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We used to joke, when I was a student in Korea in the 1970s, that the 1392-1910 Joseon Kingdom was more democratic than the Park Chung-hee era in then contemporary Korea. The joke had some truth to it. Both at the level of criticism of the Park administration for its lack of democracy on the one hand, and the amount of democracy we find in Joseon.
Of course, therein lies the irony ― that the time of kings, the Joseon dynasty, had democratic institutions. But there were several. I could write a column on each ― for example, student demonstrations. Korea's student demonstration were hallmarks of Korean political life from April 19, 1960, through the 60s, 70s and 80s, until true democracy evolved in Korea. The "samsa" was the censorate ― the three offices of government that had the duty of criticizing the king and the government (and the censorate had great power in the Joseon court; the three arms of the censorate often, really often, criticized the king and his appointments). The king would sometimes withdraw the offending appointment or decision, and sometimes he would not, but he had to deal with the censors who were obliged to keep him on the straight and narrow of good Confucian, moral government. The king was required to attend lectures on Confucianism, which implied the adherence to ethical government.
Among the indicators of democratic institutions in Korea, the one I want to address in today's column is that of petitioning. Joseon people could petition the king or the government for all kinds of things. It was acceptable, and oft-seen. It was not a rare or dangerous thing to do ― it was the heart of interaction between the government and the people.
I want to tell you about a document I have ― I bought it from an antique dealer when I was a Ph.D. student, researching in Korea. I bought several documents to have as "show-and-tell" samples that I would be able to use at a future time, when I would finish my Ph.D. and get a teaching position in a university.
The document is, quite obviously a petition ― obvious, because after a block of text, there is a large block of signatures. The signatures follow a name ― with minimal acquaintance with the language, one can see the typical three syllable name of a whole bunch of people, each followed by a highly stylized character which, like our signatures today, may be legible, may be illegible, but are clearly unique and unforgeable, supposedly.
Signatures! Written, highly stylized signatures. But the well-versed modern Korean or Koreanist, or Korean resident, will say, "wait a minute" ― Koreans used the dojang ― a seal or stamp.
When I first arrived in Korea, back in 1965, I was told that I needed a dojang to do banking, and to use the post office and other official actions. One could not just sign one's name, I was told.
Well, it turns out that the use of the dojang was apparently a Japanese innovation, because Joseon dynasty Koreans used signatures for all kinds of legal and quasi-legal documents. Yes, there were dojang in red ink for art works, both for artist or owner. And government officials used red stamps for authenticating various kinds of documents. But private affairs called for a signature. There are numerous examples. Agreement to a division of inheritance, buying and selling property, awarding gifts to others ― all carried signatures, not dojang stamps.
There were two exceptions I know of. One was for those who were illiterate ― and in the place of a signature, they would trace the outline of their hand. The other case was that of a widow. It was assumed that a widow either did not know how to write, only wrote in Hangeul, or, because of her widow status should not be using a signature ― I'm not sure why. But I know that widows used the dojang. But unlike other dojang (in contemporary use, government officials, artists), the widow did not use a red or vermillion inkpad. They inked their dojang in black ink. We can see black dojang on numerous documents and the widow's stamp is always in black ink.
The signatures on the petition I am referring to were all highly stylized. They were most often a single syllable ― one character written in a way that was unique and supposedly impossible to forge ― like our signatures on checks and other documents today.
Mark Peterson (markpeterson@byu.edu) is professor emeritus of Korean, Asian and Near Eastern languages at Brigham Young University in Utah.
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