Vietnam. In support of this effort, Hanjin established an air and sea transport company in Korea to ferry supplies and workers to Vietnam. Using the enormous profits generated by this activity—and paid for by the American military forces in Vietnam—Hanjin bought the then ailing Korean Air (KAL) from the Korean government and subsequently turned it into one of the world’s premier airline companies.
Hyundai and the hurriedly established construction divisions of other chaebol were given major construction contracts in Korea by the U.S. Army, providing them with a fund of experience as well as huge profits, which made it possible for them to bid on and win numerous construction contracts in the Middle East and elsewhere when the Vietnam War ended. Records show that in just four years in the latter part of the 1970s Korea’s top ten chaebol made $22 billion on construction projects in the Middle East.
Each of Korea’s conglomerates has its own corporate culture that began as a manifestation of the background and beliefs of its founder. Samsung, for example, was founded by the youngest son of an old yangban (yahng-bahn) gentry family. Its employees regard the company and themselves as the best and the brightest. It emphasizes high-tech industries. Hyundai, on the other hand, was founded by the son of a farmer, is known for its conservatism, and emphasizes heavy industries. The first generation of post-World War II chaebol employees, tempered by the experience as a colony of Japan (1910-45) and the horrors of wars that had devastated their homeland, were educated, hardworking, totally diligent, and fiercely loyal.
Korean-American anthropologist Choong Soon Kim, in his book The Culture of Korean Industry, described the first generation of chaebol managers as authoritarian, inclusive, and worried about the continuity of their enterprises. This led them to staff their executive positions with sons, sons-in-law, and other close relatives. In the early days of the chaebol there were few stockholders. The founder and his family usually owned controlling interest. Stockholder meetings were programmed to last for only half an hour or so, with outside stockholders given no chance to speak up about anything.
Not surprisingly, the founders or chairmen of the largest conglomerates were generally referred to by the press and others as chongsu (chohng-suu), a military term meaning “commander in chief.” The personal income of some of the founders became enormous, amounting to several hundred million dollars a year, adding to criticism by those who saw the giant combines as immoral parasites.
Much of the unsavory reputation of the chaebol in the 1970s and 1980s was apparently well deserved. Their founders and senior executives (along with other companies and individuals who owned substantial real property assets) were accused of using kamyong (kah-myohng), or “pseudonyms,” and the names of relatives to disguise the true ownership of stocks, land, bank accounts, and so on. This practice, which goes back to ancient times in Korea, eventually became a national scandal, and in the early 1990s a law was passed forbidding the practice. But the law apparently succeeded only in reducing the use of the subterfuge, not eliminating it.
In some chaebol and other large firms the workday began with the playing of the national anthem over the public address system. During the