David Tizzard is a professor at Seoul Women’s University, holds a PhD in Korean Studies, and hosts the Korea Deconstructed podcast. He has lived and worked in Seoul for more than two decades. Reach him at datizzard@swu.ac.kr.
What Korea taught me about learning
Courtesy of PJH
By David A. Tizzard
When I was pursuing my master's degree here, I had a teacher named Choi Chi-won. He was my guide. The one who taught me much of what I would later come to know about Confucianism, Taoism, Buddhism and the Enlightenment period of Korea. He challenged me in the way that all good teachers do: pushing, probing, setting high standards and asking questions to which I didn’t always know the answer. If we are lucky, we will all meet at least one teacher like this in our lives. Someone who transcends the role of merely being an educator, a servant of the system and into something more impactful. And yes, that was his name. The same exact name as the legendary 9th-century Silla scholar-bureaucrat who mastered the classics and famously struggled against a rigid system.
The moment Professor Choi perhaps had the biggest effect on me was when I was sitting my comprehensive exams before writing my dissertation. I had passed all of them, with only my exam on Taoism left. At the time, Taoism was my favorite subject. The Tao Te Ching, the Zhuangzi and all the wonderfully paradoxical stories that floated around my mind, talking of butterflies, trees, horses and the nature of the world that Kung Fu Panda would brilliantly elucidate many years later. I tackled my exam with great enthusiasm, the words and ideas pouring out of me as I filled page after page with my pen. Having finished I wondered what would become of my exam: Would they publish it? Distribute it as a testament to excellence among students?
Imagine my surprise when I then got my score. I only needed above 60 to pass and proceed with writing my dissertation, but I expected I would get something close to 100. I checked the official document and the two digits stared back at me in a way I have rarely felt before. 59. Fifty. Nine. I had failed. And failed by one solitary mark. I wanted to quit. To sue the university for defamation. To rage in the media about the abuse.
The score was, of course, a message. My professor was telling me that I had lost my way. Became arrogant. Had neglected to apply the correct attitude and approach to my studies. I had become lost in myself. It took me a few years to realize that. I simply assumed he was just a spiteful dullard. But no. That failure that he had the courage to give me became one of the most transformative moments in my life. I couldn’t fail again so I studied. Hard. I learned more from that one failure than I did from all my many successes. Failure taught me that education must never stop. And it was a lesson from my Korean teacher.
In case you were unaware of how important education is in Korea, consider the first line of the Confucian Analects: "The Master said: 'Is it not a pleasure to learn and, at due times, to practice what one has learned?'" The very first line of the book tells us to learn. It cares little about who created the world and says nothing about God. Instead, it focuses on the pragmatic beauty of learning. And the type of learning it advocates is one of a lifelong process of moral self-cultivation rather than a mere accumulation of academic facts. The ultimate goal is to shape individuals into virtuous people (junzi) who act with benevolence, propriety and wisdom, ultimately benefiting society. True learners must be humble, open to improvement and eager to seek wisdom from anyone, regardless of social status.
And if you live in Korea, you’re going to realize just how important education is here. Yes, they sometimes get it wrong. The university entrance exam needs rethinking. Kids are under intense pressure. Some teachers abuse their power. Money has challenged the meritocratic nature of things. And hagwons and night academies become status symbols for parents rather than places of genuine learning. But, alongside all of these problems and challenges, there are a great many advantages to be found here among an educated population.
Korean people vote in large numbers. They see it as a civic duty to go out and choose who they believe should be in charge. And should someone abuse their position or the power they have been bestowed, Koreans will then protest, again in equally large numbers. And their protests will be peaceful and loud. A sign of moral indignation. The COVID-19 pandemic was another big test for the country. The people complied, washed their hands, wore their masks and acted in such a way that the country survived without ever needing a lockdown. Partly thanks to CCTV and also because of education and shame, laptops, wallets and smartphones sit untouched on coffee shop tables. People do not take what is not theirs (except umbrellas).
And they have a day for all of this: Teacher’s Day. A day in which students go out of their way to send messages to their teachers and thank them. Yes, there are some formal celebrations and things which exist as a matter of courtesy rather than genuine appreciation. But once you start receiving messages from students, those who have gone out of their way on Kakao, Instagram or email to tell you the ways in which you have helped them, you realize just how nice it is to have such a day here. Not only does it remind us to keep learning, to reflect on where we have come from, it also challenges our ego — which is particularly useful in an era of growing individualism. We remember that our societies need teachers. Teachers were once students themselves with teachers of their own. That teachers need students. That students eventually become teachers. And that, however much we might forget about it, we are passing down values, practices and behavior to the next generation. We are them as much as they are us.
Korea would not be where it is today had it not placed such a high value on education. The cultural and technological achievements this country can be rightly proud of stand on the shoulders of people spending countless of hours to study, under teachers who tried to guide them. When you respect someone of age here, irrespective of their job, you might call them “sonsaengnim” (teacher). And it is to those people, that we owe our thanks this weekend. Korea’s educational culture is not merely economic. It is moral and civilizational.