This Women’s History Month, I find myself grieving for women — not those fighting for their historical contributions to be celebrated, but those fighting for their lived experience to be simply recognized.

When another South Korean woman who was forced into sexual slavery under the Japanese colonial military passed away last year, the number of known surviving Korean “comfort women” dropped to a mere nine. These women in their nineties, whom Japanese soldiers sexually enslaved before and during World War II, spent almost half a century concealing their stories.

These women have faced obstacle after obstacle in the fight for reparations — the difficulty of their stories unequivocally compounded by the culture of patriarchy and misogyny in South Korea.

The stigma of infertility, sexual diseases, and experience with sexual slavery itself have left many survivors unable to integrate into society with ease.

Many were single or divorced, making them more vulnerable to financial difficulties in a society where men were often the breadwinners. Societal emphasis on chastity also meant that when these women did break their silence, they could be met with humiliation. The public sometimes looked down upon victims and activists picketing outside the Embassy of Japan — only in the 1990s did protests help change public perception.

Even now, the retelling of the full experiences of comfort women is still in progress — reparations and healing remain incomplete.

It all began with the Japanese government’s denial of responsibility, and it continued with the Korean government’s failure to properly negotiate and seek compensation from Japan for their historical sins.

In the present day, revisionist views among scholars, including Harvard Law School professor J. Mark Ramseyer, have twisted the truth and framed sexual slavery as voluntary or contracted.

But now, even more pressing is the threat of time. It is only a matter of a few years before the young girl sitting in front of the Embassy of Japan in South Korea, a historical monument commemorating these comfort women, becomes a relic of some seemingly distant past.

It is comforting to think that progress might naturally accompany the passing of time — but in reality, it is not so simple.

In recent years, South Korea President Yoon Suk Yeol — whose presidential campaign was rooted in anti-feminist rhetoric and included plans to abolish the Ministry of Gender Equality — has seemed to legitimize the decade-long witch hunt against feminist movements.

In a country with the highest gender wage gap among OECD countries and an excessive political crackdown on false sexual assault accusations rather than sexual assault itself, calls for women’s rights have been silenced as misandrist efforts to vilify men.

Such politicization of women speaking up about their experiences today only makes it more difficult to address the unresolved issues — like comfort women — of the past. Will we ever be able to celebrate progress for comfort women, and will a single survivor be around to celebrate with us? Or, will this cycle of silencing women continue?

Some of my sorrow stems from guilt. My first exposure to this history came in the form of the Korean movie “I Can Speak,” which I thought little about as a politically disengaged seventh grader. It was not until I took part in translating a book of survivors’ stories into English in ninth grade, that I finally understood the issue’s gravity.

As I further explored this historical tragedy through academic research — learning about both the ticking clock of surviving comfort women and the regression of women’s rights in Korea — I have felt helpless and regretful for my prior indifference. I continue to lament the persistent lack of progress that survivors have undeservedly faced for nearly a century now.

After decades of efforts aimed at justice, survivors are now being chased by time: the most objective and neutral, yet potent force. This alone should be sufficient reason to continue to demand reparations in recognition of survivors’ dignity. Every second counts.

Aimee K. Choi ’27, a Crimson Editorial editor, lives in Matthews hall.