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.
I spent this week in a Korean hospital having surgery on a hand injury I picked up playing football. Thankfully, the surgery was a success, the nurses were kind and the food was decent. The hospital was also completely modern — every MRI scan, CT and X-ray was done with what seemed like the latest technology. My insurance then helped make sure that although still somewhat expensive considering everything I'd received, I was able to walk out without needing to sell my house. That's a joke, of course. I live in Seoul. I don't own a house. I'd brought a selection of books to keep me company: Peter Hopkirk's "The Great Game," Todd Henry's book on the city of Seoul and the famous Korean classic "A Small Dwarf Kicked a Ball." But sometimes the drugs kicked in a little too hard and I found myself unable to concentrate on the words on the page. That's when I turned to the TV in my room, hundreds of channels, countless movies and dramas at my fingertips. I pressed the button and was greeted immediately by episode one of a popular TV drama called "Reply 1994." Having not seen it, I decided to
On the morning of Aug. 18, 1976, a work detail entered the Joint Security Area (JSA) at Panmunjeom to perform what should have been a routine task: trimming the branches of a poplar tree. Within minutes, two U.S. Army officers were dead. Capt. Arthur Bonifas and 1st Lt. Mark Barrett were killed by North Korean guards during a confrontation that lasted only a few minutes. Several other American and South Korean members of the detail were also injured. This Aug. 18 marks the 50th anniversary of their deaths. The event became known as the Axe Murder Incident, one of the most infamous confrontations in the history of the Korean Demilitarized Zone (DMZ). I can still remember when it happened. In August 1976, I was in the U.S. Air Force attending technical training school when I first heard about the killings at Panmunjeom. Korea was far away, and I could not have imagined that the events unfolding there would remain with me for the next half-century. But 50 years later, I find myself returning once again to that tree. To understand what happened on Aug. 18, it is necessary to know what was diffe
“It is the night of the Fourth [of July] and I am working the same as usual,” complained Rush McCargar, a 25-year-old American employed by the Oriental Consolidated Mining Company (OCMC) in northern Korea in 1900. “The engineers, machinists, carpenters, miners, and office force had the day off, but we who are unfortunate enough to be mill men have to work just the same.” But it wasn’t work that irritated him the most; it was a toothache that kept him awake throughout the night. The tooth had been bothering him since December, and though he tried all the home remedies available to him at the mine, none had brought relief. He had even contemplated pulling it out himself, but the nearest forceps were more than 20 miles (32 kilometers) away. There was nothing he could do but try to “grin and bear it.” Fortunately for McCargar, at the end of July, an American dentist from Nagasaki paid a temporary visit to the mines and offered his services to the miners, for a price. It was readily accepted, and when he left he was much richer for the experience. In a letter to his family, McC
There is a photograph familiar to anyone who studies the Korean independence movement. It shows an elderly man in round spectacles and hanbok, or traditional Korean clothes, his face almost scholarly and his gaze soft behind the lenses. He looks like a retired professor, someone you might pass in a near-empty library. That face belonged to a man who stood 180 centimeters tall and spent his youth on the run, a rebel leader in a crushed uprising, a man who had killed a Japanese agent and fled through the freezing Korean countryside with a price on his head. His name was Kim Koo. And if you want to understand modern Korea, its soul, its divisions, its improbable cultural triumph, you must also understand him. The making of a rebel Kim Koo was born in 1876, in the final, flickering years of the 1392-1910 Joseon Dynasty. He came from a ruined yangban (aristocratic) family, but poverty had stripped him of privilege. Asia in his youth was a continent on fire: a cauldron of war, revolution and the boot-heel of Western imperialism. Kim was more sensitive than most to the tremors beneath his feet
Attitudes and conversations about Korean politics are dominated by the presidents. The generals. The dictators. The democratically elected leaders. But last week, I introduced you to Francesca Rhee. Korea's first first lady. A foreigner who wore hanboks in a nation still licking its wounds from war and colonial rule. Today, I want to continue that journey. To humanize another woman who, like Francesca, existed in the shadow of a powerful man. But while Francesca’s story is often omitted from national narratives, Yuk Young-soo is remembered positively by most in society. And her death on live television, in front of a nation watching its Liberation Day celebrations, is something unlike anything you’ll see or hear in many other countries. The woman behind the president Park Chung-hee is a complicated figure. His rule was repressive. He stifled democracy. He jailed dissidents. His economic achievements came at a steep price in human rights. And yet he helped set the country on course to where it is today. He got people building. He gave the country confidence. He promised the people th
