Workable Words
Casey Lartigue Jr. is co-founder of Freedom Speakers International, a Seoul Honorary Citizen, and co-author of Greenlight to Freedom.
Dialogues with Adoptees
Lee Kyung-eun (Ph.D in law) is director of Human Rights Beyond Borders and author of the Korean-language book, "The Children-selling Country."
Imbricated Chaos
Emanuel approaches current events in Asia from multiple perspectives, considering the impact of culture, history, politics, economics and geography.
Fashion Field Notes
Dr. Michael W. Hurt (@kuraeji on Instagram) is a photographer and professor living in Seoul.
New Technologies & The Law
Each year, our lives are changed by new devices and inventions. But how do laws keep up with technological disruptions? How does new technology intersect and interact with laws and regulations?
Working at a Korean Law firm
Everyone’s career path is a story of ups and downs, twists and turns. How did a combination of very different people come to work at a Korean law firm?
Diversity in South Korea
“These days, Korea is a lot more about diversity. The influx of foreign students, workers and artists has led to a global view that K-Pop and K-Drama are not the only reasons the Land of the Morning Calm is a destination of choice.”
Underground music and urbanism
Jon Dunbar is a contributes to The Korea Times.
Practical Photography Tips
As a Western photographer in Korea, I am discovering a unique role to work within the commercial photography sector in getting Koreans - casual subjects or professional models - to momentarily drop their guard and thereby capture more compelling images. My being a cultural outsider is proving to be more of an advantage than a disadvantage.
The more successful Korea becomes, the more valuable its cultural depiction of itself as a failed society becomes. The country has become extraordinarily successful at exporting a fantasy of its own failure. And it learned from the best; it just flipped the narrative. "Dead-End Job," starring Lee Jae-wook, comes out later this month. Netflix describes it as “A man drowning in debt gets a mysterious gig that pays 50 times the minimum wage ... as long as he never reveals what happens at work.” From all the trailers it looks like another Squid Game-esque dystopia fantasy. It portrays Korean society as a brutal and unforgiving land, inflicted with a spiritual poison that slowly eats at the soul of all those who live here. That poison is often understood as the result of the compressed modernity Korea achieved — going from fields and rice to luxury air-conditioners and high-end coffee in just over two decades. This is seen as a Faustian bargain. A deal with the devil. And while the sowing may have been enjoyable for some time, here comes the reaping. International social media has of c
Had I not gotten lost in Jamsil one cold December night, I might never have discovered the soul of Seoul. It was the early 1990s, and I decided to be adventurous and find a different way back to my apartment. Somewhere in the maze of Jamsil 2-danji, I got twisted around and ended up on a street I had never taken before. Getting lost there was surprisingly easy. At night, the apartment buildings all looked alike, row after row of concrete towers rising into the darkness. I knew the subway station was somewhere behind me and my apartment somewhere ahead. Beyond that, I was guessing. The December air had a bite to it. I shoved my hands deeper into my coat pockets and kept walking. Then I saw the orange glow. On the side of the street stood a rectangular tent, glowing in the darkness. Light filtered through thick orange plastic, turning it into a giant lantern. Shadows moved behind the vinyl. Every so often, someone lifted a flap, releasing a burst of steam and noise into the cold before ducking inside. I stopped. What was this place? There was no sign or name that I could see, yet people kep
“They’re kind of shocked when I tell them I’m not American. Then they’re really disappointed that I’m not French either, because they love French people,” a young woman explained to the room. “When I tell them I’m from Africa — I don’t say Gabon because that just makes things more confusing — they don’t know how to react. It’s like they have no frame of reference. Why am I not poor, for example. How can I be in Korea?” I empathized deeply with the student. She wasn’t what Korean people expected her to be. My friend professor Zeljana Zmire has wonderfully described this as “nouveau riche nationalism” — the idea that for many Koreans, the gross domestic product of the country you are from will often have more influence on how you are treated than your actual skin color. For years, I’ve had people asking, assuming or simply stating without fact that I’m American. “Migukin onda (An American is coming),” the kids would shout at me on the street. Nearby tables in busy pubs would make similar comments. These would be especially pronounced when I was
England is a lion. Russia is a bear. China a dragon. America an Eagle. And so on. But what about Korea? What animal best represents the people and the culture? One of my favourite stories comes from Lee Tae-woong’s fabulous KBS documentary on the 1988 Olympics. The country had to choose an official mascot for the event. Something that would be made into toys and posters and spread around the world. Suggestions ranged from ginseng and Silla crowns to Cheomseongdae, Goryeo pottery and even jangseung, those wonderfully grotesque wooden guardians posted at village entrances. If only we lived in the parallel universe where they won. Secretly, however, the design committee had hoped that a rabbit would be chosen to represent Korea. At the time, Korea’s image was very different from today. Instead of today's Gangnam glitz, international images of Korea were colored by Gwangju, political repression and nearly three decades of authoritarian rule. By using a rabbit as an Olympic mascot, the hope was that it would soften Korea’s image. Make it appear more approachable, friendlier. Cuter. Th
