Korea is everywhere — but do we understand it?

There was a time when Korea felt like a question mark.

Growing up, we remember how often people would ask if we were from North or South Korea, as if the two were interchangeable, or mistake Koreans for something else entirely. In Brazil or the United States, the confusion took different forms, but the underlying feeling was the same: Korea existed somewhere at the edges of global awareness — visible, but not fully seen.

Today, that has changed. Korea is everywhere. From the global rise of K-pop to the influence of Korean beauty, the country has moved from the margins to the center of cultural attention. Scroll through social media and you will find endless interpretations of Korean life — foreigners documenting their routines in Seoul, commenting on work culture or decoding social norms. Korea, it seems, has become legible.

But being visible is not the same as being understood.

Last month, one of us participated in a book club in Brazil where the novel in discussion was “We Do Not Part,” by Korean author Han Kang. This was such an interesting coincidence, as the choice for the book of the month actually came from a Brazilian participant, with no close ties to Korea, except for the fact that they had also read another novel from the same author — “The Vegetarian.”

During the discussions surrounding the book, we were quite taken aback by the fact that it seemed that most people did not enjoy the novel, expressing that they did not understand or enjoy the stylistic choices made by the author, particularly the fact that the book blurred the lines of reality and fantasy, where readers are left in a state of uncertainty. Others described feeling unsettled or dissatisfied, as though the story resisted the kind of resolution they had expected.

One comment particularly stood out to us. A participant observed that the book’s fragmented structure, its tendency to present scenes almost like isolated film takes, felt distinctly “American” in style. The implication was that this was an imported or external aesthetic choice, something that distanced the novel from what they expected a Korean story to feel like.

It was a small remark, but a revealing one.

Because to us, the fragmentation did not feel foreign at all. If anything, it felt deeply familiar.

The book, for those who are unfamiliar, narrates the story of a Korean woman who goes on a journey to Jeju, whose experiences lead her to reflect upon the tragic events surrounding the massacres that happened on the island a few years before the Korean War.

To be completely honest, we, too, were not deeply familiar with the historical details of these events. And yet, perhaps because of our cultural proximity, the emotional logic of the story felt legible. The disjointed scenes, the uncertainty between what is real and what is remembered, the refusal of clean resolution — these did not read as stylistic indulgences. They echoed something more recognizable, they represented to us the way histories of violence and loss are often carried in fragments, in silences, in unresolved forms.

When we introduced this perspective into the conversation, it was not as a rebuttal, but as an attempt to situate the text differently. We spoke about how the legacy of war in Korea continues to shape personal and collective memory, and how many stories remain incomplete — not because they lack meaning, but because closure was never possible. Within that context, the novel’s ambiguity began to take on a different weight.

There was no dramatic turning point, but there was a shift. It happened gradually, almost imperceptibly, marked less by agreement than by a change in tone. The conversation slowed. People began to ask different kinds of questions. What had initially been framed as confusion started to be reconsidered as intention.

By the end of the discussion, several participants began to reconsider their initial reactions. Some reflected that they had not thought to approach the novel through a historical or cultural lens, while others admitted that maybe they just did not have the baggage to relate to the novel. By the end of the discussion, a number of them acknowledged that this added context allowed them to see the book differently, and, in some cases, to appreciate it more.

That moment stayed with us because it revealed something larger about how cultures travel.

It made us reflect and realize that much of what the world consumes about Korea today is what can be easily exported: music, beauty, aesthetics, curated slices of daily life. These are powerful, meaningful forms of culture. But they are also, by necessity, partial. They travel well because they are designed to be seen, shared and quickly understood.

History does not travel as easily.

The emotional undercurrents that shape a society — its silences, its tensions, its ways of expressing or withholding feeling — are often rooted in experiences that resist simplification. In Korea’s case, the modern identity of the country has been shaped by compressed and often painful history, whose traces linger not only in archives but in everyday life.

This depth is harder to capture in a short video or a passing trend. It is not always visible in the polished surfaces of global culture. And yet, it is there — in the intensity of work, in the sensitivity to hierarchy, in the quiet ways emotion is carried and expressed.

To point this out is not to dismiss the global fascination with Korea, nor to gatekeep its culture. If anything, the current moment is remarkable. Korea is no longer a question mark. It is a presence.

But the question now is different.

What does it mean to understand a culture, rather than simply recognize it?

The Brazilian readers in that book club did not fail in their reading of “We Do Not Part.” They encountered its limits — until someone offered a bridge. Their experience suggests that understanding is not automatic, even in a globalized world. It requires context, patience and a willingness to move beyond what is immediately accessible.

Perhaps this applies more broadly. As Korea continues to circulate globally — through music, beauty and the many narratives built around it — there is an opportunity to dig deeper. Not just to consume what is visible, but to ask what lies beneath it.

The world is, finally, paying attention to Korea.

The question is whether it is ready to understand it.

Chyung Eun-ju (ejchyung@snu.ac.kr) is a tech research associate at Donghyun ASP. She earned both her bachelor's in business and master's in marketing from Seoul National University. Joel Cho (joelywcho@gmail.com) is a practicing lawyer specializing in IP and digital law.