My first summer in Korea, I thought I was going to die. The heat and the humidity were unbearable. I’d naively assumed that living near the Han River in southeastern Seoul might offer some cooling nighttime breeze. It didn’t. Not even a whisper. Fortunately, I had a fan — an old, rattling workhorse that labored through the night, valiantly pushing hot air from one side of my room to the other. It didn’t cool me, but it gave the illusion of doing something, which was better than nothing. The next morning, bleary-eyed after another sleepless night, I trudged off to school. At least the classrooms were air-conditioned, which felt like a miracle. “It was so hot last night, I slept with the fan on all night,” I said casually while taking attendance. A collective gasp sucked the air out of the room. I looked up. The entire class was frozen in horror, eyes wide, mouths agape, as if I had just confessed to something unspeakable. “What’s wrong?” I asked. A long pause. Then one brave student slowly raised her hand. “Yes?” “Teacher,” she said carefully, “you cannot sleep with
Who gets to be called Korean was the subject of one of my recent pieces. And it feels like a powerfully modern topic, with globalization, multicultural families, returning adoptees, visible North Korean defectors, and many more people from all walks of life making a claim for being part of the collective Korean identity known as “woori.” We saw the German-born Jens Castrop representing the Korean national football team at the World Cup this year, though his inclusion was largely overshadowed by the fallout that has followed the rather disastrous campaign and investigations into former coach Hong Myung-bo. But go back to the start of the Republic of Korea, 78 years ago, and the country’s first first lady was a white woman from Austria who claimed Korean citizenship and wore hanbok. It’s outrageous to think that a Korean president today might have a “foreign” wife. It simply wouldn’t be allowed, I don’t think. Even the idea of a president spending an extended time abroad might be too much for people to take. Maybe that’s why so little is known about Francesca Donner-Rhe
I lived a blissfully anonymous life in Seoul — at least, until I was mistaken for a member of Metallica. Not once, but twice. This was the 1990s, a time when Korea didn’t exactly host a who’s who of global music acts. Aside from the occasional megastar like Michael Jackson or pop juggernauts like New Kids on the Block or pop/rap phenom M.C. Hammer, most big names didn’t bother. Instead, we got aging rockers on their third or fourth comeback tours — bands like Uriah Heep or Deep Purple — and, oddly enough, 1950s crooner Paul Anka. No offense to “Diana,” but it wasn’t exactly the height of cutting-edge entertainment. So, when it was announced that Metallica was coming to Korea for two shows in April 1998, it was a big deal. I scored tickets the moment they went on sale. On the day of the concert, which was being held at one of the Olympic venues in Seoul’s Olympic Park, I met up with two of my colleagues, Ray Smith and Joe Blake. We arrived early and decided to grab a drink across the street at a Bennigan’s. At the time, I had shoulder-length hair and often wore a Me
I must confess, I probably couldn’t name all the members of NewJeans. And if the members were scattered amongst a sea of contemporary female K-pop idols, I probably wouldn’t be able to pick them out of a lineup. But that doesn’t really matter for me. I’ve long explored K-pop for the music. I observe the trends. Study the songwriters and producers. Delve into how everything actually gets made. I like putting respect on Kenzie and teaching my students that the K in K-pop might just as well stand for her name rather than Korea. I love uncovering Teddy Park and G-Dragon’s role in shaping the most influential generation on K-pop. How rather than being an underdog, Bang Si-hyuk actually earned his spurs as "Hitman Bang" working with JYP on the Wonder Girls and helping them become the first K-pop group on Billboard. When I listen to K-pop to understand what’s happening, I will often search for playlists and mixes rather than the catalogue of one artist. House is generally my go-to and, for that reason, recent K-pop has been pretty good to me as many of the current acts are leaning
I recently had to serve as the MC for an important event, placed on stage in front of a large crowd of important Korean people. As we began, everyone was asked to stand, face the Korean flag, and sing the national anthem. With hundreds of eyes on me, I was faced with a question: Do I put my hand on my heart like every other Korean in the room? Or does my foreignness exclude me from that? I had but seconds to decide. It wasn't really about etiquette. It was about whether I was expected to perform belonging or acknowledge exclusion. Korean people will often jokingly remark that I’m more Korean than them. It happens so often that I’m sure anyone with a reasonable grasp of Korean will have experienced it, too. It happens when I’m wearing my Korean football top, drinking sanghwacha, lecturing on Korean history and culture, and so on. They say it in jest but also with feeling and respect. And it’s okay because we both know that what they say is not really true. It’s like when a tourist stumbles through ordering a coffee and the owners smile and compliment them on speaking Korean s