Twenty years ago, I said goodbye to Korea. At least, I thought I did. Within days, I found myself in a smoke-filled street in southern Thailand, surrounded by sirens, soldiers, emergency vehicles and people running for their lives. I had no idea that the road taking me away from Korea would eventually lead me right back. Without getting into all the circumstances behind my sudden departure from the Land of the Morning Calm for the Land of Smiles, several other teachers and I resigned from what had once been one of the best teaching jobs in Korea. For me, that chapter was over. I packed my bags and left, convinced Thailand would offer a fresh start. I had heard there might be teaching opportunities in southern Thailand, so I flew to Bangkok and then continued south to Hat Yai. I booked a few nights at the Novotel in the city center. Before looking for work, I planned to take a few days to rest and explore a part of Thailand I had never seen before. After checking in that Saturday afternoon, I went looking for something to eat. A market and department store were just down the street, with
Situated in the mountainous region of northern Korea, the Oriental Consolidated Mining Company (OCMC) was surrounded by rough, unforgiving terrain that was both isolated and beautiful. Many of the immediate rugged peaks were bare, their forests stripped by the concession’s incessant need for timber. Further away, other hills and mountains were still covered with trees and thick brush — a precarious sanctuary for deer and other small mammals. Pheasants, pigeons, ducks and geese, as well as various other species of bird, graced both the sky and, like the deer, the miners’ tables. Aside from the miners, there were other predators. Large birds of prey ruled the sky, while predators lurked in the forest, drawn by the plentiful game — and occasionally, humans were among their prey. Born in Busan in 1904, Charles John Pedersen, who later received a Nobel Prize, described his brief stay at the mining concession where his father worked: “I spent my first and last winter at the mines when I was 4 years old. The region was known for severe weather due to the confluence of the Siberian st
If you have the good fortune to spend time looking over photos and videos of Korea in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, you will notice something quite striking: nearly everyone’s wearing white. There is a uniformity in the appearance of the people, marked by their plain, unadorned white clothing. Contrast this with the bright pinks, blues and greens we see foreigners wearing around the palaces and bursting through our screens in high definition as part of the latest K-drama, and you realize that there’s a disconnect between the past as it was and as it is imagined today. Consider the following 1920s quote: “While China and especially Japan are using so many different colors in their dresses, there is no such trend in the neighboring country, Joseon. They wear no color but white. Even when they use a color, it's an almost colorless jade. What makes everyone, regardless of gender or age, wear white? There are many countries and nations in the world, but none are like Joseon.” But why did Korean people wear white? And why were they known as "Baekui Minjok" (People in white c
For 35 years, the place that I inhabit today was not known as Korea, but rather it was part of Japan. While during the 1392-1910 Joseon Dynasty the capital was known as Hanyang, from 1910 to 1945 during the Japanese colonial period the city was officially known in Japanese as Keijō and in Korean as Gyeongseong. Only following liberation did it formally adopt the previous vernacular term of Seoul. My father-in-law, to this day, speaks Japanese very well. This is not because he was associated with the Japanese empire, but rather those that lived in this land went to school, had to face Tokyo, had to bow, had to assume Japanese names and language while in public, and then go home and speak Korean and dream of the flag and liberation and hope. In 1936, when Korean athletes competed at the Berlin Olympics, made famous by Jesse Owens for defying Hitler's terrible ideology, they did so with a Japanese flag on their chest. The most famous was Son Kee-chung, who won the marathon and became the first Korean to win an Olympic gold medal. His fellow Korean Nam Seung-yong won bronze in the same r
The first time I went to a PC bang in Korea, it wasn’t for the internet. It was 1998, and I went with several of my students to play StarCraft, a game they raved about the way Americans talked about the Super Bowl. Like every other trend that swept the nation, PC bangs were appearing faster than a pop-up window on your computer screen. They were the cheapest way of accessing the internet in Korea, especially at the height of the Asian financial crisis. I knew what PC meant — personal computer. A bulky monitor and CPU that clicked and whirred, and occasionally froze for no reason. But “bang”? In Korea, bang means room, a simple word, functional and to the point. The PC bang we went to was located in a neighborhood of traditional shops, coffee houses, eateries, pharmacies and a traditional medicine shop with a strange-looking apparatus inside — less a pharmacy than a set piece from an old Frankenstein movie. The street was bright, with signs in Hangeul stacked like glowing dominoes. Food smells drifted through the air — dumplings, spicy rice cakes, charcoal and grilled meat — k
I recently walked around the National Museum of Korea, taking in the various sights, the objects, the stories, the pagodas, the lakes and everything else. It's a remarkable building, and one that I love spending time in. I'm also glad that Korea now has enough confidence to convey and share its history so passionately with people. At one point, I found myself standing beneath the Korean flag. This was in the section on the Korean Empire. There I was, looking at it … but it was different from normal. It wasn't the Sam-taegeuk, which features blue, red and yellow. Yet at the same time, it wasn't the regular Taegeuk we see on the flag today, with the red and blue divided into distinct halves. On this one, the red and blue swirls melted into each other. They didn't stay on their own side. Instead, they invaded. They flooded. They blended into each other, creating a very fluid and flexible image. I gazed at this flag for a long time. And as I did, I was faced with a question in my mind: Why is that flag like that? And why is it not like the flag that we see today? Now, of course, I could