The Washington Korean community gathered at Bethel Church in Ellicott City on March 1 to commemorate the 106th anniversary of the March First Movement, emphasizing unity across generations and organizations. The event brought together first-generation Korean Americans alongside second and third generations, rekindling the spirit of independence with the echoes of “Daehan Doknip Manse.”
A highlight of the ceremony was a heartfelt testimony by Hannah Park, an 11th-grade student at Mount Hebron High School, reflecting on the significance of the March First Movement and its lasting impact on her identity.
Hannah Park’s Testimony on the March First Movement is Included Below.
March First Movement Testimony
Yu Gwan-sun was 16 when she stood against an empire—the same age as me.
It’s hard to imagine what it must have felt like, the weight of history pressing down on her shoulders, the shouting of voices calling for freedom, the fear, the courage, and the hope. And yet, even though I live in a different time and place, I carry on her legacy.
When I was younger, I visited the Independence Hall of Korea in Cheonan. At first, I thought it would be like any other museum visit–interesting, but distant, like looking at history through a glass case. But I remember standing in front of a black and white photo of Yu Gwan-sun, young with a fierce determination in her eyes. She was a girl, not much different from me, who was willing to risk everything for the future of her country. For the first time, history wasn’t just something I learned about—it was something that felt close, something that mattered to me.
Growing up as a Korean American, I often felt like I existed in a space that didn’t fully belong to either side. In Korea, I was the cousin from America, my awkward formalities marking me as different. In America, I was the one whose family’s customs and culture needed explanations. It wasn’t just about language or food—it was about feeling like I had to prove my belonging, no matter where I was. This sense of not fully fitting in used to frustrate me. Who am I truly? Can I be both? Do I have to choose?
The story of the March First Movement, and the faces of the students I saw at the Independence Hall, showed me that my identity is not about choosing one or the other. It is about carrying both. It is about finding strength in that in-between space, just as those students found strength in their unity, in their shared dream of independence. They, too, lived in a world that sought to define them, to limit them, to tell them who they could or could not be. And yet, they stood up and declared their truth, despite the risks.
The students who marched on March 1st, 1919, were my age, some even younger. They didn’t have power, weapons, or wealth. All they had was a flag–sometimes, one they had drawn by hand, using rice bowls to trace the Taegeuk–-and their voices crying “대한 독립 만세!”. They knew they might be arrested, beaten, or worse, but they stood up regardless. They stood up with the belief that freedom was worth fighting for, even if they wouldn’t live to see it.
That courage lives in me too. It’s an integral part of my inheritance, passed down not just through blood, but through stories, through history, and through sacrifices. Their voices did not fade into silence; they echo in every Korean who continues to honor their memory, in every person who refuses to be silenced.
March First isn’t just a history lesson to me; it’s a reminder that my voice matters too. Even when I question where I belong, even when my identity feels complicated, I know that my story is part of a bigger tapestry–a story of survival, resilience, and hope.
March First reminds me that no voice is too small, no action is too insignificant, and no identity is too complicated to matter. Courage isn’t something you’re born with– it’s something you discover when you understand where you come from and what you stand for.
And so today, I can proudly say: 대한 독립 만세. Long live Korean independence. And long live every voice, including mine, that refuses to be silenced.
